CHAPTER TWENTY-THREE
The Twin Dilemma
Rachel groaned. ‘But, Mum – I need to take a shower and change,’ she implored. ‘William and Alfred are expecting me, and for once, I don’t want to be fashionably late,’ she added grouchily.
‘Just one more photograph, Rachel,’ Lorraine pleaded.
‘Promise,’ Rachel sighed.
‘Promise,’ replied Lorraine.
‘My arms are about to fall off,’ Paul moaned.
‘Smile once more for the camera,’ Lorraine insisted.
Rachel forced another smile, but the flash failed to go off.
With a look of relief, Paul put his camera down on the kitchen table. ‘The battery’s given up the ghost, but I think I’ve taken enough pictures already,’ he said gruffly and emptied his stone-cold tea into the sink. ‘I’ll pop the film over to The Nutty Pine in the morning and get Elspeth to developed it in her darkroom,’ he added wearily and yawned.
Lorraine glanced up at the clock on the wall. ‘Paul, it’s only five-thirty. Why don’t you take it over to her right now? I’m sure Morag and Elspeth wouldn’t mind you dropping in,’ she said cajolingly. ‘I’d like Rachel’s picture in the newspaper first thing tomorrow morning.’
‘Mum, are you sure Mrs Asquith-Wells reads The Weekly Wrap?’ asked Rachel leadingly. ‘Wouldn’t it just be easier just to tell Ms Harlequin?’
‘I’ve already told Vivian,’ she replied with a smug, self-satisfied grin, ‘but I want Cynthia and Penelope to see your happy smiling face with the Egg and Spoon medal draped around your neck.’
✽✽✽
‘She’s here,’ yelled Lorraine from the living room. ‘C’mon, Rachel – your hair will be bone dry by the time we get there.’
The Cooks piled out of their front door and headed towards Gladys’ tram that had mounted the kerb with little care or attention.
Leaving the chilly air behind, Rachel entered the tram and winced as Gladys hugged and congratulated her on winning the Egg and Spoon race. Lorraine pulled Rachel away from Gladys’ rib-crushing clutches, and they sat down in the last remaining three seats way back in the stern.
George, Elspeth and Morag boarded, but they had to squeeze through the throng of revellers who made plenty of merry. The tram struggled to pick up speed along the bumpy High Street and rocked from side to side.
Welded and riveted to the buckled metal floor, George clung on for dear life onto one of the four rusty whaling spears in the cramped aisle.
Rachel, however, had problems of her own: singing deafeningly into her left lughole and accompanied by a rather old-fashioned, out-of-tune accordion, the inebriated musician regaled the revellers with slurring sea shanties of old, and she wondered how long she would have to put up with the dreadful din from his squeezebox.
✽✽✽
Hazy strands of sunlight marshalled in the twilight. Everyone shouted ‘whoopsy daisy’ as the tram went up on the kerb as it cut the corner into Damson Drive. As they lumbered into Rhubarb Road, the dismal housing estate appeared even greyer as Gladys parked her tram unceremoniously between Mrs Mullins’ old banger and Growler’s greasy hot dog van.
Rachel and George left Lorraine and Paul nattering to Gladys about something to do with Doris and Stanley Croom’s imprisonment.
The tram’s revellers disembarked with song and dance and headed towards the tables stacked end to end down the middle of the road.
Rachel paused by the kerb and looked up and down Rhubarb Road: all the streetlights were off, and as her eyes adjusted to the dark, she could just see slivers of candlelight through the residents’ curtains.
‘THE POWER’S BEEN OUT FOR ALMOST TWO HOURS,’ bellowed an irritated voice from across the road. ‘CUCUMBER CLOSE, LETTICE LANE AND AUBERGINE AVENUE ARE OFF AS WELL.’
‘OK – I’LL GO AND RUSTLE UP SOME MORE LANTERNS,’ another voice bellowed. ‘LOOKS LIKE THE STREET PARTY’S ABOUT TO BEGIN.’
‘I hope you’ve been eating lots of carrots?’ Rachel asked George with a chuckle. ‘You’re going to need good eyesight tonight.’
‘I eat so many of them at The Nutty Pine – my skin’s turning orange,’ he retorted. ‘Look over there – the power’s not off everywhere,’ he added poignantly, nodding towards Marrow Mews and its well-to-do houses.
‘Oh, dear, the lights in Damson Drive have all gone out,’ Rachel said.
