Stone Cold

by Taylor, Peter

  Henry nodded. ‘She was my mother’s sister and I was the only one who bothered with her when my mother died. My father and brother didn’t visit her. True to form, you might say.’

  Father Andrew smiled sagely, as though at some secret knowledge he had in reserve.

  ‘There’s goodness in you, Henry Torrance,’ he proclaimed, ‘as there is in a lot of men I visit in prison. In very few men does the light ever dim entirely.’

  ‘Comes pretty close in some, Father.’

  As he spoke, Henry’s eyes drifted over the priest’s shoulder to the figure of Christ on the cross.

  ‘I was going down some bad roads before Her Majesty opened her door to me,’ he continued. ‘Who knows where they might have led? This place has changed me.’

  ‘One door closed and another opened. It’s to your credit you made use of your opportunities.’

  Henry looked down at his hands. His forehead puckering into worry lines, he muttered, ‘And tomorrow I’ll close another door behind me.’ He brought his eyes back to the priest’s. ‘It scares me, you know — the road to Hell is paved with good intentions. Isn’t that what they say?’

  ‘It’s only natural to be scared, son. Five years is a long time. Go to see Michael as soon as you’re settled. Keeping busy is important.’

  Henry smiled. ‘I’ve a lot to thank you for.’

  They rose together. Henry turned to the priest, an earnest look on his face. When he spoke again, he could hear his old guilt breaking through to the surface.

  ‘What I did will always be with me.’

  Father Andrew hesitated, trawled for his answer, gave it softly. ‘How could it be otherwise?’

  Henry shook his head. ‘It’s a terrible thing to take a man’s life. There’s so many ripples — his wife, his children, his grandchildren yet unborn. I’ve cursed them all.’

  Father Andrew’s face was full of concern. ‘You have to live with it, Henry. Keep busy or you will mope. In good works lies your redemption. You have to hold on to that.’

  ‘I’ll try,’ Henry said.

  They walked to the door. Henry suddenly remembered his pad mate.

  ‘I’m concerned about Tom Daly, Father. You know him, don’t you?’

  The priest thought for a minute. ‘I know him a little. He’s serving a one year sentence.’

  ‘Yes, but the way he’s going, I’m not sure he’ll make it. I’m hoping you can help.’

  Henry elaborated while the priest listened with growing concern. He wouldn’t have discussed the source of Tom’s troubles with just anybody. But he knew Father Andrew wasn’t naïve about drugs in prisons and would find a diplomatic way to help Tom. The screws knew what went on, of course, but there were those who connived at the drug taking because they believed it made for an easier life for them if a prisoner got what he craved.

  ‘With his supply shut down, I’m not sure whether he’ll flip,’ Henry concluded. ‘He’s dependent and I’ve been trying to look after him but when I go . . .’

  The priest’s lips drew back. Henry could see his teeth clenching. It gave him a feral look far removed from his normal, benign self.

  ‘That insidious evil penetrates even these walls,’ he groaned. His cheeks puffed out as though they were about to explode. ‘Time they put a stop to it. Drugs, Henry, create monstrous waves.’

  ‘You’ll do what you can for him, Father?’

  ‘Of course. And don’t worry, I won’t mention our conversation to anybody.’

  They shook hands and Henry stepped out into the corridor where the screw was waiting for him.

  ‘Confession time over?’ Evans sneered as they started back to the wing. ‘Who’s fooling who? Leopards don’t change their spots.’

  Henry looked at him sideways. ‘Learning my vows actually.’

  ‘What?’

  ‘It’s what you do when you’re going to be a priest.’

  Evans went quiet, mulling that one over, not quite sure. Henry looked straight ahead, smiling inwardly.

  As they entered the wing, Evans shook his head ‘Naw! They wouldn’t take you.’

  ‘Equal opportunities, isn’t it? Politically correct and all that,’ Henry told him, his face deadpan. ‘They’re short of gypsies in the priesthood. Bit like when they recruit prison officers, I suppose. In your work they have to have a certain mix of those with brains and those with muscles. Did they tell you why they chose you, Mr Evans? If it was me, I’d be curious.’

