Locked Up

by GB Williams

  ‘None of us are, after something like that,’ Turner pointed out. He’d been caught out by a group of prisoners a few years ago, and had the scars to prove it.

  ‘Do you reckon he’ll come back?’ Roberts asked.

  ‘Backroom, maybe.’ Teddington shook her head. In all honesty, she couldn’t see Dyer ever setting foot inside Blackmarch again, but he might just surprise her.

  As the conversation moved on, she felt Enzo snuggle her into the crook of his shoulder. She wasn’t sure how to take it. She tensed.

  ‘Do us both a favour.’ His voice was a low warning whisper in her ear. ‘Just go with it, okay?’

  Unsure how she should react, Teddington pulled her head back to look at him, only to have Sanchez claim another kiss. She didn’t know what he was playing at, but after their last encounter, she knew it wasn’t the obvious. Which was why she kissed him back, her hand rising to his neck. The tips of her fingers feeling the soft short hairs at the edge of his hairline.

  The cat calls got worse, pulling them apart. Roberts was even clapping, Turner and Norman laughing.

  ‘Well, that proves all the rumours about you and Bell are bollocks.’ Norman laughed, tipping his drink towards them before he emptied the glass. ‘Anyone else for another?’

  ‘Okay, then, what’s going on?’ Teddington asked Sanchez, as they stopped by her front garden gate. It was gone two in the morning. After the pub, someone had had the great idea of going to a night club. They’d shared a taxi back, since they lived in the same street.

  ‘What?’ Sanchez leaned towards her. Despite the number of drinks, she knew he wasn’t that drunk; every other one had been water.

  ‘You know what I mean.’

  He shrugged. ‘I just got this over-powering urge to protect my oldest friend. Keep you safe. D’ya mind?’

  She minded the prevarication, but not particularly the action. She kind of appreciated the protection, the closeness she’d been missing. Right now, she needed it. She shook her head. ‘As long as you know it can’t go anywhere.’

  He nodded, rather sadly. His hands moved to her face, brushing her loose hair back. ‘You sure?’ He kissed her again. When he pulled back, he looked even more sorrowful. ‘You’re sure.’ With a half-smile, he left her, crossing the road walking the two houses up.

  She watched his retreating back, before heading up the path to her house. He was a good man. It was a shame she didn’t feel more for him. But, she wasn’t going to drop the fact he wasn’t telling her something – now just wasn’t the time to pursue it.

  14

  ‘Surprised you’re in,’ Turner remarked, when he saw Teddington come in for handover.

  ‘That’s rich.’ She laughed. ‘You’re the one who was three sheets to the wind last night. How did you make it in this morning?’

  ‘Urgh.’ He rolled his eyes. ‘Threw up when I got home. Peggy made me drink a pint of water, then fed me Resolve this morning, before kicking my worthless hide out of bed.’

  Teddington smiled. ‘She’s a great woman, your wife.’

  ‘I’m a lucky man,’ he acknowledged. ‘I know. Better get her something on the way home.’

  ‘I’d suggest flowers and chocolates.’

  ‘I’m thinking a new bathroom mat, after what I did.’ Turner laughed.

  With the arrival of the rest of the afternoon shift, conversation turned to the business of handover, not that there was much to hand over. As had been observed the previous evening, things had become very quiet.

  As she and Robbins stepped into the Wing, Teddington looked around. All the doors were open and back. She avoided lingering on any one door too long. There were a few people milling around, but not as many as she might have expected. She did spot the newbie, though.

  The unofficial assessment of Matthew Pearson looked about right: cocky little bleeder, who had a lot to learn and didn’t yet know it. He was talking to Morris and a small knot of other men. That was a good sign. Morris cooperated with Keen, and should help teach the boy a thing or two.

  Hearing their arrival, Morris looked up, so did Pearson. He looked surprised to see a female in uniform. Robbins turned away, heading towards the board as he had a notice to add to it. Teddington met Pearson’s leer, knowing she couldn’t be the first to back down.

  ‘Wow, a female screw. This’ll be fun.’ Pearson puffed up with pointless bravado. ‘What do you think, guys?’