‘Well, it’s not going to stop the street party,’ Paul informed the pair of them, rubbing his hands to warm them up. ‘Elspeth and Morag have promised me they’ll be some homebrewed beer on offer tonight.’
Lorraine rushed up to them. ‘Gladys apologises – but she can’t make the party,’ she said, slightly rattled. ‘She’s working tonight, but she said she’ll pick us up as promised, however, she might be a little bit late.’
Paul appeared crestfallen. ‘I was hoping to catch up and talk about old times,’ he grumbled. ‘We’ve still got a lot of catching up to do.’
‘Cheer up, Dad,’ said Rachel. ‘There’s always Mrs Mullins to talk to.’
Paul harrumphed but grinned. ‘As long as the beer flows, I don’t care who I talk to,’ he said buoyantly. The street filled with cries and screams of jubilation. ‘C’mon, Lorraine – it looks like the party’s in full swing.’
Rachel and George said their hurried goodbyes and zigzagged down the pavement that had more holes than Swiss cheese. Running late, they quickened their step and headed towards Alfred and William’s house.
The houses along Rhubarb Road looked very much alike; however, the house they had just passed appeared completely out of character with the rest of the road: its unkempt garden had gone wild some time ago, and its thick-tarred roof tiles were barely visible, as clumps of moss and grass had grown over most of them. As far as she could tell, the frontage of the property had just one measly window: awash with mildew, the glass porthole sat at the centre of the shabby front door that appeared as if it hadn’t had a scrub in a month of Sundays – let alone a lick of paint.
George opened Alfred and William’s side gate.
Rachel followed him through, but as she went to close the gate, she gave the next-door neighbour’s house a further look.
Behind its doughnut-shaped exterior, overgrown weeds almost hid a vibrant vegetable garden and bulrushes threatened to smoother the semicircle of black wooden beehives. A massive dome of fine wire mesh entombed the garden’s plants and its insects. Black bombinating bees emitted bright blue points of light as they bounced off its metal surface.
Rachel felt another headache brewing and quickly closed the gate.
‘Hey, Rachel – Sophronia’s calling us over,’ George said.
William greeted them. ‘Welcome to our humble abode,’ he chuckled.
‘Some of us have a lovely sea view,’ added Alfred as he joined them, ‘but most of us only have the crematorium and the graveyard to look at.’
‘At least your neighbours are quiet,’ Rachel offered.
‘Well, except on Halloween, of course,’ William chortled.
‘Where are Alice and Mary?’ Rachel asked.
‘Oh, they're busy helping out Mrs Dandelion back at Bellingtons,’ sighed William with disinterest. ‘Those two are a right couple of swots.’
Stewart came around the corner with a young girl whose golden hair still glistened in the diminishing twilight. ‘Good, you two finally made it. William and Alfred were about to organise a search party, but I very much doubt they could find their way out of a paper bag,’ he sniggered.
The young girl jabbed him gently in the ribs, and with the speed of a cheetah, she rushed forward and gave Rachel a warm hug and stepped back. ‘It’s good to see you again, Rachel – it’s been a long time.’
Rachel’s eyes widened in shock. ‘Sally?’ she squealed, dumbfounded by the girl’s remarkable healthy appearance.
‘In the flesh – and feeling better than ever,’ said Sally bright-eyed and twirled on the spot with an infectious giggle.
‘Doctor Foster’s done wonders,’ beamed Stewart and squeezed his sister’s hand affectionately. ‘Even when the other doctors had given up on Sally, Fidelia never gave up on a cure,’ he added, looking grateful.
‘How is Doctor Foster keeping?’ Rachel asked as she thought about the strange words she had spoken at Captain Eddie’s restaurant.
‘Not good,’ Sally replied with a heavy sigh. ‘Doctor Foster’s helped me so much, but she can’t even help herself.’
‘Even Doctor Gloucester can’t fathom out her illness,’ added Stewart, ‘and she’s so ill, she’s just taken to her bed again.’
‘Um – a little bit of help over here,’ said a concerned voice.
Sophronia rushed over and helped Pauline Marsh with her overloaded tray of party food and glassware. George leapt into action and grabbed the tubby glass jug as it began to slide backwards.
‘Now be careful with that jug, George,’ Pauline fussed. ‘It’s not easy fermenting by candlelight – and I’ve just run out of honeycomb.’
