Overtime. Part 32

'Yes indeed,' the voice went on. 'The rats here are all related, you see. Generations of them. It doesn't seem to have had any adverse effect on them. If anything, it seems to have made them unusually docile and friendly.'

'Right,' Guy said. 'Good. Is there any light in here?'

'I'm afraid not, no,' said the voice. 'Are you from the cell next door?'

Guy quivered slightly. 'Excuse me,' he said, 'but did you say cell?'

'Well,' said the voice, 'yes I did, actually.'

'You mean,' Guy continued, 'that this is a, well, prison?'

There was a brief silence. 'So I've been led to believe,' said the voice. 'It's always seemed fairly prison-like to me, at any rate.'

'Oh.' Guy paused for a moment and reflected. 'You've been here a long time, then?'

'Quite a long time, yes.'

'How long?'

'Now,' the voice said, 'there's a good question. Let me see now; five, ten, twenty, twenty-five ... I make it about a thousand years, give or take a bit.'

Guy made a sort of noise. This was not his intention; he had been trying to say, 'But it's impossible for anyone to be still alive after a thousand years, let alone a thousand years in a place like this,' but it came out wrong. The owner of the voice, however, seemed to get the gist of it.

'It does seem rather a long time, doesn't it?' he said, as if he was mildly surprised himself. 'It's amazing, though, how quickly you fall into a sort of a routine, and then the time just flies by. Of course, I haven't been here for all of the time.

'I was just about to say -'

'For about - oh, nine hundred and ninety-nine years and eleven months, I was in the cell next door,' the voice said. 'Then they moved me in here. I must say, it is an improvement.'

'Improvement,' Guy repeated. Although it was pitch dark, his senses were sending him a series of reports of their initial findings, which were generally rather negative. Probably just as well, they were saying, that it is pitch dark in here. So much less depressing.

'Roomier,' said the voice. 'There's a bit over there, where the draught comes in, where you can almost stand upright. Talk about luxury.' Guy realised, with a feeling of intense horror, that the voice wasn't being ironic. Far from it.

'Well,' he said, 'it's been terribly nice meeting you, but, oh gosh, is that the time? I really ought to be getting along.'

He edged back towards the door, which wasn't there. He made a swift but thorough search for it, using his sense of touch, and arrived at the conclusion that the door had slung its hook, good and proper. He started to howl.

'Now then,' said the voice, and two hands grabbed him firmly by the shoulders. 'You'll upset yourself,' the voice said. 'It really doesn't help, you know, and you'll disturb the guard. He likes to have his afternoon nap about this time of day, and the poor fellow has a hard enough time of it as it is ...

Guy stopped in mid-shriek. Whoever this lunatic was, he was actually concerned about the guard's well-being. You could hear it in his voice.

'I mean,' the voice went on, 'I don't suppose he gets paid very much, and it's not much of a life for a chap, sitting around in dark corridors all day making sure people don't escape. I think he bears up terribly well, in the circ.u.mstances. Nice chap, too. Collects b.u.t.terflies, so he told me once. Or was that his great-great-grandfather? One tends to lose track, you know.'

Guy found that he no longer wanted to shriek; a succession of low whimpers seemed much more appropriate. He could tell that the owner of the voice approved.

'Good man,' he said. 'If I may ask, and please don't think I'm prying, but, er, how did you get here?'

'Um,' Guy said. This wasn't going to be easy. 'You're not going to believe this,' he said, 'but

'Don't tell me,' said the voice. 'You found my tunnel.'

'I'm sorry?'

'You came from the other cell,' replied the voice. 'Did you find the tunnel I'd been digging?'

Guy decided to take the line of least resistance. After all, there was relatively little of value that he could learn from a man who'd been in prison for the last ten centuries. 'Yes,' he said, 'that's right.'

'I think I see,' said the voice. 'You came through my tunnel, thinking it led to the ... the ... whatsitsname, outside, and then when you found it just came here you were disappointed - naturally enough - and then, well, went off your head a bit. Is that it, more or less?'

'Yes,' Guy said. 'That's it exactly. Where did I just come in by, do you think? It's hard to get your bearings in the dark.'

'Do you think so?' the voice said. 'I find it hard to imagine it not being dark, to be honest with you, but perhaps that's just me getting set in my ways. I think you'd most likely have come in through there, over where the draught comes from. Nice draught, that, don't you think? Did you have a draught in your cell, may I ask?'

'I beg your pardon?'

'Your cell,' the voice repeated, 'the one you've just come from.

'Oh yes,' Guy said. 'Yes, it had a draught. Lovely draught. Like this one, only better.'

'Really?' There was just a tiny spark of envy in the voice. 'Well, that must be nice. But I mustn't complain. This draught is perfectly adequate for my needs, perfectly adequate.'

That seemed to conclude the conversation for a while, and Guy began to feel uncomfortable. He edged towards the draught, found the wall, and began pawing at it again. It was smooth and continuous; no sign of any door. He felt another series of howls germinating in his stomach.

'Did you have a rat in your cell?' the voice asked.

'A rat?' Guy said. 'No, I can't say I did.'

'Oh dear,' the voice said, 'I am sorry. I do find they're such a comfort, rats. I've always had rats, for as long as I can remember. Mind you,' the voice continued, 'it might be nearer the mark to say the rats have had me; it's sometimes hard to know which of us is the master and which is the pet!' There was a mild little laugh. 'Terribly independent-minded creatures, bless them. Ah well!'

The voice seemed to have subsided into a sort of reverie -doubtless contemplating the infinite variety of rats, or something of the sort - and Guy could feel the panic creeping back into the silence. He wasn't having that; on the other hand, he didn't want to start talking about rats again, or draughts, or anything else of the kind. He decided to sing something.

'Do you mind if I sing?' he said.

'Sing?' replied the voice. 'No, please, be my guest. I haven't heard singing since - oh, what was that chap's name? He was a relief warder here about, oh, six hundred and thirty years ago now, it must be, or more like six hundred and fifty. He used to sing sometimes when he brought the food...'

'Really,' Guy said. He didn't want to know about six hundred and fifty years ago; it sounded rather depressing. 'Well then,' he said, 'I'll sing something then, shall I?'

'Thank you,' said the voice, politely.

So Guy cleared his throat, and wondered what on earth he could sing. He had just decided on They Say There's a Wimpey Just Leaving Cologne when a sound came from outside. A distinctly familiar sound; a voice singing. It sang:

'L 'amours dont suit epris

Me semont de chanter;

Sifais con hons sopris