A Prisoner of Birth

by Jeffrey Archer

  ‘Hello, Spencer,’ she said. Craig bent down to kiss her on both cheeks. ‘Gibson,’ said Sarah, ‘this is Spencer Craig, an old friend of Larry’s from university days. Spencer, this is Gibson Graham, Larry’s agent.’

  ‘You invested in the show, didn’t you?’ said Gibson.

  ‘A modest amount,’ admitted Craig.

  ‘I never thought of you as an angel,’ said Sarah.

  ‘I’ve always backed Larry,’ said Craig, ‘but then I never doubted he was going to be a star.’

  ‘You’ve become something of a star yourself,’ said Sarah with a smile.

  ‘Then I’m bound to ask,’ said Craig, ‘if you feel that way, why you never brief me?’

  ‘I don’t deal with criminals.’

  ‘I hope that won’t stop you having dinner with me some time, because I’d like—’

  ‘The first editions of the papers have arrived,’ interrupted Gibson. ‘Excuse me while I find out if we’ve got a hit, or just a winner.’

  Gibson Graham made his way quickly across the ballroom, barging anyone aside who was foolish enough to stand in his path. He grabbed a copy of the Daily Telegraph and turned to the review section. He smiled when he saw the headline: Oscar Wilde is still at home in the West End. But the smile turned to a frown by the time he reached the second paragraph:

  Lawrence Davenport gave us his usual stock performance, this time as Jack, but it didn’t seem to matter as the audience was littered with Dr Beresford fans. In contrast, Eve Best, playing Gwendolen Fairfax, sparkled from her first entrance . . .

  Gibson looked across at Davenport, pleased to see that he was deep in conversation with a young actor who had been resting for some time.

  31

  BY THE TIME they reached his cell, the damage had been done. The table had been smashed to pieces, the mattresses torn apart, the sheets ripped to shreds and the little steel mirror wrenched from the wall. As Mr Hagen heaved open the door, he found Danny trying to pull the washbasin from its stand. Three officers came charging towards him, and he took a swing at Hagen. If the punch had landed it would have felled a middleweight champion, but Hagen ducked just in time. The second officer grabbed Danny’s arm, while the third kicked him sharply in the back of the knee, which gave Hagen enough time to recover and cuff his arms and legs while his colleagues held him down.

  They dragged him out of his cell and bounced him down the iron staircase, keeping him on the move until they reached the purple corridor that led to the segregation unit. They came to a numberless cell. Hagen opened the door and the other two threw him in.

  Danny lay still on the cold stone floor for some considerable time. Had there been a mirror in the cell, he would have been able to admire his black eye and the patchwork quilt of bruises that was woven across his body. He didn’t care; you don’t, when you’ve lost hope and have another twenty years to think about it.

  ‘My name is Malcolm Hurst,’ said the representative from the Parole Board. ‘Please have a seat, Mr Moncrieff.’

  Hurst had given some thought to how he should address the prisoner. ‘You have applied for parole, Mr Moncrieff,’ he began, ‘and it is my responsibility to write a report for the board’s consideration. Of course I have read your case history, which gives a full account of how you have conducted yourself while you’ve been in prison, and your wing officer, Mr Pascoe, has described your behaviour as exemplary.’ Nick remained silent.

  ‘I have also noted that you are an enhanced prisoner, who works in the library as well as assisting the prison teaching staff in both English and History. You seem to have had remarkable success with some of your fellow prisoners, who have gone on to be awarded GCSEs, and one in particular, who is currently preparing to take three A levels.’

  Nick nodded sadly. Pascoe had tipped him off that Danny had lost his appeal and was on his way back from the Old Bailey. He had wanted to be waiting in the cell when Danny arrived, but unfortunately the Parole Board had scheduled the interview some weeks ago.

  Nick had already resolved to be in touch with Alex Redmayne as soon as he was released, and to offer to assist in any way possible. He couldn’t understand why the judge hadn’t allowed the tape to be played. No doubt Danny would tell him the reason once he returned to his cell. He tried to concentrate on what the representative from the Parole Board was saying.