‘It weighs a ton,’ he hissed and placed it down on the garden table. ‘It smells so sweet – and it’s making my head swim.’
‘It’s not alcoholic,’ Pauline huffed. ‘It’s the unique qualities of the nectar that give it that peculiar heady smell.’
‘I’m assuming this is a new concoction of yours?’ Sophronia asked Pauline cautiously. ‘I’m guessing it’s safe for a bunch of ten-year-olds?’
‘Well, I’ve tried it, and I haven’t died yet,’ Pauline scoffed and poured the runny black concoction into a set of wine glasses.
‘Right, everyone – take a glass,’ said Stewart.
They all grabbed a glass and took a furtive sniff of the black contents.
‘Now, Pauline would like to say a few words,’ Stewart added.
Pauline removed her black-splattered apron. ‘First of all, I’d like to welcome you all to the Rhubarb Street Party – which Professor Shire has kindly organised and paid for,’ she told them with a sparkle in her eye. ‘I would like to take this opportunity to welcome you all to Bellingtons. They say that every cloud has a silver lining, and I believe that losing Gravelings is a blessing in disguise for its pupils and I hope, its teachers.’
‘And there’s never a dull moment at Bellingtons,’ Sophronia added.
‘We’re quite looking forward to a change of scenery,’ William grinned at Alfred, who nodded his approval of their new school.
Stewart’s face looked horrified. ‘What on earth is wrong with you two?’ Stewart snapped, thinking they had gone completely mad. ‘We’re still going to be stuck in an overheated, overcrowded class of smelly pupils.’
‘Unlike most schools, pupils at Bellingtons get to go out on regular trips to further their education,’ said Sophronia. ‘Only the other week, our class went on a day trip to the Inklings and visited Chiefdom Priory.’
‘And the weekend before that, our class went on a boat trip to the Island of Mugnoth,’ added Pauline fondly. ‘That was great fun, and Tiffany Snobbings was so sick, she fell overboard into the drink. Those fiery-red pincer crabs did not want to let go of her ears.’
‘Don’t forget about Richard Nooks,’ Sophronia informed Pauline with a chuckle. ‘Remember, he got stuck in the stinky mud right up to his waist. He would have drowned if the monks hadn’t come to his rescue.’
‘You see, Stew – Bellingtons is right up our alley,’ William sniggered. ‘I can’t wait until the next class outing – and I think its odds on one of us will get a near-death experience.’
Stewart gave them a resigned smile. ‘Would you please raise your glasses, he said with a rising grin. ‘I’d like to make a toast – a toast to Bellingtons for taking Gravelings’ staff and its pupils into their ranks.’
Everyone held their glasses high, lowered them and drank; seconds later, they nodded their approval of Pauline’s latest concoction.
‘If you wouldn’t mind – I’d like to make a toast,’ said Sophronia, a little shyly. They all nodded and took another sip of the black syrup. ‘Since my father died, I’ve found it harder to fit in at Bellingtons, and I felt like I didn’t belong there anymore – but along came a girl who stood up for me and taught me that no matter what – true friends stick by you.’
Rachel gave Sophronia a gracious smile, and a lump formed in her throat as she gulped down Pauline’s addictive drink.
William’s eyes narrowed. ‘There’s one thing that’s been nagging me about the Egg and Spoon race,’ he asked Rachel. ‘How did you managed to get the Marsh Nibbler over the finishing line with just a bit of cloth?’
‘Yes, how did you manage that impossible feat?’ added Alfred.
Rachel beamed then blushed. ‘Lionel Warbler’s book Birds of Prey for Beginners came in handy,’ she told them. ‘He’d written a footnote, which mentioned Marsh Nibblers are terrified of bats. Something about their fear being handed down through the generations –’
They hung on her every word, but her stomach groaned and lurched unpleasantly. Her stomach groaned again, and she could feel it shrinking as she felt a flood of bile rising up her rasping throat.
‘What’s the matter, Rachel?’ asked Sally heatedly.
‘I – I need the bathroom,’ she spluttered, taking deep breaths.
‘Our bathroom is out of order,’ said William apologetically, looking concerned as she retched uncontrollably. ‘If you head down by the garage – you should see our old brick privy in our back garden.’
‘I know the way,’ said Pauline, rushing to Rachel’s side. ‘C’mon – I’ll take you there,’ she added worriedly and almost dragged her around the side of the garage and into the shadows.
