by Jacqui Rose
A few hours later, when all the prisoners of D-wing had been questioned by the screws, swearing on their loved one’s lives that they hadn’t seen, heard or even frequented the recreational room that day and had no clue how Craig had sustained his injuries, Freddie Thompson sat in his magnolia-painted cell.
He looked around, curling his nose up. The slop buckets were full to overflowing. The heavily stained sheets – which were supposed to be fresh each week – looked like they’d just been swapped from one dirty set to another. And the cold July evening’s air whirled in through the barred prison window as if looking for some warm sanctuary.
Freddie wasn’t sorry about putting Craig in hospital. Fuck it; he hardly had anything to lose now. And besides, Craig was a friend of Benjamin Bradley. He’d been there that day in the showers. The day Freddie had used up his get out of jail card. Closing his eyes, he remembered it like it was yesterday …
It’d been a day like any other when Freddie walked into the showers, hoping they wouldn’t be filthy. He never understood why the men had to behave like animals and shit all over the cream tiled floor. The screws didn’t care; it only sealed their belief the courts had been right to lock them up.
No one was willing to clean it up, so it stayed there, mixing with the soap suds along with the cheap shampoo before finally disintegrating down the shower plug holes.
The only time the showers were fit for human use was on a Wednesday morning, when the cleaners came with a look of disgust and made a half-hearted effort to clean them up.
Taking his frayed towel, given to him at her majesty’s pleasure, Freddie made his way to the showers expecting them to be empty, having sacrificed his breakfast of an undercooked egg to get a shit-free shower. So it surprised and annoyed him in equal measure to hear voices.
Coming round the corner he saw the wiry form of Benjamin Bradley laughing like a hyena and jumping around on one foot in excitement as he huddled up in the far corner with a few other men.
Freddie glanced at them, pleased the men were fully clothed with no obvious intention to shower and took no more interest in them than he would a pesky gnat. Until a moment later that was, when Benjamin dropped something on the floor, making him frantically scramble to pick it up.
Curiosity took hold of Freddie as he walked across to the shifty-looking men.
‘What’s so interesting Bradley to make a grown man roll on the floor like a fucking circus clown? What have you got there?’
Benjamin Bradley looked up and froze. Freddie knew most prisoners and come to think of it, most people were scared of him. His formidable reputation always preceeded him. It was clear to Freddie, from the sweat breaking out on Bradley’s face, he was afraid as any other man.
Freddie watched as Bradley stayed frozen on all fours, with his mouth opening to reply but closing again seconds later.
‘The cat got your tongue? Because if it hasn’t, you better have a fucking good reason for not answering me. Otherwise I’ll be the one having your tongue Bradley, and you really wouldn’t want that.’
Freddie looked round at the other men, who quickly averted their eyes. This was going to be very interesting. Again, Freddie could see Bradley was trying to find an answer but it was clear he didn’t have one. With the speed of a fox at the sound of a hound, Benjamin Bradley rammed the evidence into his mouth.
Freddie Thompson was dumbfounded. He’d expected the man just to tell him what it was; instead here he was shoving it into his mouth as if it was the last supper. It only took Freddie a moment to snap himself back into action. He reached quickly down with one hand, putting his fingers between Benjamin’s teeth as the other men stood frozen He yanked open the squirming man’s mouth with the other, making Benjamin shriek with pain and spit out the contents which he’d manically been trying to chew.
Freddie held Benjamin’s gaze for a moment before picking it up and unfolding the soggy mess. It turned out to be a photograph. As the photo unfolded, Freddie’s eyes widened. Lying in his hands, covered in Benjamin Bradley’s warm saliva was a photo of a little boy, no older than two or three. A mask of torturous pain covered his face and his big green eyes were wide open in manic terror. Bradley was in the photo as well, and there was no mistaking what he was doing to the boy.
Freddie had seen and done a lot. Hurt people for just looking at him. Nothing could touch him, but this image of the little boy made him want to drop to his knees and cry. Instead he used the ache he felt inside of him to clench his fist and bring it down in a haze of raging fury into Bradley’s face.
