by Simon Mayo
She ran past the guards – faces still studiously buried in paperwork – and into the corridor where she had last seen her escort. And there they were, waiting for her. This time, however, they had back-up. The whole corridor was lined with baton-holding prison officers. As Ant appeared, some straightened, others flipped their batons from hand to hand.
She stopped abruptly.
‘Everyone wanted to see you,’ said the squat PO, smirking. ‘Haven’t had a strutter in the Castle for quite a while. We forget what you lot look like.’
‘We look better than you,’ said Ant.
Shut up and run.
She looked along the lines of guards. They were ready for a fight – she could sense it.
Don’t give them the excuse.
She set off again, raising her hands above her head as she ran. ‘No weapons!’ she shouted. ‘No weapons! Going back to Spike!’
One officer started banging his baton against the wall and his colleagues followed suit. The sound of steel on brick filled Ant’s ears as she ran the gauntlet.
‘No weapons!’
Then the abuse started:
‘Strutter scum.’
‘Mutt.’
‘Hapa.’
‘Slut.’
One woman spat at Ant as she passed. Others joined in, and her face was soon splattered with phlegm. She knew she was being provoked, she knew they were desperate for a fight. She had seen it before. Violence was good for officer morale. ‘Letting off steam’ was part of the deal. These guards looked as though they had a cauldron of it.
But still Ant stopped.
Run.
Brushing the spit off her face, she turned to a red-haired, thin-lipped man who was still wiping his lips.
Run now.
‘Nasty habit you got there, Officer . . .’ And slowly, deliberately, she cleaned her hand on his sleeve. The mucus smeared over a surprisingly large area, streaking his jacket from shoulder to elbow. Too late. For such a large man, the guard moved surprisingly quickly. His forehead dipped and cracked into Ant’s skull, just above her left eye. She fell to her knees, her vision swimming.
‘Leave her! Back off!’ The tone was urgent, authoritative. ‘Back off now!’ It was the lead officer’s voice. ‘Get up,’ she said to Ant.
Still on her knees, Ant wiped blood from her face. ‘I was up. Until your bullying ginger friend got involved.’
‘Just get up and go,’ the woman said sharply. ‘You’ve got a minute to get back to Spike, then you’re on your own. And the Castle’s not good for anyone on their own.’
‘No kidding,’ said Ant, getting to her feet.
‘No one touch her!’ called the PO. ‘She’s got one minute.’
Now run.
Ant spotted the squat officer and ran over. ‘Just wanted to thank you for all your help with the uniform,’ she said pleasantly. ‘See you around.’
She had sprinted fifty metres before a bellow of rage told her that he had noticed the blood she had smeared over his shirt. She raised her middle finger in salute and headed for the tunnel.
The surveillance cameras by the steel door picked up a bloodied prisoner as she eased her way through. She appeared to be grinning.
Ant crashed back into the mid-tunnel guard station. She needed two things fast: water and wifi. The white PO shirt was plastered to her skin, the jumpsuit dark with moisture. In the changing room she put her head under the tap and gulped mouthfuls of warm water, smearing it over her face and – more gingerly – her scalp. Instantly the basin turned red as blood from her wound was washed away. She grabbed some toilet paper and winced as she held it firmly over the gash. With her free hand she retrieved the phone and held it up. Most telecommunication in prison was jammed, so small pockets of wifi became obvious; wherever you saw a guard checking a phone, you knew there was a hotspot. Ant had assumed that all guard stations had wifi, and here in the Holloway tunnel, 500 metres from Spike, she was proved correct.
Within seconds the video of Tess Clarke had uploaded and Ant set it for release in two hours.
Should be back in Spike by then.
She smiled at the thought of Clarke and Pellow being exposed as liars, and Mattie’s face when he heard he was in the clear. She caught sight of herself in the mirror above the sink. A badly fitting Holloway uniform covered in spit. A guard’s shirt wet with sweat and stained with blood. A head wound that now had bits of toilet paper stuck to it.
Not good.
Back in Spike, the SHU cell door was open, the tall PO standing where he had woken Ant barely ninety minutes earlier.
