by Louise Welsh
‘I don’t give a fuck. Not unless Jesus Christ himself’s declared an amnesty and brought along a few beers to celebrate with the boys.’
Jeb’s voice was bitter, but Magnus had detected a note of curiosity in it.
‘There’s no beer, but things are getting a bit biblical.’
He sat up with his back against the wall of the cell, and began to tell the other man about the virus. Jeb listened in silence. Outside, in the hallways beyond, the shouts and chanting grew and swelled and fell, and still no one came to feed them.
Seven
Magnus had watched scores of jailbreaks on TV. He knew the options. You could dig yourself out, through the wall or floor, depending on the structure of the cell. Or you might squeeze through the gap left by an easily removed ceiling tile and travel the mysterious space between roof and ceiling, unseen above your jailers’ heads. Bars could be filed, windows forced, fences climbed, barbed wire negotiated, open fields traversed, the consoling shelter of a forest found.
Jeb said, ‘We need one of the screws to open the door.’
‘That’d be good.’ The words came out more sarcastically than Magnus had intended. ‘You believe me then?’
‘Something’s up.’ Jeb’s feet were dangling over the edge of the bed, his heels level with Magnus’s eye line. The rubber soles of his trainers were imprinted, Size 11. ‘Prison grub’s crap, but cons live for their food. There should be a fuck of a racket out there.’
The almighty chorus that had shaken the halls had dwindled to occasional calls and shouting. The sounds were too distant for Magnus to make out the substance of their words, but their tone had shifted from anger to desperation. Once or twice he had heard sobbing and felt tears rising in his own eyes. He would have liked to have battered against the door of the cell and added his voice to the protest, but the fear that it might annoy his cellmate had stopped him.
Jeb had kept silent, out of sight on the bunk above, while Magnus related what he knew of the virus. Magnus had wondered if the other man thought he was a fantasist and had paused to say, ‘I know all this sounds mad, but believe me, it’s true.’
Telling the story reminded him of other details: how pale and sweat-soaked the Dongolite had been before he toppled on to the railway track, Johnny Dongo’s oncoming cold, the grating cough of the rapist in the alleyway, the hollow eyes and sallow faces of the bin men who had beaten him up.
Jeb’s legs swung to and fro, to and fro; frustration and pent-up energy. ‘We need to be ready for them.’
Magnus slid along his bunk, out of reach of the large feet. ‘The screws?’
‘Screws, cons, whoever comes through the door.’
‘They’ve got Tasers.’
‘So we get ready for Tasers.’
‘And if no one comes?’
The legs stopped swinging. ‘We draw straws for who eats who.’
Magnus made an almost-but-not-quite-decent living from his wit, but all he could manage was a weak, ‘Very funny.’
‘Laugh a minute, me.’
The north of England accent was more present. Magnus wondered if it signified anything. Jeb letting his guard down, or maybe trying to get Magnus to let his own guard down, so he could take charge and use him as a human Taser-shield. His mind was spiralling towards panic. As long as Jeb had lain silent and calm on his bunk there had been the possibility that this was a prison crisis, unusual but not unprecedented. That the other man was taking it seriously, more than seriously, was spooked by it, made the virus real.
Magnus asked, ‘How do you feel?’
Metal returned to the flat voice and Jeb’s legs resumed their restless rocking. ‘You sound like a woman.’
Magnus said, ‘I don’t mean emotionally. How do you feel physically?’
‘Hungry.’
‘But otherwise all right?’
‘No. Otherwise fucked off, but I’m not sick if that’s what you mean. How about you?’
‘The same.’
‘Good news for both of us then, if this virus is as bad as you say it is.’
There was a grudge of accusation in Jeb’s delivery.
‘Don’t blame the messenger.’
Jeb slid from his bunk and leaned against the cell wall. Magnus saw the height of him, shorter than he remembered, five eleven or thereabouts, but broad-shouldered and barrel-chested. Jeb smiled for the first time. His voice was soft and reasonable.
‘Best not to tell me don’t. Not if we’re going to try and get out of this together.’