  The screw looked nonplussed. He was still trying to work that one out as he opened Henry’s cell. Henry bowed his head to him just before he closed the door.

  ‘Bless you, Mr Evans!’ he said. ‘Don’t work those muscles too hard.’

  CHAPTER THREE

  It was the penultimate day before his release. Henry awakened as the sunlight squeezed its way through the bars making long shadows on the wall. He smiled at the thought of freedom being so close. These sparse surroundings would gradually fade into memory and the sun on his face would no longer be a sought after luxury. If he wanted, he’d be able to lie in it all day, catch up on what he’d missed. Freedom! At last, he dared to imagine it as more than a word.

  He threw his legs off the bed and sat up. Opposite him, Tom had his eyes shut but didn’t seem at rest. His shoulder muscles were twitching spasmodically like a dog’s when it dreams. Henry wondered what torments were stalking his subconscious mind so that even asleep he wasn’t resting properly.

  He started his usual morning exercise regime. When he was halfway through, a screw opened the door, called out that it was shower time. That woke Tom who pushed his scrawny frame off the bed and looked down at Henry who was performing sit-ups. Pulling a face, he flexed first his right arm muscle, then his left, affected a pained expression, as though he was feeling the strain.

  ‘Right, Mr Universe,’ he said. ‘That’s my exercise for the day. No one will kick sand in my face. Best go get a shower.’

  Henry smiled up at him, pleased to see his sense of humour. This morning he seemed to have awakened in a more cheerful mood.

  ‘Watch you don’t slip down that plug hole,’ he called out, laughing as Tom exited with his towel wrapped around him. ‘It’s a long swim to the North Sea, mate, and they’ll think you’ve tried to escape.’

  Henry finished his exercises, wrapped his towel around his waist, sauntered down the corridor towards the showers. He’d followed his routine long enough, tended to notice any little nuance that differentiated one day from any other. Almost subconsciously, his mind knew the latitudes it would allow without concerning itself. Survival could depend on noticing little things, a look, a movement. Right now, Henry registered that a few more men than usual at this time of morning were out on the landing, three of them men he didn’t have time for. He considered them parasites, hangers-on always on the lookout for fresh sensation so they could be the harbingers for better men, in the hope their tales would edge their status up a notch. They’d seen him come out of the cell and now their heads were bobbing. One of the screws, a weak man easily manipulated, normally positioned himself near the showers. This morning he was standing at the opposite end of the landing fidgeting with his key chain as though his life depended on him counting every link. He glanced up at Henry, dropped his eyes too quickly. A nagging ache started in Henry’s stomach. He picked up his pace, hoping his instincts were wrong.

  Mason, a brute with a thick neck, was leaning on the wall outside the showers, one arm stretched languidly across the entrance. Henry halted in front of him and glared. Mason blinked at him like a man shaking off a punch, didn’t look as though he knew how to react. He was an inch shorter than Henry’s six foot two but much heavier, though most of his bulk came from weight training. Henry had seen small men who were tigers in action, knew size could deceive you. Bulk for its own sake didn’t impress him.

  ‘Move!’ he snapped, trying to keep cool and suppress a rage he could feel rising inside him.

  ‘Stay out of it, Torrance,’ Mas
on said, finding his voice. ‘It’s business.’

  Henry knocked his arm out of the way and walked past him into the shower room. Clouds of steam partially obscured his vision, but he could see three naked bodies at the far end. One of those bodies, the scrawniest, belonged to Tom Daly. Two men in threatening poses were holding him against the wall. Henry swallowed. Why was this happening on this of all days?

  He recognized the two men holding Tom as lower ranking hardcases. They knew his past reputation as a boxer and he hoped that might help him. Glancing over his shoulder, he saw that Mason had taken up a predatory stance a few yards behind him. Henry figured he was waiting to see which way the wind was going to blow before he made a move. Three against one were good odds for them. But he could do them a great deal of damage before he went down and they would know that.

  ‘You’re finished with him,’ Henry said, as one of the men drew back his arm to strike Tom. ‘Leave him be.’

  The two men turned, mouths open. For a moment, they seemed frozen in time, like a video on pause. Henry waited, wondering which of the two would be the first to press play, let the future commence. Emerging unexpectedly like that from the swirling steam, he’d surprised them. That advantage needed pressing home quickly because it wouldn’t last.