‘I need a Pentonville uniform,’ she said, breathless.
MacMillan looked at her blankly.
‘Like now?’ said Ant.
‘You want to change?’
‘Do I look like I’ll blend in there?’
‘Not really,’ said MacMillan. ‘I’ll find one.’ He left the cell unlocked.
‘Don’t suppose Pentonville uniforms come in a size eight,’ she said to the empty room.
By the time MacMillan returned with the grey cotton trousers and shirt, Ant had made up her mind.
‘You’re coming with me,’ she announced.
‘I’m what?’ he said.
‘I can’t do it without you.’
‘That wasn’t the deal.’
‘Then the deal’s off,’ said Ant. ‘Think about it. The Castle was weird. Silent. Something’s brewing there, you can just tell. And they just killed a man in the Village, remember? And started a fire. If you escort me – get me a beanie hat maybe – I might pass as a Villager. Otherwise forget it. I won’t stand a chance.’
‘I’ve been assured that the same rules apply in Pentonville. You got to Clarke. You’ll get to Pellow.’ MacMillan was trying to sound convincing but it wasn’t working.
Ant stared at him. She was still buzzing, bouncing from one foot to the other. She felt like she was in charge. It was still prisoner-versus-prison officer, but there was no doubting the power shift.
The answer wasn’t long coming.
‘OK, you’re right. I’ll sort it.’
The tunnel that led to Pentonville was very similar to the Holloway one. It had the same paint, the same fierce lighting and the same steel, fingerprint-sensitive door at each end. Ant and PO MacMillan walked it, handcuffed, in four minutes.
The Pentonville grey uniform fitted better than the Holloway one-piece and it was loose enough to hide Ant’s strap. It had a washed-out name tape that said CZEZNY. MacMillan had indeed found a beanie; Ant had pulled it down as far as she could.
‘What’s our story?’ she asked. ‘In case we need one.’
‘New prisoner. Emergency alcohol rehab,’ replied MacMillan. ‘They specialize in it here.’
‘In the middle of the night?’
He pushed her into one of the guards’ rooms – an exact copy of the one she had found on the way to Holloway. ‘No cameras. Drink this.’ He passed her a miniature bottle of whisky. ‘Drink it, spit it out, pour it down your shirt, whatever. If you stink of it, it’ll help.’
Ant studied the label. ‘You have a supply of these ready to go?’
‘Pretty much. It’s all confiscated, all contraband. Just putting it to good use . . .’
She unscrewed the cap, rinsed her mouth and spat the whisky over her shirt. She poured the rest down her trousers. ‘I smell like a tramp,’ she said as she inhaled the pungent fumes. ‘Good enough?’
The PO nodded.
Pentonville Prison was old school. There were sections that had been modernized, and rapid expansion was evident everywhere. But the heart of the prison was still the Victorian central hall with five radiating wings. The tunnel brought them to the right of D Wing.
Prison officer and prisoner had to have a certain choreography about the way they walked; Macmillan now strode purposefully through the steel door, while Ant shuffled, trying to disguise her usual gait. Some strutters were always obvious, others adapted. She saw no reason to advertise
that she was from Spike. She felt the stretch and pull at the base of her spine.
The smell of the fire hit them immediately; it seemed to fill the whole prison.
‘Maybe no one will notice that I stink after all,’ said Ant.
MacMillan waved at six officers standing beside a wide desk; one of them acknowledged him, the others just stared.
‘Am I supposed to act drunk?’ muttered Ant. ‘I’m not a good actor.’
‘Don’t worry about it,’ said MacMillan in a tone which suggested that was the least of their troubles.
Ahead, two POs appeared at the other end of a walkway, heading towards them. Ant felt MacMillan tense. The officers straightened as they saw the unexpected sight of a prisoner being moved along their corridor.
‘Here we go . . .’
The oncoming guards slowed their pace; MacMillan did too. Heart thumping hard, Ant realized that she would, after all, need to act. She closed her eyes and allowed herself to trip slightly, bouncing off the wall. She opened her eyes wide – took in the gaze of two suspicious-looking guards – and shut them tight again. Their faces were smudged and grimy, the smell of the fire clung to their clothes.
