by GB Williams
‘Call an ambulance.’ She pushed the words out, as she stepped into the room. She searched for a blanket, but there wasn’t one. Instead, she took off her jacket, held it to her chest with her chin, as she reached inside that child’s prison and picked up the desperately thin boy. He was freezing cold, the filthy t-shirt clung to his tiny frame, and she could feel nothing but skin and bone as she picked him up. Acid tears burned her eyes, her throat ached, her nose ran, as her heart twisted to hold such a fragile creature. She wrapped him in her jacket, giving him what warmth she could as she cradled him as easily as a newborn.
She headed out, having to hold the sticky rail to be sure she didn’t fall with such a precious cargo. She could already hear the ambulance sirens. As she took him down, the boy just looked up at her, big eyes, scared and hopeless. She sobbed as the second police officer helped her carefully over the broken door. Again in the fresh air, Teddington fell to her knees, still cradling the boy. She was shaking, all the memories, the tattered emotions crashing in on her. How could any mother do this?
Then, the paramedics were there, taking the boy, asking her questions which she would never remember. Pain was ripping her apart. ‘Don’t let him die.’ She knew she was repeating the desperate phrase, as the paramedics got the boy into the back of the ambulance, and the police officer held her back.
‘You’re not family,’ he told her gently. ‘You can’t go with him.’
She turned to the man. He was right. She wasn’t family.
But, she knew someone who was.
11
Charlie had gym time.
He’d looked at that list first thing and had had to grab the nearest guy and get him to confirm he was in fact reading what he thought he was reading. What surprised him was the man he’d grabbed was Winehouse’s lackey, Paul, and when he’d confirmed what Charlie hadn’t expected, he delivered a message from Winehouse.
‘Sometimes the rot starts at the leaf and works its way down.’
The obscure-message-of-the-day didn’t help Charlie much.
Charlie walked out of the showers, fresh and clean, dressed, and feeling human for the first time in a long time. He used the towel to rub his hair as he walked back to his cell. After folding his towel, he sat on the bare slats of the lower bunk to think.
There were two treadmills in the gym. He’d taken one and started running. He hadn’t run in ages, running on the spot in his cell wasn’t the same, but he cranked up the machine and really stretched his legs. God, it had felt good. He was glad he’d kept up the exercising, the stretching; he wasn’t running to his best, but at least he was running, even if he was getting nowhere. Then, Keen had come in.
‘Slow down, boy. No demons out to get you here,’ the old man had said, as he took up the treadmill beside Charlie.
Charlie had slowed. He had listened to what Keen had to say, not least of which seemed to be a thank you for helping Teddington. Which made no sense, and just added to the questions he had about the pair of them. What made instant sense was what Keen told him.
‘Condensation starts at the top of the shower. If you want to stop it dripping down, clean the ceiling.’
He’d have to be an idiot not to get the message, but just how high -
‘Bell.’
Charlie was yanked out of his thoughts, surprised to see Sanchez in his doorway.
‘Get up. You’re coming with me.’
This won’t work out well, Charlie rose. When he was told to put out his hands, he did nothing but scowl as cuffs were slapped on him.
‘What’s this about?’ he demanded, as Sanchez pulled him forward, along the landing and down the stairs. Other prisoners were staring, jeering, as he was led away. At the exit, he went through the first door. Another officer was waiting on the far side of the double barrier. Senior Prison Officer Turner. As soon as Sanchez locked one door, Turner undid the other.
This was wrong. Charlie glowered as he was led out; they never did anything this quickly. If there was paperwork to be done, Charlie didn’t see the signatures. He was led out to a waiting transport and bundled into the back. His stomach gripped.
‘What’s going on?’
Sanchez neither answered, nor met his eye, as he secured him in place, before knocking on the back of the cab. The vehicle was on the move before Sanchez sat down.
This was so wrong. Worries and fear caught Charlie in a maelstrom.
He pulled at the cuffs; they weren’t going anywhere. ‘What the hell is going on?’ he demanded of the two silent officers.
