by Simon Mayo
Leave him. He’s a screw. He’ll be fine.
One hundred metres.
The advancing men were shouting. She could still make it to Spike, she thought, but without MacMillan. He was still groping around his waist.
But he came back for me.
And she suddenly realized what he was trying to do.
MacMillan leaned back against the bars, and Ant, propping him up, stood behind him. Campbell and Treves were fifty metres away; she could hear every breath, every step, every curse. Campbell had the pole in one hand, Treves had the knife – he smiled as he ran. In the harsh lighting, Ant saw that the ten-centimetre serrated blade was already covered in blood.
She waited until the last minute. With one hand she held MacMillan against the bars, in the other was his can of pepper spray. ‘Shut your eyes and hold your breath,’ she whispered.
As the men reached the gate, they slowed and Ant stepped out from behind the guard. With two swift sweeps of her arm, she sprayed the chemicals directly into their faces. She knew from the screams and the clang of the dropped pole that it had worked, but she had already turned and was dragging MacMillan towards the next gate. The spray had been effective, but she needed to get away from the oleoresin capsicum she had released into the tunnel; she could already feel her eyes and throat prickling. With any luck, the full effect of the gas – tears, pain and temporary blindness – would keep the two cons out of action till she was back in Spike.
MacMillan was capable of walking if Ant led him. A hundred metres on, she allowed herself to look back. Campbell was rolling around, his hands over his face; Treves had pulled himself up onto his knees. Wiping his eyes with his sleeve, he was trying to focus.
She rattled the can. ‘You want some more of that?’ she yelled at him. ‘You want some more of that? Want to cry some more?’
Treves kept his distance.
‘I think he will be back for more. Let’s pick this up, Brian.’
It was only when they were going through the open second gate that Ant realized her mistake. She paused, the blood draining from her face.
‘The keys,’ she muttered. She glanced back down the tunnel at the first gate. In her panic, she had left them in the lock. ‘Brian, your keys are still in the gate. What could they open with them?’
Her tone had been as flat as she could manage, but his reaction told her all she needed to know. He spun round, eyes wide, mouth open, and swallowed twice before he spoke. ‘This gate. A lot of Spike.’ He gulped again. ‘Some parts of Holloway and Pentonville, not sure where exactly. Never needed to find out.’
‘My bad,’ said Ant. ‘I need to get them back.’
MacMillan grabbed her before she could move. ‘No, we need to get out. Now, while we can.’
They both looked at Campbell. He was getting onto his hands and knees, still coughing and retching. Treves was approaching now.
‘OK, you’re right. Let’s go.’
Ant pushed, pulled and encouraged MacMillan towards the steel door at the end of the tunnel. One hand was still firmly pressed against his ribs, the blood seeping through his fingers. He tried to run but could only manage a lop-sided shuffle. Ant knew it wasn’t fast enough.
‘Bigger steps, Brian! We need bigger steps!’
A cry from behind them; Ant spun round, holding onto MacMillan and running backwards. Treves was coming towards them in a low crouch, pole in one hand, knife in the other.
She waved the pepper-spray can. ‘Ready when you are!’ she yelled.
Treves grinned.
She turned to MacMillan. ‘We’re going to have to fight,’ she said.
Her breaths were coming in short gasps now, MacMillan’s in rasping heaves. Ten metres from the tunnel end, she took his hand and wiped it on her shirt again.
‘Brian, get ready! Every second counts. Get that door open!’ She steered him to the control pad and guided his finger onto the sensor. The lights changed and she heard the gears of the door start to move. Turning to face Treves, she raised the can of pepper spray just as the pole hit her in the stomach. She crumpled, dropping the spray, the wind knocked out of her. White lights bursting in her vision, she scrabbled for the pole. She could hear Treves’s victory cry as her fingers closed around the metal tube. She pulled it towards her, then raised it, stabbing upwards. It caught Treves on the shoulder and he spun away, bouncing off the corridor wall.
Ant scooped an arm around MacMillan’s waist and hauled him towards the slowly opening space between the tunnel and Spike. Ten seconds and they’d be through.
‘Oi, strutter!’ yelled Treves.