Ten minutes later Freddie stood under the cold shower, not feeling the icy sting on his back. Not caring that a dead man lay at his feet with a fractured skull and a small rich trickle of blood coming out of his ear. The only feeling Freddie Thompson had at that moment was one for the nameless boy and the image he knew he’d never get out of his head.
When they’d found Benjamin Bradley’s body, all the prison inmates denied knowing anything about the murder despite everyone knowing exactly who had done it, and how.
Freddie had decided with that with all the DNA tests, and the fact just a microscopic drop of blood could put you in the frame for something, it was best for him to admit he’d slapped Benjamin around a bit but deny all knowledge of the murder; adding that as Bradley was a known nonce, he was a sitting target.
Not having enough evidence to charge him for murder, due to having over twenty witnesses suddenly remember they saw Freddie Thompson slap Bradley about a bit before leaving him very much alive and well to go to play pool in the recreational room, the CPS had no alternative but to stop pursuing the case and let Freddie get on with appealing against his original sentence.
Freddie had thought it was all behind him, until one morning the police came to see him, informing him that one of the men who’d been there that day was willing to give evidence against Freddie.
The case had gone to trial a couple of months later and it’d only taken the jury two hours to come back with a guilty verdict. With no mitigation to speak of, Freddie had received a life sentence.
He’d honestly thought no one would’ve been brave enough to give evidence against him. But according to Freddie’s sources, the man who’d grassed on him had got early release for grassing him up. Not that it’d done him any good. Freddie’s men had found the geezer a week after the trial and three weeks after that his bloated decaying body had been found in the Thames.
Freddie sighed heavily bringing him back to the present. Killing the man hadn’t done Freddie any good; he was still sitting on a life sentence. He tried not to think about that day. Not because of the nonce’s brains all over the shower room floor, but because of the image of the little boy, which haunted him still.
On some days it made him squeeze his eyes tight shut so the tears wouldn’t seep out, and on other days, it simply made him want to beat a man within an inch of his life.
If getting a life sentence meant the boy could be saved from a life of abuse, Freddie Thompson would’ve happily served his sentence without another thought. But he could no sooner find and rescue the boy than he could walk out of prison. And the way it was looking, he wouldn’t be walking out anywhere until he was doing it with a walking frame.
Freddie put his head in his hands. He took a deep breath and tried not to think. But as he’d discovered in the last few months, not thinking was easier said than done.
He didn’t want to think about his house in Soho or his villa in the Costa Del Sol. He didn’t want to think about his beautiful wife, Tasha, because he missed her too much. He’d never told her that or even thought about telling her, but he did. He didn’t want to think about his son Raymond, who he was so proud of, and he certainly didn’t want to think about the next twenty-five years. The one thousand, three hundred weeks, or the nine thousand, one hundred and thirty-five days – give or take – he had to serve.
Whichever way he looked at the numbers it was a hell of a long time. Freddie Thompson found it was
all he could think about and it was beginning to fuck him up.
How had he got himself into this situation? After all, he was Freddie Thompson. The Freddie Thompson. Since he’d been legally accountable, the longest he’d spent behind bars was eighteen months. He couldn’t remember a time when he hadn’t been able to get out of something, whether it be grief from his wife for boning some Tom from the clubs, some ruck with the South London boys or even the other charges of murder he’d been up for. He’d always been able to talk, to pay or threaten his way out of the situation; hell, he’d even had his original sentence reduced to a streak of piss, but as he sat in his cell, Freddie realised there was no getting out of this one.
He wanted to cry but he didn’t know how to. Tears were as foreign to him as a heatwave was in the Arctic. He couldn’t cry. He couldn’t escape. He was fucked.
‘Hey, Thompson. The governor wants to see you. There’s been a phone call.’
Freddie looked up. Eyeballing the prison officer with as much contempt as he could muster, he snapped, ‘Ain’t you heard of knocking? Don’t walk into my cell again without a tap. Anyway, what phone call?’
Without thinking the prison warder snapped. ‘How do I know, Thompson? I’m not a mind reader.’
