by Simon Mayo
Ant tucked them into her waistband. ‘I should get going then,’ she said. ‘Tell whoever you need to tell.’
While MacMillan radioed the message, she checked and tightened her laces. She bounced on her heels. She pulled at her T-shirt. She patted the pass underneath. Pulse racing, she waited for the green light. The expectation, the anticipation. The grinning.
‘What will you do to them?’ asked MacMillan nervously.
‘Something memorable,’ said Ant.
She counted to four, and ran.
As though it had caged her for twenty years, not twenty seconds, Ant tore out of the lift as soon as its doors finally lumbered open. The twisting corridor that led to Pentonville opened up on her right, but she sprinted left; the ‘tube’ to Holloway was on the far side of the building.
Without phone or watch, she had no idea of the time but guessed it was after 1.30 a.m. Prison was never quiet, but this was usually the quietest time; only the very young and the really distressed were shouting. It seemed quieter than normal; her rubber soles squeaked on the lino floor. Even though she knew she was being ‘allowed’ to come here, Ant moved as quietly as possible, keeping to the shadows where she could.
Two POs appeared. Walking the levels continued all night, and they jumped, startled at the sight of a sprinting prisoner. Ant didn’t miss a stride; she recognized the officers – and carried on running. She glanced over her shoulder. Both men had quickly resumed their conversation – it was as if she wasn’t there.
This might even work . . .
The entrance to the Holloway tunnel came into view. This was the first of the fingerprint sensor-operated doors and always had a PO stationed on either side. Now, it was deserted and the steel door was open; Ant shot through the narrow gap. She paused briefly, breathing heavily. Behind her the door swung back and clicked shut. Beads of sweat ran down her face. Exhilarated and terrified in equal measure, she gazed down the thousand-metre tunnel that led straight to Holloway Prison. Low-ceilinged and whitewashed, it stretched out like something from a horror movie. There were security cameras every fifty metres and metal gates every hundred. They looked closed.
She allowed herself only a few seconds’ rest, then sprinted for the first gate: it was unlocked. She pushed through and ran on, getting into a rhythm like a hurdler: twenty paces, kick the gate, twenty paces, kick the gate.
A guard’s station was positioned at what appeared to be the halfway point of the tunnel. It was only a small booth, where a PO could watch all the comings and goings, but behind it Ant spotted an unmarked door. She slowed her run, jumped the booth and jabbed MacMillan’s ID card into a box on the wall. The door clicked and swung open. A changing room, six lockers and a toilet. No security cameras.
Ant guessed her detour would have been observed on the monitors and wondered how long before they’d want to know what she was up to. Two minutes maybe? She needed to change. Whatever had been ‘arranged’ in Holloway and Pentonville, she was still obviously a convict on the run. If she came across anyone MacMillan hadn’t spoken to, anyone who wasn’t part of the game, she was in big trouble. She kicked the lockers hard. The fourth one buckled and she succeeded in bending the top down far enough to see inside.
‘Get in!’ she shouted.
Uniform. Reaching inside, she pulled out the regulation jacket, trousers, shirt and hat. They were too big, of course, but they were still better than her T-shirt and joggers. It took her ninety seconds to dress like a PO. The badge on one breast pocket said HATTON. In the other she found a pen and a phone; she checked the battery – 40%.
She rolled up sleeves and trouser legs, then butchered the belt with the locker door mechanism and pulled the trousers as tight around her waist as she could. One more feel around the locker – and Ant found contraband from heaven. Three items. She took them out one by one and laid them on the floor. Pepper spray, handcuffs and a steel baton. It was standard issue for a PO at HMP London, but for a prisoner to have them – and a strutter at that – it felt like revolution.
A prisoner with weapons.
Ant fixed all three to her belt. Seeing her trousers sag, she put the pepper spray in her jacket pocket. She retrieved the ‘idiot’ guide books MacMillan had given her and tried on the remaining piece of kit. At least the cap fitted, and she saluted herself in the mirror. She’d been powerless for two years, institutionalized and useless. Now something had shifted and it felt good.
The tunnel end was marked by another set of steel doors. On the other side was Holloway. She slowed her run to check the Holloway book.
