by Simon Mayo
Mattie didn’t like it when his sister was cross with him and the tears continued to flow. ‘I thought if I said sorry they’d leave us alone,’ he said. ‘If I said it was all untrue, they’d put me in the bloc again. And we need to be together . . . in case.’
‘In case what?’ asked Gina gently.
Dan stood up. ‘Guess you’re in trouble, Ant,’ he said, nodding at two guards walking briskly towards them.
‘Guess I am,’ she said. ‘MacMillan and Boden. This should be fun.’
Where Brian MacMillan was gangly and awkward, Louise Boden was stocky and confident. She’d clashed with Ant before. Winter or summer, her white shirtsleeves were always rolled up past her biceps.
‘At least Brian’s one of ours,’ said Gina. ‘Never too sure about Boden though. Usually only works for Grey.’
Daisy had clambered over some seats to reach Ant before the guards did. ‘Never heard anyone shout like that,’ she said quickly. ‘Ant, that was amazing! And who were those two jerks telling lies about Mattie?’
‘Tony Pellow and Tess Clarke,’ said Ant immediately. ‘Well, that’s who they said they were. Never seen them before. But I’ll certainly remember their names.’
Daisy glanced at the two advancing POs. ‘How long do you think you’ll get in SHU?’
Ant shrugged. ‘Depends how vindictive they’re feeling.’
‘Given that you’ve just heckled Grey again,’ said Dan, ‘and on live TV, I’d say they’re feeling very vindictive. So, Ant, please don’t make it worse. Get out of there as soon as you can. Be humble and charming, if you have to. Tell them what they want to hear. Mattie’s right. We need to be together.’
‘In case,’ said Ant.
‘Yeah, in case.’
‘Einen dicken Hals haben?’ said Ant.
Dan nodded. ‘Me too.’
The 800 Bar, Bristol
Max burst into the kitchen. He grabbed hold of Sara and tugged at her arm. ‘Outside! Now! Please?’ His eyes were wide with panic.
He turned to the chef and a waiter who was looking up from his plate of food. ‘Just . . . need her . . . for a moment. Won’t be long.’
Sara put down a tray of sauces and allowed herself to be steered through the back door. Max pushed it shut behind them and sat on one of the chairs. He motioned for Sara to join him, a phone with a lit screen in his hand.
‘This just happened,’ he said, his voice a stage-whisper. He played Sara the footage of Mattie and the explosive reaction to it.
‘My God,’ muttered Sara. ‘Your poor parents.’
Max paused the film and leaned in close to her. ‘No mention of the fire, or the death of a prisoner!’ he said, spitting out his words. ‘Just more totally made-up stuff about Mattie! And did you see my poor mum? She was just dying in there . . .’ He stood up, knocking his chair over, and paced the short distance to the alley wall and back.
Sara reached for his arm. ‘Max, you have to go. Don’t wait for the end of your shift. Remember what happened last time Ant was on Correction? Reporters came round here for a comment. And given that everyone has just seen your mum and dad too, I reckon they’ll go to your flat as well.’ She pulled two small keys out of her jeans pocket. ‘But no one knows where I live. Take these. Go now – I’ll say you were ill or something.’
He took the keys and stared at her, open-mouthed.
‘You remember where I live?’ she said, and Max nodded.
‘Of course.’
‘Well, let yourself in and wait for me. I’ll get off early if I can.’ Max made as if to go back inside but Sara pushed him away. ‘I’ll bring your stuff. If you leave now, you can go to your flat and get what you need first. If there’s anyone hanging around . . .’
‘I know, I know.’ Max glanced at the back door, and smiled briefly. ‘Thanks,’ he said. ‘See you later.’
He turned, sprinted along the service road, and was gone in seconds.
Two years previously
As soon as she saw Mattie and Max standing together at the school gates, Abi knew what had happened. She always picked Mattie up from his after-school club, and then they ambled home – via the newsagent, if they had the cash. Max was never, ever involved. But here he was, one hand on Mattie’s shoulder, standing apart from the usual crowd of parents.
Mattie spotted her first and sprinted over. ‘Abi! They’ve arrested Dan and Gina! We have to go home!’ He grabbed her hand and pulled her towards Max.