  ‘You should be ashamed of yourselves,’ he said, shifting his position slightly so he could keep an eye on Mason as well. ‘Three of you against a lightweight.’

  One of the men, bald and pudgy, stuck out his bottom lip. With his roly-poly body partially wrapped in a white towel, the action made him look even more like an overgrown baby in an oversized nappy.

  ‘Stay out of this, Torrance,’ he hissed. ‘It’s not your business. We’re doing this for a Jackson. He owes fifty quid. You know the game.’

  ‘Yeah!’ his mate chimed in. This one was built like a high jumper, tall, skinny arms and legs. ‘He’s had time. You know how it works. You pay your debts or else.’

  Henry faltered. Damn Tom for his foolishness! He’d known what the consequences would be if he broke the rules. There were plenty of examples. Not many in here would sympathize with him if he hadn’t paid a debt. But he couldn’t let these men have their way. Tom was far too weak to take the damage.

  The tension stretched out, a taut rope in a tug of war, nobody willing to let it go. Like meddlesome ghosts, clouds of steam danced around them. Henry’s body felt as though a furnace was burning inside it. If all hell broke loose, he wouldn’t be walking out tomorrow. Even if he survived, they’d likely extend his sentence. But how could he avoid it? Through the steam his pad-mate’s face loomed, eyes glazed, his stick thin body like a famine victim’s. The sight of him renewed Henry’s resolve. Walking away wasn’t an option. If he did, he knew it would live with him the rest of his life.

  As the time spun out, the men visibly grew in confidence. Henry could see the same thought passing between them. Was Torrance a busted flush, all talk? Had he walked into this thinking he was still the man, suddenly lost his bottle? Henry didn’t want to fight but he’d have to do something soon. He decided to try for a compromise, praying they’d accept it.

  ‘I’ll pay you,’ he said, adding in a menacing tone. ‘Either that, or we get down to it.’

  The baby spoke first. ‘When will you pay?’

  ‘I’ve got a stash. I’ll send it round tonight.’

  The men exchanged glances, weighing the odds. Torrance could do them damage before they put him down. No doubting that. Was it worth it when he was willing to give them what they wanted? Cash or carnage? No choice really. In their silence, there was mutual, unspoken agreement.

  ‘We’ll accept that,’ Lanky said. He gave Tom a shove. ‘Better than relying on this piece of nothing. He’s had his lesson anyway.’

  They stepped away from Tom, staring at him as though he was a creature that had crawled out of a rubbish tip. Henry moved forward, helped him up.

  ‘You won’t be here to help him next time, Torrance,’ Baby sneered as they walked out.

  Henry let out a breath. It had been a close thing. He felt anger towards Tom for bringing him to this. But had he the right to judge when he’d committed the ultimate sin himself?

  Back in the cell they both lay on their beds. Tom had received the beginnings of a working over, not the full Monty and, a few bruises apart, was more shocked than anything. He’d muttered his thanks to Henry a few times but Henry had been quiet, preoccupied with his own surfeit of emotion as he realized how close he’d come to jeopardizing his future.

  Eventually, Tom turned his head towards Henry. Looking shamefaced, he shook his head. His voice was hoarse, like a wind cutting its way through dry reeds.

  ‘God, Henry, I nearly blew it for you.’

  Henry wanted to be angry but couldn’t get off the mark, especially when he saw tears streaming down Tom’s cheeks in genuine contrition. Besides, he was still contending with his own emotions. Today, in those showers, the rage inside him had resurrected itself. He hadn’t allowed it scope for a long time and feared what it could do to him. His consolation was that today, anyway, he’d managed to hold it on a tight rein.

  ‘You didn’t tell me you owed the Jacksons.’

  ‘I was ashamed. I’ll pay you back, Henry — every penny.’

  Henry didn’t expect to see the money again, at least not for a long time, but he knew Tom meant what he had said.

  ‘Be careful, Tom. That was a close thing.’

  Tom whined, ‘What’ll I do when you’re not here to protect me?’

