Prisoner

by Ross Greenwood

  ‘Sorry, mate. I’m finished.’

  ‘Oh. The SO said you wouldn’t mind helping me on this wing.’

  I can see Nasima in the window of the hub with an inane grin and both thumbs up, and I let out another heavy breath.

  ‘Go on, then. Where’s the first one?’

  Five minutes later, I’m out of there and walking towards the men’s side to visit Colt. It’s a scorching day with a totally blue sky. Bright sunshine reflects off the steel gates and barbed wire, and hammers down onto the shimmering concrete. My mouth is dry and my feet sweat freely in my boots. I look up at the four lines of eighty cell windows on the building on my right. They are in the full glare of the sun. It must be hot to the point of panic inside.

  I bump into an officer from Visits. He has one of my favourite prisoners with him. Crispy. His actual name is Chris Patterson, but we had two wing workers called Chris, so I named them Chris P and Chris D. The other one became Crusty. It suited Crusty because he was a foul, grumpy creature who sadly drowned in the pond of a house he was scoping, with industrial levels of cider inside him, the day he was last released. Crispy, on the other hand, is funny.

  ‘Crispy!’

  ‘Guv!’

  ‘You had a legal?’

  ‘Yeah. The police want me to take the blame for six commercial burglaries. Told my brief to tell ’em to piss off.’

  ‘Did you do them?’

  ‘Not all of them.’

  I laugh, even though it wouldn’t have been funny if I’d owned one of the builders’ merchants where Crispy enjoys letting loose his acquisitive nature.

  The officer is a new guy called Ben Patel. I only know this because the prison somehow got his name badge wrong and put Petal on it. Obviously, everyone started calling him that, until HR told us not to. He was cool about it though and is a top bloke.

  ‘I can drop him back if you want, Ben?’

  ‘Sweet, Dalton. I’ll then owe you one very small favour.’

  ‘You mean like giving him a hand job?’ asks Crispy.

  ‘Correct. Sadly, I have another legal visit to escort from Houseblock Five, so you, Mr Crispy, will have to provide the favour for me.’

  As Ben heads off, I pull open the door for Houseblock Three, I realise I’ve missed this banter. I haven’t missed the aroma, though. It’s hard to describe the smell of a thousand men cooking in their cells. You can bite on it.

  ‘Are you in your usual kennel?’

  ‘Yep, C-39.’

  ‘You’ve been in there so often that we’ll have to retire it when you give up your wicked ways.’

  ‘Or I could move in permanently.’

  ‘Don’t you get tired of being in here?’

  ‘To be honest, I got a two this time and it’s been hard. My first grandkid was born just before I came in, and I feel like I’m missing out on a special stage.’

  He’s on the side facing the sun. A solid draught of warm air envelops me when I open his door.

  ‘Ever thought about working for a living?’

  He cringes. ‘No!’

  ‘Okay, take it easy. I’ll be back this afternoon for my hand job.’

  ‘Okay, cool. I’ll make it a blowie if you bring me a cold beer.’

  I chuckle as I shut him in, then stroll to the hub and pop my head in. Only SO Bowell is in there.

  ‘All right, boss. I’m just confirming when my brother-in-law’s court case is. What cell is he in?’

  ‘D-26.’

  I raise an eyebrow with him knowing Colt’s location without checking.

  ‘Yes, he’s a nightmare,’ Bowell says. ‘Can you have a word, tell him to calm it down, or someone will get hurt?’

  I’m not sure if he means Colt or someone else, but I give him what I hope is a reassuring nod. It sounds as if there’s fighting in his cell when I reach it. I flick the observation panel open and peer in. Colt is shadow boxing, while one of his weasel friends looks on adoringly. I rattle my keys and open the door.

  Colt is topless, and all pumped up. He freezes while empty prison eyes assess the danger. For a second, I think he’s going to attack, then he recognises me.

  ‘Jimbo!’

  ‘Colt,’ I say, hoping not to sound sarcastic. ‘Your sister was worried and wanted to know your court date.’

  ‘Sweet, will she be there?’

  ‘It depends when it is. Obviously, she won’t take the kids.’

