“Really sorry, Sean, I was trying to get tidied up before you got back.”
I’m less worried about the state of the cell than I am about what they might have found, but the very fact that I am still standing here and not in solitary leaves me confused. I push the door shut and ask Billy what happened.
“The cell got turned over by Cartwright and Bayliss,” he replies.
“Yes, Billy, I can see that. I meant, did they find anything?”
He drops whatever he is holding on the floor and then smiles and raises his eyebrows to suggest that he is pleased with himself.
“They didn’t find fuck all, Sean.”
My bedding is all over the floor and my pillows have been ripped open. Sensing my confusion, Billy explains what happened.
“I know that you think I’m a bit slow sometimes, Sean. Well, maybe you are right, but I have been in and out of institutions all of my life, so I have a bit of an instinct for when things are going down.”
“Sorry, what are you talking about, Billy?”
“If you let me carry on, I will tell you what I am talking about,” he says, annoyed at the interruption.
“Sorry, Billy, please continue.”
“Well, as I was saying, I have a bit of an instinct for these things and when Taylor was taking you to the kitchen, Mr. Cartwright was holding a couple of pairs of search gloves. I didn’t know if they were coming to our cell, but I didn’t want to take any chances, so I legged it back here and got your stuff.”
Once again, Billy has saved my ass and I could absolutely kiss him. I need to travel again tonight and without my stuff it would be much harder.
“Billy, I don’t know what to say. Thank you so much, but what did you do with it, where is it now?”
He looks embarrassed at my gratitude and is blushing slightly. “It’s nothing, Sean. You might be a copper, but you’re my cellie and we’re meant to look out for each other. I left your stuff with one of my mates in the laundry. Don’t worry, I put it all in your envelope and he won’t open it. I’ll go and get it in a couple of hours.”
I know that I won’t relax until I get it back, but I am in no position to push Billy to get it back any quicker. I am once again in his debt and I need to count my blessings.
“Thanks again, Billy. Did they say anything when they came in or when they didn’t find anything?”
“No, not much. They found my wank mags and asked me if I had any other contraband, but it was obvious that they were more interested in your stuff. Most of my stuff just got chucked onto the floor, but they ripped open your pillows and really searched all your other stuff.
By other stuff, he means my spare clothes and wash kit; I don’t have anything else other than my book. Clearly annoyed at not finding what they were looking for, the spiteful bastards have emptied my toothpaste, shower gel, and shampoo all over the floor and have torn all the pages out of my book.
With my protection from Butler gone and with no further hold over Cartwright and Butler, my window of opportunity is closing fast. I need somehow to get through the next nine hours until lockup, and cleaning up will at least kill a couple of those hours.
“Come on then, Billy, let’s get this mess tidied up.”
By four-thirty, the cell is more or less back to the way it was before lunch, apart from my lack of pillows. Billy has retrieved my envelope and it is now stuffed in a narrow tear in the side of my mattress.
It’s not the most imaginative hiding place ever, but nor was my pillowcase. It will do for now, though, and hopefully I won’t be needing it for much longer anyway. I am lying on my bunk watching Billy sitting at the table cleaning smears of my toothpaste off some of his comic books when the cell door is pushed open and Butler’s Scouse henchman comes in and sits down opposite Billy.
“Oy McGuigan, fuck off!”
Under the table I can see that Billy has clenched his fist, and he turns to me almost looking for my blessing. The Scouser would demolish him, though, and even if we could take him, Butler and the rest of his boys would be all over us in minutes.
“Go on, Billy. It’s alright. Go on now.”
Reluctant to leave me alone, I have to ask him to leave again and then I take his chair opposite my visitor.
“Well, what do you want?”
“He doesn’t want anything; it’s me that wants you, McMillan.”
Butler has entered the cell and he doesn’t even try to hide the knife in his hand. Behind him I can see at least three other thugs, and all are holding various improvised weapons. My mind is racing in the search for a weapon and the best I can think of is the chair I am sitting on. If they make a move on me, I will try to smash it to use one of the legs as a cosh.
The Scouser gets up from his chair and walks past Butler and then pulls the cell door shut leaving just the two of us inside. Butler walks towards me with the knife in his hand, and then he surprises me by sitting down and placing the knife on the table in front of me. For a few seconds there is an uncomfortable silence as we stare at each other. And then he speaks.
“How was your visit earlier, McMillan?”
“Thanks for asking, it was great, thank you. What about yours?” I reply.
This makes him laugh slightly and his response confirms what I had already suspected. Before coming to see me, Douglas had met with Butler. This is how he knew about our deal and that I was not in isolation.
“So, you know already that our deal is off?
“Yes, your boss was good enough to give me that good news.”
I wasn’t deliberately trying to be sarcastic, but my response obviously comes across that way.
“Really, McMillan, you want to fucking play the hardman and give me fucking attitude. You fucking killed my cousin and those boys outside are itching to come in here to tear you apart. The only reason they are still outside right now is because I don’t fucking take orders from anyone. Paul might have been in Clive Douglas’ pocket, but with my record, it’s unlikely that I’m ever leaving prison. I do what I want, when I want. Douglas is not my fucking boss, have you got that?”
