When Hilly was asleep Anne went down to the large sitting-room and dining-room which still had the original sliding doors between them. She closed them and made the sitting-room cosier. She turned on the news but it was politics and economics. She knew she should be going through prison service briefings on her role in the new management era but she couldn’t face them. She also knew if she sat staring at tv and not taking it in she would think about Paul. She was able to forget him for days at a time, after all it had happened nearly five years ago, but when Hilly brought it up it all came swirling back.
She wandered down to Henry’s basement flat. His sitting-room was untidy in a masculine way: full ashtrays, pipes littered about. And the room was also full of African artefacts waiting to be used as decorations but now simply standing in piles against the walls. There were Masai spears, carved birds from near Lake Ngami; tiny ‘love’ bows and arrows made by the Kung Bushmen of the Kalahari; Ovambo drums; Ndebele beadwork; woven beer strainers from Pondoland; necklaces made from ostrich eggshells; basketwork hats from Lesotho. He had collected widely.
He was working at his desk in the corner of his room. ‘Listen to this,’ he said. ‘In the seventh century under Kentish law if you cut off a man’s thumb you had to pay him twenty shillings. That was a lot then. I suppose because it harmed his work. It only cost six to lacerate his ear. Twelve to smash his thigh. You could murder him for a hundred shillings. And if Jason Newman had been a freeman and raped the female slave of a commoner it would have cost him five shillings. But if he’d been a slave and she was free he’d have been castrated.’
‘Well, there you are then,’ she said. ‘That solves that.’
She wandered about the room picking up bits of Africana and putting them down again.
‘You’re making me nervous,’ he said.
‘Sorry.’
She sat down in one of the canvas safari chairs that had accompanied them on their travels.
‘Is Hilary asleep?’ he asked.
‘Just. What’s all this about fang thieves?’
‘Not fang thieves. Infangthief. Old English law giving the right of taking and fining a thief in one’s own jurisdiction.’
‘That’s just the kind of knowledge that’ll help her with her drawing and numbers.’
‘Don’t be ironical. You knew what a tort was when you were seven and it didn’t do you any harm.’
‘I certainly don’t know now.’
He ignored her. ‘So what about your alleged rapist? Did you see him today?’
‘Alleged attempted rapist if you want to be accurate. Yes, I saw him. I really feel sorry for him. I think he feels abandoned. And he is. No one seems to care about him now.’
‘People can hardly remember who was famous the day before yesterday. It’s not surprising they’re not interested in someone who was a tennis star five years ago.’
‘But his wife’s abandoned him too.’
‘Some women don’t like their husbands trying to rape other women.’
‘Now who’s jumping to conclusions?’ She picked up a Masai spear and felt its point. ‘The problem with tennis players is that if they’re going to be champions they’ve got to start when they’re not much older than Hilly. And that means giving everything to it. It follows they don’t have much to fall back on. Intellectually, I mean.’
‘I understand that most of them have IQs that border on cretinous.’
‘Well, maybe not that bad, but they have to forget about a decent education. When I was playing it was impossible to have a real conversation with anyone. No one read a book. All they talked about was tennis, vitamins and injuries. And when they weren’t talking about those things or sleeping or playing, they were watching tv. Something called “The A Team” was considered to be intellectually challenging. You see how you wrecked me with all that Trollope and all those torts.’
‘You should be bloody glad. What about Newman?’
‘It’s just possible I may be getting out of my depth with him.’
‘Why should you?’
‘It’s my job to evaluate him. I’m not a trained psychiatrist and this job calls for a lot more psychoanalysis than I’d bargained for. After we’ve dealt with the sore feet and irritable bowels much of the rest of the day is spent with people who have personality disorders of one sort or another.’
‘That shouldn’t surprise you, should it? After all they committed crimes, which means they’re anti-social. If you’re anti-social you’re not normal and if you’re not normal you’re dotty.’
‘You make it sound simple.’
‘You can bet it’s not as complicated as it’s made out to be.’
‘You’d better come in and do the evaluations then.’
