by John Macken
‘What?’ he asked.
‘Joshua. The tests. Where are you, by the way? Maybe we should meet up.’
Reuben knew at that instant the news wasn’t going to be good. Lucy suggesting that they get together hadn’t happened since the day Reuben had moved out.
‘I can’t,’ he said. ‘What is it?’
‘Look, the consultant implied that things have been going on a long time without us realizing.’
‘What sort of things?’
There was a pause, an intake of breath. ‘Reuben, they think it’s leukaemia.’
Reuben stood motionless, the word freezing him to the spot. He appreciated what the disease was and what the implications were.
‘Which type?’ he asked.
‘They’re not sure. I’ve got to take him back tomorrow. He’s booked in for more tests.’
‘Fuck.’
‘But things aren’t great.’
‘How do you mean?’
‘Some of the things they said . . .’
‘Like what?’
‘He’s failing fast, Reuben. He needs help. They said something about his white blood cells reaching the point of being overwhelmed.’
Reuben pressed the receiver into his face, as if this could bring him closer to Lucy. The background noises grew louder. But also, somewhere deep among the cacophonous sounds of London, he detected a change in Lucy’s breathing. Long, broken inhalations, and sharp, sighed exhalations. She was crying.
‘Look,’ he said, ‘it will be fine. We’ll cope. We’ll manage.’
‘We?’ Lucy asked quietly.
‘You, me and Shaun.’
‘Quite a trio.’
‘You know what I mean.’
Lucy sniffled, the noise exaggerated by the speaker. ‘I guess so. I mean, until the next set of tests . . . But now I think of it, he hasn’t been himself for so long now. I just hope it’s not as bad as they made out yesterday.’
Amen to that, Reuben thought.
‘Look, I’ve got to sort something, then I’ll come and see you tomorrow. Which hospital is it?’
Lucy told him the details of the ward and Reuben wrote them down. He hung up, distracted and on edge, a heavy grey sadness tightening his brain. He walked slowly, thinking through the implications, wondering whether it would be acute myeloid leukaemia or some other variant, desperately flicking back through university lectures on medical biology and the immune system. Reuben realized his knowledge was patchy at best.
He turned out of the old high-ceilinged corridor of the telephone area and into a newer-looking block, with pastel walls and strip lighting. The governor’s office was at the end of the hallway. Reuben knocked on his door and waited, shaking his head, trying to rouse it from its melancholy.
Inside was a small waiting area, with three seats and a couple of potted plants. A guard sat at a modern pine-effect desk in a blue swivel chair. His name-plate read Prison Officer Simms. He was thin and weaselly, and Reuben guessed that his moustache was an attempt to compensate for the fact. Officer Simms wore black trousers, a white shirt with black numbered epaulettes and a black tie with the HMP insignia. He was by far the smartest guard Reuben had encountered so far.
‘And you are?’ Simms asked.
‘Reuben Maitland, prisoner 4412598.’
Prison Officer Simms regarded him keenly. ‘And what do you want to see the governor about?’
‘A private matter,’ Reuben answered.
Simms wrote Reuben’s details down, slowly and carefully, taking his time.
‘A private matter?’ he repeated.
‘Something important.’
Simms sighed, then nodded sharply in the direction of a chair. Reuben walked over and sat down. He glanced at the door marked ‘Governor’, which lay to the right of Simms’ desk, then scanned the clock impatiently.
‘You’re next,’ Simms added a few seconds later. ‘But he hasn’t got much time.’
‘I know how he feels,’ Reuben whispered to himself.
Ten minutes later, Reuben entered through the door and sat down opposite the governor, who was studying a piece of paper. The governor was relatively young – early forties, maybe – and almost entirely bald. In fact, Reuben noted as he watched him, his scalp was so shiny it looked wet.
When he had finished reading Reuben’s details, he looked up. There was, Reuben noted, an almost nervous air about him, which clashed with every mental image he had ever stored about prison governors.
‘So, Mr Maitland,’ he began. ‘Remand, awaiting trial dates. What can I do for you?’
‘My colleague Sarah Hirst has been in touch?’ Reuben said.