Yet again, I am confused, if the deal is off and he is not here to kill me, why is he here?
“So, what do you want then? You said the deal was off.”
“Yeh, I said that, but I also said, I do what I want, when I want. Douglas wants you dead today, but I’m nothing if not a man of my word.
“Let’s not think of our deal being off, let’s think of this more of a renegotiation. Sorry, scrub that thought — renegotiation would imply that you have an input into the terms, when you don’t. Think of this as me telling you what I want and you doing it without question. Comprende?”
When there is a knife on the table in front of me and a queue of cons outside waiting to batter me to death, I comprende very well. “Yes, understood. What is it you want?”
Pleased with the ease in which I have rolled over, he smiles and slouches back in the chair. “See that was easy, wasn’t it? Just a few bits and pieces — it should be easy enough for a man with your connections.”
He hands me a folded sheet of paper and then he stands up to leave. “Five pm tomorrow — make sure you get everything on that list.”
The list includes cigarettes, tobacco, alcohol, mobile phones, and just about every pharmaceutical known to man. It’s an impossible task with an impossible deadline, but he knows this already, and whether I succeed or fail, he wins either way. Even if I am able to get a fraction of it, it will be highly lucrative for him and if I don’t, he gets to go to town on my face.
From my side, I have no intention of even trying, but I still need to play along and I want to know what’s in it for me.
“Butler, If I get this for you, how much time does it buy me?”
“It buys you fuck all, McMillan. If by some miracle you do manage to get everything, your life expectancy stays the same as before. On Friday at midday, I’m going to fuck you up! This is purely a matter of professional pride for me, we made
a deal and as far as the other cons are concerned, that deal is still in place for now. Its all about credibility, I’m sure you understand.”
Ten minutes after Butler has left, Billy comes charging into the cell, obviously expecting to find me kicked to shit on the floor. When he sees me sitting at the table playing patience he relaxes and joins me.
“Fucking hell, Sean, I thought you were done for to be sure. When I saw Butler and the other blokes coming into the wing, I thought that was it. I tried to get back to help you, Sean. Honestly, I did, but that big fucky chinky wouldn’t let me past.
“It’s okay, Billy, it’s all good. Butler just wanted a word. Thanks for trying, though.”
He’s not convinced by my assurance, but he trusts me and drops the subject. Today has been eventful but at least now I know I am safe for the rest of the day.
With the excitement over, Billy reverts to his usual routine of alternating between eating, reading his comics, and disappearing for a wank and I lie down to plan tonight’s trip. I need to watch Darren to try to find out what happened to the items he stole from Maurice Butterfield’s house.
If Douglas finds them before I do, it is game over. Just before lights out, I head to the bathrooms and spread the contents of the envelope on the floor in one of the cubicles.
The wallet, warrant card and most of the documents are not required any longer and, not wishing to risk the chance of them being found in another search, I flush them away.
The last items are the official photograph of Assistant Chief Constable Maurice Butterfield, the watch, a small ball of weed, and the last two-hundred quid from the drug dealer’s cash roll.
Just after lockup at 12.10 am, I close my eyes and picture Maurice Butterfield and his house in Cobham. I also try again at 12.15, 12.30 and 12.40, but no matter how hard I try, I can’t find the path that I need.
This is the first time in a while that I have struggled to travel, but time is against me and with no sign of a drinks cabinet and not wishing to wake Billy up by vigorously working out, I take the only option available to me and swallow the ball of weed.
The Past – Sunday, 18th February 2018
My lungs are at bursting point and my brain is screaming out for oxygen. All around me there is nothing but inky black darkness, but my body feels like it is floating. The natural reaction when you are drowning is to fight your way to safety and, after realizing that I am underwater, I kick and thrash wildly until my head breaks the surface.
The night air is cool and sweet, and I gulp it in as fast as I can, while I try to take in my surroundings. The red-brick water mill is around fifteen meters away, so Butterfield’s house must be behind me. I can’t risk going towards the house yet, so I swim towards the mill, pull myself up onto the bank, and head out towards the street.
Not the best start to a trip and I can only put it down to the effects of the weed. After swallowing the weed, I had been picturing Butterfield in my mind when I had been overcome by a massive feeling of nausea, followed by multiple images from my last trip to Cobham including my death in the river.
This must explain how I ended up in the river and am now standing in the middle of Cobham piss wet through. The watch still seems to be working, though, and is showing 10.10 pm, but the remainder of my cash is completely drenched, which throws the first part of my plan out of the window.
I had been hoping to buy a cheap camera or phone from a garage or convenience store before finding Darren, but now I have no way of paying. It’s just as well I am a resourceful kind of guy.
After half a mile I walk onto the forecourt of a petrol station and conceal myself in one of the two cubicles in the bathroom to wait for a target.
After nearly forty minutes, I finally hear somebody come in and close the door of the second cubicle and I leave my hiding place.
I have no idea who is using the bathroom, but I don’t have time to wait around for them to come out. It’s far better that I take them by surprise. With their trousers around their ankles, it’s not likely that they are going to give chase. The force of my foot on the door nearly takes it off its hinges and the young guy inside literally shits himself.