  That was when he noticed what Teddington had seen all along. The general quiet of the wing had turned to stony silence. Although not one of the men had moved, they were distancing themselves from Pearson.

  Pearson glanced around, saw what had happened, and was a lot less courageous when he turned back.

  Teddington paced over to face him. ‘I am Officer Teddington. You, Pearson, will refer to me as Officer Teddington. You will show me, and all my colleagues, respect. You’ve just arrived and have a lot to learn. I suggest for your first lesson, you understand this; six days ago, two inmates, both bigger and scarier than you, tried abusing me. They will remain in hospital for the foreseeable future.’

  Satisfied his whitening face showed he had got the message, Teddington turned and walked slowly up the stairs, heading for level two, pacing her way towards Keen’s cell.

  ‘Your girlfriend’s back.’

  Charlie stared at the ceiling. ‘Teddington’s not my girlfriend,’ he pointed out. He hadn’t spoken to anyone but Teddington since he’d held Oscar while he died. And Sanchez, he admitted to himself.

  ‘Then, how come you know who I’m talking about?’ Runt sniggered. ‘Look, man, I couldn’t give a toss myself, but Keen thought you might want to know … the new guy, Pearson, was insulting her. Keen thinks he needs a lesson in respect.’

  There were any number of people capable of that. Runt, Paul, him, Sanchez, Teddington herself. But, there was one point he wouldn’t give in to. ‘I don’t do Keen’s dirty work.’

  Runt shrugged and pushed away from Charlie’s door frame. ‘That’s your problem all over, mate. But, hell, it’s your life. For all I care, you can stay up there and rot in your bed. Just like your kid.’

  The words stabbed him deep in the heart. Rot in his bed. Just like his kid. Charlie closed his eyes. Bile rose in his throat, but there was nothing in his stomach to fetch up. He hadn’t eaten any more than he’d spoken, less, in fact. He didn’t know much about what Teddington had found, he hadn’t watched the news broadcasts, but Morris had come over and told him what they were saying.

  The two children, one several days dead and the other dying, had been found in a – as Morris had put it – complete shit-hole. The names of the officers and the civilian who’d called them in were kept out of the press, but there were enough people around to know who it was, and that Teddington’s involvement not being public was something of a miracle. He wondered if Piper had anything to do with that, but he’d never know, so he didn’t worry about it. The police had had to trace Cathy to the continent and bring her back. In handcuffs.

  Once, when he’d been a constable in uniform, he’d attended a house where a body had been rotting for a week. The sight and the stench had stayed with him, and he recalled it now, the knowledge making Morris’ descriptions all too real.

  ‘One day.’

  Charlie’s eyes snapped open. How long had he been torturing himself with those images? Eternity was probably what he deserved. Turning his head, he found he was staring straight at Teddington.

  ‘What?’

  ‘You have one day. If you’re still behaving like this tomorrow, it’ll be classified as hunger strike, and we’ll call the psychotherapists. End up in a straitjacket, and not only can you kiss goodbye to any parole option, you’ll not be allowed to attend your son’s funeral. Which is Wednesday, by the way.’

  With that, she stalked out.

  ‘What about the other one?’ he asked, pushing himself onto his elbows. ‘What about the baby?’

  She paused in the door and turned back to him, so
rrow warring with the blank mask she was trying to maintain. ‘Working on it.’

  Working on it.

  Charlie stayed on his elbows and watched the empty doorway. One day? Psychotherapists? He’d had to see a few of them after what he’d done. No hope of parole? What did that matter? He had nothing to get out for.

  Working on it.

  When he’d walked towards her at the hospital, Teddington had been crying her eyes out. She’d been the one who had found the boys. She’d arranged for him to be with his son at the end, when Sanchez and Turner had been prepared to hold him back. She’d been the one trying to help him when Oscar passed. And he’d hit her. She’d been doing everything she could to take care of funeral arrangements. And all the time, she’d obviously been in pain. If what Morris had told him was even half true, then she had walked through hell for his boy. She was still trying to help the other child, to whom she had neither connection nor obligation. But, he had an obligation to her now. He owed her.

  And as for missing Oscar’s funeral?

  No way.

  Carefully, Charlie lowered himself to the floor. He had to hold on to the bunk, as an unexpected light-headedness threatened his balance.