‘I’m sorry?’
‘DCI Sarah Hirst, Euston CID.’
‘Remind me again,’ the governor said with a smile. ‘It’s a big prison.’
‘I’m finished here. I need to be shipped back out to the courthouse. As arranged.’
‘OK. I see the problem.’ The governor raised his eyebrows sympathetically and offered Reuben a cigarette, which he refused. He took a long drag on his Marlboro Light, his words exhaled through a stream of smoke. ‘Mr Harrison was taken ill at the weekend, suspected stroke.’
‘Mr Harrison?’
‘I’m the acting governor in his absence.’ He flicked some ash into a small plastic ashtray. ‘So there’s been some contact with—’
‘You mean you don’t know who I am?’
‘Not apart from what it says here on your charge sheet.’
Belatedly, the implications of the governor’s words hit home. Reuben appealed for inner calm, the news of his son clouding his thoughts.
‘Let me explain things to you,’ he said quietly. ‘I came in here to perform a job with the cooperation of the Met. I’ve now finished, and I need to be transferred back out.’
The governor’s expression changed to one of suspicion, his eyes narrowing through the smoke. ‘What sort of job?’
‘I’d rather not say.’
‘And now you’d like to be released?’
‘Not released, exactly . . .’
‘Well, form a queue, Mr Maitland.’
‘But—’
‘You may have noticed that most of the men in here are rather keen on being let out.’
‘But DCI Hirst—’
The governor cut him short again. He appeared to be relishing his authority. ‘Is there anything else I can help you with?’
‘For fuck’s sake!’ Reuben stood up and banged the desk. ‘This is a joke!’
‘Sit down, please.’
‘Look, ring the DCI, see what she says.’
‘Calm it, Mr Maitland. And, for the second time, sit down.’
‘My son is ill. I need to get the hell out.’
Behind Reuben, the door started to open. Reuben had to convince the governor, had to make him understand, had to get the fuck out of Pentonville.
‘Sit down, Mr Maitland,’ the governor repeated, his cheeks reddening.
Reuben spoke slowly and clearly, desperate to get his point across. ‘I’m an ex-police officer, for fuck’s sake. Forensics section. All you have to do is make some calls.’
‘Sir?’ Prison Officer Simms asked from the doorway.
‘Escort Mr Maitland back to his cell, please.’
Reuben banged the desk hard. ‘Come on. For fuck’s sake. My son—’
‘Mr Maitland! In here you play by my rules. You don’t come into my office and raise your voice. And until you understand that, I have nothing more to say to you.’
The governor stubbed out his cigarette and closed Reuben’s file, swivelling to return it to a filing cabinet. Officer Simms stepped towards Reuben, one hand on the truncheon lurking in his belt.
‘Don’t make me use this,’ he said.
Too many fucking films, Reuben thought, a large part of him wanting to see Simms try and swing at him before Reuben floored him. Instead, he walked out of the office and, slowly and dejectedly, back towards his cell, his shoulder scraping th
e wall, his anger subsiding, a sick feeling of defeat settling in his stomach.
17
‘You should have cut me when you had the chance.’
Michael Brawn was standing in the doorway, tall, looming, intense. He pulled the door to behind him.
Reuben sat up on his bed, knowing the answer but asking anyway, ‘What do you want?’
‘To see a copper die.’
‘I’m an ex-copper,’ Reuben answered.
There was a glint in Brawn’s eye. ‘That’s the general idea.’
Reuben stood up slowly, a couple of paces back from Brawn. He saw quick flashes of his final training session with Stevo. The wooden-lined gym, Kieran and his minders watching, things played out for real. Stevo saying, ‘Let him come at you. Use his momentum against him.’ Stevo swinging a punch, Reuben sidestepping it and grabbing his arm. Tugging smartly, pulling Stevo forward and on to a low body blow. Winded, Stevo trying to catch his breath.
‘Word travels fast,’ Reuben said to Brawn.
‘The speed of sound, when it’s important.’
‘And why is it so important?’
‘I think I remember telling you to leave me the fuck alone.’
‘Fine. I’ll leave you alone.’
