by Jane Bidder
‘Mum, Mum, wake up!’
A shaft of cold premonition shot through Claire as she took in Ben, standing over her. ‘Slasher’s gone. And someone’s smashed into your car!’
Chapter Thirty-seven
Simon woke with a start after a disturbing dream involving Claire, Ben, and a dog. He was about to tell Spencer about it – they’d fallen into the habit of telling each other about weird dreams – but then he saw the curtainless window and the view of Freetown facing him. Then it came flooding back. He was on the Other Side. The side with rapists and murderers …
‘Everyone stay put,’ the officer had shouted last night and they had frozen, even the men. As the alarm continued, they heard footsteps running down the corridor.
‘No one runs in this place,’ muttered a thin wiry man next to him. ‘Something must have happened.’
Caroline-Jane made her way to the officer standing, hands on belt, by the door. They spoke quietly before she came back to them. ‘What’s happened?’ hissed Jack. He already had that kind of very pale white skin that looked like chalk, but he looked even whiter now.
‘There’s been an incident on the wing.’ Caroline-Jane’s voice was composed but Simon noticed her hands shaking. ‘No one’s allowed to leave at the moment.’
Simon felt a tightening sensation in his neck. They were trapped. He’d been terrified of that ever since he had gone through the gate and then through all those double doors with the locks. There was no way they could get out of this place. Anything could happen to them.
Jack began to whimper. ‘Supposing one of them tries to kill us?’
The thin wiry man snorted. ‘Don’t be daft, man. It’s probably just another alarm practice like the other week. ʼSides, you shouldn’t worry about the murderers in this place. Most of them have only done it the once and it’s usually the wife.’
Caroline-Jane’s mouth tightened. She’d hidden her hands, Simon noticed, under her notebook but he could still see that they were shaking. Claire’s had done that when they’d arrived to arrest him. ‘Don’t worry,’ he said quietly. ‘We won’t let anything happen to you.’
She started to say something but then stopped.
‘I need to do a pee.’ Jack was standing up.
‘You can’t yet, I’m afraid.’ Caroline-Jane’s voice was quiet.
‘I’ve got to.’ He walked towards the prison officer who must have told him the same thing because Jack then sat down on one of the chairs by the door, put his head in his hands, and began to cry.
Simon felt disgusted. They were all scared but if anyone deserved to weep, it was Caroline-Jane. She could, so easily, be Claire sitting here with that soft reddish-brown hair falling to her shoulders and her green eyes which were so like his wife’s. He almost had to stop himself from putting his arm around her.
The men around him were getting restless; several had got up and were stomping round the room complaining it was time for dinner. One, who had steel-rimmed spectacles, announced to the room at large that ‘all this is stuff is against our human rights’.
That’s when Simon had his idea. ‘How much paper do you have in your sketch pad?’ he said, walking over to Jack. The boy was still crying but his pad was lying next to him. He flicked through. It was enough when added to his own empty pages.
‘OK everyone,’ he called out. ‘Can you sit down please?’
Caroline-Jane looked up at him in surprise.
‘We’re going to do an exercise,’ he continued.
‘We’re not kids,’ muttered someone.
‘This is an art exercise to see if you’ve got a hidden talent.’ The word ‘talent’ seemed to do it and a few pulled up chairs. Simon turned to Caroline-Jane. ‘May I borrow that box of charcoals you brought?’
Wordlessly, she passed them to him. Simon tried to remember what he’d been taught. He’d been going to ask Caroline-Jane to do this but clearly she wasn’t able to judging from her entire body which was now beginning to shake as the noises in the corridor outside grew louder.
‘This is called charcoal.’
‘You don’t say,’ grumbled someone in the back row.
Simon ignored him. ‘You hold it like this. I’m going to pass some paper round and I’d like you to get into pairs.’
‘We’re not at fucking school, you know,’ yelled out a burly chap sporting a goatee beard.