✽✽✽
Retching over the toilet bowl, Rachel hadn’t been sick, but it was a near thing. On top of the Victorian cast-iron cistern, the lantern’s lacklustre light illuminated the privy’s walls, cobwebs and numerous piles of dust, but it flickered annoyingly for a minute then died. The privy closed in on her, and she felt claustrophobic. Faint rustling noises cut through the uncomfortable silence, so she got up off the filthy floor, stamped her feet to scare the somethings away and stumbled out of the door.
The moon’s veiled light fell across the grim gravestones and gardens. Looking anxious, Pauline leant against an oak tree, chewing on her nails.
‘Sorry about that,’ Rachel told her. ‘I don’t know what came over me. I haven’t felt that queasy since eating my father’s sticky toffee pudding.’
‘I’m glad you’re OK… um… you – you won’t tell Captain Eddie about your upset tummy?’ asked Pauline with nervous apprehension. ‘If he even gets a whiff that my drinks aren’t safe to drink, he’ll go somewhere else – and my mother still owes so much money to the bank.’
‘I’m sure it’s just me, Pauline. I must have drunk it down far too quickly,’ said Rachel reassuringly. ‘So, Pauline, tell me what was in that addictive black drink of yours?’ she added, trying her utmost not to burp.
Pauline’s eyes looked furtively about. ‘It’s the prized nectar from Mr Grubbins’ midnight bees and some of my secret ingredients,’ she said, somewhat hesitantly. ‘You probably saw his bees buzzing in his back garden over there,’ she added with a quick sideways nod.
‘Why are his bees trapped underneath that wire mesh?’ Rachel asked.
‘His bees get a bit cranky in the moonlight, and they would escape,’ she informed her. ‘Um, I think we should be getting back to the party.’
Rachel’s stomach grumbled. ‘You go back and tell them I’ll be along in a little while,’ she told her. ‘I need some fresh air and a walk around.’
Pauline gave her an uneasy smile and headed towards the garage...
As she vanished into the shadows, Rachel gave the moon an upward glance; it hung a little higher overhead, giving the graveyard and gardens a bit more light, so they appeared less depressing, and it gave her more than enough illumination to look around the overgrown garden and forgotten flowerbeds that were in desperate need of tender loving care.
Dodging a pile of discarded watering cans and a couple of overturned wheelbarrows, she slowly made her way back towards the garage, but she suddenly stopped dead in her tracks.
Over the ivy-matted wall, she heard the sounds of scuffling followed by a couple of sharp cries. Hunched over to keep a low profile, she crept towards the back of the garden, where a rusty iron gate barred her way.
Her eyes grew as large and as bright as the moon above her as two shadowy figures swung back and forth, wrestling with one another at the end of next-door’s driveway, but their grunts ended with a muffled cry, as one of the figures had doubled over and crumpled to the ground.
Not daring to breathe, Rachel heard a groan and watched the limp figure being stowed into the open boot of a car. The other figure stood motionless, but with a snap decision, they dashed towards the house and disappeared through the open door by the ginormous glass conservatory.
What was she to do? Should she go and tell her friends? The figure could be back any second, but first, she had to investigate who or what was in the boot.
Rachel climbed carefully over the gate, but it squeaked so loudly, she threw herself over it and landed in a pile of something very soft and squishy. Her nostrils protested as she wiped the stinky manure off her shoes on the cut grass and inched her way across the flowerbeds because the rough gravel stones would have made too much noise underfoot.
Skirting around an impressive whale-inspired water fountain that had a ship at its centrepiece, she tiptoed towards the black car.
The Black Duke stood before her, its bodywork blending in with the stark shadows, as it lay hidden, sandwiched between a shed and a wall.
Rachel’s heart raced. She bit her lower lip, stepped towards the boot and peered inside. Lashings of rope tied a pair of hands and feet together, and a black hood covered the figure’s head. A touch of uneasiness tugged at her frayed nerves, but she reached out and whipped the hood away.
The gagged face of Professor Thomas Shire stared back at her, but a loud gasp over her shoulder made her whirl around on the spot.
Rachel’s stifled scream fell on death ears. The damp cloth clamped down even harder against her face as she fought her unknown assailant.