  Standing like that, his gaze fell on the back of his hand. His skin looked pale, almost see-through, appearing to hang from nothing, the veins threaded blue and thin. The hands of an old man. Self-loathing shuddered through him, as he hung his head and stepped over to the tiny metal sink. Putting the plug in, he started the water running and prepared to shave for the first time in four days. Glancing up, he recoiled from the man in the mirror.

  Dirt darkened hair pointed all over the place, matted and sticking up, as if he didn’t even own a comb. Dark shadows underlined sunken eyes, his cheekbones too prominent, the darker blond of his beard only serving to highlight the pallor of his skin, doing nothing to hide the hollowness of his cheeks. Disreputable. Disgraceful. Dishonest. That was how he looked. What happened to your self-respect? He sneered at the man in the mirror. He’d promised himself he’d get through this, for her. He was letting them both down, and deserved a kick in the arse for it.

  Turning off the tap, he leaned down, soaking his whole face in the warm water, only just able to get his head into the basin. Releasing his breath in a steady stream, he felt the bubbles run across his rough cheeks. He could just stay here, never draw breath again, drown in a basin.

  No, you can’t. Grow up.

  He hadn’t done enough for his son. Hell, he hadn’t done anything for his son, but there was one last thing he could do, and he wouldn’t fail Oscar this time.

  Besides, he thought, as he began the process of scratching thick hair from his chin, he knew even if he tried topping himself, he wouldn’t be successful. The fight-for-life instinct was too strong – at the last second he would pull back. If he did manage to maintain enough control not to pull back, he’d black out anyway, fall out of the basin and survive. Which would put him on suicide watch, and ensure he missed Oscar’s funeral.

  As he shaved, he noticed his stench. Well, dealing with that should fill up another ten minutes.

  It wasn’t until he came back from the shower block that he noticed the books on his table. Thinking about it, they had been there before he’d left; he just hadn’t bothered registering them. Putting his used clothes to one side – he’d do the laundry later – he sat down and looked at the three books. They had all been read, but remained in good condition. Lee Child, Killing Floor. Steven Leather, Hard Landing. Jasper Fforde, The Big Over Easy. The first two he’d already read, both of which were slightly unsuitable, given they each involved the main character spending time in jail, but he picked up the last. The blurb on the back made it sound like a comedy. He put it down. He wasn’t in the mood for amusement.

  While wondering why they’d appeared, he had a fairly good idea of who would have left them there. Just in case, he flicked through the books and out of Hard Landing, a small note fell.

  Please don’t give up.

  Same handwriting as before. Teddington. He doubted she’d meant this to make him feel like a louse, but it did. Oscar wasn’t the only one he had let down, nor was Teddington, but she was the last one left he cared about not letting down. Pulling on a plain marl sweatshirt, Charlie moved out to the landing. No one was hanging around. That was unusual. He looked down. There was activity on the ground floor, preparations for serving the evening meal, but the usual crowd that would gather wasn’t there yet.

  Charlie frowned. The place wasn’t usually this quiet. All the doors were open, and through some of them, he could see inmates sitting quietly. Morris was at his table, playing cards. Only Runt was visible on the second floor, standing guard outside Keen’s door. Teddington was on the ground floor, talking to Benny York, who was showing her something in a book. Charlie suspected he was having trouble reading – one of the reasons York was in here was the rage that boiled over when people called him retarded because he couldn’t read properly.

  Catching movement from his peripheral vision, Charlie saw Robbins walking down the landing, possibly having come from Hart’s cell. The two men watched each other, as Robbins steady pace brought him closer. It was no surprise when Robbins stopped close enough to speak to him.

  ‘Dragged yourself out of your pit, then.’

  Charlie considered sarcasm, but it felt too much like effort. ‘Yes, Officer Robbins.’ He wasn’t usually so formal, but something in the air suggested he should be. ‘Did I miss something?’ he asked, looking around, his eyes inevitably drawn down again. ‘Everything seems … quiet.’

  ‘It’s just peace and order. Nothing to complain about.’

  Charlie frowned. ‘Officer Robbins? Shouldn’t you and Teddington be on a run of night shifts about now?’