‘Oh, you’ll do that all right.’ Brawn took a step forward. ‘Only people you’re going to be bothering for a while work in the hospital wing.’
‘Officer Simms,’ Reuben said, partly to himself.
‘See, information goes both ways when it needs to.’
Reuben tensed his body, subtly shifting position, readying himself. Brawn took another pace forward. His arms were by his sides. He was in utter control and knew it. His features were on fire, his eyes wide, his nostrils flaring, his teeth bared. Reuben didn’t like what he saw in the face standing just a single step away from his.
‘Had you figured from the outset,’ Brawn sneered. ‘Tattoo too new, hair too short, words too long.’
‘Is that right?’
‘Said to myself, this one doesn’t belong.’
Brawn stared past Reuben, at the scratched metal mirror on the wall. Reuben sensed for a second that he was almost talking to himself.
‘So what’s your point?’
‘Shall I tell you what every educated man’s worst nightmare is?’
Reuben shrugged, his mind racing, knowing he was trapped in his cell, Narc probably in the weights room, lunch not for a couple of hours, no likelihood of anyone entering for a long time, the chances of being heard slim at best.
‘Pentonville,’ Brawn continued. ‘And every forensic scientist’s worst nightmare? Shall I tell you, Maitland?’
Reuben nodded almost imperceptibly, barely listening.
‘Alone in a cell with a man like me. And your worst nightmare? Here. Now. With the door closed.’
Reuben’s eyes darted quickly around his surroundings, confirming the extent to which he was trapped.
‘But this is worse than that. Much worse than that.’
Without warning, and in one fluid movement, Michael Brawn grabbed Reuben’s shirt and yanked him forward. His knuckles exploded into Reuben’s nose. Reuben collapsed to the floor, blood streaming from his face. His nose was buzzing and on fire, an urgent stabbing pushing up through his sinuses. Brawn stood over him, mesmerized by the blood.
‘Because this one needs to be shown.’
Reuben tried to stand, desperate to fight. Brawn kicked him in the face, an upward trajectory, snapping Reuben’s neck back. Reuben knew he had to react now or he would be in serious trouble.
‘This one needs to be told.’
Reuben lunged for Brawn’s leg, but he jumped up, bringing his full weight down on Reuben’s outstretched arm. Reuben cried out, his ulna and radius squeezing together, a marrow-deep ache burrowing into the bones.
‘This one needs to be damaged.’
Brawn stepped back and kicked Reuben’s prone form in the guts, causing Reuben to curl up like a fetus. He rasped for air, his diaphragm flattened, his lungs useless. His chest heaved quickly back into life, coughing up blood. Reuben rolled on to his front and tried to stand up and defend himself. Through the quick succession of blows, he realized that Michael Brawn was toying with him. He used the white formica chest of drawers to pull himself to his feet. He was breathing hard, bleeding through his nose, and his left arm was throbbing and numb. Brawn grinned at him, then headbutted him clean on the chin.
‘How was that for you?’ Brawn asked, upright, fists clenched, beginning to enjoy himself. ‘OK?’
Bent double, blood gushing from his nose and mouth, Reuben steadied himself. There was no point in defending himself. Suddenly, he straightened and ran at Brawn, who sidestepped him and pulled him on to a torso punch. The name Stevo lit up in Reuben’s screaming mind.
Brawn walked round to stand in front of Reuben, pulling his head up by the hair. Reuben sensed that Brawn needed him to understand the full horror of what was about to happen.
‘What say we step things up a bit?’ Brawn said with a grin. ‘Get this party started?’
He pulled out his small, sharp knife. Reuben pictured fragments of his skin still clinging to the blade, some dyed red, others blue. Brawn waited until Reuben was paying attention, angling the blade so that it glinted in the light.
‘You ever had a tattoo removed?’ he asked.
Reuben didn’t answer, heavy rasping breaths all the noise he could muster.
‘I don’t suppose you have. But I warn you, it might sting a bit.’
Brawn pushed Reuben back into the corner of the cell. He thrusted the knife forward and Reuben parried the blow. Brawn brought his other fist round and socked Reuben hard in the solar plexus. As Reuben gasped for air, Brawn used his strength to pin Reuben to the bed, right forearm exposed, the tattoo facing up.