The sky beyond the cell window crept to a blush-tinted grey that slid in turn to black and then back to a pink-grey dawn; another night, another day. Magnus had resolved not to think of food, but his mind kept drifting to his mother’s slow-cooked casseroles, more fragrant even than Hamza’s Italian pastas, though Hamza’s penne con salsiccia picante had been a masterpiece of bite and spice that barely left room for zabaglione. Places came uninvited into Magnus’s mind too. The beach at Skara Brae covered in the large flat stones the ancestors had heated in their fires and used to warm water. They would have roasted fish too. Magnus could almost smell grilled sea trout. His cousin Hugh had always been landed with the job of gutting their catch, while Magnus and the other boys gathered driftwood for the fire. Salmon was good, and herring coated in oatmeal or poached in milk, though he had hated it as a boy. Christ! He remembered his primary school classroom, the smell of wet coats drying on the radiators, Mrs Anderson’s stern eye and quick smiles. Hadn’t there been a Scottish prince thrown into a dungeon and so starved that he ate his own hands? Magnus held his hands up in front of his face. They were bony and unappetising, the knuckles red from clenching his fists.
‘Listen.’ Jeb’s voice was a whisper.
Magnus kept his own voice low. ‘What?’
Jeb slid from the bunk and went quietly to the door. Magnus followed him. There were footsteps on the landing. The sound was uneven and limping, but it was coming slowly closer. The terror he had been trying to keep at bay rushed at Magnus. He imagined some dreadful spindly-legged beast, distorted and unnatural, slouching towards them. Jeb gave his shoulder a shove. It was time to put their plan into action.
‘Hello!’ Magnus’s voice was rusty from lack of use. ‘Hello! Are you ill? I’m a doctor. I can help you if you let me out of here.’
The footsteps stopped. Magnus felt Jeb moving quietly in the cell behind him.
‘Hello? My name is Magnus McFall. I’m a qualified doctor.’ There was no response from the corridor, but the footsteps had not resumed. ‘I studied medicine at the University of Edinburgh. I specialised in respiratory diseases before I got myself into this spot of bother.’ There was a character Magnus used in his act, a bumptious Scotsman inspired by Mr Brown his maths teacher, whose certainty in the wrongness of the world had sent him into the St Ola Hotel every afternoon before the school bell had finished its final peal. ‘Don’t be scared. I saw a lot of this kind of thing in Africa during the SARS epidemic.’
Jeb whispered, ‘Don’t overdo it.’
But Magnus was sure he could feel the limping presence listening on the other side of the door.
‘There are things I can do right now, as soon as you let me out, which will alleviate your discomfort.’
Somebody coughed. There was a sound of retching and then a faint voice said, ‘Prove you’re a doctor.’
Magnus had feared the challenge, but he put a smile into his voice. ‘I can’t very well do that from behind a closed door. Let me out and I’ll prove it.’
There was a pause while the voice stopped to consider and then it said, ‘Tell me something.’
‘What kind of thing?’
‘The kind of thing a doctor would know.’
‘Fucking hell.’ Jeb’s voice was a low warning.
Magnus realised that if he failed, his cellmate would blame him. He thought of Pete’s sickness, the pains that had racked him.
‘I know your symptoms and what they signify. Your body is trying to expel the virus, hence
your vomiting, diarrhoea and severe sweating. Unfortunately this kind of physical panic makes your body rather indiscriminate, and so it’s also expelling a lot of useful and necessary stuff along with the bad. That’s why, instead of feeling cleansed by the purges, you are shivery and disorientated. My first job will be to replace lost nutrients; thereby stabilising your condition; the next will be to—’
There was a sound of metal on metal as the person on the other side of the door tried to insert their key into the keyhole. It clattered to the floor and Jeb swore softly. ‘Jesus Christ.’
Magnus held a hand up in the air, warning him to keep quiet.
‘Just take it slowly,’ he coaxed. ‘Lack of co-ordination is a classic symptom, but you’ll feel better soon.’ At last the key was in the lock. ‘You’re doing well,’ Magnus said. The key turned. Jeb tensed. The door pushed inward. Magnus stepped out of the way, just like they had rehearsed. ‘Don’t be scared,’ he said and his voice wavered.