  ‘We are. This is a double shift for cover.’

  Robbins looked down, following Charlie’s line of sight to see it squarely on Teddington. Charlie sensed his tension, then, with a sigh, the man seemed to relax.

  ‘At the best of times,’ Robbins told him, ‘I’d suggest you give that one up, but she’s with Sanchez now.’

  Charlie frowned, as Robbins moved on, he looked down at Teddington. Her and Sanchez? Made sense. But, if she was with Sanchez, why had she kissed him?

  Okay, he’d kissed her. Both times. But she hadn’t objected, hadn’t reported him, there’d been no come back. Hang on, wasn’t she married? Charlie couldn’t see her as the cheating kind, but married, with Sanchez, kissing him? None of it made sense. Another puzzle to solve.

  As Robbins moved away, Charlie moved to Hart’s cell. Hart was sitting on the lower bunk rubbing his stomach.

  ‘You alright?’

  ‘Fine.’ The way the word was squeezed out proved the man a liar.

  Charlie frowned. ‘Did Robbins punch you?’

  Now, Hart looked white for a different reason. ‘No.’

  Charlie knew a lie when he heard one.

  ‘Piss off, and keep your gob shut.’

  He also knew there was nothing he could do. Charlie continued on until he reached Winehouse’s cell. Winehouse himself was also at the basin, shaving before the last meal of the day.

  ‘Sorry for your loss,’ the older man stated.

  Charlie leaned against the doorframe. He wasn’t sure what to do with such expressions of sympathy, but figured he probably wouldn’t have to get used to it in here. ‘Thanks.’ He let Winehouse splash water on his face and start dabbing at the damp, before he spoke. ‘What did I miss?’

  Winehouse stilled, considering. ‘What do you mean?’

  Charlie held the regard, steady and direct. ‘Things are different, quieter. What’s going on?’

  Shrugging and returning to his facial care, Winehouse was keeping a nonchalant demeanour.

  ‘Well, you and Teddington did manage to beat the living daylights out of Stanton and Mohr, and with that coming right after Tommy’s death … I guess everyone’s just a little more subdued than normal.’

&
nbsp; Charlie watched as the older man took up an aftershave balm, smoothing it over the recently cleared skin. All the time Charlie was overly aware of the fire on his own neck and face. That was what he got for not shaving in four days.

  ‘Here.’ Winehouse threw him the small tube, which he deftly caught. ‘Looks like you need it more than I do.’

  Pressing a little of the ointment onto his fingers, Charlie began to rub it into the sorest parts of his neck. ‘Thanks.’

  ‘Keep it.’ Winehouse waved away the return. ‘There’s not much left, and I already have the replacement.’ As Charlie continued to soothe his burning skin, Winehouse tidied up the tiny bathroom space and wiped his hands. ‘So, now you’re back in the land of the living, I trust you’ll be back to finding out how Tommy died.’

  It wasn’t the highest thing on his to-do list, but he guessed it was there, somewhere. ‘I wasn’t getting anywhere. Don’t forget most of the men in here still think of me as a copper, one of “them.”’

  ‘To be fair,’ Winehouse smiled at him, ‘you did have involvement in the cases that put a fair few of them in here.’

  ‘Only a couple are left,’ Charlie pointed out. Most of the men he’d put away had either completed their term by now, or had been transferred to a training prison or closer to home. A couple had actually been deported.

  ‘That’s enough.’ The dark tone came from outside the cell. Charlie was suddenly aware Winehouse’s favourite bodyguard, Paul, was behind him. Without thinking about it, he’d put himself in a position of vulnerability, but moving now would be a public acknowledgement of that fact.

  With a slight shrug, Charlie let the point pass. ‘Thing is, I do ask, and most of the time, the answer’s two words with three f’s.’

  ‘You didn’t get that as a cop?’

  ‘As a cop, I could fall back on threats of time in a cell. That’s rather redundant here.’

  ‘Back then, you wore the handcuffs of legality.’ Winehouse shrugged as though it was the easiest, most obvious, thing in the world. ‘A few days ago, you beat Mohr to a pulp. You don’t think you’ve got anything to threaten them with now?’