‘You’ll find out soon enough,’ Turner told him.
This wasn’t going to be good. Charlie’s heart pounded as hard as if he was still running on that damn treadmill. ‘Can’t you tell me anything?’
The two men exchanged a glance. The only thing Charlie could read was their discomfort. Oh, God, this is bad.
‘There’s been an emergency,’ Turner told him. ‘We’re taking you to the hospital.’
That didn’t tell Charlie anything. What kind of emergency? Oh, dear God. The only person he knew in hospital was Mohr. Had the man died? He leaned forward, elbows on knees, covering his face. Dear God, had he killed again? Once in cold blood was bad enough. Have I unintentionally beaten a man to death?
No, wait. If Mohr was dead, why would they be taking me to the hospital? The police station, yes, but not the hospital. And if this was about Mohr, where were the cops?
This had to be something else. Think man, think. His family, then? No, they had pretty much cut him off. Of immediate family, there was only his parents. They didn’t talk, but that didn’t mean he didn’t care. Oh, please, let nothing have happened to Mum or Dad.
These thoughts and a million more, each worse than the last, crowded his mind on that endless trip. When at last they stopped, Sanchez unlocked the grill door Charlie was sat behind. They rearranged the cuffs so he was linked to both Sanchez and Turner. It was an awkward way to get from the van, but it had to be done. There were uniformed police waiting for them at the back entrance to the hospital, and they led the way through the corridors.
The scent of too much disinfectant assailed Charlie. He tried to think of why he was being brought here, but all his years as a cop didn’t help make sense of it. He knew they were reaching the end of their journey when he saw the way barred by double doors that stated ‘No unauthorised entry.’ There was a woman standing to the side of the hall.
Trained to be observant, he automatically catalogued her appearance. She wore low heels, a soft jersey knit dress, the deep burgundy throwing red highlights off long wavy hair that hung softly unfettered around her face. Her head was bowed; he couldn’t see her to recognise her. Her shape was good, all woman; the curve of her ankle and calf showed she kept fit. The way she hugged herself suggested she was in pain.
A doctor in scrubs appeared at the door.
‘Mrs Teddington?’
‘Yes?’
When the woman looked up, stood away from the wall, Charlie felt like the world was shifting. That was Teddington? What was she doing here? What was the doctor telling her so quietly? Given the way her hand went over her mouth, it couldn’t be good.
Finally, the doctor looked up saw the police and prison officers and their charge advancing on them. Charlie was utterly at a loss to understand what was going on. When Teddington looked to him, her eyes were wide and watery. She’d been crying for some time. Devastated. It was the only description that fit.
The doctor tapped her on the upper arm. ‘No more than two.’
Teddington turned to the doctor. ‘You can’t stop him―’
‘Family only, and no more than two.’ With that command, the surgeon turned away.
When Teddington turned to the approaching men, her eyes went straight to Charlie. She looked haunted. He didn’t understand.
‘We can’t let him go in alone,’ Sanchez pointed out.
‘Then, don’t.’ She put out her own right hand. Her look to Sanchez was challengin
g. When the man hesitated, Charlie saw the muscles in Teddington’s jaw working. ‘There isn’t time to piss about.’
Sanchez looked to Turner, who nodded. Only after Sanchez’s cuff was moved to Teddington, did Turner release the cuff on his own right wrist.
‘What’s going on?’ Charlie demanded, even as he followed Teddington through the double doors. Inside, they entered the theatre area. The scrubbed surgeon, pointed them to another door. Teddington moved swiftly, nearly dragging Charlie, who was suddenly reluctant, not daring to think about what might be in that room.
Then, they were there.
White tiles, steel fixtures, and in the midst of all the cold sterility, the body of a child under a blue sheet. A tube ran under his tiny nose, but led nowhere. Butterfly needles were taped overlarge on the small frame; intravenous drips fed him saline and the last of a bag of blood. A heart-rate monitor beeped a weak heartbeat.