He smiled and tapped his papers. ‘Too busy with crime and punishment.’
She rose and kissed him on his bald head. ‘I’m off to bed.’ At the door she paused. ‘Hilly was asking about Paul again.’
‘It’s only natural. She sees other children with fathers.’
‘Thank God we’ve got you. At least she’s got a grandfather.’
‘That’s a very nice thing to say, but what little children need most are good mothers. And Hilary’s got one, so you don’t need to worry there. I used to worry about you, though. It may not have seemed like it but I did. If we hadn’t had Watch I don’t know what would have happened. Have you heard from your mother recently?’
‘Not for months. Goodnight.’
*
‘Who are you writing to Jason, old chap, old bean, old sport?’
Billy Sweete lay on his bunk and stared at the ceiling of the cell.
‘Cat got your tongue? You must be writing to someone. You been writing ever since association. You ain’t just going to sit there writing . . . Oh, wait, I get it, it’s your diary is it? Dear diary, another lovely autumn day for my holiday. Now, let’s see, what did my friend Billy and me do today? Can hardly remember we was so busy. There was tele to watch. Basket-bloody-work. Painting by numbers . . .’
They were banged up now. Lights off in fifteen minutes. Jason wanted to finish before that. Wanted to tell her how sorry he was, how desperate he felt. Maybe that would help.
Thoughts came fast. Writing slow. It had always been like that.
What for you want books? his father had said. How you going to learn to hit tennis balls from books?
Reading . . . Writing . . . Not much time for either.
Now when he needed the skills they were rusty, like old penknives that couldn’t cut.
‘If you don’t want to talk, don’t,’ Billy Sweete said. ‘You may have been famous once, old fruit, but you ain’t famous no more. You’re in the nick now, not in some plush hotel. You’re a nonce, that’s all you are. Like me. You’re a Rule 43. You like young girls. They’re going to crucify you. You know that? Crucify. You read the papers? There have never been so many rapes. Lessons to be learned, the judge will say. Example to be set. Take him down.’
Sweete came across from his bunk. ‘You think this is prison? This is remand, mate. This is the Savoy. You’re going to a proper nick. Maidstone. Dartmoor. Maybe even the Scrubs. Four years. Maybe five. Then every day is going to be the same. Day in and day out.’
He began a slow shuffling dance. ‘Dear diary . . . it is seven thirty . . . UNLOCK! . . . Hear them noises? Steel on steel. Doors opening. In other nicks the smell’s bad. It’s happy time. Slop out time . . .
‘M-y . . . bl-ooo . . . hea-v-en . . . Can I have the next dance darlin? . . . Promised? . . . Oh, dear, how embarrassing . . .’
Jason tried to ignore him. The sudden mood swings bewildered and irritated him. Billy Sweete seemed two or three different people.
‘Okay, so off we go to the servery . . . Just Bil-ly and me, and-baby-makes-three . . . I love the golden oldies, don’t you?
‘Heavy food. Starchy food. Wholemeal bread. That’s for the bowels, old chap. So you take the stuff back to your cell . . .
‘Slow fox –
watch the turn – you ever see “Come Dancing”? Best programme on the tele.
‘You eat in your cell, Jason, dear boy. You know why? Because there are too many riots in canteens, that’s why. It’s flying-tray-time. So they bangs you up in your cell while you eat, safer that way . . . You listening to me? You hearing what I’m saying?’
He sat down opposite Jason, who covered his letter with his arm.
‘I don’t want to read your frigging letter.’
He rolled himself a cigarette and lit it. The cell was pervaded by the sweetish smell of Old Holborn.
‘UNLOCK!’ Sweete suddenly yelled. ‘Nine o’clock. Labour to shops. Everybody on the move. Transfers. Discharges. But not you, old cock. Oh, no. You’ve still got years to go. But you see them others. The discharges. You been seeing them for weeks. Shaking. Sick with worry. Called gate fever. Will I make it? Will something go wrong? Will I lose some of my remission? Yeah. They’re shitting theirselves.’