Freddie Thompson stood up. He stepped towards the officer, purposely standing within an inch of him, watching as the screw gulped and the colour drained away from his face.
‘I may be in here, but that don’t stop me getting to you out there. One nod from me and my men will come looking. And it won’t take five minutes to find you. How do you fancy being woken up in the morning with a fucking axe in your head, Officer Davies?’
‘All … all I meant to say is, I don’t exactly know what the call is about. But I think it might be about your son. I think there’s been an accident.’
5
‘You must think me awfully rude. I’ve spent all this time with you and I haven’t even told you my proper name. It’s Arnold, but my friends call me Arnie. It means powerful eagle you know, derived from a Germanic name.’
Arnold beamed, whilst thinking how much smaller than usual she looked as she lay naked, curled up shivering in a foetal position on the single bed, her hands tied.
He couldn’t understand why she was still shivering. He’d turned the radiator up to full blast even though he knew it would cost him an absolute fortune. But still, he didn’t want to be selfish.
A horrifying thought came to Arnold’s mind as he gazed at her. A fleeting, disturbing thought passed through his mind. Perhaps she was unhappy; perhaps she wanted to go home, instead of being with him?
Dismayed, he caught a reflection of himself in the mirror which was placed above the small white bookcase. He saw the worry lines etched into his forehead and he saw the anxiety in his eyes. He had to stop this. He had to stop torturing himself thinking she didn’t want to be with him. Why wouldn’t she? He wasn’t going to let himself start thinking negatively, especially not today of all days.
‘Are you still cold Izzy?’
‘My name’s not Izzy.’ She spoke and it shocked him. He wasn’t sure if it was the Scottish accent which he didn’t remember her having when they’d first met, or the obvious hostility in her voice. It made her sound coarse. But what shocked him the most was her denying her name was Izzy.
The other girl had said the same thing. Telling him over and over again her name wasn’t Izzy and he’d got the wrong person. Though eventually he’d seen she’d been telling the truth. He’d got the wrong person. He’d made a mistake and he didn’t mind admitting it. How he’d thought she was Izzy, he didn’t know. He’d been wrong. So very wrong. She’d been nothing like her.
The girl spat her words. ‘You’re fucking sick, you know that? My name’s Lucy, fucking Lucy, you sick fuck.’
Arnold scowled. Not wanting to listen to any more abuse, he placed her gag back on, watching as she squirmed and made grunting sounds until she’d exhausted herself. Touching her gently, Arnold stroked her head as he talked. ‘That’s my girl. Nice and calm now. You really shouldn’t get so angry Izzy. It’s really not good for you. My silly little Izzy; my Isabel. It means God’s promise you know.’ Arnold sat looking at her warmly, before feeling overwhelmed with emotion and having to brush away tears.
The knife he’d bought had cost a small fortune. It was over two hundred pounds, but looking at it, Arnold had to admit, the craftsmanship was beautiful. A Gerber Harsey silver trident made with a double-edge fixed blade, a thick rubber handle for a better grip and according to the man in the shop, made to US military standards.
He had everything ready. He placed the knife back down on the table, trying to remember the rhyme he used to sing. For the life of him he couldn’t remember it, but hopefully it’d come to him later. ‘Now then Izzy, it’s time. Are you excited?’
Arnold stood in front of the bed completely still for a moment, then he seized hold of her legs in a swift movement, dragging her off the bed; making her face smash onto the floor, oozing blood all over the cream lino. ‘Whoops-a-daisy, silly me. I’ll have to clean that up later. Not to worry Izzy, not to worry.’
The knife did what it said on the box; it cut. Deeply and precisely. It was so much better than the other one he’d struggled with last time. He whistled, enjoying his work. She was still moving, still wanting to show him she was boss. He chuckled warmly; that was Izzy alright. Always wanting to be in charge. Always wanting to get her own way.
He walked round to her front, warmed by her show of defiance. He carefully took the blade and placed the sharp point at the top of her pubic bone. ‘Fiddle sticks! Well I’ll be blown; look at that, my hands are shaking Izzy. I didn’t know I was so nervous. I better be careful.’