‘A283?’ she said. ‘Visitor incoming.’
The lights on the doors switched from red to green as she approached. So they are watching. Ant took a moment to remember her route on the other side, then the doors began to hum. She bounced nervously on the balls of her feet, felt for the pass under her shirt and briefly touched the handcuffs, pepper spray and baton.
‘Come on, Castle, open up,’ she muttered.
As soon as the slowly moving doors offered a gap, Ant slid through. Her eyes darted everywhere. Seeing no one, hearing nothing, she took a few steps forward. Every part of her wanted to finish the job and get out as soon as possible, but she forced herself to go slow. There’s always a chance Brian has screwed me over, she thought. Or someone has screwed Brian. Her hand rested lightly on her baton. But I’m not going back now . . .
The map in the guide showed A Wing as the first block, downhill from where she stood. MacMillan had said 283 was on the ground floor. She remembered from her previous visit that Holloway had been built on a hill and had expanded both uphill to her left and downhill to her right. She guessed that 283 was two minutes maximum from where she stood now. She’d stick to the POs’ corridors and walk rather than run. Maybe three minutes . . .
OK, enough with the caution. Let’s go.
Ant pushed through the swing doors to her right. Another new-build, low-ceilinged, windowless corridor. More doors thirty metres ahead, more signs. More silence.
Why so quiet? Twelve hundred prisoners and no noise?
Ant started to jog. She finally heard echoing voices as she passed a stairwell: POs walking and cursing. She slowed to a swift walk, her heart pounding. The voices behind her were getting louder. They would be in the corridor before she reached the next set of doors; they would see her, no question. She could make out the voices now – two, maybe three women and one man. Ant was three metres from the doors when the POs appeared, their conversation dying away.
‘Hey, Officer!’ The challenge was loud and unmis- takable.
Ant hesitated, then stopped and turned round.
OK, Brian, let’s see how good your plan is then.
Four guards were strung across the corridor, all in the regulation black trousers and white shirt but without ties or jackets. Their conversation had ceased – Ant knew she had their full attention. She saw them looking her over; the ill-fitting man’s uniform was enough to raise concern but her trainers sealed it. She had hoped her outfit would get her some distance into Holloway without a challenge; she’d covered about a hundred metres.
She was obviously not a prison officer; she was obviously a prisoner on the run. And she had weapons. And she had the high, straight walk of a strutter. The chances were that she was about to get a kicking.
The male guard turned to his colleagues and they all conferred. Ant saw some nodding before they faced her again.
‘You new?’ The question came from the lead PO, a powerful-looking woman of around forty, her hand resting on her baton. She had started to walk towards Ant, the other guards falling in behind.
Ant saw no point in pretending. ‘You know who I am.’
‘Do we?’ The guard was still walking, still closing on her. ‘Do we really? Don’t think we’ve seen you before. Certainly no one dressed . . . like this.’ She unclipped her baton and pointed it at Ant’s feet. ‘Is this a new guard fashion in Spike? Another privilege?’
Ant desperately want
ed to run. She wanted to take her chances; she was considerably faster than any of the POs facing her now – they looked exhausted as well as overweight. But it was their prison, and if she was to get to Clarke, it would have to be with their tacit permission. She stood still, her heart hammering in her chest.
‘I need to find cell A283.’
‘We know,’ said the woman behind the lead officer. ‘We know what’s going on.’
Relief flooded through Ant’s body. She almost smiled.
‘But you shouldn’t be dressed like us,’ said the squat man; he looked like a bulldog. ‘And you certainly shouldn’t have any of that kit.’ He stared at Ant’s pepper spray. ‘Where did you get it?’
Ant glanced at the badge on her jacket. ‘Mr Hatton didn’t seem to need it for a while.’
He cursed loudly. ‘You’ll need to give us the uniform and kit back, then you can go,’ he said. ‘Can’t have strutters with weapons.’
Ant forced a smile that momentarily disarmed them.
‘You’re right, of course, Officer . . . It really is just for the . . . mission. Why don’t you escort me to A283? There’s four of you. I could be back in Spike in five minutes.’
‘You could,’ said the lead PO. ‘But you could do that dressed as a prisoner too.’