Ant and MacMillan saw the knife flash as he lined up the throw. As they backed into the gap, shoulder to shoulder, squeezing through, Ant raised the pole – it was the only defence she had. It wasn’t enough.
When the knife hit MacMillan, Ant felt his whole body judder. It sliced into his ribs just below his heart – he managed a huge gasp of breath before collapsing.
With a shout, Treves ran forward, but only Ant was armed now. With as much strength as she could muster, she threw the pole. He tried to swerve, but the bar hit him on the knee and he fell. Ant grabbed the prostrate MacMillan and hauled him towards the slowly opening door. The gap was wide enough for one, but with the guard bent double, she had to pause. Two more seconds and they’d both be through. Ant glanced into Spike, but there was no help there. And Treves was on his feet again, metres away, reaching to reclaim his knife from MacMillan’s chest, when Ant felt herself being pushed backwards. Surprised, she staggered a few steps into Spike.
‘Brian!’
In the same movement, MacMillan rolled back into the tunnel, away from the door, landing at Treves’s feet. Just as the prisoner bent to retrieve his blade, MacMillan’s boots found the door and pushed. To Ant’s horror, it shuddered, then started to close. It took Treves valuable seconds to realize what had happened and he lunged for the door, his fingers finding the locking mechanism.
Torn between helping MacMillan and fighting Treves, Ant froze. MacMillan was pushing, Treves was pulling. She made her mind up. She kicked Treves’s fingers away. Free of resistance now, the steel door closed the last few centimetres.
The lights on the door turned red.
Now she heard the sirens. Now she saw the flashing lights. Collapsing against the steel door, Ant wanted to scream. She wanted a phalanx of armed POs to come storming round the corner, but that didn’t happen. Instead she lay stunned and unmoving against the steel door, her clothes soaked in blood. That it was MacMillan’s blood, livid and sticky, made its dampness all the more shocking. She started to shake.
Brian’s dead. He has to be. And he pushed the door shut. And he saved me. And he’s dead. And he saved me.
She tried to wipe her face with her hands, but merely succeeded in smearing the blood and tears further.
And I need Mattie.
Now the guards came. Ant didn’t count them, but there weren’t enough. Batons in hand, they ran to where she was sprawled. All the voices shouted together:
‘Where’s MacMillan?’
‘What have you done with him?’
‘What’s happened to MacMillan? Whose blood is that?’
She crawled away from the door. ‘He’s on the other side,’ she said, her voice barely audible above the prison’s emergency siren. ‘Couldn’t you guys see? Weren’t you watching? We needed you in the tunnel . . .’ The familiar rattle of handcuffs followed by the coldness of the steel on her wrist made her start. ‘Are you kidding?’ she shouted. ‘Try helping your mate before sorting me out – he’s bleeding to death through there! Trust me, I’m actually pleased to see you.’
There were six of them, none she recognized. One shouted into his radio, then went to place his finger on the scanner.
‘No!’ came the shouted command. ‘Wait!’ It was the assessor. Everyone turned to watch Grey stride towards the door. ‘We have a hostage situation. You know the Riot Control Plan. Hats and bats, gentlemen, hats and bats
. Back here in two.’
The officers ran off, leaving the one who was cuffed to Ant awkwardly waiting for his orders.
Ant couldn’t help herself. ‘You have to help!’ she cried. ‘We were attacked! MacMillan’s dead, I think, and they have keys and—’
‘Give me your baton,’ interrupted Grey. The guard, surprised, slowly passed his stick to the assessor, who snatched it greedily.
‘A nightstick!’ he said. ‘Just like the old days . . .’ It had a short side handle, and Grey spun it round in his fist. He knelt down in front of Ant, then stabbed the baton under her chin and lifted. ‘I don’t need to help anyone,’ he said, his voice in its quietest, most dangerous register. ‘You really have messed up – I could send you away for ever for this, you know.’ His voice became quiet, almost confidential, as though sharing a secret. ‘Escape. Sabotage. Murder . . . The murder of a prison guard. That sentence of yours just got so much longer.’
‘You’ve got the cameras,’ said Ant. ‘You know that’s not true.’
