I had already raised my palm upwards and with the fingertips leading, and touched nothing. Now I felt for the damp rag and found it and folded it into an oblong and draped it across the end of the broomhandle and began raising it by degrees. The risk was high because there was so little room to work in: I'd removed the key after locking the door but the handle and the metal bucket remained dangerous; in total darkness I had to steer the broomhead past them both and touch neither, keeping my elbow clear of the doorhandle as the arm was extended.
I had to work quickly and it was impossible, discount need for speed and concentrate on need for silence.
Sweat had begun creeping close to my eyes. Heartbeat audible, the pulse fast. Another inch, raise it another inch. The end of the rag brushed across my face, clammy and smelling of mould. Another inch.
He kicked at something, perhaps a cigarette end, flicking it with the toe of his boot, taking a pace, stopping.
The broomhead passed my face. I lifted it higher
The sound was loud and came from below me and I froze all movement and stood with the nerves reacting. It was certain that he'd heard and would turn and come back into the washroom and stand listening but he didn't do that and it took a full second for the forebrain to bring logic to bear. The rag was half-saturated and the moisture had started draining towards the ends and the first drip had hit the bucket and the sound was magnified by the funnel acoustics and to my ears it had been startling but to his it had been a strictly normal sound associated with plumbing and cisterns.
Raising the broom I tilted it, bringing the rag directly over my head, because any sound, however closely associated with the environs, would increase his alertness. Silence, lacking aural stimulus, is an overall sense-depressant in non-crisis conditions. For him there was no crisis.
He moved again, coming back into the washroom and pacing there, turning, halting. Possibly he was looking at himself in the mirror as sometimes we do when we are alone, seeking a reaffirmation of our identity. He had begun whistling through his teeth.
The broom was as high as I could raise it. I began bringing it down.,
The second drip fell, hitting my shoulder.
It would take time, lowering the broom: it would take as long as it had taken to raise it because the hazards were the same. I had made progress: was nearer, by a broom's length, to completing the mission; but that didn't allow me to hurry. I couldn't know how many more minutes I had left. Three or with luck five, but not more than that because they'd be as quick about this as they could: their group-sense would be disturbing them since the others had gone ahead and left them isolated.
I didn't think I could do it in three minutes but I thought I could do it in five.
Footsteps.
No go.
'Have you got something?'
It would take thirty seconds with a crowbar, sixty with an axe. That wasn't enough.
'No.'
'Then what the hell have you — '
There's a ganger on his way here with something. He's fetching it from the tool store.'
'Christ, we'll be all day.'
'He won't be long.'
Down an inch, another inch.
The rag dripped, this time on to my head.
The thick coat was a hazard, deadening the nerves of the skin: there'd be no warning before the folds at the elbow caught the door-handle.
Lower. Smell of the rag stronger.
'See anything of the others up there?'
'They're working towards the end of the platforms.'
Stop.
A soft sound had begun near my feet and when I stopped moving the sound stopped too. I moved the broom again, downwards, a quarter of an inch, and the sound came back. It was the bristles, touching the rim of the bucket. I didn't know it was so close, so dangerous. Down an inch, keep it clear.
The nerves were reacting and suddenly anger came, anger with him, with what he'd say, told me they found you in the station lav, old boy, sorry about that, they've got no sense of privacy, those chaps.
He'd enjoy saying that. My break would have frightened him and he'd want to take it out on me.
Sweat inside my hands because of the anger.
The head of the broom touched the floor.
'Beats me, you know.'
'Eh?'
'First we get orders to take things quiet so as not to alarm the visitors, next thing there's half a brigade of us turnin' Warsaw Central upside down.'
It would be easier with the coat off but I couldn't take it off without knocking against the door-handle. I stood the broom against the back wall.
'Who's that?'
'The ganger.'
I heard the footsteps coming.
Do it now or stand here like a bloody fool because you think there isn't time, sorry about that, old boy, don't let him say it, do it now.
'Come on then, we're in a hurry!'
'Been quick as I could.'
'Let's have it then.'
Sweat on the palms wipe it off.
The cupboard was small but not small enough for me to use a foot on each side of the side walls and I had to brace them both against the wall in front of me with my back pressed to the one behind but the chimneying action would be just as efficient and I began when they put the end of the crowbar into the jamb and started prising with it. Sound-factor to my advantage, their greater noise covering mine. Splinters were coming away. Unknown datum was the exact height of the ceiling but I knew it was at least thirteen feet, shoulder-height plus arm's length plus handle of broom and therefore six feet higher than the top of the door.
Press. Slide. Press.
'It's coming.'
'Give me a bit of room, then.'
The door was shaking but the sound was below me now… a crackle of splitting timber.
Back-muscles signalling strain, ignore, the body will do what you mean it to do when it senses you won't take refusal. Press. Press harder.
'This time.'
Shoulders on fire, nerve-lights flashing under the lids. Harder. Higher. Press…
Explosion of sound as the lock went, the door banging back.
Stop.
Flood of light below but here I was in gloom. 'All right.'
'Wasted our time.'
'No, we had to make sure.'
I listened to their boots, to the echoes fading. When it was silent I came down.
I gave them one hour.
The cadre left in place at key points would probably comprise special M.O. patrols with a handful of Policia Ubespieczenia manning the public exits, civilian dress.
I must go but the hazard was criticaclass="underline" they knew my image, knew that I was now bareheaded.
A train had been through and some people had come into the washroom and it wouldn't have been difficult to talk one of them into selling he his kepi but that would have been fatal. They'd have stopped him at the exit, where is your hat, I sold it to a man in the Toaleta. Fatal.
But I had to go now and take the hazard with me.
It was quiet here. Distant sounds: shunting in the freight area, voice on the P.A. system, background of street traffic.
I went into the subway and turned left for the nearest staircase and we met face to face at the comer because the sound of his footsteps had been covered by my own.
17: COMBAT
He was one of Foster's men.
It worried me because he ought not to be down here in the subway: an hour had been quite long enough for half a brigade to deal with the station area and the main search should have been called off by now, leaving only the exits under observation. He shouldn't be so close to the centre as this and I didn't like it. I couldn't see where I'd made the mistake.
Then I got the answer and it was very simple: he was in fact manning one of the peripheral points but had needed to come down to the lavatory. It was reassuring to know I hadn't made a mistake.
I knew he was one of Foster's men because his face showed immediate recognition: my image was the known image and he was responding by reflex. His actual features didn't mean anything to me but he had a brown leather coat on and I'd seen that two of them had been wearing coats that colour.