‘Drunk as a skunk,’ said MacMillan. ‘Found him with a bottle in Remand.’
‘How did that get in there?’ asked one of the guards, his voice hoarse. A firefighter, thought Ant.
‘No idea,’ said MacMillan. ‘Dropping him off in Rehab anyway.’
‘It’s full,’ said the second guard. ‘Has been for days. Everyone wants to be in there – like it’s some kind of holiday camp. Thought everyone knew that.’
Ant leaned her face against the wall and tried to look as though she was falling asleep.
They’re not buying it.
‘I’m in Spike normally,’ admitted MacMillan. ‘Just brought in to help tonight. You guys had it bad.’
‘We’ve taken out the last of them,’ said the second PO. He spoke with grim satisfaction. ‘Whole place has been itching for a fight for months. Well, they just had their moment. It was fun while it lasted – we got to kick a lot of heads.’
‘We could kick this guy too,’ said the hoarse-sounding PO, pointing at Ant. ‘We can do pretty much what we want tonight. Surveillance cameras have “broken”, apparently.’
Ant heard the smile in his voice and hoped her shudder wasn’t noticed.
MacMillan looked at his prisoner. ‘Nah, wouldn’t bother. He’d only puke on your shoes.’
Nice one, Brian.
‘Who is he anyway?’ The guards were staring at Ant’s name tag.
A beat’s pause, nothing more.
‘Can’t pronounce his name. But he’s eighteen – possession and dealing. That’s all I know.’
‘Barely looks old enough,’ said the first guard. ‘Sure he doesn’t belong in Spike?’
Ant held her breath but the other officer laughed. ‘Cons looking younger by the day. Time to quit, old man!’
They all laughed, and Ant felt herself being pulled away from the wall. She opened her eyes wide, then staggered after MacMillan as he led her past the POs.
‘Thought you said you couldn’t act?’ he muttered.
At the end of the walkway they took a winding iron staircase to the next floor.
‘It’s as quiet as Holloway,’ whispered Ant.
‘I think that might be fear we’re listening to,’ said MacMillan quietly.
At the top of the steps, on a closed-off landing, he stopped and took the handcuffs off, then looked nervously at his prisoner.
‘You were right about coming here on your own. You would have got nowhere. And most likely got your head busted. But I’ll be gone in sixty seconds. I can’t hang around, and neither can you. You don’t want to be on your own in here.’
‘You reckon?’ said Ant. ‘You think a sixteen-year-old female strutter with brown skin who had broken into a male prison wouldn’t be treated properly?’
‘You know what I mean,’ he said. ‘D177 is the first through the doors. It’s key operated. I’ll unlock it and wait one minute here. The cell should have three inmates. You remember what Pellow looked like?’
Ant nodded. The image of his thin, twitchy face had been etched firmly into her mind since he’d appeared on the Correction screen. ‘You bet. He called Mattie a spoiled, foul-mouthed bully.’
‘OK.’
‘Thought I’d do some foul-mouthed bullying of my own.’
‘I don’t need to know,’ he said, and stepped out onto the second-floor walkway. Ant didn’t look any further than the cell door in front of her. Bigger, older than those in Holloway, it had one large silver-coloured keyhole. MacMillan leaned in front of her, selected a long key from his chain, inserted it into the lock and twisted it through 360 degrees. They heard the tumblers fall.
‘Go!’ he said, and stepped swiftly back onto the landing.
Heart thumping fast, Ant pushed the cell door open. It was heavy and swung slowly. She stepped inside. The cell was dark, but the light from the walkway showed her all she needed. D177 was empty. Three empty bunks. No bedding, no prisoners. No Pellow.
She didn’t need to go into the cell, but she did anyway. There was no sign of life. It smelled of cleaning fluid and floor polish. If Pellow had been in this cell, it wasn’t recently.
She was back on the landing in seconds. ‘He’s gone. It’s empty.’