‘No.’ It can’t be. He felt a gentle hand taking his. ‘No!’
He couldn’t hold himself back, and in two strides, he was at the bed. His hands reached out, his head shook. How could this be his beautiful boy? Someone was strangling the air from his lungs, a vice encircled his skull, like it would split.
‘Why aren’t the doctors in here?’ he knew the answer. ‘Why aren’t they helping him?’
He wasn’t the only one struggling with emotions; he could hear it in the words being torn from Teddington.
‘There’s nothing more they can do. They said there was a blockage in his intestines. They removed it. There was necrotic tissue …’
‘Oh, Oscar.’ Tears poured from him, as he took the tiny form in his arms. There was no weight to the boy, as he lifted him against his heaving chest. ‘Daddy’s here.’ But, the boy was so small, taller but thinner than when he’d last seen him, three and half years ago. Charlie was inarticulate, emitting a high keening, as the world tore out his heart and trampled on it.
The sound of the heart-rate monitor changed, emitting a single unbroken tone.
He was barely aware Teddington stood before him, her hand on his, her fingers softly stroking back the boy’s hair. Charlie took no notice as the doctor quietly turned off the monitor.
The loss of that sound cut Charlie from the world. He was shaking, and he fell to his knees, Teddington doing what she could to control the fall, but he didn’t care about the pain, as his weight fell full on his patellae against the linoleum floor. Teddington there beside him, sobbing with him, half cradling him, half cradling his son.
Someone was trying to take the boy away from him. Again. He wouldn’t let them. He couldn’t. Her words were soft in his ear. She was pulling him back; she was here. The child was taken, leaving him bereft in every way. Her arms wound around him, holding fiercely. The coldness receded, as human warmth reached him. But, it was a moment only, and one he rejected. He was too numb.
There were footfalls. New hands, stronger hands reached him, pulled him. He was drowning, and he didn’t care. Her words were in his ear again. He wanted to retreat from it all. She was trying to help, but what help could there be now? He pushed her away. Her yelp reached through the numbness followed by pain, as a fist connected heavily with his jaw. Finally, he turned. She was looking lost and small, her eyes wide, and, as the cuff was removed from her wrist, he could see tears mixed with blood around her eye.
12
It’s over.
The words echoed around her brain. Teddington sat quietly, while an emotional war tore her insides. The plunging depths of finding Oscar had abated to numbness for a blissful moment, but now, she was completely connected and feeling, fully functional. Now, she had to face the consequences of her actions, and she had an all too clear idea of what that meant.
Teddington sat in the outer office with the Guv’s secretary, Vera, the only indication of her turmoil the occasional gurgle from a stomach so full of acid she couldn’t eat. Neither woman spoke. What could they say? Teddington had broken every rule, stepped way over the bounds of her responsibility. The moment when Charlie had punched her replayed. He’d looked desolate one second, furious the next. He’d punched her. The boys had subdued him. He’d knelt where they’d held him, desolate. She knew the feeling.
‘Send Officer Teddington in.’
Teddington was vaguely aware of the voice, though its significance didn’t sink in until Vera called her by her first name. Jolted back to reality, Teddington stood. Her knees felt spongy, but she steeled her spine and returned to the Guv’s office.
Peter Jones was a solid man. Tall and square, like he’d been crafted out of building blocks. His full head of hair was still dark, not a single grey. She suspected it might not be entirely natural. Every time she saw it, she thought of Play-Doh moulds. Usually that made her smile. Today, it didn’t touch her.
Jones wasn’t alone. The personnel advisor was there, too. She felt odd being here, but not in uniform; that hadn’t happened before. Her stomach clenched, threatening revolt. Luckily, she hadn’t eaten since finding Oscar yesterday, so there was nothing to throw up. Being a prison officer hadn’t been an ambition of hers, but now she was one, she found she enjoyed the job, and she didn’t want to lose it. Worse was, knowing that if she did lose her job, there was no one to blame but herself.