  Henry sighed his exasperation. ‘You know what you should do,’ he snapped. ‘You just won’t do it, will you?’

  Tom stared at him. ‘I remember those days on the road,’ he said, wistfully, ‘the green fields, the birds singing in the hedgerows, always moving on, nothing ever stale, every day different.’

  ‘Those days are gone,’ Henry said. ‘Most gypsies prefer living on sites now. It had to happen in a modern world. We need to integrate, break down barriers.’

  ‘I’ll always be a gypsy,’ Tom said, as though to himself. ‘I’ll always prefer the open road.’

  Henry didn’t answer. What could he say? He realized he might as well try to change the colour of Tom’s skin, those Romany features imprinted on his face. His pad mate just couldn’t grasp what he was talking about. Altering your life wasn’t easy when there were generations of gypsies in your soul, when it was hard enough to live in a house, never mind the claustrophobia of a cell.

  *

  The rest of the day passed without incident. Tom was strangely quiet, which Henry figured must be due to the fact he was sore after his beating and not a little shocked.

  Henry was reading a book when the lights went out. Even now, after all his time in prison, he couldn’t get used to the way someone else decided when your day was to end, the suddenness of the plunge from light to darkness. It made him feel like an animal, his life controlled by a mad scientist conducting an experiment in sensory deprivation. He could remember how, as a boy and youth, he’d lived according to the sun’s dictates, took that freedom for granted.

  ‘Demons!’ Tom suddenly yelled out. ‘All around me!’

  Henry turned his head to look at him, couldn’t make out his face, only his shape on the bed. The demons frequently came to Tom at night, conjured from the black thoughts that can enter a man’s mind in the darkness when there is nothing to distract him from his loneliness, when he gets to wondering what peculiar fate has decided he should live and die and what purpose does his existence serve anyway. Tom, under the influence of drugs, was becoming more paranoid by the day. Henry prayed Father Andrew would set wheels in motion to help him before it was too late.

  ‘They won’t get me, will they, Henry? You won’t let them.’

  ‘I won’t let them, mate. You’re safe.’

  ‘That’s all right, then,’ Tom called back, his voice calmer. ‘Cos they’re horrible.’

  Silence descended again. Unlike Tom, Henry found the
darkness comforting, a place where he didn’t have to be constantly watching out. He drifted off into a long, deep sleep and dreamed he was riding a gypsy horse through a field of yellow buttercups. The sky clouded over, thunder rolled across the heavens and, between flashes of lightning, he glimpsed a figure running ahead, was nearly sure it was his pad mate. The horse rose on its hind legs in fright, tried to throw him. He woke perspiring. It had been so real and he wondered at the strange workings of the mind as he turned over onto his side to look across at Tom’s bed.

  There was just enough light from the moon for him to see the bed was empty. Where was Tom? He noticed a pair of trainers on the floor. They were upright, not lying flat. Surely those were ankles projecting from them. Suspicion spiralled through his brain. He threw back his duvet, sat bolt upright, compelled his eyes to travel where they didn’t want to go, upward from those splayed feet.

  His vision had made enough adjustment to make out Tom’s staring eyes, the tongue bulging from his mouth in what seemed like a grotesque gesture of contempt. A knot, like an enlarged Adam’s apple, obtruded at his neck where a strip of blanket was tied. Knowing, but wanting to disbelieve, his eyes traced the strip up to the bar where it was tied. His stomach cartwheeled. Beyond doubt, Tom Daly was free of the burdens of this life now. Those demons he’d feared had won. A great void opened inside Henry. The devil drug dealers had helped Tom down the path which had turned this small cell into his coffin.

  Henry sat there with the body as the sun came in through the bars announcing a day his friend would never see. He glanced wearily at Tom’s bed, noticed a note lying on the pillow which still carried the imprint of his friend’s head. He rose languidly, forced his mind to focus on the baby scrawl. Tom had written, ‘Sorry for the trouble, Henry. This gypsy needed to be free.’

  With the note in his hand, he stumbled to the door, pressed the buzzer. He was thinking how once it could easily have been him lying there if he hadn’t met the right people who’d helped him climb out of his own pit of despair. Why hadn’t he been able to save Tom?