The Sinner

by Martyn Waites

  ‘You could say that.’

  Darren laughed. ‘Say the word, mate, and he’s taken care of.’ He tapped the side of his nose. ‘For a price, mind.’

  Tom tried to smile. ‘I don’t think it’s come to that. Yet.’

  Darren shrugged. ‘Whatever. You’ll get a good night’s sleep, ’s’all I’m saying. Important thing in here.’

  Tom smiled. ‘I’ll bear that in mind.’

  They walked on.

  Cunningham had woken up before Tom, although Tom hadn’t had much sleep. A combination of Cunningham’s night terrors and Tom’s claustrophobia had seen to that. It seemed like he had only started to drift off as the thin morning light began creeping through the barred windows. And the cell was so hot. He had thought he would be cold initially, seeing how sparse the bedding was, but he had figured without the heating. He knew it wasn’t done out of concern for the inmates’ welfare, it was at that level to keep them pliant and docile. Same with breakfast: Tom had never eaten such poor quality, carb laden food in his life. Even in the army.

  ‘Sleep alright?’ Tom had asked Cunningham, hearing again in his head those screams, expecting what the answer would be.

  Cunningham merely grunted.

  Tom persisted. ‘Not a morning person?’

  Another grunt. Cunningham swung his legs off the bunk, farted, made his way to the toilet. Tom turned away towards the window to give him some privacy, and also because the smell was atrocious.

  ‘Where d’you go during the day?’ asked Tom. ‘Education?’

  ‘Business Studies. Accounting. I’m good with numbers. On Sundays I go to church. I sing in the choir.’

  ‘Right.’

  Cunningham finished his ablutions, flushed the toilet. Didn’t wash his hands, Tom noted.

  Tom was also aware that Cunningham was avoiding looking at him directly. His night terrors, thought Tom. He knows I heard it and he’s waiting to see if I’m going to mention it, make something of it. Tom had already decided that if Cunningham introduced the subject Tom would talk about it, but he wouldn’t bring it up himself. Cunningham was making every effort to avoid it.

  And now, thanks to weaselly Clive, here he was on the way to his first day as an art student.

  The education block was a brick building of indeterminate age but certainly well into the last century. As they approached the officers looked at one another, smiled, then one of them turned to address the group.

  ‘Lot of new faces here, who’s just arrived?’

  A few grunts, small hand gestures in response.

  ‘Let’s go this way, then. Quick detour, bit of history.’

  Instead of letting them into the main entrance, the officers led them over to a door on the left that looked as though it led into another building. A couple of the inmates raised their eyebrows, knowing what was coming next.

  They were taken through a heavy wooden door which was then locked behind them. Tom felt relieved to be out of the cold. The relief was short lived.

  ‘This way.’

  They were led through another door into a circular room with a tall vaulted ceiling with wooden beams and supports. Stacking chairs and flat tables were piled against the walls, showing that it was a storeroom. It had once been white but it seemed no effort had been given to its upkeep. It felt colder than – or just as cold as – the outside. The wind sang a mournful, plaintive song through gaps in the walls and roof. The officers kept the lights off.

  ‘Think yourself lucky,’ the first officer said, ‘that you were never here earlier. Because this is where you’d have ended up, probably.’

  Tom immediately knew where he was. Something more than cold chilled him.

  Some of the other inmates weren’t as quick as him. They looked confused.

  The other officer spoke. ‘This is where, until fairly recently, certainly in my lifetime, the executions were carried out. Hangings.’

  ‘The topping shed, we call it.’ The first officer took over, unable to keep the relish from his voice. ‘The gallows stood here,’ he said, pointing to the centre of the room, ‘took up most of the space. The condemned man would be marched along, through the door you all came through, into here where he’d stand in front of it, looking at it. Just him and the chaplain, if he wanted him. On his own if he didn’t.’

  ‘And the executioner,’ continued the second officer, ‘would stand at the side here, ready to throw his lever when his victim was in place. He’d walk up to the middle there . . .’ He pointed, his gestures becoming as expansive as a tour guide’s. ‘. . . have his hood put on him, and then . . . bang.’

