The Network

by Ernesto H Lee

  “What’s up, boys, not so fucking tough without fucking Bruce Lee, are you? Come on, you fucking pussies, what the fuck are you waiting for?”

  They can’t lose face in front of the rest of the prisoners and are just waiting for the right moment, but before they can make a move, I am saved at the last minute when Butler pushes through the spectators and pushes them back.

  “Back the fuck off, cunts, he’s out of bounds … for now.”

  He then turns to face the rest of the prisoners and loudly asserts his authority. Listening to the way he speaks reminds me exactly of Paul Donovan. “All of you, fucking listen in. The copper is off limits until I say different. Anyone who has a fucking problem with this, you know my cell number, feel free to drop in for a chat. Now, get back to your fucking tables — and you, McMillan, put that fucking knife down.”

  Slowly the mob move away without complaint or comment and once most of them are back at their tables, Butler orders the Chinaman’s cronies to take him to the medical room. The prison officers have reappeared, but they don’t intervene or make any comment and when Butler nods at the senior officer it is clear who is running this prison. As far as the screws are concerned, today’s breakfast service passed off without incident.

  With service back to normal, Butler tells the servers to give me some breakfast before turning to join the rest of his crew. I know that he is only protecting his own interests, but I thank him anyway.

  “Butler, thanks a lot, I appreciate your help.”

  My comment causes him to stop and he turns back to face me. “I wouldn’t get too carried away with the thanks. I haven’t forgotten the details of your proposition last night. You have until midday today to make good on it, otherwise it’s going to be fucking open season on your ass.” Then he smiles and adds, “Enjoy your breakfast, McMillan.”

  There is a free space at the table where Billy is sitting, so I take it without asking or waiting to be invited to sit down. I figure that I might as well use the time I have under Butler’s protection to my advantage and if things don’t go as planned, I need to make sure that the cons know that I am not afraid.

  Letting me sit down, though, is one thing; being accepted is something else entirely. Within just two minutes the other cons have either changed tables or left the rest of their breakfast and gone back to their cells early, leaving me with just Billy at the table. Despite my earlier sweetener, he has no wish to be associated with me either and he stands up and excuses himself.

  “If you don’t mind, I think I might be getting off as well, McMillan. No offence, but shit sticks, if you know what I mean.”

  Thankful that nobody has pissed in my breakfast, I wolf down the eggs and toast and then get a mug of tea from an urn at the end of the breakfast counter and sit back down at the empty table to while away some time. The clock on the wall of the canteen is showing ten past eight, so I have just under four hours until I need to make good on my promise to Butler. I already have my end sorted, though, so barring any major incident, it shouldn’t be a problem. It does, however, suit me better to keep him waiting until the last minute and not have him thinking it was too easy.

  I am also hoping to get a visit from Jean Monroe this morning, so I would rather wait to speak to her before seeing Butler, just in case she brings any unexpected news or surprises that might cause me to rethink my plan.

  Within another ten minutes, most of the remaining prisoners have gone back to their cells or to their work placements in the prison workshops and there are now only two prison officers still in the canteen area. I was already aware that they had been watching me closely, but now they move up next to my table and the more senior of the two pokes me in the shoulder.

  “You think you’re hot shit, don’t you, McMillan? Whatever you think you might have going on with Butler, fucking think again. He might think he runs this place, but he fucking reports to me and don’t you forget it.”

  Great, now I have a bent screw on my case after hoping the rest of my morning was going to be uneventful. He looks to be in his late thirties and his bearing and thick moustache suggests that he may be ex-military. The second officer is much younger and is sporting a goatee on the end of his chin in an obvious attempt to look older. I don’t need any more trouble this morning, so I don’t respond to the Butler comment, instead preferring to play the pacifist.

  “Just drinking my tea and minding my own business. I don’t want any trouble.”

  “Really, McMillan? Try telling that to the fucking Chink that you just fucking walloped. I’ve got my eye on you, boy, and next time you speak to me, you address me as ‘sir’ or ‘Senior Officer Cartwright’ and you address my colleague as ‘sir’ or ‘Officer Taylor’. Is that understood, maggot?”

  “Yes, Senior Officer Cartwright, it’s understood.”

  “Good, just because you’re an ex-copper, it doesn’t give you any special fucking privileges. You’re just another scumbag con as far as I’m concerned.”

  The mention of me as an ‘ex copper’ is the first time that I have thought about my situation in such a way and I find it inconceivable that my career might be over. I have a unique gift that allows me to set things straight regardless of how many times I fuck up. One way or the other, eventually things will come good for me and I refuse to believe otherwise.

  “Actually, sir, as far as I know, I am still a serving police officer until such time as I am convicted of a crime.”

  Cartwright turns to Officer Taylor and reaches over for the newspaper he is carrying, and then throws it down on the table in front of me. “I wouldn’t make any bets on being found innocent, McMillan, you’re the top story in all the main papers today and every one of them already has you pegged as guilty. Happy reading.”

