Slammer

by Allan Guthrie

'You've only had a couple of sips,' Crogan said.

  Glass looked at his watch. 'Got to take a few minutes to psyche myself up.'

  'Right,' Crogan said. 'No problem. Stop by any time for a chat, though, you hear?'

  Glass stood, stepped forward, and cleared the metal detector, legs shaking.

  Just like any other day.

  They didn't suspect him. He was too normal, too boring, far too unadventurous to be a drugs mule. Too scared to be a drugs mule.

  It was only once he was in the locker room that he breathed normally again.

  He'd thought Crogan had known something was up there for a minute, thought he'd been set up. That Caesar had arranged all this just to get Glass sacked. But, no, Caesar had better things to do. And he wanted his drugs.

  No one else was in the locker room yet. Still early for the next shift.

  Glass changed quickly, put on his uniform. Distributed the foil-wrapped heroin bundles among his various pockets. Felt bulky, but he doubted anyone would notice. He took the wad of notes out of his wallet, crammed it in his pocket.

  He was ready. There was no way back now.

  *

  Glass didn't want to walk straight into Caesar's cell. He might be doing something indecent with Jasmine again. But Glass couldn't knock. So he looked through the Judas window. Saw Caesar on his bed. Alone. Jasmine was in the upper bunk. Both of them were staring right at him as if they knew he was on the other side of the door.

  Glass put his key in the lock, opened the cell door.

  Found Caesar on his feet. 'Well?'

  Glass emptied his pockets and tossed the foil parcels onto the desk.

  Caesar picked one up, grinned as he unwrapped it.

  'Hiya!' Jasmine leaned over the edge of her bunk. 'Oh, honey, Officer Glass, I'm so happy I could suck you off.'

  'Don't let his new reputation get to you, bitch,' Caesar said.

  Glass looked at him.

  'Heard you fucked Mafia in the Digger,' Caesar explained.

  'Oh, Officer,' Jasmine said, pouting.

  Glass took the notes out of his pocket. Tossed them at Caesar. 'I don't want your money.'

  Caesar said, 'Up to you. But I suppose you should pay for what you took.'

  Glass had redistributed the bags. No way Caesar could have noticed, not without weighing the contents. 'I didn't take anything.'

  'It's light.'

  'That's all I got.'

  'That so?' Caesar said. 'You want a little for yourself, I don't mind. Especially if you don't want paid. But don't think you can steal from me. If I hear of you dealing—'

  'I'd never—'

  'That's right. Never. And one more thing,' Caesar said. 'Next pick-up will be a week on Tuesday. Same place. Same time.'

  'No way,' Glass said. 'I can't.'

  'You're on nights that week. Course you can. Should be even easier.'

  *

  Later, during the hour of free association after dinner, Mafia walked towards Glass outside the TV room.

  'That you, Officer Glass?'

  Sometimes Glass thought Mafia had to be putting it on. Wasn't possible that somebody could be so blind, especially with glasses on. But someone must have seen Mafia's medical records before he was authorised to wear shades 24/7.

  'It's me, yeah.'

  Mafia muttered, 'Can you spare a few minutes?'

  'What is it?'

  'Just want to talk.'

  'Okay. Your peter?'

  'Nah, folk'll see us. They'll gossip. They gossip enough. Where can we go for a bit of privacy?'

  'This is a prison. It's not designed for privacy.'

  'Thanks for pointing that out. An expert already and you've only been here … six weeks?'

  'Seven.'

  'Forgive me. Extra week makes all the difference.'

  'I know where we can go.' Glass started to walk away and Mafia followed, standing on Glass's heel. He apologised but Glass had the feeling it was deliberate.

  *

  The education block consisted of four classrooms. Today, only one was occupied.

  Glass led Mafia along to the room at the end. He swung his key chain. Fiddled around for the right key. Unlocked it.

  Inside, a cold breeze was blowing into the room. The windows were open but barred, like all the windows in the prison.

  Glass went over, closed one window, then the other.

  On the whiteboard, someone had scribbled some mathematical equations that meant nothing to him. He'd always preferred English. He'd been good at English. Enjoyed words. He'd been planning on studying English at university. Or maybe music. If he'd practised his guitar a bit more.