Arnold smiled as he took off her gag, wondering why a shrill piercing scream came out of her mouth.
It was way past his bedtime now and Arnold could feel his eyes burning. The rhyme which had escaped him before suddenly came flooding back into his memory. He started to sing as he sat in the corner of the room. ‘Izzy shall have a new bonnet, and Izzy shall go to the fair, and Izzy shall have a new ribbon to tie up her bonny brown hair.’
He laughed out loud, pleased at how the words came flooding back to him. ‘And why may I not love Izzy, and why may not Izzy love me?’ He stopped and paused for a moment as he got to near the end; frowning, he spoke the last lines very quietly. ‘Because she’s got a kiss for Daddy; a kiss for Daddy, not me.’ Bending down, Arnold smiled sadly before kissing the severed head.
6
It was late by the time Laila found the courage to knock on her mother’s bedroom. Tentatively she tapped, hoping her uncle wouldn’t return home now. He’d forbidden Laila to speak to her mother on her own, telling her she would find no comfort in her arms. So instead she’d lain in bed with her face sore and swollen, waiting to hear the familiar sound of her uncle’s car coming down the drive, willing to hear the sound of the tyres on the gravel, but it hadn’t come. The terror Laila felt inside her, knowing her uncle had gone to see Ray-Ray and hadn’t returned, filled her with so much dread that it overrode the fear of making her uncle angrier by disobeying him.
The bedroom door was opened by her sleepy mother. ‘Laila! What are you doing here, you know what your uncle said. Go back to bed.’
‘I need to talk to you.’
Laila’s mother looked up and down the corridor nervously. ‘Please Laila; just go back to bed, we can talk in the morning when uncle’s here.’
Seeing her daughter trembling, Laila’s mother’s voice became softer as she took hold of her hand. ‘If uncle catches you up at this time, you know there’ll be trouble. Please, try not to be so headstrong Laila. You must learn to quell your spirit, child. No good will come of it. Women have no place to question men, no matter how great a test it may seem.’
Laila scanned her mother’s face, not truly recognising the person in front of her. Before her father had died her mother had been open, warm and loving. Now she was close
d, distant and worse still, afraid.
‘Mum, please. I need you to help me.’ Laila’s eyes filled with tears as she watched her mother wrap her shawl tightly round her shoulders. Her mother’s voice was hesitant when she spoke. ‘Laila, what do you want me to do?’
‘Speak to uncle. Explain I haven’t done anything. He might listen to you. Tell him I don’t want to get married.’
Laila’s mother slowly shook her head, pain for her child in her eyes. ‘Things have changed now. You don’t have a choice and your insistence in having one has caused all the problems. Did you really think hanging around with the English boy would’ve been acceptable to your uncle? Didn’t you know you’d cause trouble?’
‘Trouble? There’s that word again. We didn’t do anything.’
‘Laila, why do you always have to argue? Why can’t you just accept this?’
In frustration Laila raised her voice at her mother, tears streaming down her face as she spoke. ‘How can you say that to me Mum? You always taught me to think for myself; you told me I never had to accept anything I didn’t want to. You know we talked about me going to university. You told me you wanted me to do the things you’d never done.’
‘Shhh Laila, stop talking like that. You know all girls must get married eventually. It’s either now or later, so what’s the difference?’
Laila’s face was full of bewilderment. ‘There is a difference; you know there is a difference. Daddy would never have allowed this, he wouldn’t have wanted you to allow it.’
Her mother put her head down as she talked, fidgeting with the sash edge on her cream shawl. When she spoke, her voice was laced with warmth. ‘Laila, I know it’s been hard for you since your father passed away and today we buried one of your aunts. But doesn’t that show you Laila that life changes? We take things for granted when we shouldn’t do. Life moves in ways we sometimes don’t want it to move in. No matter how in control we think we are, we have no real power and we have to accept our destiny. And yours is to get married. Laila, you have to do this, not only for yourself, but for all of us.’