‘The security tapes will show nothing. For now you’re back in your cell – SHU is full. It seems rather popular tonight. But when I’ve sorted this’ – he waved the baton at the steel door – ‘I’m coming back for you and your criminal family. You always were trouble.’
Ant glanced up at the guard who was chained to her. He was looking at the ceiling.
Grey used the baton to push her head down again. ‘He can’t hear us over the siren. Barely speaks English anyway.’ He jabbed the baton into the bruise on Ant’s head, pinning her to the wall. She swallowed her howl of pain. ‘The thing is, Abigail – you don’t mind if I use your real name, do you? No, of course not. The thing is, you and I both know that this prison is a shambles. Hopeless failures being looked after by hopeless failures. And thanks to you, this whole storage unit is now falling apart. But at least there’s someone who can pick up the pieces.’ He removed the baton, wiped it on his trousers before handing it back to the guard. ‘You see? You need me now. Everyone needs me now.’ He stood up and brushed his hands together. ‘Cell thirty-three,’ he said.
Bloodied and exhausted, Ant spent more than an hour explaining where she had been and what she had done. She told them everything. Propped up in her bunk, she fought the sleep that was threatening to overwhelm her. Mattie was tucked in beside his sister, Dan and Gina sat on the floor. By the time she had finished, they were all done with expressions of anger and gasps of surprise; they just sat there in stunned silence. Gina’s hands were over her mouth, tears running down her face.
‘Did he die?’ asked Mattie, a small voice from under a sheet.
‘Don’t know,’ said Ant. ‘But probably.’
‘He came back for you,’ he said.
‘He did.’
‘Is it my fault?’ A smaller voice now.
‘Shh now. Of course not.’
‘Sèten?’ (Certain?)
‘Sèten.’ (Certain.)
‘And you have his pass?’ said Gina.
‘8B 3S 2C3,’ said Ant. ‘That’s Brian’s code. He said Grey would go mad if he found out I knew. Then he said those numbers would change my life.’
‘Well, they got you out of that cell,’ said Mattie.
There was a silence before Dan spoke. ‘And the crazy guy has the keys.’
Ant nodded. ‘I guess so. There’s always a chance that they’re so stupid they’ll miss them. But it’s not likely.’
Dan and Gina both sighed deeply.
‘OK. We stay together as much as we can. Abi and Mattie – you need to be stuck together, you understand?’
In the bunk, Mattie squeezed Ant tightly.
‘Dan, you’re frightening Mattie,’ chided Gina.
Dan nodded. ‘Maybe. And maybe that’s a good thing. This is going to be tough. When does that video you posted go live?’
‘What’s the time?’ asked Ant.
Gina checked her watch. ‘Five thirty-five.’
‘Thirty-five minutes ago then.’
‘I know why you did it, Abi,’ said Gina. ‘But that’s a humiliation right there. And a humiliation committed by a strutter too. If that Clarke woman is in the Cloverwell gang, we’ll know about it soon enough.’
Ant fell asleep just before six, Mattie – still in his sister’s bunk – soon after. Dan and Gina dressed in silence, then waited for the unlocking. As soon as the door to the cell buzzed open, they stepped outside. The air was cooler there, but not by much; within seconds their clothes were damp with sweat. They spoke in urgent whispers.
‘I’ll stay here,’ said Dan. ‘Get as much food as you can and tell as many folk as you can.’
Gina nodded. ‘I’ll wait till there’s a decent crowd, then go. I don’t want to hang around too long.’
But it seemed the whole prison was hungry. Jug up was busy within minutes, and when they spotted the Raaths, the Noons and the Durrows all queuing, Gina gave Dan a kiss on the cheek and disappeared down the steps. Dan watched as she moved along the lines waiting for food, then amongst the tables, spending no more than a minute with any group. As word spread from family to family, he saw them gather as much breakfast as they could carry, then hurry back to their cells. Gina emerged slowly from the steps, her arms full.
‘Nice work.’ Dan smiled as he saw the bread, fruit and sausages that Gina had scooped up.
‘Told everyone, I think,’ she said, glancing down at the emptying tables. ‘Reckon the whole of Spike knows it now. Kids OK?’
Dan managed a smile. ‘I haven’t checked. You were only gone fifteen minutes. But I have been standing here, sentry-like, getting hungry. Let’s store what we can.’