‘I don’t have a uniform,’ said Ant. ‘I’m only sixteen.’
‘Well, we’ll sort that,’ she replied. ‘You can be eighteen for the night.’
The squat man laughed at that and Ant twitched. You so need a punch in the face. Maybe before I go . . .
‘I’ll get you a suit,’ he said, and went back through the swing doors. Ant and the other guards stared at each other. A stand-off. The POs stood there, batons drawn, their stance suggesting they thought Ant might charge them at any minute.
So instead, she took off her cap and sat cross-legged on the stone floor. ‘Why’s everything so quiet in here?’ she asked. ‘In Spike you can hardly hear yourself think.’ Ant noticed swift glances between the three of them, but none of them replied. ‘Ah, the stony-faced look . . . The let’s-make-sure-we-don’t-treat-anyone-like-a-human-being look. You guys are all the same.’
The doors opened and the man reappeared carrying a blue jumpsuit, the compulsory Holloway uniform for the last four years. He threw it at Ant and it slid across the floor. ‘Put it on, strutter.’
‘My name is Ant,’ she said, her muscles tensed.
‘Your name is what I say it is,’ he said. ‘Put it on. And then slide the kit over. Slowly.’
Ant looked up at the guards, their arms folded, impassive. Turning her back, she used the misdirection of removing her trousers to palm the phone from the jacket pocket. Still hiding it in her hand, she pulled on the stiff cotton jumpsuit and slipped the phone into one of the pockets. Spending some years in the same house as crooks – she could hardly call it an upbringing – did have its advantages. She had learned some unusual skills. She kept the white shirt on, the pass still hidden underneath.
She turned round, tucking the shirt into the waistband. She felt the pass – sticky but safe – underneath, then forced her feet back into her trainers. She remembered to retrieve the small notebooks MacMillan had given her.
‘I need the cuffs,’ said Ant matter-of-factly as she slid the baton and pepper spray across the floor. ‘They’re only for Clarke. You’ll see. You can watch if you want. Let’s go.’
The words were bold, the guards surprised. Ant led the way through the doors, half expecting to be hauled back to Spike. Or worse. But behind her, she heard the doors open again and four sets of heavy PO boots following her. A loud voice barked, ‘Two more doors, first left.’
I’m actually being escorted.
She went through an open security door. Three long corridors fanned out from a central hub where two guards sat looking at computer screens. She paused for a moment, realizing that her escort had disappeared. This was obviously where she needed to be. The POs did not look up. They knew she was there, Ant was sure of it. A shaven-headed, blue-uniformed prisoner, on her own in the middle of the night, doesn’t get ignored unless she is supposed to be ignored. The two men were typing furiously as Ant walked slowly past their desks – a ghost again – then chose the middle corridor.
The main lights appeared to be off; short florescent bulbs provided just enough illumination for Ant to see the doors; A200 inked in large letters on the first. A small box with two orange lights was fixed where the handle would have been. She began to jog, guessing that A283 would be about halfway along this row.
A209. More orange lights. Ant felt for the handcuffs. She knew they were there: she could feel them against her leg; hear them jangle as she ran. The clash of the steel links and clasps reassured her.
A238. Orange lights. How many to a cell? Would Clarke be on her own? What am I going to do anyway?
A257. Orange lights. Ant pulled the phone out of her pocket: 33% battery. Should be enough.
A272. Orange lights. She pictured Clarke’s face as she had appeared on the Correction screen. Puffy. Dyed blonde hair. Overweight. And a liar. A filthy liar who had made Mattie cry.
A283. Orange lights. Which clicked to green.
Wake-up call.
Ant almost kicked the door in. Foot raised, centimetres from the metal, she pulled away. Breathing hard, adrenalin pumping, she’d nearly forgotten. She made herself count to four.
En.
De.
Twa.
Kat.
She exhaled deeply, then pushed. As the door opened, she slipped silently inside, shutting it behind her. A smell of alcohol filled the room.
Home brew? Really?
Three nightlights lit a room big enough for two prisoners. Ant counted: it was sleeping six. Two sets of bunks had been squeezed tightly together; the third ran across at right angles. As Ant opened the door, it barely cleared the corner of the first bunk. She dropped to a crouch, pushing the door closed behind her.