  Mafia took off his shades.

  Glass said, 'What's this about?'

  'Come over here, I can't see you.'

  Glass walked forwards. Stopped a couple of feet in front of him.

  'You mind?' Mafia reached out a hand, touched Glass's chin.

  It felt odd, this man's fingers touching his face, but he stood where he was, watching Mafia's eyes dart about in their sockets.

  Mafia traced his jawline, then moved his hand over Glass's cheek.

  Then:

  WHAM.

  Out of nowhere.

  Glass reeled backwards, the taste of blood in his mouth. He spun off the edge of a desk, almost went down. Felt like he'd bitten his tongue, but the blood was coming from his lower lip. It was swelling already, tasted raw. He braced himself for another whack, but Mafia hadn't moved.

  'I can't let that pass,' Glass said. Why the hell had Mafia done that? Glass really couldn't let it pass. Letting an inmate hit him without reporting it wasn't possible. Not even if that inmate was Mafia. And even if it was, after what Mafia had just done, Glass didn't care. Mafia deserved whatever was coming to him. What the fuck was wrong with him?

  Mafia said, 'You can let it pass if you want.'

  'You're going on report. They'll ghost you out of here.'

  'Gosh. Got all the slang now, haven't you?' Mafia paused to shake his head. 'Maybe the governor will be interested to know you're bringing drugs in for Caesar.'

  Cold crept out of the air and into Glass's body. The backs of his legs first, behind his knees, then up his legs and into his spine until he could feel it in the back of his neck. 'I can't believe Caesar told you.' He spat out a mouthful of blood. A string of it stuck to his upper lip. He wiped it with the back of his hand.

  'He didn't.'

  'Who, then?'

  Mafia rubbed his knuckles. 'My little brother. Called me up, special.'

  Watt was a total bastard. Why couldn't the fucker leave him alone?

  Glass said, 'Well maybe he explained what he's been doing.'

  'I don't care.'

  'Your brother's been threatening me.'

  'He's not my responsibility.'

  'Threatening my family.'

  Mafia shouted, 'I don't fucking care.'

  'Well, I fucking do,' Glass shouted back.

  'You can't do it,' Mafia said.

  'It's done.'

  'Then don't do it again.'

  'What choice do I have? Your brother will hurt my wife. Or, God forbid, Caitlin.'

  Mafia said nothing.

  'He will, won't he? He's not bluffing.'

  Mafia shrugged.

  'He's your brother,' Glass said. 'Tell me I'm wrong.'

  Mafia still didn't speak.

  'Why's it so hard?'

  'That's why you got the gun?'

  Glass didn't answer.

  Mafia said, 'Let's go.'

  'I thought so.' Glass nodded. 'Just one last thing.'

  'Yeah?' Mafia turned and Glass caught him a beauty on the jaw.

  PART TWO

  CONFABULATION

  MONDAY, 16 NOVEMBER 1992

  'Nothing you'd like to talk about?'

  John Riddell still had that strange milky smell about him. And it was a little sour. Glass reminded himself that Riddell was the sort of man who didn't have a single photo to put on his desk. J
ust that empty frame.

  Glass said, 'I've no more to say now than I did last time I was here.'

  'Tell me about your job.'

  'What do you mean?'

  Riddell scratched his goatee. 'You happier with it?'

  'It's fine.'

  'But are you happy doing it?'

  Glass leaned back in his chair. 'If I wasn't, what difference would it make?'

  Riddell bent forward. 'I don't follow you.'

  'I have to work here, happy or unhappy.'

  Riddell tapped the rubber end of his pencil on his notepad. No pen today. Maybe he was making too many mistakes. 'If you spoke to me about what was making you unhappy, maybe it'd help.'

  'I didn't say I was unhappy.'

  'You asked—'

  '—what difference it would make. I was speculating.'

  Riddell drummed his pencil on the desk. 'So you like the job?'

  'I've had better.'

  Glint of interest in Riddell's eye. 'Like what?'

  'Worked in a cinema once. Didn't enjoy having to push the food and drink, but that's where they make all the money. Free films, though. That was good. I like films.'

  'So why did you leave?'