As they stepped inside their cell, the siren fired again.
Day 790
My favourite things RIGHT NOW:
Bacon.
Ant being safe.
Brian going back for A.
Maybe he’ll still be OK?
D and G look bad. Everyone worried about the crazy guy and the keys.
A is the bravest.
A Wing, Holloway
The women of cell 283 went to breakfast together. They rolled in, queued up for their food, then found a table in the far side of a half-empty hall.
‘Will everyone know?’ whispered a haunted-looking prisoner, spooning cereal into her mouth as though it might disappear at any second. ‘Will everyone know about what happened to Tess?’ She gave a quick glance at Tess Clarke, who was sitting beside her.
‘Given that we had to get a screw to unlock her handcuffs,’ said another, ‘and given that screws never keep their mouths shut, I’d say yes. And here comes the proof. Hold tight, everyone, we’ve a mad witch incoming.’
The six women looked up and then swiftly down again as a thin-faced woman with wild black hair marched up to them. Tess Clarke made space for her, but she didn’t need much. Grace Chang was one of the Cloverwell gang leaders; her reputation for casual, unthinking violence had been well-earned.
Clarke handed her a mug. ‘Here, have mine. Not touched it yet.’
‘I’ve seen the video,’ said Chang, ignoring her. ‘Outside, everyone will see the video.’ Her lips pursed with controlled disappointment. ‘How did it happen?’
Everyone around the table looked at everyone else.
‘Tess should tell you,’ said the white-haired woman. ‘She’s one of yours, isn’t she?’
Chang turned to face Clarke, who disguised her shaking hands by shoving them deep in her pockets.
‘She just broke in somehow,’ Clarke blurted. ‘I was asleep. Next minute she was on top of me! And threatening me and . . .’
Chang raised her hand and the words trailed away. ‘Who broke in? Who did this? No one just walks into another cell like that.’
‘She’s the boy’s sister. From the Correction film,’ said Clarke, and stopped.
Chang looked puzzled. ‘She’s here? In Holloway?’
There was a long pause as Clarke hesitated, then said, ‘She’s a strutter. She cam
e from Spike.’
Chang hurled the mug down with such force that it smashed into hundreds of ceramic shards, showering the table with cheap china and hot tea.
Pentonville
It had happened so quickly that the much-vaunted Riot Control Plan hadn’t even been ordered, never mind executed. With the keys left behind by MacMillan, Treves had opened eighteen cells before any guards arrived. Swiftly overpowered, they now faced every prison officer’s worst nightmare. Trembling, the guards sat together, then cried out as the blows came. Years of grievances – real and imagined – were being satisfied, each strike delivered with a name or an insult attached.
In front of them Treves and Campbell sifted newly liberated keys and passes.
‘Who knows where we can get from here,’ said Campbell, stuffing three cards into his pocket. ‘If they’ve any sense, they’ll have shut the prison down. All the passes will be useless. The keys are obviously still good . . .’
‘We need weapons,’ said Treves. ‘They’ll come at us hard. And soon.’
‘We have C Wing,’ said Campbell, ‘some offices, access to the tunnel and, as many of our friends are discovering, the pharmacy.’
Treves grinned. ‘This is going to be the biggest party ever.’
Spike
The speakers squawked to life, killing the siren. In cell 33 everyone jumped and then froze, waiting for the message. Then the words came. The male voice was clipped and tense.
‘There is a temporary security issue. Your cells are secured and locked until further notice.’
‘Well, that’s one way of putting it,’ said Gina.
‘And let’s see how temporary it is,’ muttered Ant drowsily.
The siren fired up again. Mattie was waving at the Evanses and the Claytons in 31. Their twelve-year-old daughter waved back briefly, then disappeared from view. Ant had given up on sleep but was still lying on her bunk. Images of Brian filled her head. The sound the knife had made as it struck him, a fearful thud, filled her ears. Your stupid bloody plan, Brian! Why did I ever agree . . . ? The tears came fast now. My God, what have we started?
Gina and Dan were talking in brief shouts to compete with the siren. Mattie was lookout; with the cell doors locked, it was the only way to find out what was happening outside.