Abi was aware of turned heads and whispers as they passed the adults. Looking gaunt and angry, Max set off as soon as they were near.
‘The police came at lunch time.’ His voice sounded tight, close to breaking. He walked fast; Abi and Max jogged to keep up. ‘We are the first. Did you know that? The first family to be charged under the new law. Mum and Dad can’t leave the house. You have to join them. They were going to send a police car to get you, but Mum persuaded them to let me come instead.’ He continued his furious pace.
‘Max, slow down,’ Abi said. ‘Mattie can’t keep up.’
But if anything, Max’s strides lengthened, and so she stopped. Realizing he was on his own, he turned to see Abi and Mattie staring at him. Ordinarily he would have explained, but not today.
‘I can shout this if you want,’ he said with a shrug. ‘OK, it’s your fault. It’s your fault because they noticed us!’ Tears were running down his face, but he seemed oblivious. Other families steered past them in silence, heads down. Max tried to start a new sentence, but couldn’t continue. He turned and walked on.
Abi and Mattie followed at their own pace.
‘Are we going to prison?’ Mattie asked his sister.
‘Sounds like it,’ she said.
‘And Max too?’
‘No. He’s eighteen. He’s grown up. We’re not. If Dan and Gina go down, so do we.’
A small hand in hers. ‘Is it our fault?’
Abi said nothing.
My favourite things RIGHT NOW:
My sister. I messed up. I messed up. I messed up. The film in C was about ME! A went mad and is in SHU AGAIN. I am dumb. Please come back soon A.
Holloway and Pentonville both had their own SHUs – old, austere and spartan. Spike’s bloc was a row of underground cells that had originally been storerooms. There were eighteen of them, each with a low bed, toilet and basin. No windows, no decoration, just green walls and a threadbare piece of carpet over a concrete floor. Ant remembered every detail – she had been here before.
‘How long am I in for?’
‘Till we’re told to let you out.’ MacMillan swiped a card through the cell door’s reader, then turned a key in the lock. As the door swung open, PO Boden pushed Ant inside. The air smelled stale and damp.
‘Do you have any contraband, weapons or tobacco on you?’ said Boden.
‘Sure. Loads. Want to borrow some?’
Neither Boden nor MacMillan smiled.
‘Oh, we need the paperwork . . .’ said MacMillan.
‘On it,’ said Boden. As soon as she’d stepped outside, MacMillan whispered urgently, ‘It’s pat down next! Give me the passes and cards now!’
Ant ignored him and lay on the bed, closing her eyes.
MacMillan was exasperated. ‘If she finds them . . .’
‘They’re not on me,’ whispered Ant eventually, her eyes still shut.
Boden strode back in with a sheaf of papers. ‘An IP98. I’d forgotten how long it is. Pat down first.’ She passed the papers to MacMillan. ‘Against the wall, Ant.’
For a moment she considered refusing, but then remembered the strip search she had endured last time she resisted. And Dan’s plea that she get out as soon as possible.
‘I haven’t got anything hidden. Honest.’
‘Against the wall,’ repeated Boden. ‘You know what happens next if you refuse. It’s so much easier this way.’
‘And I get to keep my knickers on.’
‘Like I said, it’s easier if you just let me do it. Then we can l
eave you alone.’ The guard waited, arms folded.
Ant got up and stood against the wall. ‘Tess Clarke. Tony Pellow. Tess Clarke. Tony Pellow,’ she muttered as Boden’s hands worked their way briskly over her body.
‘What are you saying?’ asked MacMillan.
‘I’m remembering.’
‘She’s clean,’ said Boden.
‘Like I said.’
MacMillan shrugged. ‘Whatever. Jug up at six. We’ll let you know how long you’re in for when we know.’ Both guards headed for the door. ‘And if you remember anything you think I should know . . .’
‘Go away, Brian,’ said Ant, and the cell door clicked shut behind them.
Although no sunlight ever found its way into the bloc, the heat was oppressive. Ant paced the cell, walking in laps. It was eleven square metres; eighteen steps to walk around all of it.
Another six months.
Her outburst had cost her another six months in Spike, and who knew how long in the bloc.