He suddenly stuck the red hot tip of the cigarette onto the soft skin on the inside of his forearm. There was a wisp of smoke and a sickening smell of roast pork. Jason stared at him in horror and incomprehension.
‘You wind me up,’ Sweete said. ‘You sit there not talking. It ain’t natural and it ain’t friendly.’
Jason was staring at the angry red mark on Sweete’s arm. The centre was a tiny brown crust.
‘I’m sorry,’ Jason said at last.
‘Christ! It talks!’
‘Why did you do that?’
‘Me to know, you to find out.’ He nipped the end off the rollup and put it back in his tin. He suddenly went into a boxer’s crouch, his hands balled, his long hair falling over his face. He threw a series of punches in the air. ‘Left . . . jab . . . left . . . jab . . . then wham! Right cross. Ooooh! Aaaah! Nine . . . ten – Yer out. Billy Sweete done it again.’ He turned to Jason. ‘That’s real sport, mate. Not yer frigging tennis.’
He got up on his top bunk again. ‘Take a letter,’ he said. There was something almost hysterical now about his whole demeanour. ‘A letter to Dear Diary. My Day, by Jason Tennisplayer. At 11.45 we partake of luncheon, and then the prison is in patrol state. And what is patrol state? Patrol state is when everyone is banged up again and quiet so the screws can go and have their midday meal.
‘And then, old pal – wait for it – in the afternoon . . . VISITS! Only you ain’t ever going to get a visit, Jason. She’s going to forget you. She don’t want no rapist in the family.’
Jason stood up and walked over to the bunk. He was tall enough to look down on Sweete.
‘If you say that again,’ Jason said, ‘I’ll kill you.’
Chapter Eight
Anne knocked on Tom Melville’s door.
‘Come in.’
Jenks was sitting on the opposite side of Tom’s desk. There were papers in front of them.
Anne said, ‘I’ll come back later.’
‘No, no.’
‘It’s not important.’
‘We were just finishing.’
Jenks ignored her, instead he said to Tom, ‘We should get on to—’
‘Not now Jeff, we can do it later.’
Reluctantly Jenks left the room.
‘I didn’t mean to interrupt,’ Anne said.
‘Nonsense. He’s getting to be an old woman. Coffee?’
‘Thanks, I’ve just had some. I’ve organised myself, you’ll be glad to hear. I don’t have to cadge from you. And it’s really about organisation I wanted to talk. I’ve been going through the prison service briefings and—’
‘You are being good. No, that wasn’t patronising. I mean it.’
She smiled, ‘I hadn’t even considered it. There’s a section about “command position” in an emergency and I’m not sure what that means exactly or where I’m supposed to go.’
He said, ‘I think it’s time for the alternative tour. Not the one you had on your first day. That probably made the place seem like a holiday camp. This will redress the balance. I’ll tell you about command positions on our way.’
She followed him down the hospital corridors and out into the grey autumn day. The great wings of the Victorian house of correction reared up ahead of them.
Tom said, ‘We usually hear on the grapevine when something is going down, like a riot or a hostage-taking or just something bloody minded. And you can bet it’s on your Sunday off. The whole place goes onto a war footing.’
‘That sounds ominous.’
‘It’s the nearest analogy I can think of. The Governor becomes the commander with a direct line to the incident room at the Home Office. And we’re his staff officers, if you like. Our command position is more a state of mind than a “position”. The hospital becomes a forward operating unit as in battle. We clear the place of patients, get them into Kingstown General, warn the management there that casualties might be arriving. And we get our own unit ready – bandages, dressings, drugs, that sort of thing. That’s our command position.’
‘I’m not sure why but I thought I’d have to put on one of those armoured suits and a helmet and—’
‘They’re out of date now. You’ve been looking at tv documentaries. Give me your hand.’
She put out her right hand and he took hold of her thumb. He exerted light pressure downwards. She experienced a stab of pain and felt herself suddenly bending at the knees.
‘I didn’t hurt you, did I?’
‘No.’ She rubbed the base of her thumb. ‘I thought you were going to, though.’