‘Let’s see what it takes to remove one of these completely.’
Reuben tried to thrash, but Brawn was strong and was pinning him down. Reuben scanned the cell wildly for a weapon. On the drawers was his mini-forensics kit, hidden in a pair of socks. He reached his other arm towards it, pushed it out and popped the egg open with his hand. The scalpel blade clinked on the hard surface. Reuben grabbed it between his forefinger and thumb. Brawn wasn’t looking. He was staring down at the tattoo, lowering his knife slowly, mimicking Reuben’s efforts the previous day. Finally, blade touched skin. Reuben felt the sharp bite of the contact, an inch to the right of the long, angry cut Brawn had already given him. He saw the pulsing on Brawn’s twisted neck, slow and thick. The carotid artery. A quick stab and it would all be over. Reuben gripped the scalpel hard, fingers white with the effort. Brawn was still playing with the knife. He started to run it round the outside of the tattoo, a shallow cut growing deeper. Beginning to dig into the skin, excavating, levering up a deep layer of epidermis.
Reuben took aim. He pulled his arm back to lunge. There was a bang. The door flew open. Prison Guard Tony Paulers burst in, followed by Damian and Cormack. Reuben dropped the scalpel blade into the palm of his hand. He felt the pressure ease.
‘That’s enough for one day, Brawn,’ Guard Paulers said, one hand on his can of pepper spray.
Michael Brawn straightened and stood up. He folded his knife slowly and deliberately, before tucking it away.
‘Just a bit of fun,’ he said, smirking.
Guard Paulers fingered the canister in his belt. ‘Out. And don’t let me catch you in here again.’
Michael Brawn sauntered slowly past the guard, winking at Damian on his way out. Reuben flopped on the bed, losing blood. He heard the voice of the officer requesting medical help on his radio. Most of his torso was in agony and his face felt battered. He closed his eyes and waited for painkillers to come and find him.
18
Judith Meadows carried the post through the hall and into what remained of the kitchen. The builders were late, but this was not unusual. She sat down on one of the two remaining stools and ran her eyes around the room. It had badl
y needed doing, had done since the day they moved in. But two public-sector wages didn’t go far in London, and after the mortgage there was rarely the money for significant improvements.
She flicked through the letters. Two for her husband, one for next door, again, one from the bank. Judith didn’t need NatWest to tell her how skint they were. She aimed the white envelope unsuccessfully at the bin, watching it somersault on to the brick-dusted floor. Although Reuben’s money was helping, with a baby coming, financial matters were now more serious. And while the cash that Reuben gave her was an undeniable bonus, it was not the reason she helped him. She thought again about the bloodied photo of Kieran Hobbs, wondering whether Reuben would be able to make anything of it when he resurfaced.
The fifth letter made her raise her eyebrows. The envelope was stamped ‘HMP Pentonville’. Quickly, Judith padded upstairs to the spare bedroom. Among several tins of paint was a box of nylon lab gloves. She had brought them home a couple of days ago to use for the cheek-swabbing of Kieran and his minders; now they would come in useful for the painting and decorating. She slipped one on to each hand, padded back down the stairs and returned to the kitchen. It felt early in the day to be putting her first pair of surgical gloves on, and incongruous in her small terraced house.
She opened the letter slowly and carefully, her index finger under the flap. Inside was a letter on ruled paper, faint blue lines running across the page. Scrawled in Reuben’s barely legible lettering were two short sentences. ‘I am safe, if a little cold. Put me out of sight.’
Judith paused, her brow furrowed. She examined the inside of the envelope again, even opening it and tapping it on the worktop, knowing it was empty but double-checking all the same. Then she examined the front and back of the envelope at an oblique angle, and performed the same careful examination of the letter.
‘I’m safe, a little cold, out of sight,’ she said to herself. Judith didn’t imagine for a moment that he was safe. Pentonville may well be cold, and she was willing to put him out of sight, but she quickly appreciated that he was telling her something else. She repeated the words a few times, trying them on for size, imagining what they could mean.