‘One person from each pair takes it in turn to draw the other,’ he continued, ignoring the outburst. ‘Then after a while, you swap over. Caroline-Jane and I will walk round and give you some advice.’
‘Can we sell them afterwards?’ called out the thin wiry man in front.
‘Maybe.’
‘Blimey, we’ll make our fucking fortunes.’
Simon glanced at Caroline-Jane. ‘Please,’ he whispered. ‘I can’t do this without you and it will keep everyone quiet until we know what’s happening.’
She nodded. ‘Right,’ she called out, her voice wobbly. ‘Now who would like some help?’
They managed to keep it up for over an hour. The footsteps had stopped now but still no one came in, apart from an officer carrying a stack of plastic glasses and jug of water. Clearly, thought Simon, this was no practice, otherwise they’d have been let out ages ago.
There were still a few complaints about being hungry – it was nearly six o’clock – but it was heart-warming to see how some of the men had really got into the ‘exercise’. Simon almost forgot he was in the company of thieves and murderers as he walked from pair to pair. Even though he’d only been drawing for a short time, he could see what worked and what sometimes needed re-adjusting. ‘Try making the face slightly narrower,’ he told the man in steel-rimmed glasses. The other man, whom he’d been drawing, gave a belly-laugh. ‘You’ve made me look like a fat bastard!’ Caroline-Jane had been right, Simon thought, when she’d said that art was a great leveller. The concentration required stopped you thinking about the crimes behind the charcoal stick or paintbrush.
‘Come and look at this one!’ trilled Joanna as he walked towards another self-portrait, this time of a bald man who had a bluebird tattoo on his neck. ‘It’s really good!’
Meanwhile, he could see, looking across the room, Jack was rocking himself back and forth on the chair, head in his knees. No one was paying any attention to him, least of all the officer, who was talking constantly in clipped tones into his walkie-talkie.
Then suddenly the door burst open and a sandy-haired man in his sixties, wearing a suit, walked in – an extremely serious expression on his face. His voice was bigger than his slight frame. ‘Afternoon, everyone.’
‘It’s the bloody evening, mate,’ someone called out. ‘When are we going to eat? I’m fucking starving.’
‘Please sit down and I will explain what is going on.’
Everyone did so apart from Jack who was still rocking backwards and forwards.
‘You will no doubt have heard the noise outside.’
‘Tell us something new, guv.’
‘Unfortunately, we have had a tragic incident on the wing.’
A few of the men muttered. Simon felt his skin grow cold and he looked across at Caroline-Jane. She was staring straight at the governor.
‘I have to tell you that it is a fatal incident.’
The governor was looking round the room as though gauging the reaction.
‘Fucking hell.’
‘Who is it?’
‘Who did it? Was it an accident?’
‘Is the pod closed now, then?’
The pod, Simon had already discovered, meant ‘the kitchen’.
‘As a result,’ continued the governor, ‘you will all need to be interviewed by the police.’
Now there was a stirring, men raising their voices in protest and some getting up off their chairs. ‘Quiet,’ roared the officer, touching his belt and gradually the room obeyed.
‘I realise this is unpleasant but it is necessary. I want you all to remain in this room while we i
nterview you one by one outside.’
The governor then looked straight at him and Simon felt horribly guilty. ‘May we start with you, please, Mr Mills.’
Him? They wanted to talk to him? The last time he’d been interviewed by the police, they’d looked at him as though his very presence made them feel sick but this policeman was courteous and apologised for bothering him. It made Simon relieved to know that they realised he wasn’t one of those men back in the room.
‘What’s the difference?’ demanded Joanna. ‘You are all guilty of …’
‘Shut up,’ said Simon fiercely and the policeman gave him a sharp look.
‘Sorry.’ He wanted to add that he was talking to someone else but that would have looked worse. ‘I didn’t mean you.’
The policeman’s manner became cooler. ‘I believe you were talking when one of the prisoners got up and left.’
A distant memory of a large man, distinguished by his protruding stomach and bald head, getting up and leaving, was coming back now.