Her mind felt fuzzy, and her blurry vision started to swim. With the world in a swirl of delirious daze, she summarily dropped to her knees. Her eyes wandered aimlessly about, but just before she blacked out, they caught sight of a pair of brown boots and gingham socks.
✽✽✽
Rachel started to stir. The chiming from a nearby clock grew louder and much clearer. The relentless pealing brought her back into conciseness. She prised her eyelids open, looked at her ankles and hands and at the binding rope that bound them.
A raised voice nearby reeked of desperation and snarled, ‘I won’t tell you again – give me the key to the cells.’
Rachel’s vision came into focus, and she saw two men in front of her; she recoiled as a tattooed fist slammed into the policeman’s stomach. The policeman groaned, slumped to one side and fell unconscious. The other man removed his brass knuckle-duster with an air of annoyance.
Rachel shut her eyes and feigned sleep.
The rank smell of hot garlic breath washed over her, and a rough hand clamped around her cheeks. Her eyes snapped open, and she stared into the wild hazel eyes of a pockmarked face who she recognised as the man who had sat next to Doris Croom in court.
‘Now then, don’t get any funny ideas about escaping,’ he told her aggressively, his hand squeezing her cheeks even harder. ‘Anyway, I very much doubt even you could hop away quickly enough to raise the alarm.’
Rachel shook her head to one side, dislodging the man’s hand. ‘I’m faster than you think,’ she retorted. ‘And anyway, where are we exactly?’
‘The Motte & Bailey Crown Court,’ said a voice from across the room.
The heavy iron door to her right slowly swung open, and Thomas Shire stepped over the threshold followed by Doris Croom. Handcuffed and trailing closely behind them, another Thomas Shire shuffled inside with a blood-splattered ripped shirt and a nasty bruised eye.
‘I take it we still don’t have the key, Jim?’ the first Thomas asked the pockmarked face man. The felled policeman stirred and groaned. The first Thomas rushed over to the policeman’s side. ‘You didn’t have to hit him, Jim – violence isn’t the answer to everything!’
Jim gave Rachel a resigned look and stood up. ‘He’ll live,’ he said cuttingly. ‘You better hope I can pick the lock to the cells – Cripps’ locks are the best in the country,’ he added with oodles of admiration.
‘We have little time left,’ snapped the first Thomas. ‘It won’t be long before they know we have Doris – and they’ll be down here in a jot.’
Rachel fumed (she hadn’t felt this angry since Betty Neap stole her backpack and read her personal diary out to her classmates at Plums). ‘I bet Mum doesn’t know about your plan to break the Crooms out of jail, Uncle Thomas,’ she spat, knowing the cat was definitely out of the bag.
The second Thomas coughed. ‘That’s not your uncle, Rachel,’ he told her awkwardly. ‘I am,’ he added sadly and gave her a look of regret.
Rachel’s confused face went back and forth, staring at each Thomas in turn. The second Thomas smiled back at her. ‘Hullo, Uncle Thomas, it’s a pleasure to finally meet you at last,’ she said flourishingly. ‘I’d shake your hand, but I’m a bit tied up at the moment,’ she added glumly.
‘I knew I couldn’t keep up the pretence for long, and I knew sooner or later I would give myself away,’ he replied, wriggling his handcuffs.
‘I didn’t know for sure,’ Rachel said, ‘but after you drove The Black Duke along Satan’s Scar to Bellingtons – well, that had me thinking.’
‘Your mother told me you were smart,’ Thomas grinned.
Rachel stared daggers at the false Thomas. ‘You can drop my uncle’s accent, Ian,’ she told him sternly, withholding her rising temper. ‘Why did you drug me? Friends don’t normally tie friends up!’
Ian shrugged his shoulders and sighed. ‘I’m breaking the Crooms out of jail,’ he said indignantly. ‘Henry Silverback wants his pound of flesh, and he doesn’t care who gets in the way – or what laws he breaks.’
To her left, Jim cursed as he attempted to pick the lock on the heavy iron door. Beads of sweat sprouted from his furrowed and irritated brow.
‘Shouldn’t we untie Rachel?’ Doris suggested. ‘She’s no threat.’
‘Go ahead, Doris,’ replied Ian and gave Rachel an apologetic smile.
Doris gave Rachel an anxious look as she untied the ropes. ‘It’s not what you think,’ she told her. ‘Stanley and I aren’t murderers.’
‘I can vouch for that,’ Thomas offered. ‘Stanley and Doris are as law-abiding as they come.’