‘Nice work, Ant, really well done,’ she said out loud. She punched the wall as she walked.
But someone has to shout, someone has to protest. It’s just that it’s always me.
She turned and walked the other way round the cell, each lap taking her over her bed. The thin blanket scrunched up as she trod on it; Ant barely noticed. Her mood was grim: she didn’t have her cards or passes, there were new guards she didn’t know, and Dan thought there was trouble brewing. She punched the wall again.
But anyone watching online would have seen that we are fighters, wouldn’t they?
Even as she asked the question, Ant wasn’t sure of the answer. But how many others had shown any kind of dissent? She couldn’t remember any.
With little support outside, and cut off from her friends and family inside, Ant suddenly felt very lonely. Her thoughts returned to her brother, and she punched the wall again.
It was a few seconds before Ant realized she had company.
Her head was heavy with hard-won sleep and her cell was dark, but she knew there was someone there. In a cell this tiny, any change, however small, triggered an inmate’s internal alarm system. She sat bolt upright, then jumped into a crouch. The adrenalin was waking her fast.
The room was too dark. The door’s outside shutter had been closed, the light from the corridor’s fierce neons blocked. No passer-by would see her trespasser. Ant’s heart was beating like a hammer. The suddenness of her waking seemed to heighten her senses; she could hear the intruder breathing, smell his sweat. She balanced on the balls of her feet, ready for an attack.
‘Ant, calm down,’ came a whisper from the corner. Belfast accent. Brian.
‘What the hell, Brian?’ Ant exhaled deeply and sat down on her bed. ‘What are you doing? Why’s—?’
A hand over her mouth. The guard had moved quickly, surprising her, and instinctively she punched him hard.
MacMillan fell to the floor. ‘No, you’ve got it wrong!’ he said in a frantic whisper. ‘I’m here to help! Listen to me – I haven’t got long.’ He scrambled to his feet and sat gingerly on the low bed, holding his chin. ‘Bloody hell, Ant, I’m trying to help,’ he said, sounding as though his mouth had been anaesthetized.
‘How are you helping by creeping around my cell in the middle of the night?’ she hissed, still on her guard.
‘Listen, Ant, just for once,’ he said. ‘How many “trips” have you made to Holloway and Pentonville?’
The question surprised Ant and she took a moment to answer. ‘Three to the Castle, one to the Village. None for a while. Why?’
There was a long pause and she wondered whether he had heard her. Eventually he took a deep breath and whispered, ‘Those names you were repeating earlier . . . Pellow and Clarke. After pat down, on the way back to the levels, Boden said the names sounded familiar. We checked the rolls. Tony Pellow is in Pentonville – armed robbery; Theresa Clarke is in Holloway – GBH.’
Ant’s heart rate picked up again. The liars who had been filmed making stuff up about Mattie. The liars who had got her another six months. Both in HMP London. Both within a few hundred metres of where she was now.
‘But that doesn’t make sense! Why would they get involved? I’ve never met them, never even heard of them,’ said Ant, her voice tight.
‘Boden said they volunteered. That’s all I know.’
Another pause.
‘Why are you telling me this, Brian?’
The PO drew another deep breath. ‘Pellow and Clarke think they’re untouchable. They’re both members of the Cloverwell gang.’
Ant shrugged. ‘I’ve heard of it. But we don’t do gangs in Spike – there aren’t really enough of us.’
‘I know most of you guys stick together,’ said MacMillan. ‘But there are gang contacts here. Some families had dealings with them on the outside – and they still know how it all works. The Shahs, for example. Your friend Amos and his dad. They’re pretty well-informed, if you ask me. Well connected. And in the other prisons they most certainly “do gangs”. The Cloverwells and the Fords run most of the crime around here. Drugs, prostitution, trafficking. A lot of it pretty hard-core. Pellow and Clarke are right in there. Some of us in the prison service fear for our families if we take them down. There have been, er, messages left at some of our homes . . .’
‘What sort of messages?’
‘Parcels of dog faeces in the post, that kind of thing. Messages on Facebook, threats to our kids . . .’
‘Go on,’ said Ant.
‘We thought you might help.’