‘Do you recall what you were saying at the time?’
Simon’s chest began to thump again. Panic attacks, Spencer had said when they’d first started. Breathe into a brown bag, man but there wasn’t one to hand.
‘I believe that I was being asked why I was in here and I explained that by accident, I had killed someone.’
The policeman nodded as though this was not news to him. ‘Had you ever seen this man before?’
‘No. Never.’
‘You are certain?’
‘Absolutely.’
‘Very well then. Thank you. Just sign this piece of paper here, will you?’
He did as he was told. ‘May I go now?’
‘You will be found accommodation on the wing until we have finished questioning everyone.’
The beating in his throat tightened. ‘I’ve got to stay here tonight?’
‘No one is allowed to leave the prison at the moment. Governor’s orders.’
When he got back to the community lounge, someone had switched the giant TV on and there was a trolley of sandwiches, most of which had already been eaten. Simon felt too sick to pick up the curled white crusts even though his stomach was rumbling. Caroline-Jane was in the interview room now and Jack was still rocking back and forth.
‘It will be all right, mate,’ said Simon, sitting next to him.
Jack’s eyes were hollow. ‘I want out of here. I don’t belong here.’
‘Nor me.’
‘That’s what I used to think.’ A gentle voice interrupted them. ‘But I’ve learned you can’t say that now. Want to hear my story?’
Malik, a kind-looking man and a light brown skin not unlike Simon’s, told them he had been married for two years. It had been an arranged marriage and he and his wife had been reasonably happy. They had a son and she was expecting another. He had just finished training as an accountant but money was tight – they needed a deposit for a mortgage – so he had borrowed from a client’s account.
‘I knew I could pay him back because an uncle had promised to repay a loan from India,’ he said quietly, pulling up a chair next to them away from the television. ‘But then he got ill and couldn’t do it. I panicked so I borrowed some more from another client’s account to repay the first. My wife didn’t know any of this but kept asking me why I was so stressed. Then one of my cousins gave me some weed because he said it would help me relax. I’d never taken anything like that before and it made everything feel distant.’
He stopped.
‘Go on,’ said Jack, who had stopped rocking.
‘This is the difficult bit.’
They waited.
‘Money became everything to me. I was convinced that the more I could get, even if it was only a few pennies, the quicker I could get out of this. My wife was due to give birth the following week and I was desperate. One evening, as I was going home, I saw what looked like a pile of coins on the pavement. It was the drugs talking but I didn’t know that then. They seemed to move and I knelt down and began to pick them up. Then they began screaming at me so I pushed them over. They rolled all over the pavement and I could feel jam running over my hand.’
‘Blood,’ said Jack faintly.
Malik nodded. ‘The pile of coins had been an old man who was wearing a yellow raincoat. Without even realising it, I’d pushed him over and he’d hit his head on the pavement.’ Malik’s eyes took on a faraway look. ‘He died that night and I was arrested for murder. I got life.’
Simon tried to find the words but couldn’t. All he could think of was Ben drinking too much the other month; if he started taking drugs too, this could happen to him.
A couple of others had come up and were quietly listening. ‘Everyone knows everyone else’s stories,’ said Malik. ‘It’s how this place works. We talk about our crimes in small groups and try and work out why we did it and how we can make sure it doesn’t happen again when we get out. Some of the men get really angry with each other, especially if someone is a sex offender. I reckon that’s what happened to Thomas.’
‘Thomas?’
Malik nodded. ‘The bloke who got up and walked out of your talk. He’s been threatening to beat up one of the other blokes for weeks now ʼcos he killed his mother. Thomas’s own mother died last month and he wasn’t allowed to go to the funeral.’
Guiltily, Simon recalled his own words at the time. ‘My confession – about killing someone. Do you think that prompted him?’
Malik shrugged. ‘Might have done. Who knows?’
