Blame

by Simon Mayo

  It’s brewing up in Holloway. Could well blow at any time.

  . . . mate said he’s never known it so bad . . .

  . . . that fire in P is way worse than they’re saying. Reckon more died for certain . . .

  Medic in Holloway says she’s not going in tomorrow. Too scared. God help us all.

  No posts were ever signed or attributed; their authenticity was assumed. Max read each one, then carefully logged out and switched off the laptop.

  Then he smashed his coffee cup down on the table.

  Spike, HMP London

  My favourite things RIGHT NOW:

  Daisy thinks I’m cool!!

  Amos when he’s not being a butt.

  Ant and Jimmy were climbing the levels. ‘Look, about earlier,’ began Jimmy, resting a hand on her shoulder.

  ‘It’s fine,’ she said. ‘I get it. Be careful, don’t push it. Smile. Be happy.’

  ‘Ant, that’s not fair . . .’

  ‘Nothing in here is fair, Jimmy, in case you hadn’t noticed.’

  ‘But going crazy is exactly what they wanted you to do. They wanted a fight.’

  ‘That’s true,’ Ant conceded, ‘and they were about to get one till Mattie saved the day.’

  ‘He’s quite good at that,’ said Jimmy.

  As they arrived on level three, Amos appeared. He looked upset.

  ‘Na, Ant. Na, Jimmy.’

  ‘Naa, Amos, what’s up?’ said Ant.

  ‘What . . . what you said about my mum was unfair. She—’

  ‘Was it wrong?’ interrupted Jimmy.

  ‘She wasn’t a bent copper—’ began Amos.

  ‘OK,’ said Ant, ‘she wasn’t a bent copper. Point taken. I’m sorry.’

  Amos looked at them. ‘OK, I get it. I’m dismissed.’ He turned, then added, ‘Classic Ant. Your mouth says one thing, your eyes say something else.’ Then he headed off down the stairs.

  ‘He’s got a point there,’ said Jimmy. ‘About the eyes. Like I said, inscrutable.’

  As they approached cell 33, they saw Prison Officer Brian MacMillan pacing outside, and Jimmy groaned.

  ‘What does he want? He’s not usually around at this time of day.’

  ‘He looks nervous,’ said Ant. ‘He wants to tell me something.’

  MacMillan stopped pacing as they approached. Instead he glanced around, then disappeared into Ant’s cell. Ant and Jimmy looked at each other, then followed him inside.

  He had taken off his cap as though visiting a friend’s house and was standing uncomfortably in front of Gina’s unmade bunk. He was by common consent the least obnoxious of the guards, and not many years older than Ant; she felt the outline of his swipe card under what remained of her T-shirt.

  ‘Morning, Ant, Jimmy.’ His accent was Belfast, educated. Seeing Ant’s ripped T-shirt, he said, ‘Do you need to change, Ant?’

  ‘Who are all these new guards?’ she said, ignoring his question.

  ‘And why are you in Ant’s ’bin?’ asked Jimmy. ‘Looking for something?’

  ‘Yes. No. Well, it’s just . . . one of our guys got stabbed last night and there’s some heavy stuff going down. These new POs are reinforcements. I need—’

  ‘Wait,’ said Ant. ‘Was this when the lifer got thrown against the wall?’

  ‘You know about that?’ MacMillan was sweating; it was considerably hotter inside the cells. He wiped his face with his sleeve, then nodded. ‘He had a jammer made from tins he’d got hold of. Stuck it in his cellmate’s leg after a fight, then in an officer’s ribs after he tried to intervene. He was cornered in the gym.’

  They waited for him to continue; when he said nothing, Ant finished the story for him. ‘So you killed him.’

  ‘I wasn’t there, Ant . . .’

  ‘Doesn’t matter. Thrown against the wall maybe? And a few times, just to be sure? Then your shiny boots got to work. And while your colleagues were taking revenge on him, the Villagers who’d seen what was happening started to burn the place down. And it all went bingo from there. How am I doing so far?’

  MacMillan fingered his lapel radio cable nervously. ‘Listen . . .’ he started. Then, lowering his voice, ‘Look, yes, that’s probably about right. But the point is, I’ve come to warn you. I obviously shouldn’t be here – I’ll have to say I was doing a cell search or something. Some of the new guys think we’re too tight with you strutters, others are worried about losing their, er . . .’