“Give me your fucking phone! Quick, fucking hand it over!” I scream.
He can’t hand it over quickly enough and as an unexpected bonus he also hands me his car keys. I grab both and, much to his relief, turn to leave, but then he recoils as I turn to face him again.
“Please don’t hurt me, I don’t have anything else.”
“What? Shut up! What’s the passcode for your phone?” I bark.”
“What, what … ummmm.”
“Your passcode, numbnuts, what is it?”
“Umm, it’s 5689.”
I smile and thank him, and then add “Don’t fucking move for at least twenty minutes, just stay there and enjoy the rest of your shit!”
No doubt that will be one of the more eventful shits of his life, but not really a story that you want to be telling your friends. I feel slightly guilty for scaring him, but not guilty enough to stop me filling up his car with petrol and then stealing it. It’s not so bad anyway; he will get over the fright and his car will be insured, so no harm done really.
I wait until the cashier in the station looks away and then I pull out onto the street and speed away towards the mill, parking down a nearby side street. I need to cross the river again and, whilst I am already wet, I need to keep the phone dry.
The back seat is crammed with diving gear, but amongst it the guy has left his lunchbox, which contains the remains of a sandwich in a Ziplock bag — perfect for the job. I make sure the bag is properly closed and then I stuff it in my pocket and make my way to the riverbank and slip into the water.
It’s just after 12.10 am on Monday and everything looks normal at the back of Butterfield’s house as I make my way as quietly as I can across the river and secrete myself at the far right of the reed bed to watch the house. By 2 am, the early morning temperature has dropped considerably, and I am in danger of going down with hypothermia if I hang around much longer.
I haven’t seen any sign of Darren and I am starting to think that I might have fucked up and come on the wrong day, when I hear the unmistakable sound of the shed door opening. He must have been hiding in there for hours, but now he is instantly recognizable as he silently moves across the garden to the rear of the house, confidently jemmys open a window and slips inside.
The external bells are clogged up with the expanding foam, but there is also no alarm from inside the house, so Darren must have found a way to silence it earlier.
He is inside for the best part of an hour and the only signs of anything happening from outside are occasional glimpses of a torch in a room on the upper level of the house. This must be the room, but why is he taking so long? Is he already caught and trussed up waiting for Douglas to arrive?
No, that can’t be right. Douglas said that Darren was shot when he was in the reeds. Maybe he is struggling to open a cabinet or a safe. At 2.52 I check my watch again and a few seconds later I get my answer when the alarm barks into life in the house and the back door flies open.
Darren bursts out of the door and runs down the lawn like a bat out of hell, clutching a blue and red sports bag. Maurice Butterfield is no more than ten meters behind him and is brandishing a shotgun. He ignores Butterfield’s warnings to stop and as Butterfield raises the weapon to fire, he disappears into the reeds just a few meters away from where I am hidden.
For a few seconds he tries to move forward through the gloopy mud but he knows that he is stuck. Then, in a stroke of genius, he drops the bag and stamps it down under the mud, then turns back and holds up his hands as Butterfield reaches the edge of the reeds.
Butterfield looks absolutely furious and, knowing what is about to come, I point the phone and flick the video on.
“I suggest that you hand over everything you have taken tonight right now! You obviously don’t know who you are dealing with.”
It’s too dark to see clearly, but knowing Darren he is smiling when he replies, “Sorry, guvnor, I’ve got no fucking idea what you are talking about. I was just out for a walk.”
For a second, Butterfield lowers his weapon, but then he raises it to his shoulder again. “Have it your way, don’t say I didn’t warn you.”
The blast is almost deafening and the force of both barrels in his chest sends Darren flying backwards into the mud. It’s a miracle that he has survived, and I am shaking with adrenaline, but I carry on filming as Butterfield edges his way out onto the mud to search for the bag. The callous bastard doesn’t even bother to check if Darren is dead or alive and after a few minutes he curses at not being able to find the bag and heads back to the house.
In minutes the police will be here so I move quickly from my hiding place and over to where Darren is. His legs are covering where he has concealed the bag, and after pushing his legs to one side and a short struggle against the suction, I pull it up through the mud.
I should leave now, but I need to know what he has found in the house. I unzip the bag and silently punch the air. Darren has hit the mother lode and, although he is unconscious, before I leave, I squeeze his hand and thank him. Then, with the sound of sirens approaching, I ease back into the river and swim across awkwardly with one arm holding the bag out of the water.
When I reach the car, it is already past 3 am and I still need to get the bag to Jean’s office in West Drayton. Thankfully, West Drayton is less than twenty miles down the M25 motorway and even keeping within the speed limit I am outside her office by 3.45.
On the way here, I had been pondering the problem of leaving the bag for her now. If she turns up to the prison with the bag on Monday, 19th February, as originally planned, there is a massive risk of distorting my current reality to the point that I won’t know what the hell is going on when I wake from my travel on the morning of Tuesday, February 20th.
I have already got safely through Monday, but my only option is to put Jean at risk by making sure she doesn’t come to the prison until Tuesday morning.
The Network Page 16