‘Can I tell you my story?’ It was the thin wiry man in the front row who had steel glasses. ‘You’ll get out of this place faster than us so I want you tell the rest of the world summat. Most of us are here because of where we grew up. I was born on an estate. When I was a nipper, it wasn’t so much what we were going to do but which branch of crime we was going to go into. You started off with nicking cars. Then you specialised. I did post offices. I’d go in with a toy gun and throw petrol over people. Then I’d threaten to set them alight. I never did, mind, but it usually scared them enough to hand over the money.’
Simon was too appalled to speak.
‘How did you get caught?’ This was Jack who had stopped rocking now.
‘The geezer who was doing the job with me that day panicked and shot off so there wasn’t a car outside to pick me up. I couldn’t run with the cash ʼcos it was too heavy and I wasn’t going to leave it behind.’
‘That’s awful.’
The thin man frowned. ‘I didn’t murder anyone.’
‘Yes but you almost scared them to death,’ whispered Joanna.
‘See that man over there?’ They all looked. ‘He raped his daughter.’
Could this really be true?
‘And that one who looks like he wouldn’t say boo to a goose? He murdered his wife when he found out she was having an affair and then called the police. Fat lot of good that did him. He got life too.’
‘What will you do when you get out?’
Simon spun round. It was Caroline-Jane asking. The thin man shrugged. ‘Who knows? Try not get into trouble again, I suppose.’
‘I’ve been in prison for longer than I’ve been out of it,’ said another man. He had an aquiline nose and had piercing blue eyes. ‘Me parents split up and my mum put me in care. I ran away and nicked something and then got sent to a remand home. Got out of that and nicked something else and it just kind of went on from there. I haven’t killed anyone although I did tie some people up for a few days.’
Simon stood up. ‘May I talk to you?’ He led Caroline-Jane to the other side of the room. ‘I’ve got to get you out of this place,’ he muttered.
She smiled. ‘That’s very sweet of you, Simon, but you mustn’t worry. I know all these men; I’ve been here for two years, remember?’
‘How can your husband let you do this job?’ he demanded.
She flushed and then he realised. ‘That ring you’re wearing,’ he said quietly. ‘I
t’s not a wedding ring, is it? It’s one just for show.’
‘I can’t discuss my personal situation.’ She flushed again, just like Claire did. ‘It’s not allowed.’
‘You’re a single mother, aren’t you?’ It was coming to him now. ‘You have to do this to look after your children.’
‘I told you, Simon. I won’t be drawn. Now please.’ She stood up. ‘I need to know what is going to happen tonight. The police are unlikely to let us go until they found out who m–’
‘Someone’s been murdered?’
‘Shhh.’ Caroline-Jane looked shocked. ‘I didn’t say that.’
‘Yes, she did,’ cried Joanna.
‘Yes, you did.’
Caroline-Jane stiffened. ‘It looks as though the prison officer is going to say something.’
* * *
He and Jack had to go to two empty cells while Caroline-Jane went with one of the women police officers towards the main office at the end of the wing.
‘I don’t want to stay the night!’ Jack was whimpering like a small child.
‘Nor do I.’ Simon felt a surge of strength coming from somewhere. ‘But we have to do as we’re told or we could be in trouble.’
The prison officer who was taking them along a corridor threw him a look. ‘Pity you had to get caught up in this but rules are rules.’ He went through another gate and flung open a door on the right. Inside was a smaller space than his half of a cell with Spencer. The bed was raised and had a rock-hard blue plastic mattress. The pillow was of the same consistency. There were no curtains. Outside, he could see ‘his’ prison.
‘There’s a bathroom at the end of the corridor but, if you want to go into the night, you have to push this bell. Only two are allowed outside at the same time.’
Then the door was slammed and there was a click. Next to him, he could hear Jack blubbering.
Simon sat on his bed, trying to get his head straight. Someone had been murdered on the wing. That much had been clear. It might or might not have something to do with the man who had walked out of his talk. Christ! Had he caused yet another death?