Feeling hot and cold, and numbly terrified, she stepped up before Jones’ desk and stood, waiting for him to speak. Though she didn’t look directly at the man next to Jones, she could tell he wasn’t best pleased. His lips were an angry, compressed line. Her concentration was on Jones. His face was as sour as over-ripe lemons, his look as acidic. She swallowed. This would not be good.
‘We have discussed this at length.’
The bells are tolling.
‘Your actions represent a complete failure of protocol.’
Even his voice was solid, the ominous tone of a hanging judge. She imagined a square of black cloth on his head, as he sentenced her career to death.
‘We have taken into consideration your years of good service and your personal circumstances.’
No matter how much she swallowed, the metallic taste at the back of her throat wouldn’t shift. The bile in his tone was making her nauseous.
‘You are to be given a formal warning.’
Warning? Wasn’t it gross misconduct, leading to instant dismissal?
‘At this point, a suspension would be in order,’ the personnel advisor added. ‘However, staffing levels are very tight, so you can consider yourself lucky to retain your job, but understand this, Officer Teddington, going forward, you put one foot wrong, and you will be out of the Prison Service. For good.’
Skin. Teeth. Of.
‘Yes, sir. Thank you, sir.’
Something clawed at Charlie’s guts, tearing him apart, ripping him open from the inside.
Guilt.
It consumed him. Left him so completely empty, he was helpless, utterly incapable of doing anything. He heard the key in the cell door, but he didn’t care if it was locked or unlocked. Open or closed, made no difference. He didn’t pass through it. It had taken the last ounce of his strength to get to his top bunk, and he’d only bothered with that because the bloodied mattress of the bottom bunk had yet to be replaced. He lay there, awake or asleep, not noticing if it was day or night, ignoring calls to meals.
‘You have a visitor.’
Charlie heard the voice, even recognised it as Sanchez, but took no notice. He never had visitors; they must be talking to someone else. He just continued to lie on his side, staring at the wall. Staring at a child’s drawing. But, not one done by his child. His fingers rested on the waxy surface of crayon.
‘Get up.’
He didn’t even have a picture from his own kid. Now, he never would. He pressed in and scrunched up the picture.
‘I said, get up!’
Heavy hands fell on his lower legs, swung him round with such force, Charlie had to move, catching himself on the edge of the bed to avoid falling. He sat, staring sullenly at th
e floor. Sanchez stood in his peripheral vision, but Charlie didn’t have the energy to face him. ‘I don’t get visitors.’
‘You do now.’
The voice was dark and full of a disgust he hadn’t heard from Sanchez before. It was no more than he deserved. He was hollow. The one reason he looked forward to getting out of this place had been stolen from him.
‘I don’t want –’
‘I don’t give a crap what you want, Bell,’ Sanchez snarled. ‘Get off your arse.’
There was little point in arguing, so Charlie slid off the bunk, and followed Sanchez to the visiting room, even though it wasn’t visiting hours. Only one table was occupied, so it was clear who his visitors were, though he didn’t recognise the man, nor the woman in black. Not, at least, until she looked up, and he saw Teddington. She looked every bit as wretched as he felt, her face unusually pale, and not just because of the contrast with her nightly garb. There were dark rings under her eye and a scab in her right eyebrow.
‘I do that?’ he asked as he sat, his fisted hands resting on the table top.
‘Not important.’
It was to him. He wasn’t much of a man, but he’d never hit a woman before. He wondered if there was even an ounce of decency left in him. He hung his head, studying the table between his hands.
‘Charlie, this is Michael Levi. He specialises in family law. He’s prepared some papers for us.’
Us? Now he did look up. Why would she speak about ‘us’? ‘Why?’
She averted her eyes momentarily. He could see she was steeling herself to get this right, to deal with whatever his reaction might be. ‘I need your power of attorney to have Oscar’s body released, and make arrangements, for burial or cremation.’
‘No one burns my son.’ His anger blazed.
‘Okay.’ Her voice was unusually quiet. ‘Burial it is, then.’