  ‘I see that during your time in prison, Mr Moncrieff, you have taken an Open University degree in English, gaining a two-two.’ Nick nodded. ‘While your record in prison is highly commendable, I’m sure you’ll understand that I still have to ask you some questions before I can complete my report.’

  Nick had already taken advice from Pascoe on what those questions might be. ‘Of course,’ he replied.

  ‘You were convicted by an army board of being reckless and negligent during the course of duty, to which you pleaded guilty. The board stripped you of your commission, and sentenced you to eight years in prison. Is that a fair assessment?’

  ‘Yes it is, Mr Hurst.’

  Hurst placed a tick in the first box. ‘Your platoon was guarding a group of Serbian prisoners when a band of Albanian militia drove up to the compound firing their Kalashnikovs in the air.’

  ‘That’s correct.’

  ‘Your staff sergeant retaliated.’

  ‘Warning shots,’ said Nick, ‘after I had given the insurgents a clear order to stop firing.’

  ‘But two United Nations observers who witnessed the whole incident gave evidence at your trial suggesting that the Albanians were only firing their guns in the air at the time.’ Nick made no attempt to defend himself. ‘And although you did not fire a shot yourself, you were the watch commander on that occasion.’

  ‘I was.’

  ‘And you accept that your sentence was just.’

  ‘Yes.’

  Hurst made a further note before asking, ‘And were the board to recommend that you should be released having served only half of your sentence, what plans do you have for the immediate future?’

  ‘I intend to return to Scotland, where I would take up a teaching post in any school that will employ me.’

  Hurst put another tick in another box before moving on to his next question. ‘Do you have any financial problems that might prevent you taking up a teaching post?’

  ‘No,’ said Nick, ‘on the contrary. My grandfather has left me sufficiently well off to ensure that I need not work again.’

  Hurst ticked another box. ‘Are you married, Mr Moncrieff ?’

  ‘No,’ said Nick.

  ‘Do you have any children, or other dependants?’

  ‘No.’

  ‘Are you currently on any medication?’

  ‘No.’

  ‘If you were to be released, do you have a home to go to?’

  ‘Yes, I have a house in London and another in Scotland.’

  ‘Do you have any family to assist you were you to be released?’

  ‘No,’ said Nick. Hurst looked up; this was the first box not to be ticked. ‘Both my parents are dead, and I have no brothers or sisters.’

  ‘Aunts or uncles?’

  ‘One uncle and aunt who live in Scotland, whom I have never been close to, and another aunt on my mother’s side, who lives in Canada, and whom I have corresponded with but never met.’

  ‘I understand,’ said Hurst. ‘One final question, Mr Moncrieff. It may seem a little strange given your circumstances, but nevertheless I have to ask it. Can you think of any reason why you might consider committing the same crime again?’

  ‘As I am unable to resume my career in the army, and indeed have no desire to do so, the answer to your question has to be no.’

  ‘I fully understand,’ said Hurst, placing a tick in the last box. ‘Finally, do you have any questions for me?’

  ‘Only to ask when I’ll be informed of the board’s decision.’

  ‘It will take me a few days to write my report before I submit it to the board,’ said Hurst, ‘but once they’v
e received it, it should be no more than a couple of weeks before they’re in touch with you.’

  ‘Thank you, Mr Hurst.’

  ‘Thank you, Sir Nicholas.’

  ‘We didn’t have any choice, sir,’ said Pascoe.

  ‘I’m sure that’s right, Ray,’ said the governor, ‘but I do think a little common sense is called for with this particular prisoner.’

  ‘What do you have in mind, sir?’ asked Pascoe. ‘After all, he did trash his cell.’

  ‘I’m aware of that, Ray, but we all know how lifers can react if their appeal is turned down: they either become silent loners, or tear the place apart.’

  ‘A few days in the slammer will bring Cartwright to his senses,’ said Pascoe.

  ‘Let’s hope so,’ said Barton, ‘because I’d like to get him back on an even keel as quickly as possible. He’s a bright lad. I’d hoped he’d be Moncrieff’s natural successor.’