  And psychiatrists were supposed to be bright. 'Money,' Glass said. 'We don't get paid that much here, but it's a damn sight more than retail.'

  'Apart from the cinema, you ever worked anywhere else?'

  Of course he had. But for a moment, he couldn't remember where. He felt hot all of a sudden and was sure it was connected. Trying to remember was making him feel sick. And then just as suddenly, he was okay. The bakery. Where he met Lorna. But he didn't want to share that with Riddell.

  'No, I haven't had any other jobs.'

  Riddell seemed pleased he'd got a response, though. Pushed for more. 'Would you say you've settled in now?'

  Glass shrugged. 'I know the ropes.'

  'And your colleagues?'

  'Most of them seem to know the ropes too.'

  'No, I meant, how are you getting on with them?'

  'Look, the majority of them are arseholes. I know that. You know that. They know that. But there's no point me sitting here talking to you about it.'

  'Why not?'

  'Because it won't stop them being arseholes.'

  Riddell let that hang for a while. Then he said, 'What have they done?'

  'What do you mean?'

  'What is it they've done to you? Why are they arseholes?'

  'They're just arseholes. You must know. You speak to them too.'

  Another pause. 'You don't want to talk about it?'

  'You got that right.' For a shrink, Riddell wasn't exactly perceptive.

  Riddell smiled. 'You may think that.'

  'I may.'

  'But that doesn't mean you're right.'

  'Shouldn't I be the judge of that?'

  'Of course, I was merely—'

  'Time to go, I have something more important to do.'

  'We have plenty more time, Nick.'

  'You're not listening, John,' Glass said. 'Try it sometime. You might be surprised what you learn.'

  TUESDAY

  One day about ten years ago, Sandy 'Headcase' Harris had been drinking alone in a bar in Falkirk. He liked to drink alone in bars. He was the last customer and the barman was on his own, it being a typically quiet Monday night.

  The barman asked Harris, politely, if he'd drink up.

  Harris didn't want to. He didn't say that, though. Instead, he grabbed his bottle of beer by the neck, smashed it against the edge of the counter and shoved it deep into the barman's throat.

  The astonished barman didn't know what to do. He made a mistake and pulled the glass out. Blood gushed onto the bar counter, splattered all over the newly cleaned glasses and onto the floor. As the barman fought for breath, Harris leaped over the counter, got behind the barman, and put him in a half nelson.

  Harris levered the barman onto the counter. Then he raped him.

  By the time Harris had finished, the barman was dead.

  Harris helped himself to another bottle of beer, returned to his seat, and drank it. After that, he had two more.

  Then, calm as you like, and apparently not sounding the least intoxicated, he dialled 999 and explained what he'd done.

  When the police arrived, he was finishing off a bag of salted peanuts.

  Everybody in the Hilton knew the story. Headcase Harris was happy to talk about it, and smile as he did so.

  Which is why, when Glass was told he was wanted in the Digger, he hoped it wasn't anything to do with Harris.

  *

  'He needs exercised,' McDee said. 'It's his legal right. We can't deny him his time in the exercise yard.'

  'I don't dispute that,' Glass said. 'But why do I have to walk him?'

  'You're the only officer available,' Fox said.

  Glass stared at him. 'That can't be true.'

  'Sorry, Crystal,' Fox said. 'Wouldn't call on you to do this if it wasn't necessary.'

  So they thought he was scared. No doubt they'd spent ages deciding who was the most dangerous prisoner in the Hilton and guessed that Headcase Harris's reputation alone would turn Glass into a snivelling coward.

  Well, Glass would show them. 'Okay,' he said. 'No problem.'

  'Good,' McDee said. 'He has to be cuffed to you. That okay?'

  'Fine. Why wouldn't it be?'

  Course, the last thing he wanted was to be handcuffed to Harris. Bad enough being in the proximity of a psycho like Headcase, but it was even worse when you knew you wouldn't be able to escape in a hurry if the psycho went psycho. Still, somebody had to have been walking Harris on previous occasions and as far as Glass knew, nobody'd been hurt.

  'Where is he, then?' Glass asked.

  Fox stayed where he was while McDee led Glass down the block to the cell second from the end. 'Here we are,' McDee said.

