by Simon Mayo
Gina put her arm through Dan’s. ‘How did he sound?’
‘He sounded good, Gina. Really. I think he’s more prepared than we are . . .’
*
The 800 Bar, Bristol
Max, listen carefully. Those special holiday plans we discussed? You might need to use them. Be ready.
Max Norton remembered the tension in his father’s voice; for two years they had been dreading having this conversation. The ‘special holiday’ meant disappearing. His university life was over.
Max had a job to do. The early evening crowd had drifted away. Theatre, concerts or food had taken many of them, so the staff were working hard to get everything ready for the second wave. Max was serving his last customers – two tables enjoying a noisy family birthday celebration. He had been attentive and friendly, had tolerated their singing, despite the looks of annoyance from other diners. He was hoping for a decent tip, but mainly he was hoping they’d go soon. He needed time to think. He was due a break and it couldn’t come quickly enough.
Ever since his father had rung him, Max’s head had been spinning. Dan often called from school using a phone lent to him by a sympathetic colleague, and Max was used to his forced cheerfulness. The conversations were usually light-hearted affairs – his father desperate not to worry his son any more than he was already. But not this time.
Whatever was happening at the prison was clearly bad enough for his parents to consider escaping. And if they got out, the law said it would be Max who had to pay the debt; Max who would have to go to jail in their place. They would come for him within hours of any escape.
The birthday party trooped slowly out of the bar. They had left him a decent tip and he stuffed the notes into his pocket. The plates cleared, the manager, Jenny, called him over.
‘You and Sara take a break now. Need you back in twenty.’
He didn’t point out that he was due thirty minutes; he was just relieved that it was with Sara Hussain. She was at university with him – they’d even dated for a term – and had both hung around for the summer jobs. That was where the similarities ended, however. Her parents lived in Kuwait, his parents lived in Spike. She was one of the few people in Bristol who knew Max’s story: they had often discussed the horrors of heritage crime.
‘C’mon, I need to talk,’ he said. ‘Somewhere quiet.’
The bar had a back entrance where the off-duty staff sat. Some smoked, others played cards. Max and Sara pulled their plastic chairs further into the service road for some privacy. They were both wearing the 800 Bar regulation black shirt and jeans, his stained with barbecue sauce, hers miraculously pristine. His blond hair was unkempt and straggly, her long black hair was tied back in a ponytail.
‘Here OK?’ she said.
‘Guess so.’
Sara sat down, exhausted, and waited for Max to tell her what was troubling him. Despite the heat, they both cradled cups of tea in their hands, as though for warmth.
Max leaned against the wall. ‘I’m going to have to disappear.’
Sara tried to disguise the gasp. ‘Oh, Max, no!’ She got up and stood next to him. ‘How do you . . . ? What did . . .?’
‘I got the call this afternoon.’
‘Your father?’
Max nodded.
‘Things must be bad,’ whispered Sara.
He nodded again.
They stood in silence, both working through what had to happen next. It was a while since anyone had had to disappear, but there were rules and procedures in place. Contacts and addresses needed checking first.
They sipped their tea as some other staff wandered out, their shift completed. ‘I need to get back to the flat,’ said Max.
‘You finish at midnight?’
He shook his head grimly. ‘Here till two. Lucky me.’
‘You could walk out now if you wanted,’ said Sara. ‘It’s been done before.’
‘No, I need to do this properly. Jenny would guess something was up.’
Sara swallowed the last of her tea. ‘I’ll check who’s around.’
He nodded and smiled his thanks. ‘When we all sat around that bar in our first year and talked heritage crime, it was the first time I’d found anyone as angry as me. I can’t tell you what that meant. There were some who had strutters in the family, but to hear so many on our side was, well . . .’ Max realized he was getting choked, so he finished off his drink too. ‘But I knew it might come to this one day.’
‘Did your dad give you any details?’ Sara said, yawning.
‘That’s all I know,’ said Max. ‘Correction is being broadcast soon – maybe someone will say something about the fire, or the death, then.’
‘I’ll go and make some coffee,’ said Sara. ‘And then we have a few hundred portions of fries to serve.’
‘You have ninety seconds to find a seat. Please hurry.’
Assessor Grey stood at the front of a hall that was part gym, part lecture theatre. Two large screens filled most of the wall behind him, six fixed cameras taking it in turns to show their section of the resentful, sullen audience. Grey half glowered, half smiled as the 220 inmates found their places. Families had to sit together, solos in the five rows at the front; everyone knew where to go but took as long about it as they dared.
Ant, Mattie and Gina shuffled past six-year-old Sam Durrow and his eight-year-old sister, Tilly, the youngest inhabitants of the Spike. They were clasping each other so tightly they couldn’t be separated.
‘We’ve all told them that their film won’t be shown again,’ said Ant as they sat down, ‘but they don’t believe us.’
Gina nodded. ‘At least it’s the last one this week.’
‘I can hardly wait,’ said Ant.
Correction was at 7.30 p.m. Monday and Friday, and those were by some distance the most hated and resented hours of the week. It was broadcast online, and had proved a surprise hit with viewers. All prisons that held strutters contributed short films, highlighting the work they were doing ‘to correct the mistakes of the past’. No one knew who was going to be featured next.