The screw’s face might once have been a rich copper, now it was grey. He was clutching a Taser, but his eyes were unfocused, his hands trembling.
Magnus said, ‘I don’t think you need to—’
But Jeb sprang into his part of the routine. He raised the small, flat-screen TV in his hands and dashed it against the screw’s face. The man slammed against the cell wall and crumpled to the ground. The Taser flew from his hand, rattled against the corner of the bunk and slid across the floor. Jeb pulled his foot into a kick.
Magnus grabbed hold of his arm. ‘He’s finished.’
Jeb’s biceps were bunched hard, ready for action. He pulled himself free and for a moment Magnus thought he was going to follow through, but then Jeb shook his head, like a man trying to shake himself awake and said, ‘Get his keys.’
Jeb’s blow had stunned the screw and there was a gash on his forehead where the corner of the television had met its mark, but neither of these should have pinned him, gasping for air, on the floor. Magnus knelt down beside him.
‘I’m sorry, pal. We were worried no one was going to come and let us out.’
The keys were on a chain attached to the screw’s belt. Magnus stiffened, trying to keep his face as far from the other man’s as possible, and pressed his hand into the softness of the screw’s belly, trying to find whatever held them there. ‘Sorry,’ he said again. ‘We didn’t know what else to do.’
‘You’re not a doctor?’ Disappointed hope quivered the screw’s voice.
‘No.’ Magnus had found the clip securing the key chain. He unfastened it and shoved the keys into his tracksuit pocket. ‘I’m a comedian.’
‘A comedian?’
The screw was trying to get up. Magnus considered sliding his hands beneath the man’s arms and dragging him on to the bunk, but the thought of coming into contact again with the sweat-soaked body appalled him.
‘Come on.’ Jeb was already out on the landing.
Magnus pulled the blanket from the bed. He draped it over the man and shoved a pillow beneath his head.
‘Sorry.’
‘You said you were a doctor,’ the screw whispered.
Magnus did not bother to tell him what he did for a living again. It wasn’t funny any more. He closed the door gently behind him.
Eight
The landing was lit by emergency lights and hollow with silence. Magnus followed Jeb, the keys a weight in his pocket. The central hall looked as he remembered, a concrete and metal panopticon, designed to keep men on show. The walls were painted the same fatty-tissue yellow as hospital waiting rooms and school assembly halls. Perhaps it was the design that made Magnus feel their every step was being observed.
Jeb whispered, ‘We can’t be the only ones.’
Magnus kept his voice low. ‘No, there’s no way.’
‘We need to get shot of here. Anyone asks, tell them we were moved here from D Wing and hope they don’t twig the colour of our tracksuits. If cons find out we’re VPs, you’ll wish you’d caught the sweats.’
Magnus’s confusion must have shown on his face because Jeb hissed, ‘A vulnerable prisoner. A fucking nonce.’
‘All I did was to try and stop a girl from getting raped—’
‘I’m not interested. Same way you’re not interested in why I’m here. They won’t be interested in talking about it either, except with their fists.’ Jeb paused and held out a hand. ‘Give us the keys.’ Magnus glanced at the Taser. It was chunky and made of plastic, but its shape was hard and menacing. No one would mistake it for a toy. ‘Don’t worry,’ Jeb said. His voice had less of the north in it again. ‘I’m not going to lock you up.’
‘Hey!’ The shout came from one of the cells further down the corridor, followed by frantic banging. ‘Hey! Is somebody there?’
Magnus started towards the noise, but Jeb caught him by the shoulder.
‘Leave it.’
‘You must be joking.’
‘No. He could be category A. They’re the mad bastards murderers and rapists have nightmares about. You don’t want those guys getting loose.’
‘We can’t leave him locked up.’
‘We bloody can.’
BANG, BANG, BANG.
‘Please, for Christ’s sake.’ The voice was raw and desperate. ‘I’m shut in here with a dead man!’
BANG, BANG, BANG.
Other cells were taking up the noise. Magnus tried to work out how many prisoners he could hear. A dozen? Twenty? Maybe less. The solidarity of the first days’ chanting was gone. The voices cut over and through each other, lost and ghostly, the sense of their words drowned in each other’s appeals.