  ‘The obvious choice, although he’ll automatically lose his enhanced status and have to return to basic.’

  ‘That need only be for a month,’ said the governor.

  ‘In the meantime,’ said Pascoe, ‘what do I do about his work category? Do I take him off education and put him back on the chain gang?’

  ‘Heaven forbid,’ said Barton. ‘That would be more of a punishment for us than it would be for him.’

  ‘What about his canteen rights?’

  ‘No pay and no canteen for four weeks.’

  ‘Right, sir,’ said Pascoe.

  ‘And have a word with Moncrieff. He’s Cartwright’s closest friend. See if he can knock some sense into him, as well as supporting him over the next few weeks.’

  ‘Will do, sir.’

  ‘Who’s next?’

  ‘Leach, sir.’

  ‘What’s the charge this time?’

  ‘Failure to return a library book.’

  ‘Can’t you deal with something as minor as that without involving me?’ asked the governor.

  ‘In normal circumstances yes, sir, but in this case it was a valuable leather-bound copy of the Law Review, which Leach failed to return despite several verbal and written warnings.’

  ‘I still don’t see why he needs to come in front of me,’ said Barton.

  ‘Because when we eventually found the book in a rubbish skip at the back of the block, it had been torn apart.’

  ‘Why would he do that?’

  ‘I have my suspicions, sir, but no proof.’

  ‘Another way of getting drugs in?’

  ‘As I said, sir, I have no proof. But Leach is back in segregation for another month, just in case he takes it upon himself to tear the whole library apart.’ Pascoe hesitated. ‘We have another problem.’

  ‘Namely?’

  ‘One of my informers tells me he overheard Leach saying he was going to get even with Cartwright, if it was the last thing he did.’

  ‘Because he’s the librarian?’

  ‘No, something to do with a tape,’ replied Pascoe, ‘but I can’t get to the bottom of it.’

  ‘That’s all I need,’ said the governor. ‘You’d better keep a twenty-four-hour watch on both of them.’

  ‘We’re pretty short-staffed at the moment,’ said Pascoe.

  ‘Then do the best you can. I don’t want a repeat of what happened to the poor bastard at Garside – and all he did was give Leach a V sign.’

  32

  DANNY LAY ON the top bunk composing a letter which he’d given a great deal of thought to. Nick had tried to talk him out of it, but he had made his decision and there was nothing that would change his mind.

  Nick was taking a shower and Big Al was over at the hospital helping sister with the evening surgery, so Danny had the cell to himself. He climbed down from his bunk and took a seat at the small formica table. He stared at a blank sheet of paper. It was some time before he managed to write the first sentence.

  Dear Beth,

  This will be the last time I write to you. I have given a great deal of thought to this letter and have come to the conclusion that I cannot condemn you to the same life sentence that has been imposed on me.

  He glanced at the photograph of Beth that was sellotaped to the wall in front of him.

  As you know, I am not due to be released until I’m fifty and with that in mind, I want you to start a new life without me. If you write to me again, I will not open your letters; if you try to visit, I will remain in my cell; I will not contact you, and will not respond to any attempt you make to contact me. On this I am adamant, and nothing will change my mind.

  Do not imagine even for a moment that I don’t love you and Christy, because I do, and I will for the rest of my life. But I am in no doubt that this course of action will be best for both of us in the long run.

  Goodbye, my love

  Danny

  He folded the letter and placed it in an envelope which he addressed to Beth Wilson, 27 Bacon Road, Bow, London E3.

  Danny was still staring at the photograph of Beth when the cell door swung open.

  ‘Letters,’ said an officer standing in the doorway. ‘One for Moncrieff, and one for . . .’ he spotted the watch on Danny’s wrist and the silver chain round his neck and hesitated.

  ‘Nick’s taking a shower,’ Danny explained.

  ‘Right,’ said the officer. ‘There’s one for you, and one for Moncrieff.’

  Danny immediately recognized Beth’s neat handwriting. He didn’t open the envelope, just tore it up, dropped the pieces into the lavatory and pulled the flush. He placed the other envelope on Nick’s pillow.