‘Me?’ Her eyes had adjusted enough to see that the guard was nodding. ‘Brian . . . I’m in SHU, I’m wearing a strap. There’s a thousand metres of locked doors and security systems between me and them. In case you hadn’t noticed.’
‘We can do something about that,’ MacMillan said.
‘Brian, you were here for pat down. You saw. I don’t have my passes. Any of them.’
‘You won’t need them.’
‘You what?’
‘You won’t need the passes. If you want to get even with Pellow and Clarke, we can . . . allow that to happen.’
‘Don’t tell me,’ said Ant. ‘You can open doors.’
‘That’s one of the things we can do, yes.’
‘And the fingerprint ones?’
‘The ones that stopped your trips? We can open those too.’
‘Yeah, well, I’m not doing it. Break into two prisons? That’s crazy talk. If you want to smack them around a bit, go ahead. Give them one for me. But that’s a suicide mission – if I got caught, they’d rip me apart. You know what they think of people like me. Why should I do your dirty work anyway? God knows, you’ve got enough vicious thugs on your side.’
‘It has to be prisoner-on-prisoner,’ said MacMillan. ‘It’s pretty explosive in there at the moment and if an officer got involved, it could light the bonfire.’
‘More reasons why I should stay out then . . .’
‘Maybe. But you know, they’re not going to stop, Ant.’ MacMillan’s voice was more urgent now. ‘Boden says they’ve got more stuff on your brother.’
‘They what?’
‘And the next one is even nastier,’ he said.
‘Don’t tell me. He’s a warlord this time?’
‘Ant, this is serious. And then they’re coming for you too.’
‘But they’ve done me, done Mattie, done Dan and done Gina!’ said Ant. ‘What are they trying to do, Brian?’
He shrugged.
Dan had said to get out soon, and she wanted to get out soon, but she also needed to pay Pellow and Clarke a visit too. She turned to face MacMillan. ‘I want to be back in my ’bin by tomorrow.’
‘OK,’ he said cautiously.
‘Who’s in the control room?’
‘Friends,’ he said, and listed the names on the rota.
Ant nodded. It was three on for nights, four for days. She knew tonight’s POs, and knew too that their bank balances were m
uch healthier than they should be. ‘Strap monitors?’
‘It’s sorted. They know what’s happening, Ant. They’ll watch you.’
‘I still want my passes.’
‘But I’ve told you, you don’t need them.’ MacMillan sounded exasperated.
‘Yes, Brian, you have. But guess what? I don’t actually trust you. Isn’t that odd in a girl who’s been locked up for things she never did? You might be a pretty decent screw, but you’re still a screw. It’s quite possible you’ll abandon me in there. But if I have those sweet cards with “B. MacMillan” on them, I stand more of a chance of getting out. I’m sure you understand. Anyway, that’s the deal.’
MacMillan eased himself to his feet, still rubbing his jaw. ‘Where are they?’
‘In a number of places. Scattered . . .’
‘OK, give me a moment,’ he said, and left the cell. Ant heard him relaying her terms on his radio. She pulled on her trainers. She knew they’d accept her terms, whoever ‘they’ were. Pellow and Clarke needed to be taught a lesson, and she wanted to be able to do it.
Hey, Pellow! Hey, Clarke! It’s payback time. Don’t think that locked door’s going to work tonight . . .
MacMillan was back, lanyard swaying from his hand. ‘I’m giving you my new card. It’ll work in all major doors, gates and cells. My pass code is 8B 3S 2C3. Anything it doesn’t cover should be open when you get there.’
Ant took the pass and hung it round her neck, tucking the card under her T-shirt. ‘8B 3S 2C3,’ she repeated, and MacMillan nodded.
‘It’s my magic code.’
‘And what if the gates are shut?’ asked Ant.
‘They’ll be open. And you’ll need these.’ MacMillan handed over two small slim booklets, both pink. ‘New POs get them. An idiot’s guide to Holloway – Clarke’s cell is A283. That’s A283. And one for Pentonville – Pellow’s cell is D177. That’s D177. They’ve been moved to cells you should find easily enough – Clarke’s on the ground floor, Pellow’s on the first.’