Six of them! Which is Clarke?
Ant saw that she was being watched. Two eyes and a shock of short white hair had appeared on the top bunk furthest away from her. Ant put a finger to her lips, then drew it across her neck in a cut-throat gesture. The old woman got the message and retreated back under her blankets. Ant had to find where Clarke was before the room woke up and turned against the intruder.
She checked the sleepers. Bottom bunk, nearest to her – snoring, dark-haired, twenty-ish. Not her. Top bunk – long blonde hair covered the sleeper’s face. Ant lifted a handful.
Got her.
She reached for the handcuffs, then climbed a rung of the ladder and snapped one cuff around a wrist that was poking out from the bedclothes. She climbed another rung and locked the other cuff around a bar of the metal bedstead.
Got you.
Ant climbed onto the bunk and straddled the still sleeping Tess Clarke. Leaning over, she placed a hand over Clarke’s mouth and the woman woke with a start. Seeing Ant’s face so close, then realizing that she was pinned to her bed, Clarke panicked. She writhed and kicked, but Ant held her down.
‘Listen carefully,’ she hissed. ‘You’re cuffed to your bed. And drunk, by the smell of you. Stop struggling. Make no noise and I won’t hurt you.’ The terrified Clarke nodded quickly. ‘You are a filthy, stinking liar,’ spat Ant. ‘You made up lies about my brother. Kids like him need to be taught a lesson, remember?’ Clarke nodded again. ‘Well, this is your lesson . . .’ Ant removed the phone and selected the film option. ‘You say your name. And you say you are a liar and a cheat. And that Mattie Norton never did any of the things you said. And you don’t wake anyone up while you’re saying it. Go.’
Hurry up, Ant.
‘My name is Tess Clarke.’ The woman swallowed hard. ‘I am a liar and a cheat. That boy I talked about . . . the one in Correction . . . ? He never did them things I said he did. I’ve never even heard of him. They just said if . . .’ She tailed off. A final glance at Ant. ‘So . . . sorry.’ She squeezed her eyes shut a
s though expecting a beating.
Ant leaned over her and, removing the pen from her shirt pocket, wrote Liar on the wall above Clarke’s head. ‘Open your eyes,’ she demanded. ‘They said what?’
Clarke looked blank.
‘Who told you to say that stuff?’ said Ant.
This is all taking too long.
Movement from one of the beds. A face appeared in the bunk next to the old woman. Dark skin, braided hair. The woman blinked twice and looked over at Ant, poised above Clarke – pen in one hand, phone in the other.
‘Hey . . .’
‘Clarke!’ said Ant urgently. ‘Look at me! Who told you to say that about Mattie?’
But now the two lower bunks were stirring.
‘We have an intruder!’ shouted a voice. ‘Intruder!’
OK, time’s up.
Now the white-haired prisoner sat up again. ‘Intruder!’ she echoed.
Ant sat back on her haunches, took a photo of Clarke and the recently daubed graffiti and vaulted off the bunk. As she landed, a woman launched herself off the lower bed. She tackled Ant round the waist and they both collapsed onto the floor. Ant felt the woman’s hands find her strap, then recoil.
‘God, she’s a strutter!’ she shrieked, and leaped back to her feet. ‘Strutter in the cell!’
Ant jumped back up and sprang for the door. She didn’t fancy six against one, even if one was shackled and one looked like she was a hundred years old.
‘Cell’s open!’ cried the white-haired prisoner in alarm, pointing at the crack of light from the corridor. Everyone froze except Ant. While her attacker’s attention was diverted, she rammed her forehead into the woman’s chest. It was a move she had tried a few times; it had always poleaxed her victims. But as her head made contact with the woman’s ribcage, Ant felt layers of padding under the T-shirt. Her victim staggered backwards but stayed on her feet. Ant didn’t wait to find out any more – she had to get out of cell A283 before it became a scrum.
Her fingers found the door edge and pulled. As light flooded in, she heard more shrieks and cries of ‘Shut it!’ She sprinted down the corridor, expecting to hear a small cohort of angry women chasing after her; glancing over her shoulder, she saw nothing more threatening than scared faces peering through the doorway.