  ‘Bribes?’ suggested Ant.

  ‘Their contributions, yes.’

  ‘Why are you telling us this?’ asked Jimmy.

  MacMillan hesitated.

  ‘Because,’ said Ant, filling in the silence, ‘he finds it easier to talk to us than to his fellow officers, most of whom are as corrupt as hell and just counting the days till their pension kicks in.’

  He nodded.

  Jimmy looked amazed. ‘You’ve talked about this before?’

  ‘And,’ said Ant, ‘the governor’s hardly ever here – too busy dining politicians and intimidating critics – while his deputy is counting his money and covering his arse.’

  MacMillan nodded again. ‘That’s about it.’

  ‘Who’s next in command then?’ asked Jimmy.

  ‘That’ll be Assessor Grey,’ he said. ‘And God have mercy on us all. It feels like every man for himself at the moment, and that’s a very dangerous place to be. Things will be difficult for a while. All the regulars have been drafted in to Holloway and Pentonville – I’m due there in an hour. These officers on duty now come from all over. You can’t operate as you have done, Ant. I need my pass back.’

  ‘No chance,’ she said. ‘Nice try, Brian, but no chance. I need that pass more than you do, and anyway you have a spare. Use that.’

  ‘I need both – I need to account for all my stuff. If they find you with it . . .’ He sounded desperate.

  ‘They won’t. And if they do, I’ll say I stole it.’

  ‘You did steal it,’ said MacMillan, with more steel in his voice now. ‘And I need it back. Seriously. You don’t understand.’

  ‘Yes I do,’ said Ant. ‘And I traded for it, as you well know, so it’s mine anyway. So unless you’re going to tear it off me . . .’

  There was a rapid knock on the door and Daisy burst in. She had an old marker pen in her hand.

  ‘Oh . . .’ She looked around. ‘I didn’t realize . . . What’s up?’

  Jimmy glanced through the door. ‘Gina and Mattie on the way. You’d better start searching the ’bin, Brian, or she’ll wonder what’s happening.’

  MacMillan gave Ant one more exasperated look, then marched out, pulling his cap on as he left.

  ‘I’ll be off too,’ said Jimmy. ‘Check in with my mum before IR starts. Catch you later.’ Ant watched him nod at Gina as he hurried away.

  ‘I think he likes you,’ said Daisy.

  ‘Everyone likes me,’ said Ant. ‘Hadn’t you noticed?’

  Daisy laughed. ‘Not at breakfast, they didn’t!’ She held up the pen. ‘You were talking about decoration and it set me thinking. I had this in our ’bin.’ She removed the cap and smiled. ‘It still works. I reckon a small goose design might look quite good . . .’

  Ant’s eyes lit up. ‘Yes!’ she said. ‘If you’re quick!’ She could see Gina talking earnestly a few cells away. ‘Do it!’ She turned round and lifted her T-shirt. ‘Bottom left. Same as the tat.’

  Daisy crouched down beside her and began drawing, ink on plastic. In a few strokes she had copied the bird design from Ant’s shoulder and neck. ‘It looks amazing!’ she whispered. ‘Can’t do the blue feathers though. What kind of goose is this anyway?’

  ‘It’s the Kampfgans,’ said Ant. ‘A German fighting goose.’

  Daisy smiled. ‘Of course. I can see the attraction.’

  ‘And it’s got a pretty mixed-up heritage too. Seemed a good fit.’

  ‘It’s perfect—’ said Daisy.

  ‘And words,’ interrupted Ant. ‘I want words. I
want graffiti. Write . . . Not to Blame. As large as you can.’

  ‘Are you sure?’ Daisy sounded thrilled and scared in equal measure.

  ‘Yes!’ said Ant, eyes still on Gina. ‘Quickly. Then I’ll do you.’

  Daisy finished writing and pulled Ant’s T-shirt back down. ‘Do me later,’ she said. ‘I think it’s running out of ink anyway . . .’

  What the prison authorities called Indoor Relief took place every morning for two hours. There were only a few jobs considered suitable for prisoners of all ages, and after experimenting with packing clothes and IT, the governor had decided his prisoners should sort post. A deal had been done with the local post office, and now Spike was one of North London’s sorting offices.

  Ant, Mattie and Daisy were working alongside a short, round elderly man with a neat white moustache. His prison-issue green uniform – compulsory for adults – had BLAKELY written on the breast pocket. He picked up a package, squinted at the postcode and threw it into one of ten grey plastic sacks that stood in metal stands, waiting to be filled.