  ‘The trapdoor would open and he’d be gone. Neck broken.’

  ‘If he was lucky.’

  ‘Yeah. If he was lucky. If the executioner had worked out his weight correctly and the height of the drop, otherwise he’d just hang there, slowly strangling and choking to death.’

  From their tone it was clear which method the officers preferred.

  ‘Anyway,’ the first one said after a pause, ‘count yourselves lucky we don’t do that anymore.’

  ‘Even though it mightn’t be a bad idea.’

  ‘Very true.’ They both laughed. ‘But we can’t stand here reminiscing about the good old days. These gentlemen have to get to their classes.’ The final word a sneer.

  There was silence all the way to the education block.

  *

  The art room was surprisingly large. The walls were covered with artwork of variable quality, but most of it was better than Tom had expected. Their teacher, Mike, a small, middle-aged man wearing grey overalls, greeted them all and guided them to their workstations.

  ‘Got some new faces, that’s nice.’ His voice was soft, non-threatening. ‘Brushes are over there, pencils there, paper there. Let’s stick the radio on, enjoy yourselves while you work. I’m here if you need to ask anything.’

  The regular inmates made their way to a block of files at the back of the room, took out their work to continue. Mike came over, stood next to Tom.

  ‘New here?’

  ‘Yeah,’ said Tom.

  ‘What you interested in, then?’

  Tom looked around. There was another delivery of men from a different wing. Just a couple this time. Tom studied their faces then looked around for Clive. Annoyed that he had made him come here. He couldn’t see him.

  ‘I don’t know. I’ve never done this before.’

  Mike smiled. Began to explain the mediums he could work in, the styles he might like to try, the subjects that might inspire him. ‘We get a lot of lads want to draw landscapes, the outside world. Then take them back to their cells, give them something pretty to look at. That’s popular. Or if you want to bring in a photo of a relative or loved one, a son or daughter, perhaps, do a portrait of them. Anything like that. Have a think.’

  Tom said he would. He thought of the photo of Lila, wondered if he should do a portrait of her. It didn’t feel right, somehow.

  He was thinking about it as the door opened and another lot of inmates were let in.

  ‘Busy today,’ said Mike.

  Tom watched them enter, looking once again for Clive.

  But Clive wasn’t there. Instead Tom saw someone who he had believed he would never see again. Hoped he would never see again. Not living, anyway. Someone who hated Tom and had vowed to kill him if their paths ever crossed again. And Tom didn’t doubt him. Someone who had forced him to move to a different part of the country, get a different name, lead a different life.

  Dean Foley.

  13

  Tom wanted to stare, but he knew he couldn’t give himself away so cheaply. He kept his face devoid of emotion, his eyes fixed on the paper in front of him. He picked up a pencil, twirled it through his fingers, made out he was thinking.

  He stole glances when he could. Foley seemed to be well known. Mike scurried up to him, treated him like a valued friend. Guided him to his workspace, asked if he wanted anything. Foley behaved as if this
near deference was what he was used to, didn’t expect anything other than that. He told Mike he just wanted to get on with what he had been working on. Mike then brought his work over and set it before him. Foley looked at the half completed painting and with that Mike was dismissed.

  Tom kept studying him. He was older than the last time he had seen him, obviously, but beyond that he didn’t look much different. Perhaps bulkier, although prison often did that. Once one of Manchester’s most feared drug barons. A man who was never attacked or challenged by his enemies, whose presence was so terrifying that he had the confidence to appear in public without bodyguards. A man who believed he had legitimised his empire, had respect, or the veneer of it, from the community at large. A man who was ultimately betrayed by one of his closest lieutenants when he was revealed to be a police officer working deep undercover. He still carried himself as if his empire was intact, as if his downfall had never happened. As if the person who had betrayed him wasn’t at the opposite end of the room.