  ‘Got ya. We’re changing our plea.’

  ‘Why? You said they have witnesses who saw it all.’

  ‘Yeah, but we know who the witnesses are, so they’re going to have a little visit from my mate, Magnum, to make sure they forget to go to court.’

  I can’t help shaking my head. ‘When’s the trial?’

  ‘It’s a floater, so any day.’

  ‘If you take it to trial and get found guilty, they’ll hammer you for the time and the expense of the trial when you previously admitted to doing it.’

  ‘Yeah, who knows, man? You gotta roll the dice.’

  I throw the Dairy Milk bar that I bought for him, which he catches. He nods appreciatively and shows it to his mate. Wyatt always loved Dairy Milk. I assume Colt does too.

  ‘Sweet, bruv. Perfect.’

  For a moment he reminds me of the cheeky little boy who pestered me to play football, but that innocent lad is long gone.

  48

  Since having children, I imagined a day to myself in an empty house would be on a par with a trip to the Seychelles, but instead I feel listless. It’s a shame I don’t have to pick the kids up later. I force myself to get out of bed at 9 a.m. so as not to squander the opportunity of a day to myself. I’m still tired, though, because I struggled to nod off last night. Forefront in my mind, and my groin, was the kiss with Billie.

  I attack the housework with vigour, even man-cleaning the bathroom. It doesn’t look or smell the same as when Abi’s spent all morning on it, but it’s an improvement. Scarily, the time is already nearly 1 p.m., and that’s without having to deal with the kids’ constant demands. I take the rubbish outside and it’s a glorious day again. I was going to watch a film on TV, but my mum taught me not to waste the sunshine.

  Raised voices come from Gary’s house. I’ve never been impulsive, but maybe all the changes of late have affected me more than I thought. After knocking on Gary’s door, I wait, feeling nervous. A woman in a housecoat answers the door. She’s tall and willowy with a severe bob, speckled with grey. I receive half a grin.

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘Can Gary come out to play?’

  The smile blossoms, which transforms my impression of her completely.

  ‘As long as you don’t go too far.’

  ‘Actually, I was wondering if he fancied a trip to the coast. Wells is only about an hour away. It’ll probably do us some good and get him out of your hair.’

  ‘Okay, but he’s a bit tired and grouchy with his back from messing with your car. Honestly, says he can’t use the hoover because of the strain, then I find him crawling over your engine like Spiderman.’

  ‘I’ll look after him. We’ll breathe some fresh air, see the sea, maybe have fish and chips.’

  ‘Sounds good, got room for one more?’

  ‘Of course, but you have to sit in the back.’

  ‘Just kidding, I have work later, but it’ll be great for Gary to get out. He sits in the house, moaning about not having anything to do, but only he can change that. Nobody’s going to come around and whisk him away to somewhere fabulous.’

  ‘Did I tell you we were going to Wells-next-to-the-Sea?’

  She laughs loud, head tipped back so I see her fillings.

  ‘Gary said you had a dry sense of humour,’ she says when she’s recovered. ‘If you’ve been stuck inside for years on end, Wells is excitement enough. I’ll send him around in a few minutes. You’d better get a move on because that road will be busy. Now, is it a date or a day out?’

  ‘Ah, good call. You’ll need to know so you
can put him in the right underwear.’

  Gary limps around ten minutes later. He has shorts and a T-shirt on and a little rucksack. Incredibly, his legs are whiter than mine. We drive off in silence, but there’s an air of excitement.

  ‘Thanks for asking me.’

  ‘No probs. Nice to have some company.’

  We reach the A47 and the traffic snarls up, but I just get comfortable in my seat. It’s good to leave the city. Everywhere is in full bloom with green fields stretching out around us. About fifteen miles from Peterborough, we grind to a halt. I glance suspiciously at the car’s rising temperature gauge, although having Gary with me is reassuring. I wind down the window and peer up at the sky where the odd wisp of cloud scuds by.

  When you’re young, you don’t look at the horizon. You’re too busy with what you’re doing. I love The Fens now. It’s so flat out here that the views are panoramic and the sky seems enormous. It makes me feel insignificant in the scheme of things, but that relaxes me, instead of adding to any panic. Problems are smaller out here.