  Printed in bold letters in the top left-hand corner were the words ‘Parole Board’.

  ‘How many times have I written to him?’ asked Alex Redmayne.

  ‘This will be the fourth letter you’ve sent in the past month,’ replied his secretary.

  Alex looked out of the window. Several gowned figures were rushing to and fro across the square. ‘Lifer’s syndrome,’ he said.

  ‘Lifer’s syndrome?’

  ‘You either cut yourself off from the outside world, or carry on as if nothing has happened. He’s obviously decided to cut himself off.’

  ‘So is there any point in writing to him again?’

  ‘Oh yes,’ replied Alex. ‘I want him to be left in no doubt that I haven’t forgotten him.’

  When Nick came back from the shower room, Danny was still at the table going over some financial forecasts that were part of his A level in business studies, while Big Al remained slumped on his bed. Nick strolled into the cell with a thin wet towel round his waist, his flip-flops making water marks on the stone floor. Danny stopped writing and handed him back his watch, ring and silver chain.

  ‘Thanks,’ said Nick. He then spotted the thin brown envelope on his pillow. For a moment he just stared at it. Danny and Big Al said nothing as they waited to see Nick’s reaction. Finally he grabbed a plastic knife and slit open an envelope that the prison authorities were not allowed to tamper with.

  Dear Mr Moncrieff,

  I am directed by the Parole Board to inform you that your request for early release has been granted. Your sentence will therefore be terminated on July 17th 2002. The full details of your release and your parole conditions will be sent to you at a later date, along with the name of your probation officer and the office you will be expected to report to.

  Yours sincerely,

  T. L. Williams

  Nick looked up at his two cellmates, but he didn’t need to tell them that he would soon be a free man.

  ‘Visits!’ hollered a voice that could be heard from one side of the block to the other. A few moments later the cell door swung open and an officer checked his clipboard. ‘You’ve got a visitor, Cartwright. Same young lady as last week.’ Danny turned another page of Bleak House and just shook his head.

  ‘Suit yourself,’ said the officer, and slammed the cell door closed.

  Nick and Big Al didn’t comment. They had both given up trying to make him cha
nge his mind.

  33

  HE HAD CHOSEN the day carefully, even the hour, but what he couldn’t have planned was that the minute would fall so neatly into place.

  The governor had decided the day, and the senior officer had backed his judgement. On this occasion an exception would be made. The prisoners would be allowed out of their cells to watch the World Cup match between England and Argentina.

  At five minutes to twelve, the doors were unlocked and the prisoners flooded out of their cells, all heading in one direction. Big Al, as a patriotic Scot, gruffly declined the opportunity to watch the old enemy in action and remained supine on his bunk.

  Danny was among those seated at the front, staring attentively at an ancient square box, waiting for the referee to blow his whistle and start the game. All the prisoners were clapping and shouting long before the kick-off, with one exception, who was standing silently at the back of the group. He wasn’t looking at the television, but up at an open cell door on the first floor. He didn’t move. Officers don’t notice prisoners who don’t move. He was beginning to wonder if the man had broken his usual routine because of the match. But he wasn’t watching the match. His mate was sitting on a bench at the front, so he must still be in his cell.

  After thirty minutes, with the score nil–nil, there was still no sign of him.

  Then, just before the referee blew his whistle for half-time, an English player was brought down in the Argentine penalty area. The crowd surrounding the TV seemed to make almost as much noise as the thirty-five thousand spectators in the stadium, and even some of the officers joined in. Background noise was all part of his plan. His eyes remained fixed on the open door when suddenly, without warning, the rabbit came out of his hutch. He was wearing boxer shorts and flip-flops with a towel draped over his shoulder. He didn’t look down; he clearly had no interest in football.

  He walked backwards for a few paces until he had detached himself from the group, but nobody noticed. He turned and walked slowly to the far end of the block, then climbed stealthily up the spiral staircase to the first floor. No one looked round as the referee pointed to the penalty spot.