  Tom doodled, making scratches on the paper, head down, his mind – his body – wanting to be somewhere else entirely but knowing he had to keep all his mental and physical receptors open. He was bearded now, his hair longer, but he doubted that would be enough to stop Foley recognising him. Not with a hatred that deep.

  ‘Need inspiration?’

  Tom jumped, looked up. Then quickly down again, hoping he hadn’t attracted any attention. ‘What?’

  Mike. Hovering at Tom’s side. Smiling, a pleasant, open face.

  ‘I’m . . .’ Tom’s voice dropped too. If Foley didn’t recognise his face he wouldn’t miss his voice. Tried to disguise it, neutralise it. ‘I’m just getting going. Yeah.’

  ‘There’s books over there,’ he said, gesturing to a shelf on the other side of the room, the side where Foley sat. ‘Different kinds. Landscapes, nature. Photos, all of them. Some of the class like to copy them to get going. Want to help yourself?’

  ‘I’m . . . fine at the moment.’ His words a whispered near hiss. Bent over, he made himself as closed off as possible.

  ‘Well, if you’re sure, I’ll leave you alone. Anything you need, just ask.’ Mike walked off.

  He must be used to people talking to him like that, Tom thought. They were all prisoners, damaged men. He couldn’t imagine anyone being pleased to be there. He pushed everything else from his mind, tried to think. Ran through possibilities as quickly, analytically, as his thumping heart would allow.

  What was Foley doing in Blackmoor? And why was he in the art room at the same time as Tom? How big a coincidence was that?

  Tom froze. The understanding, the answer to his question made his heart skip a beat. He couldn’t believe it but it had to be. The question wasn’t what was Foley doing there, it was what was he doing there? Or rather, how did he get there?

  Clive.

  That ratty little bastard. That’s why he had so many questions for him when they arrived. He must have recognised him. Then told Foley.

  So who was Clive? And since Clive knew who he was, why hadn’t Tom recognised him?

  He sneaked another glance at Foley who seemed to be in his own world, happily painting, a smile lifting the edges of his lips as he concentrated.

  Tom wasn’t fooled. He had seen that look before. Too many times. Up close. Masking what was really going on in the man’s mind. Disguising his true intentions. Letting his prey believe they were safe before swooping unexpectedly, violently. Sometimes terminally. Then his face showed a completely different expression. The memory of which still unsettled Tom.

  He looked at him again. The man was giving nothing away.

  He risked another glance round the room, this time seeing if Clive was there. He wasn’t. His absence just added weight to Tom’s theory. He felt his anger at Clive rise, competing with his fear of Foley. Tried to tamp down both emotions. Fall back on his training. He couldn’t let either of them get the better of him.

  So he drew. At first he had no idea what he was doing, just making trembling marks on the paper. But gradually a picture began to emerge. A young woman’s face, drawn from memory. Not brilliant or particularly competent, he didn’t think, and perhaps the features were only recognisable to himself, but it was heartfelt. Honest. It was what was in his mind right now.

  Hayley. His real niece. The one whose death he still felt responsible for.

  He glanced up again, that familiar anger mixing with that familiar fear. Foley. He was the one who should be blamed for her death, not him. But that would be too easy, that would give himself a free pass from the pain his actions had caused. And it wouldn’t help right now, in this place. So he put his head down again, worked.

  Eventually the bell went. It had been one of the longest hours of Tom’s life.

  Everyone reluctantly stood up, began to tidy their work away. Tom didn’t know what to do. Move first and be left waiting for the officers to arrive, mingling with inmates from other wings. Or be last, risking the possibility of attracting attention to himself, have all eyes on him as he dawdled. Perhaps even get a name for it. So he stood up when the rest of them did, tried to hide among the mass of prisoners. But there was a greater problem. To put his work away he had to walk past Foley.

  Foley hadn’t moved. Head still down, as though the room was his and he was waiting for everyone else to clear so he could have some peace and quiet. Tom edged past his desk, trying not to even acknowledge the man but at the same time not to make it obvious that he was turning his face from him.