  ‘Did you know,’ says Gary, ‘that most of the land around here is below sea level? They use sluices and drainage at high tide to enable it to be farmed so heavily.’

  ‘That doesn’t sound promising when global warming cranks up,’ I reply.

  ‘You’ll have to scrap this crap car and get a crap boat instead.’

  We tootle along in the line of vehicles, but progress is slow. Gary gets his mobile out and there is a thirty-mile traffic jam to the sea. When we reach Elme Hall, I make another impulsive decision and swing into the car park.

  ‘Shall we just have dinner here? My treat,’ I say.

  ‘You sure? It might be a bit pricey.’

  I get out of the car and stare up at the huge building. It looks like a stately home to my untrained eye.

  ‘It can’t be that swish. It says two meals for eleven quid on the sign outside.’

  We cautiously step in. It’s quiet, but a waitress greets us and we have fish and chips from the lunch menu while sitting in a conservatory. The food is good value and neither of us fancy a heavy pudding after. The drive home isn’t as arduous, but I stop for petrol and buy two ice lollies. We sit in the garage forecourt and watch the traffic thunder past as we eat them.

  ‘Your wife seems nice,’ I say.

  ‘Yeah, suppose.’

  We both chuckle. There’s been a giggly-schoolboy feeling to the whole venture.

  ‘When I first had the accident, I was angry and sullen. It wouldn’t have been a surprise if she’d left me, but she hung in there. I used to complain about her being distant and cold, but she was just exhausted. I bet your wife’s the same. Us blokes do a full day’s work, then think we can come home and lie on the sofa as heroes. The women’s day never seems to be done, especially with children. There’s constant washing and ironing and feeding, followed by settling them when the kids have bad dreams.’

  I ponder his words for a few seconds. It’s true. Abi never stops when she’s at home, apart from lately when she closed in on herself. But even then, she still made sure Tilly and Ivan were fed and clothed. I tend to come back from work and collapse, but how tired am I really? Would it kill me to peg out the washing, or nip the kids to the park for thirty minutes so she can have a cup of tea on her own?

  ‘I get what you’re saying,’ I finally reply. ‘But I think my wife could try harder with me. She’s lost all interest in any physical contact and is liable to fly off the handle at the smallest thing, which then gets my back up, so I make nasty comments to hurt her.’

  Gary grins. ‘It’s called raising a family. Nobody warns you about it. If you can get out the other side, you’re fine. Communication is the key.’

  ‘Ah ha! Man’s strongest point. No wonder we’re having problems.’

  ‘Write your email to her and include this stuff, saying that you appreciate she’s been working hard and explain your angle, too. No one’s ever completely wrong, and if your shared goal is not to have angry kids, then it should be doable.’

  ‘If I’d known you were a doctor of philosophy, I’d have spoken to you earlier. Now, do you know anything about rashes?’

  It’s been a good afternoon even though we never reached further than Wisbech. I park up and help Gary out. Even so little effort has worn him out. He stops before opening his front door.

  ‘Thanks for a lovely day at the seaside.’

  ‘No worries. Perhaps it’s time both of us created a life, as opposed to wandering through it and complaining when nothing happens. It’s funny, but I often think that’s what the prisoners do, but I’m just as guilty of it.’

  ‘We’ll do something soon. I’m pooped, but I feel more positive. I need a plan and if I push myself, I can have a future too. Cheers again.’

  He gives a tired wave and disappears through his door. I return to my house and smile at the cleanliness as I walk inside. Abi always used to say what a nice sensation it was to get back to a clean and tidy home.

  There’s very little food in the cupboards, so I have a tin of spaghetti hoops in a bowl. I turn the computer on and start writing that email. It’s hard, though, when my mind keeps wandering to events in the prison. I remember Tara’s strange word for a sex offender and do a Google search. A hebephile is someone who is attracted to pubescent children. I shiver at how confused those girls must have been in Lavinia’s warped world. I eventually finish the email. My finger hovers over the send button. It’s only Tuesday, and I said I’d wait a week. I wonder if she’s thinking of me. I click send. The speed of her reply will be the proof I need.