  As they walk away, I am left staring at the headline ‘London Detective Held for Knife Murder’ and a picture of me, pulled from my Facebook page, splashed across the front page of today’s Daily Mail. Although I didn’t do it, the story still makes me nauseous and it is no surprise that this kind of sensationalist journalism is now called ‘trial by media’. This particular journalist has gone to great lengths to describe how I lured Paul Donovan into a trap and then set about butchering him in gangland fashion. There is even a quote from bloody Arnold Davies, the caretaker from my apartment building, about how he always thought there was something ‘not quite right’ about me. That cheeky fucker is going to be feeling my boot up his arse when I get out of here and possibly a whole lot more if I end up being evicted from my apartment.

  The comment in the article that bothers me most, though, is from the guy that put me in here.

  The Senior Police office leading this investigation, Detective Superintendent Clive Douglas of the Serious Crimes Squad, is quoted as saying, ‘A particularly vicious crime has been perpetrated and it is only through the fast action and professionalism of my team that we were able to apprehend the suspect so quickly. The fact that our suspect is a police officer has no bearing on the way in which we intend to prosecute this case. If in due course he is found guilty, we will be pushing for the maximum sentence permissible under law.”

  If only people really knew what a two-faced fucker Douglas is. While assuring the public of his determination to send me down for life, he is sending a message to me through Sergeant Huntley offering to find a way to prove my innocence. I finish reading the article and then screw the paper into a ball and drop it in a dustbin on my way out of the canteen. When I get back to my cell, Billy is on his bed reading a comic book and Officer Bayliss is straightening his tie in the mirror on the cell wall.

  “Ah, McMillan, I was looking for you, your solicitor is here to see you. Follow me.”

  Jean is looking as prim and proper as ever and after going through the formalities of wishing me good morning and checking on my well-being, she ignores my fresh injuries and gets straight down to business.

  “Detective Constable McMillan, I did what you asked and spoke with Sergeant Brydon.”

&n
bsp; Addressing me so formally given the current circumstances makes me blush and I correct her before she can continue. “I think we can drop the title for now, Ms. Monroe. It’s probably not appropriate considering where I am sitting right now.”

  “Yes, of course, whatever you wish, Sean. Now, as I was saying, last night I met Sergeant Robert Brydon for a coffee and I asked him about the circumstances in which you were brought into Leeson Street Police station in the early hours of Wednesday morning.”

  Despite Jean agreeing to represent me, I know that she still has major doubts as to my honesty and so I have pinned my hopes on Rob Brydon giving me some much-needed credibility.

  “That’s great, Jean, and what did he say?”

  “Well, luckily for you, Sean, he fully corroborated your version of events. He won’t put anything down in writing for fear of incriminating himself for not following correct procedure, but he did confirm the presence of sergeants Huntley and Bellmarsh and the intervention of Detective Superintendent Douglas. He also made it clear that he felt there was more to it than simply a case of police officers helping out a colleague.”

  Hearing this news puts a huge smile on my face and keeps my plan on track. If Brydon hadn’t backed me, it would have been highly unlikely that Jean would continue to play along in such an unorthodox manner, so I am extremely grateful to her.

  “Jean, thank you so much — that is great news. Does this mean that you believe me now when I say I am innocent?”

  “I wouldn’t quite go that far yet,” she replies, “but it does cast some doubt over the integrity of the mentioned officers. So, what would you like me to do now, Sean? It’s unlikely that you will be interviewed again for at least another few days. Your former colleagues will need at least that long to put together a solid case and accurately collate any evidence — so until then, please tell me how I can help.”

  For now, there is nothing she can do, but wait. Until then it’s all down to me.

  “Just wait for my call, please, Ms. Monroe. There are one or two things that I need to arrange and then I will call you. Thanks again for everything and for your support, Jean.”

  With the meeting over, she knocks on the door for the prison officer to let her out of the interview room and then politely wishes me a good day as she leaves. I am escorted back onto the wing by Officer Bayliss.

  Back in my cell, Billy is still reading his comic book and doesn’t even bother to look up or acknowledge me as I come inside. It doesn’t matter, though; I’m not in the mood to talk to anyone. Instead, I lie quietly on my bed to wait for midday.

  At exactly noon, I leave my cell and head to ‘B’ wing for my confrontation with Frank Butler. Arriving a few minutes late is a deliberate ploy to try to show him that he doesn’t intimidate me, but in reality, I am scared of what could happen if things go badly. His cell door is open, but the entry is barred by the same two thugs from last night and one with a distinct Scouse accent steps forward to meet me.

  “You’re fucking six minutes late, McMillan. We were just about to come looking for you.”

  Butler can obviously hear what is going on and he shouts for them to bring me in, so they both step to the side and the Scouser pushes me through the door where Butler is waiting with a steel shank in his right hand.

  “Well, if it isn’t fucking Pablo Escobar. I sincerely hope that you’ve got a fucking delivery for me, boy?”

  I nod and confidently say that of course I have, “Why else would I be here?”

  “Don’t get fucking cocky, McMillan. I thought that perhaps you might be here to appeal to my better nature. It’s just as well that you’re not, because I don’t fucking have a better nature.” He looks past me and orders the Scouser and his mate out of the cell, “Shut the door and keep a look-out — nobody comes in until we’re done.”