‘They’re not our problem.’ Jeb held out his hand again. ‘Keys.’
‘They could starve to death.’
Jeb shrugged his shoulders. ‘Shouldn’t have got locked up in the first place then, should they?’
It was the shrug that did it, the casual dismissal so soon after their own escape.
Magnus turned his back on Jeb and ran down the landing to the cell that had started the noise, expecting to feel the sudden scorch of a Taser. He slid the key into the lock and turned to cast a quick glance at Jeb. The other man was gone. Magnus hesitated, but the prisoner must have heard him on the other side of the door. The voice within became soft and wheedling.
‘C’mon, man, let me out. He died this morning. It’s fucking horrible. I’m going crazy in here.’
Magnus glanced over the landing, wondering if Jeb could have made it down the stairs to the lower hall so quickly, but there was no sign of him.
‘Come on, please, man. He died with his eyes open. They’re staring at me.’ The voice sounded tearful.
Magnus took a deep breath, turned the key in the lock, gave the door a shove and took a step backwards.
The man who emerged looked nothing to be frightened of. He had the beginnings of a sparse beard and his prison tracksuit was creased and grubby, but he was short and underweight, and the face beneath the beard looked young and tear-stained.
‘You don’t have anything to eat, do you?’
Magnus said, ‘No, sorry.’
‘Fuck, I’m starving.’
The stranger cast a look around the hall, as if he suspected there might be a buffet waiting somewhere. The noises coming from other cells were growing louder and more frantic. Desperation gave power to the banging; clenched fists and strong arms. Magnus hesitated, like a lion-keeper in a war zone, keen for his beasts to survive the bombing, but unsure of the consequences of opening their cages.
‘I’d leave them to rot if I were you, mate.’ The newly released man was walking companionably beside him. ‘I mean, I know you let me out, cheers and all that, but this wing’s full of nonces.’ He realised what he had said and added, ‘No offence meant.’
Magnus gave him the stare he reserved for hecklers. ‘None taken.’
The man was dressed in the same incriminating blue sweats as he and Jeb. Magnus wanted to add something about not being a sex offender or a child m
olester, but then a cell door opened. There was a rush of movement and Magnus was knocked across the landing and into the guardrail. Strong hands pinned him to the barrier.
‘Keys!’ Jeb’s face was too close, his features tight with anger.
Magnus slid a hand into his pocket and brought out the keys. The noise in the cells was a discordant wave, a choppy sea at ebb tide, but it was not loud enough to drown out the slam of the newly released prisoner’s feet against the stairs to the lower landings. Magnus handed the keys to Jeb. ‘Please, don’t lock me back up.’
Jeb shoved Magnus from him and jogged towards the stairs. Magnus followed, realising that he needed to stick close if he was to get through the series of locked doors that would take them out of the building and into the grounds beyond.
Nine
The main door of the wing led outside into a courtyard surrounded by high buildings. Jeb let it swing behind him and it was only luck that Magnus managed to catch it and slip out before the door slammed shut. ‘Look, I’m sorry. You were right. I should have left the other cells well alone.’
It was hot outside, the sunshine glaring. Jeb moved, keeping close to the wall like a soldier in an urban combat zone. Magnus followed, sticking to the shadows. The buildings that formed the courtyard were punctuated by ranks of barred windows. Each window indicated a cell; a prisoner dead behind a locked door or abandoned alive; pairs of staring eyes following their progress. The sensation of being watched made him think of a recurring nightmare he had of being on stage, the audience getting to their feet and coming slow and zombie-like towards him as he struggled to remember his routine. There were fresh nightmares waiting for him in the thought of those barred windows. He wondered if he should try to get the keys from Jeb after all, go back, release as many as he could and damn the consequences, but he ran on, following his cellmate through the courtyard’s shadows.
Jeb stopped at the corner of a wall, beneath a queerly angled CCTV camera, surveying the last section of open ground they would have to cross before they reached the admissions building. If he wanted to, Jeb could leave him there, Magnus realised. On the outside-inside, surrounded by high walls and locked doors, exposed to the elements, the stares of the windows and the fading men inside.