  49

  I’m on another early, but I press my alarm before it goes off. It’s funny how I always blamed the kids and their strange nocturnal habits for my tiredness, but they aren’t here and still my mind whirs in bed, which prevents me from feeling rested. The girls on the wing flicker in and out of half-dreams in much the way some of the male prisoners did when I was working with them. Jeez, what a job.

  The fridge is now empty, although I find a Twix in the freezer compartment. That sneaky wife of mine must hide them in there to stop me eating them all as soon as I see them. I put it in my bag with what appears to be a thousand-year-old apple. I could drive to the prison, then go straight to the supermarket after work, but driving is a lazy habit to get into, so I jump on my bike and pedal hard.

  I can hear the squeak of Fats’s bike before I see him as I wind through Moggswell Lane. I cruise next to my red-faced friend.

  ‘Looks like Hitler could do with some Vaseline,’ I say.

  ‘That’s right, sir. Would you rub some on him for me?’

  We chat and cycle. Fats says he gets a lift from Braddock most days and he’s been eating unhealthy meals around his house too. Apparently, Braddock used to be the chef at a top London hotel. It’s funny who ends up in prison. The catering industry is notorious for its unpredictability, so we have a few officers join after getting laid-off from closed pubs and restaurants. To their surprise, they often stay.

  ‘Braddock said he’d cook me and his sister his speciality on Friday night,’ says Fats with a big grin. ‘Beef Wellington. I can’t wait.’

  ‘Cool, sounds odd, but can’t be bad if he was a top chef.’

  A current of jealousy runs through me and I’m unable to resist a little jab.

  ‘Is Lena going too?’

  Fats goes even redder, which is a slightly worrying puce colour.

  ‘I bet she’d love to get out,’ I continue.

  ‘She’s not a big fan of rare beef.’

  We reach the bike sheds and Fats gives me a strange look. I’m a great judge of expression, but I’m not sure if it’s shame or guilt, or something else.

  ‘I probably won’t go,’ he says.

  I enter the houseblocks with Tex, who’s with me on duty this morning. We’re a bit early, so I sit next to her in the hub and listen to the youngsters telling jokes and pulling each other’s legs. They are all so young today that Tex
and I could be their parents looking on with affection combined with irritation at the noise.

  The SO on shift is a strong woman in her early thirties called Liz Breakman, which is apt because I expect that is what she could do. I worked with her loads on the male side, where she was a real asset. One of the inmates nicknamed her No-nonsense Liz.

  She’s the polar opposite of Nasima concerning her personal life, having married a short bloke in the Offender Manager Unit. She has a photo of her family in the desk drawer, which she takes out when she starts her shift and grins at during the day. Her husband walks around with a chilled and contented expression on his face, so it’s good to see evidence that some people are happy. Tex, on the other hand, looks devastated.

  ‘What’s wrong?’

  ‘Did you hear about Rose-Marie?’

  I shake my head.

  ‘She had complications during the abortion and wouldn’t stop bleeding. They think she had some kind of stroke last night.’

  ‘Poor thing.’ I think about it for a few moments. ‘If you look purely at the facts, as long as she recovers, it could be better for her.’

  ‘What?’

  ‘Well, she’s due out Friday, so we might as well release her now as she’ll be in hospital for weeks. I doubt they’ll let her go without a place to live. They may even be able to arrange proper support for her.’

  I receive another strange glance, which is tricky to decipher. It’s probably disgust or sorrow at my heartlessness. I traipse after her to unlock the wing, wondering what the hell is wrong with me, but it’s not easy to forgive Rose-Marie for what she’s done.

  The wing is very quiet. They’ve all heard about Rose-Marie, and only about half come out of their cells at unlock. While Tex is doing meds, Red and Laurinavicius start fighting outside the servery in front of me. It’s a brutal, desperate, nails-flailing, teeth-bared, vicious fight to the death, but conducted in near silence. I put my arm around Red’s waist, pick her up, and spin her around.

  ‘That fucking Russian is dead,’ she screams.

  I carry her to her cell and push her in. She is a similar weight to my eight-year-old, Tilly.