  With the door shut, we are left alone and Butler gets straight to the point.

  “Get the fuck on with it then, pig! Let’s fucking see it.”

  When I put my hand down the front of my sweat pants he panics and grabs me by the throat with his free hand and presses the tip of the shank against the side of my face.

  “Fucking go slowly there, McMillan, unless you want all six inches of this in your fucking skull.”

  The warning isn’t necessary, but I carry on more cautiously and as I lift it out, the sight of the Ziploc bag full of four ounces of the finest weed emerging from my pants is mesmerizing to him. He doesn’t quite believe what he is seeing at first, but as he gradually registers that I have actually delivered on my promise he releases his grip on me and snatches the bag from my hand. The greed in his eyes is obvious, Whatever the weed is currently worth on the outside, it is worth at least ten times that on the inside. Four ounces of weed in here is enough to make him even more powerful than he is already.

  “Fucking hell, McMillan, I seriously thought you were just playing for time. I never thought for a minute that you would actually deliver. We need to speak some time about how you did it, but for now, you’ve just bought yourself a week. After that it’s fucking game on and I’m looking forward to slicing you up before I hand you over to the fucking chinky jock. Go on then, fuck off out of my cell!”

  The cell door opens and I leave without being asked twice. I hadn’t noticed before but I am sweating heavily, despite the obvious chill on the landing. Risking my life in a dream is one thing, risking it in real life is something else entirely and looking back at how close I had been to having a shank in the skull sends a shiver down my spine.

  Lunch is at 12.30 pm, but the same nausea I had from reading the newspaper earlier is back again and I don’t think I can stomach any more prison slop right now, so I crash back down on my bunk again to figure out my next move.

  I don’t know how long I have been asleep, but the pungent smell of marijuana on his breath alerts me to the person leaning over me and before I have opened my eyes fully my hands are around his throat.

  “What the fuck, McMillan? It’s me, Billy! You’ve got a fucking visitor. Get your fucking hands off me, ya fucking psycho!”

  I release my grip on him and apologize, and then I lecture him on the perils of sneaking up on me, “Never, ever lean over me when I am sleeping, Billy. That kind of behavior will get you fucking hurt. Now what were you saying about a visitor? Who is it?”

  “How the fuck should I know? I’m not your fucking secretary. The guard just said it was some posh black bird. A right good sort apparently. You better get a fucking move on before somebody else gets dibs on her.”

  I cast him a shitty look for his last comment and he sheepishly points me in the direction of the visitation area. After a quick pat down for contraband at the entrance, I am ushered into the hall, thankful that I offloaded the weed earlier.

  Catherine’s usual polished appearance sets her apart instantly from the rest of the visitors, but it is her nervous demeanor that is most obvious. She is clearly feeling very uncomfortable and when she looks up from the table and sees me standing in front of her, she noticeably stiffens up even more.

  “Hi, Catherine, I didn’t expect to be seeing you here. Is this an official visit or were you just missing me?”

  “Please sit down, Sean,” she replies meekly. “The boss doesn’t know I am here today. I had to pull in a few favors to get a visitation order so quickly.”

  “And which of your bosses are we talking about, Cath, the one that pays your wage or the one that pulls your strings?” As soon as I said that, I instantly regretted it and Catherine remaining calm and composed in her reply makes me feel even worse.

  “Okay, I guess I deserved that, but we need to speak. Please sit down, Sean.”

  I sit down opposite her, but before we can speak, one of the trustee prisoners on duty places two cups of tea in flimsy plastic cups on our table along with a small plate of biscuits and I try to lighten the mood a little.

  “One of the perks of getting a visitor, I guess, a shitty cup of tea and a couple of Hobnobs. You shoul
d come more often, Cath.”

  She is in no mood for sarcasm or my humor and although she also notices the new bruising on my face, she isn’t here for small talk either and doesn’t mention it.

  “Listen, Sean, I don’t have much time and if you want to waste it on jokes and sarcasm, then go ahead, be my guest. That’s not why I am here, though. I know you don’t believe it, but I care about you, Sean. You are my partner and my friend, so please drop the I-couldn’t-give-a-shit act and talk to me. You are in a massive bloody hole that is getting deeper by the day. I think that you need all the friends that you can get.”

  Catherine has always been an expert at making me feel like a total shit and today is no exception. I reach forward to take her hand and I apologize for being such an asshole.

  “Thanks for coming, Catherine, I do appreciate it. I know it can’t have been easy for you to come here. You can probably understand my skepticism, though. For God’s sake, Cath, you were feeding information to Douglas about my every move.”

  She looks thoroughly ashamed of herself, but she nods her acknowledgement.

  “If I could turn back time I would, Sean, but you didn’t give me any other choice. Douglas had me convinced that you were fabricating evidence and even now, I still don’t know who to believe. I know I should have been more insistent in confronting you about it, but would that have made a difference? You were keeping me in the dark about everything and look where we are now, Sean. There is a mountain of evidence against you for killing Paul Donovan and you didn’t even make an effort to defend yourself yesterday. What am I meant to think?”

  “It’s complicated, Cath. I wish I could tell you, but I can’t. You just need to trust me.”