  ‘You’d think machines would do this better,’ he said crossly. He wasn’t a popular man. This was mainly because he had been an MP and a minister in government, but also because of his constant complaining. Some called him Jeffrey, but most used Lord Whiny.

  ‘Yes, but we’re cheaper,’ said Ant. ‘It’s the big plus for slavery – we do it for nothing.’

  ‘Well, aren’t we the generous ones,’ he muttered. Two POs walked past, deep in conversation. ‘And we could be opening and stealing every piece of post for all they know. Morons.’

  ‘Strutters doing IR is not really their concern at the moment,’ said Ant, dropping envelopes into the sacks in front of her.

  Blakely grunted. Across from them, in the next row of twenty, Gina and Sarah Raath worked through a pile of mail together. Alongside them was Frail Mary and Neil Osborne, former CEO of a large international corporation. Ant knew Gina disliked him, and watched as she focused solely on Mary, reading out the addresses, then handing them to her for sorting.

  ‘I’d be surprised if they had any concern other than their own necks,’ said Blakely.

  ‘Sounds sensible to me,’ said Ant. ‘Look after yourself and your own. That’s what I’d do. And anyway, you were a politician – that’s exactly what your lot did for years.’

  The trundling noise of another full bin arriving interrupted them. Its porter carried himself with a confidence that seemed out of place in a prison.

  ‘Ah, Jimmy Noon!’ said Blakely brightly. ‘The banker’s boy! Still smiling, I see! You wait till you’ve clocked your first year in this hell . . .’

  ‘Then I’ll be as miserable as you,’ said Jimmy. ‘I know. You tell me every day.’

  ‘How long you in for again? Remind me.’

  ‘My mum’s doing a five, but I’m eighteen next year so I’ll be out in May.’

  ‘Well!’ said Blakely. ‘You may well need every one of those days to win over Miss Norton Turner here.’

  ‘Who says I want to be “won over”?’ said Ant, but Blakely had wandered off to talk to an inmate further down the line.

  Jimmy glanced around and leaned on his bin. ‘The screws here are so distracted! They are basically ignoring us.’ He smiled at Mattie. ‘Nice work at breakfast.’

  Mattie smiled back. ‘I was just . . . helping.’ He looked up at his sister. ‘Sometimes she forgets things, and I remind her. That’s all.’

  Ant laughed. ‘Yeah, like how to stay out of trouble, how to stay out of SHU, that kind of thing. And that we might get out of here one day.’

  ‘Well, it’s true,’ said Mattie. ‘You’re out in twenty-one months and two weeks, Ant. There’s no point in making things worse. Getting out of here is all that matters.’ Then he added, ‘When the time is right.’

  Jimmy noticed a smile flicker across Ant’s face. He looked around quickly. ‘I knew it! I knew you could get out of Spike whenever you—’

  ‘No I can’t,’ Ant interrupted before he could say any more. She fixed Jimmy with a stare. ‘It’s not true at all. No I can’t, and no I won’t.’

  Jimmy looked from one to the other. ‘OK, that’s clear,’ he said, and went off to get more post.

  ‘Don’t think he believes you,’ said Mattie.

  ‘I don’t think so either,’ Ant agreed.

  ‘I like him though.’

  ‘Good for you.’

  ‘And he likes you. He looks at you all the time.’

  ‘Yeah, well he looks at Daisy as well.’ Ant smiled. ‘And any other female under thirty. Prison limits your options, Mattie. It’s no big deal.’

  Four years earlier, South London

  The clumps of black hair lay in a semicircle on the carpet. Abi hadn’t moved for five minutes. No one had moved for five minutes. In the bathroom, the sound of running water and humming.

  ‘It’s not as bad as you think it is,’ whispered their mother from the bed.

  ‘You said that last time,’ muttered Mattie, his shoulders covered in a towel, his head down. He glanced left. His sister’s haircut was identical to his.

  Abi glanced right. ‘And you’re wrong, Mum,’ she whispered. ‘It’s worse. We look like monsters. Like freaks.’

  She’d stopped crying now. To begin with she couldn’t help it, but when she realized the tears seemed to give her father some kind of encouragement, she made sure she stopped.