He grinned and said, ‘I’m not that much of a feminist. I do believe there are certain differences.’ Then he grew more serious. ‘It only needs two officers to immobilise a prisoner if they can get a grip like that. Much easier than the old method.’
She followed him to Reception. ‘This is a dangerous place,’ he said. ‘They come in from the courts. They’ve just been sentenced and some are pretty desperate. The police have searched them but that doesn’t make them safe. Weapons may have been smuggled to them. Some may be high on drugs. So be very careful here. You’ll examine them once they’ve showered and changed into prison clothing but never, never underestimate them.’
‘Nothing excepted? In the examination, I mean.’
‘Absolutely nothing. The Home Office long ago decreed that male and female staff were equal. The only thing you won’t do – and it is the only thing – is strip search a male prisoner.’
He led her through the wings and down a short flight of stairs. They were partly underground now and the air was dank and smelled of human waste and disinfectant. He indicated a row of cells. ‘Segregation unit. The really bad lot.’
There were the usual sounds of coughing.
‘Everyone here has broken prison rules. But that’s not the only problem. There’s a small group called 10/74s – which only means Circular Ten of 1974 – who are subversive. No other word for it. They lead us all a hell of a dance. Wear out the prison staff. And themselves for that matter. So it’s policy to move them from prison to prison. Gives us a rest and them a chance to make a fresh start. But watch out for them. They’ve got nothing to lose.’
‘BASTARD! BASTARD! BASTARD!’
The voice was close enough to make Anne jump.
Another voice shouted, ‘Who’s there?’
‘The doctor,’ Tom said.
‘Hey! I want to talk to you.’
Tom opened the sliding panel on a cell door. Anne had a glimpse of a bare room with only a foam mattress on the floor. Then a face appeared above a thick, muscular neck. The prisoner wore a short, elaborately trimmed beard and his eyes were almost black.
‘Listen, doc, I’m doing weight training. I’m on a high protein diet, see, and these sodding – Christ! What’s a woman doing down here? You come to visit, love?’ He put out his tongue and made an obscene movement with it.
Tom closed the window.
‘Don’t you do that to me you sod!’ the prisoner shouted.
They moved away. �
�We’ve all had to get used to that sort of thing,’ Tom said.
He took her to the Centre Office, the glass-encased room at the very centre of the prison with views along each wing and up onto the landings.
‘Like the bridge of a ship,’ he said. ‘From here the duty officer can keep an eye on things.’
He introduced Anne to an officer then took down a canvas bag hanging from a wallhook. He took out a pair of scissors. They were like none Anne had seen. One blade was turned at right angles to the other, like anvil secateurs.
‘For suicides,’ Tom said. ‘They usually use shoelaces or something thin. You can’t get your fingers under the ligatures so the drill is that someone, whoever gets there first, will hold up the body to relieve the pressure. Then you push the bottom blade under the string and cut down with the top blade. Okay?’
There was a gravitas about him she had not seen before.
A bell went off stridently nearby. A voice shouted, ‘Some bastard’s set his cell alight.’ There was a smell of smoke.
‘You’ll get used to cell fires,’ Tom said. ‘This is the other occasion when we take up our command positions.’ He led her through the jostling throng of remand prisoners and discipline officers. Smoke was drifting down the wings and then being sucked up into the atrium. By the time they reached the hospital the first – and only – casualty was on his way.
*
‘How are you feeling now, Jason?’ Anne asked.
‘My throat’s like sandpaper.’
‘That’ll go in a day or two.’
Two prison officers had brought him to the hospital, coughing and retching. Tom had given him a shot of hydrocortisone and prescribed steroids for the next five days.
‘Apart from that?’
‘Okay. They got to me fast, apparently. I mean the mattress had only just begun to smoulder.’
‘Just as well,’ Tom said. ‘Foam is pretty deadly when it’s on fire. Creates phosgene and cyanide. Any idea how it happened?’
‘My cellmate smokes. And he’s in for arson.’
Burn Out (Dr. Anne Vernon Book 1) Page 6