  He risked a glance as he passed. Foley’s gaze didn’t seem to have changed but Tom wasn’t so sure. There was an infinitesimal flicker at the corner of his eye, like he had been looking but didn’t want to be caught. The expression on his face remained the same. Or was the smile deeper?

  Tom’s stomach lurched. He knows, he thought. He knows it’s me.

  Hands shaking, he put his work away, made for the door where he tried to lose himself amongst the other inmates.

  Soon their escort arrived and he fell in with the men coming out of the classrooms, going back to the same wing.

  He didn’t look back.

  *

  Once on the wing Tom, along with everyone else, was herded into the queue for lunch. Instead he went to the small glass office where most of the officers sat.

  ‘Oi,’ an officer said, behind him. ‘You. Over here.’

  Tom held up his hand. ‘Just a minute.’

  The officer didn’t want to give up. Tom tried to make his body language unthreatening, but urgent. He kept moving towards the office. The officer inside looked up.

  ‘I need to call my solicitor,’ Tom told him. ‘Now.’

  14

  He didn’t get his call. Not until later the next day during association time. There were no special rules, no privacy. He had to queue up along with everyone else, take his turn on the wing phone, put in his PIN, remember the number he had to call and hope he had enough credit. Since the mobile number for Sheridan had been given as his solicitor the wing staff weren’t allowed to listen in. But that didn’t preclude inmates. Not for the first time Tom wished he had set the terms for this job. Or put up more of a fight not to take it at all.

  He had spent the rest of the day avoiding the education block, keeping to himself during association time. The ever-present tension on the wing fed into Tom. Made him nervous, kept him tense. Loss of face, loss of reputation was everything inside, so men concentrated to hear any slight against them, imagined or otherwise, and make restitution for it. Violence and the threat of violence were constant. A wrong look, a wrong word was all it took. Sometimes not even that. A punch, a kick, a headbutt for no reason. Inmates would hide behind their pad doors with homemade weapons, waiting to attack the next person who appeared. Didn’t matter who. And those attacks had to be avenged. If someone was the victim of an unprovoked attack, they had to attack someone else or risk looking soft, weak. It didn’t matter who. The wing staff treated this as any other day at t
he office.

  After lights out, Cunningham experienced a new night’s terrors. But that wasn’t what kept Tom awake. His claustrophobia hadn’t abated. He felt panic rise through the darkness. He had tried to reason it away, tell himself he was safer inside the room than outside. But it was what – or rather who – awaited him beyond the door that really kept him awake. The next day he stayed on the wing, even though it meant being locked up all morning. He thought he was safer in his cell.

  He had tried to find something he could use as a weapon. He knew inmates could make weapons out of anything, like a malevolent episode of Blue Peter, but he didn’t have any tools on hand to help him. No lighter to melt his toothbrush, push a razor blade into it. Or even better, two, side by side. Stripe an attacker, make the wound harder to stitch back together. No paperclips either, or blu tack. Same principle: break down the paperclips, sharp edges out, push them into blu tack, carry it between his knuckles like a scared suburbanite would a car key. Swing a punch, make a lot of painful mess. Especially if he aimed for the eyes. But he had nothing like that. A hot cup of tea overloaded with sugar was useful when flung in an attacker’s face: the sugar helped the heat stick and burn. But he couldn’t carry that around with him all day. So he stayed in the cell, only venturing out to use the phone.

  *

  He dialled the number, waited. Looking around all the time, trying to work out who Foley could have contacted, paid to do him damage. Who was avoiding eye contact, or whispering, trying not to look at him. Any other time he would have thought he was being paranoid but he had spent enough years undercover to know that there was no such thing. Paranoid feelings had saved his life more than once.

  The phone was answered. ‘I’ve got a problem,’ said Tom, trying to keep his head down, turned away from the majority of inmates, his mouth covered just in case anyone could read his lips.

  A sigh at the other end of the line. ‘What?’ DS Sheridan’s exasperated voice. ‘I thought I said no communication until you’d got what we needed.’

  ‘As I said, there’s a problem.’