MacMillan was aghast. ‘Really? But I was told that was his cell!’ They stared at each other briefly before he took out his cuffs again. ‘Well, we can’t go looking for him. There’s obviously been a cock-up. Let’s get back to Spike. Sort it from there.’ He cuffed her and they retraced their steps down the stairs and onto the first-floor walkway.
Failed. Clarke dealt with but Pellow gets away. Ant cursed under her breath. ‘I’m coming back,’ she said.
‘We need to get out first,’ replied MacMillan. ‘And that just got trickier.’
Ahead, the hoarse-voiced officer was back, this time with two colleagues. This was no night-shift patrol – there was a purpose to their stride.
‘Officer MacMillan!’ the guard called, reading his lapel tape again. ‘Turns out Remand don’t know anything about any drunk. We just called them.’ Ant’s stomach tightened. ‘So my colleagues here will deal with him. I’ll take you up to G Wing. Lots of work there.’
Not good at all. Do something, Brian.
MacMillan forced a smile. ‘No, I signed the paperwork. Let me—’
A thick-set man pushed his way forward. ‘You don’t understand how it works here, MacMillan. Unlock him.’
MacMillan bent down and unlocked Ant’s cuffs. Their eyes met for only the briefest moment before they both looked away. Ant knew that this was now a whole new ball game. These were rough and aggressive men – she had met their type before. They were prison officers and her experience was with criminals, but in her opinion there wasn’t a lot of difference.
Clifton, Bristol
It was gone 1 a.m. when Sara Hussain tapped gently on her own front door. Max ushered her inside, glancing briefly up and down the street. They edged past the bikes in the hall and into her flat. He waited while she chained and bolted the door.
‘I followed the rules getting here.’ Max spoke fast as she entered the room. ‘No taxis. Two bags.’ He indicated the two rucksacks on her sofa. ‘You keep the green one.’
Sara scooped it up. ‘Laptop. Phone. Keys. Documents?’ she said.
‘Yes,’ said Max, his voice strained.
‘Trackers disabled?’ asked Sara.
‘Yes, did that.’
‘Any sign of journalists?’
He shook his head. ‘None.’
Sara was poised, her tone efficient. ‘Let’s be quick.’ She handed him a small jiffy bag. ‘New cold phone, some cash. There’ll be more when you get to the next house.’
‘And what—?’ began Max.
Sara put her finger to his lips. ‘I hope your folks get out. Really I do. But right now, Max, you just
need to disappear. We’ve rehearsed this enough times – we know what happens if there’s a delay. You’ve memorized everything you need. Is there anything else?’
Max stared at her, his eyes glistening. ‘I don’t feel very brave, you know,’ he said quietly.
She wrapped her arms around him and pulled him close, pushing some hair away from his ear. ‘We’re not doing this because we’re brave,’ she whispered. ‘We are doing this because it’s right. And because it’ll keep you out of prison.’
They stood silently in the middle of the room, both aware of the other’s racing heart. Eventually Max sighed deeply. ‘We’ve vanished three people in three years and only one had a happy ending.’
She pulled away now, but took his hands in hers. ‘Max, stop. We’ve learned how to do this the hard way, it’s true. Disappearing is difficult, but it can be done. There are woods and quarries where you can stay for months. And anyway, one in three is better than most of the Bug groups I know of. And those odds will worsen the longer you stay here.’ She smiled at him, running her fingers down his cheek. ‘It’s lovely to have you round here again, but now you have to go.’
He dropped her hands. ‘I never wanted Mum and Dad to start fostering again. Always thought it was a mistake . . .’
‘I know,’ said Sara. ‘I also know that your parents are amazing. What they do for their foster kids is amazing. And their son is pretty amazing too.’
Max grinned awkwardly. ‘Thanks.’ He ran both hands through his unkempt hair. ‘I suppose everyone on the course will guess what’s happening . . .’
Sara nodded. ‘The university will announce that you dropped out. No one will say anything. No one will have to.’ She reached down for the green rucksack, hoisting it onto her back. ‘And now I have to take this out of harm’s way. I’m locking up.’ She took his face in her hands and kissed him on the mouth. ‘Good luck, Max Norton. Stay safe. Come back to us.’