‘I would have to agree,’ added Ian. ‘If the town’s people only knew what horrors Henry is capable of, they would throw him in jail and bust the key, leaving him to rot like so many other innocent people he’s put away over the years to suit his own devilish ends!’
Doris helped Rachel back onto her feet.
Jim cursed in frustration. ‘It’s no use, Ian,’ he growled, ‘I just can’t open this blasted lock.’
‘Then my husband is lost,’ cried Doris despairingly, dubbing her eyes with a frayed handkerchief to keep her tears at bay.
Rachel felt miserable as Jim tried to comfort Doris in her misery, so she decided to act and forced her brain to recall her mother’s words back at Shire’s Waterpark. With her memory coming up trumps, she stared into Ian’s downtrodden face. ‘I can get you into the cells,’ she told him, ‘but on one condition,’ she added bluntly and hated herself for saying it.
‘Unless you’ve got light fingers and stolen the spare set of keys from that curd McDonald – or maybe a few sticks of dynamite up your sleeve, there’s absolutely no way through this door,’ argued Jim pugnaciously.
‘I’m listening, Rachel,’ Ian replied.
‘You will release my uncle from his handcuffs,’ she said sternly.
‘Not a bleedin’ chance,’ Jim scoffed.
‘We have no choice,’ Ian said.
‘Handcuffs first,’ Rachel demanded.
Ian reached into his pocket and took out a small key.
‘You won’t be needing that,’ said Thomas airily, placing the open handcuffs into Ian’s hands. ‘I could’ve escaped – but I didn’t.’
Thomas gave Rachel a sly grin.
‘Can you really open the cell door, Rachel?’ Doris trembled.
‘I’ll do my best,’ she replied and knelt down beside Jim.
‘You better not be playing tricks on us,’ whispered Jim threateningly.
Rachel shifted her posture. On opening the palm of her hand, she read the small inscription on the back of the brass pocket watch:
To Jim Amoretto:
Awarded for twenty-five years of exemplary service to Johnson, Johnson & Johnson & Co.
‘Um – I believe this is your watch, Mr Amoretto,’ she said sheepishly. ‘I think my fingers are light-fingered enough – don’t you?’
Jim said nothing as she handed his watch back to him.
Rachel counted the eleven etched bees that encircled the well-worn keyhole. ‘Now then, let me see if I can remember this correctly…’ she said and grabbed the doorknob. ‘It was left – then right – then left again – then up… no… it was down – then up – then counterclockwise – then clockwise – and then up and down four times and pull –’
CLICK.
The doorknob drooped. Rachel stood up and pushed the door ajar. Everyone uttered a sound of sheer disbelief, and even Jim gave her a subtle grin of respect as he grabbed his lock picking tools.
Doris barged past them and flew into the room. ‘Jim – Jim – Stanley’s here,’ she squealed with delight.
Jim ran after her. Ian ushered Rachel and Thomas inside the dismal room of cramped cells that smelt, amongst other things, of stale sweat, burnt tobacco, candle wax and rising damp.
Atop a Victorian mahogany writing desk, two squat oil lamps burned silently as mounds of piled-high paper smothered its writing slope. The dull stone floor appeared uninviting even in the dancing light, and the rough square flint walls glistened with moisture and patches of mould.
Rachel stood by the desk and watched as Stanley fell to his knees and pressed his gaunt withdrawn face hard against the rusty cell bars.
‘You shouldn’t have come,’ Stanley told Doris mournfully. ‘You’ve put yourself and everyone here in the most terrible danger.’
Doris went down too and clasped his bony hands through the bars. ‘They’re here because they know you’re innocent,’ she wept.
Jim stared at the sturdy cell door. ‘This lock should be easy to pick,’ he mumbled under his breath. ‘I have you out in no time, Stanley.’
Ian sidled up to the messy desk. ‘There’s no time for that, Jim,’ he told him, pushed the papers off the writing slope and fiddled underneath its velvety green top. ‘Now, if I remember correctly – ah, ha…’
Rachel watched as Ian marched over to Stanley’s cell, placed a key in the lock and turned it. Doris rose to her feet and pushed herself through the cell door that had barely opened halfway.
Ian and Jim followed and got Stanley to his feet.
‘C’mon, Stanley,’ Jim told him. ‘You don’t belong in this place.’
Rachel felt pity for Stanley Croom as they