  Fox was talking on his radio, although Glass couldn't hear what he was saying. Seemed to be having a laugh, though. Probably telling Ross a dirty joke. She was every bit as bad as him. Glass wouldn't have been surprised to discover they were screwing each other, that their families meant nothing to them. Yeah, both of them were married with kids.

  McDee opened the cell door.

  The stink hit Glass first. Not the usual pong. No, this was a stench that made him flinch just as surely as if someone had thrown a punch at him.

  But there was nothing moving, nothing throwing punches. Just the thing crouched in the corner of the room. Covered in feathers. Feathers in its hair, on its face, all over its body. Feathers all over the floor, and a few feet away what must have been a pillow before it had been gutted.

  The thing was human. It had eyes, limbs. But it was the strangest-looking human Glass had ever seen.

  He put his hand over his nose. The stench crawled through his fingers and up his nostrils. And then he realised why the feathers were adhering to Harris's body.

  Glass gagged. It couldn't be.

  But it was. The smell was undeniable, no matter how much Glass had wanted to think it was just a full chamber pot.

  The crazy bastard was covered, head to toe, in shit.

  Tears welled in Glass's eyes. He blinked them back. He said to McDee, 'This isn't funny.'

  Glass heard Fox scurrying down the corridor towards them.

  'Not supposed to be,' McDee said. He was standing well outside the door, hand cupped over his nose and mouth.

  'Fuck's sake,' Fox said. 'That's one heady aroma.'

  Glass said, 'This is beyond a joke.'

  'Who's laughing?' Fox said. 'The prisoner needs to be exercised.'

  'Not like that,' Glass said. 'I'm not taking him anywhere in that state.'

  Fox looked at McDee. 'Better tell the S.O.,' he said. Then, to Glass, 'Shaw's not going to be too pleased with you.'

  'What's it got to do with Shaw?'

  'He's the one who suggested you for the job.'

  Glass doubted it. 'Why pick on me?'

>   'Nobody's picking on you,' McDee said. 'I took Harris out yesterday. Fox took him out the day before. We've all had a turn. Show you the paperwork if you want.'

  Fox said, 'Part of the job, Glass. You don't want to do it, hand in your notice.'

  Glass wished that were possible. 'Hose him down first,' he suggested.

  'Nope,' McDee said. 'Wish we could, but that's against the rules too. Prisoner's got rights, you know.'

  Glass stepped into the cell, the stink growing all the time.

  Headcase Harris looked up at him, eyes seriously white against his D.I.Y. suntan.

  Glass wanted to call him names. Reeking bastard, stinking fucker. All he could think of to do. But he couldn't say anything. This shit-encrusted, feathered nutjob wasn't the sort of person who'd stand for it. As soon as he got the opportunity, he'd kill Glass. Maybe rape him first. And he'd have the opportunity very soon.

  'Exercise time,' Glass said to him.

  'Is it raining?' Harris wanted to know.

  His teeth looked too white, like his eyes. He had shit on his lips. He'd done a hell of a thorough job.

  'Dry as a bone.' Glass gagged again. Swallowed. Kept swallowing. He was producing a lot of saliva. 'Why did you do this to yourself?'

  'Oh,' Harris said, tilting his head. 'I didn't think anyone cared.'

  Glass shrugged. 'I'm full of surprises.'

  Harris eyed him, then grinned. 'Fuckers wouldn't empty my bucket. Been stinking the place up for a week. So I emptied it myself. You get used to the smell, by the way.' He held out his arm. 'Put on the bracelets. Can't wait to get all cosy with you.'

  Glass wanted to check he wasn't being lied to. He asked Harris, 'Did you get exercised yesterday?'

  'Always get exercised. Have to,' Harris said. 'I've got rights.'

  Course. He had rights. Glass nodded. Fox and McDee weren't conning him.

  *

  The exercise yard measured about ten feet by ten. It was completely enclosed.

  McDee and Fox stood by the entrance, watching Glass walk round in circles practically hand in hand with Harris.

  So Glass was the only officer available, was he? He'd known that was a lie. The fuckers had come to gloat. They seemed to be finding it pretty funny. Well, let them.