  ‘This isn’t happening again,’ she said. ‘Not ever. I don’t know how you let it start, Mama, but I want it to stop.’ She looked at her mother, mostly obscured by the duvet. ‘How did it start?’ she hissed. ‘Why did you let him?’

  From the bed, gentle sobbing but no words. When Shola had stopped crying, Mattie whispered, ‘How much longer will he be, Mama? How long do we stay here?’

  A deep sigh from the bed. ‘He likes to take his time.’

  They listened to the busy sounds from the bathroom.

  ‘When . . . when it gets bad,’ said their mother, ‘I like to list my favourite things. It’s from a song my mother taught me. There are so many . . .’

  ‘What do you think of?’ asked Mattie.

  ‘Lemon sorbet,’ she replied. ‘That’s first. Then hot sunny beaches. Fresh mango, shopping . . .’

  ‘Your children maybe?’

  ‘Obviously, Abi! You and Mattie, always. Of course. What next?’

  ‘Gin and tonic?’

  ‘Shut up!’ hissed Mattie. ‘That’s not fair. I like this game. I’d say playing with my friends, your cakes, Mama, and . . .’ He tailed off as the bathroom went quiet.

  Mattie and Abi dropped their heads again as the door opened and their father walked back in.

  My favourite things RIGHT NOW:

  Helping Ant to stay out of SHU.

  I think Jimmy N is cool. Ant thinks so too but she won’t say so. (Why are girls like that?)

  Got new pencils in IR (not stolen!). Given 2 away.

  JB only pretends to be grumpy. I think he likes it here. I do sometimes if A’s happy and she’s actually here.

  That evening Dan was first in the jug-up queue. By the time he sat down there was already an expectant crowd of inmates. They knew he would have had access to the Bug sites and were desperate for news. He toyed with his pasta and waited for a guard to pass. Eager faces leaned towards him.

  ‘Haven’t got much beyond what we know already – I didn’t get a lot of time,’ he said, staring at his food. This was partly to avoid looking interesting to the security cameras, but also to shield his mouth from any lip readers the prison might have employed. ‘There’s definitely big trouble in the Village – you know about the killing; the riot was in the library, I think – but there’s only rumours coming from the Castle. Nothing specific. It’s difficult and time-consuming to get on most of the sites. The postings suggest there are cons stashing weapons, escape plans being made, that kind of thing. There’s a Manchester story about some new strap technology being introduced. Attacks on
strutters in Belfast prisons are the worst they’ve seen. Oh, and more prisons. A lot more building, most of it in remote places.’ He ate a mouthful of spaghetti. ‘That’s all I have. The other guys might have gleaned more news . . .’ Some of the inmates moved on to other collars who had returned from work, but most stayed where they were.

  ‘Yes, but you’re the only one who speaks the language,’ said Daisy from behind her hand. ‘Was all that stuff you told us in German?’

  Dan took a deep breath and checked on the guards. ‘This is deep down on the internet, but yes, it is. German is the language of resistance. It’s still small-scale, but while the Germans say no to heritage crime, more strutters are learning their language. We don’t think the government is onto it yet, but they will be.’

  ‘We should escape to Germany,’ said Ant. ‘That would be different.’

  There were a few muffled laughs, but Dan shook his head. ‘Actually, some people have. Getting there isn’t easy, but it’s definitely happening. Today someone used the phrase einen dicken Hals haben. It made me smile. I hadn’t heard it before.’

  Everyone saw two guards change direction and head towards their table. Without missing a beat, the inmates resumed their eating and made small talk until they had passed. It was a routine they had become familiar with. As soon as it was safe, Dan repeated the phrase. ‘Einen dicken Hals haben. It’s an expression of rage. It means you’re so mad that the veins in your neck are bulging.’

  There were smiles around the table and a few tried out the new words, seeing what they sounded like.

  ‘And here’s another one. Aus der—’

  ‘Dan, it’s time to stop,’ interrupted Gina, a hand on her husband’s leg. They followed her gaze: the two guards were striding back.

  ‘They’re breaking us up,’ said Gina. ‘Someone’s got suspicious. Eat up, everybody.’

  Heading back to their cell, Dan waited till they were far enough away from anyone and again shielded his mouth. ‘Borrowed a phone. Spoke to Max. Says he’s ready to go. That’s where I got the information from – he checks these sites. He’d heard about the Villager who died, read about the gym. And his old mates in Berlin told him about the strutter refugees.’