A large clock on the side wall showed the countdown to 7.30. Those who hadn’t yet had their film shown shifted uneasily in their seats. Sam and Tilly Durrow’s mother Lena wrapped her arms around her trembling children.
‘Poor things,’ whispered Gina. ‘They were so traumatized by seeing their father’s story on screen. I don’t think their mum explained that he had taken his own life. They knew he’d stolen loads of money from his customers, but that’s all . . .’
Assessor Grey adjusted his glasses, then smoothed his already smooth hair. Resting his hands on the desk in front of him, he inhaled deeply as the lights on the cameras turned red.
‘Today we learn again of the consequences of heritage crime, and the justice – appreciated both in this country and elsewhere – of our new criminal code.’ He was using his TV voice, warmer and more conciliatory than inmates were used to. ‘Your own family’s actions have placed you outside our community. But if you, the first heritage criminals to pay the price for your family’s crimes, can appreciate the fair-mindedness of our laws, then society will be the better for it.’ He smiled broadly. ‘We will all be better for it.’
When Ant had heard his speech for the first time, it was at this point that she had heckled him. Two minutes later she had found herself in SHU, and on basic for two weeks. The second time she heard it, she had written a few explicit words of Anglo-Saxon on the seat in front of her. This had cost her a week wiping excrement from the walls of protesting prisoners’ cells. She hadn’t interrupted him since.
‘So . . .’ The assessor looked around the hall, pausing only to glance briefly at the camera. When he spoke, he savoured each word. ‘The first Freedom Question.’ He flashed a pledge card at the camera. ‘What have you done today?’
I hate you so much right now, Ant thought.
A second’s pause, then a raised hand from the second row. A middle-aged man with grey hair and bad
teeth. ‘I learned how much my father’s crimes have cost us all.’ The voice was flat, the words forced. ‘The cars he stole belonged to hard-working men and women . . .’ There was a pause, as if the man had either forgotten his words or was reluctant to carry on.
‘And?’ encouraged Grey.
The man sighed. ‘And the accident he drove away from cost a woman her life,’ he said quietly.
‘And so therefore . . . ?’
‘So I need to pay society back.’ His head dropped and he sat with his hands in his lap.
‘Correct,’ said the assessor, smiling. ‘And over the five years of your sentence you will be able to do just that. You will be a better man for it. Who’s next?’
The screens cut to a scared-looking girl in a headscarf. The words Straw Family Prison, Cardiff scrolled across the bottom.
‘Yes?’ said Grey into the camera. ‘And what have you done today?’
The girl stood up. ‘I’ve learned that my family’s business was a money-laundering scheme,’ she blurted. ‘And that all our wealth is stolen.’ She could hardly wait to get the words out. ‘I shall try to pay back the debt I owe.’
Even though Ant sat through it twice a week, Correction always made her furious. She sat with fists clenched, nails digging into her palms. ‘I can’t believe anyone watches this garbage,’ she muttered. ‘Can’t they see it’s all fake?’
‘Shut up, Ant,’ said Mattie, head down. ‘Just for once, please. It’ll be over soon.’
Ant screwed up her face and started counting the number of slats on the heating vent. She had no intention of ending the day back in the bloc and forced herself to calm down.
Most of life in Spike she could cope with. But Correction was a humiliation. A ritualistic humiliation. All strutters despised it, but many had learned to cope; Ant wasn’t one of them. She looked around. Gina and Dan were zoned out, Daisy was gazing at the ceiling, her mother, Sarah, humming softly to herself.
How weird, thought Ant. All the cons think we get a cushy deal, but none of them have to sit through this show trial twice a week. Wonder how they’d cope . . .
Then the films started.
‘Freedom Question Four asks us “What are you passing on to your children?”’ Grey looked around at his sullen audience. ‘Well, today we will hear stories from a priest’s family who are atoning for his sins.’
The screens cut to a shocked middle-aged woman holding hands with two teenage girls; they all started crying.
Grey continued, his voice mellow and reasonable. ‘Also from the wife of another banker. She lived the high life until he was exposed as a thief and swindler. He disappeared, leaving her to pay the price.’ The screens showed a close-up of a steely-looking woman in her thirties staring unblinkingly back at the camera.
‘That’s more like it,’ muttered Ant. ‘A bit of defiance at last.’
‘But we start here in London – with the sorry story of Matthew Norton Turner.’
As the huge screens showed a close-up of Mattie’s shocked face, there was a gasp from the inmates. Gina and Dan both shouted ‘NO!’ and Gina grabbed her foster son, holding him close.
Ant was on her feet. ‘You’ve done us already!’ she yelled. ‘You’ve done him! Leave him alone, you bastards! He’s eleven years old – what do you—?’
Strong hands – Dan’s – hauled Ant back down. ‘There’s no point, Abi. Let it go.’ His words were urgent and delivered behind a cupped hand. ‘We have to let it go.’
But she pulled away. ‘Letting it go means they just carry on!’ she replied, not caring who heard.
‘Abi, they’ll take you away. Put you in SHU. And we need you with us. Please.’
Three prison officers had arrived and were standing in the aisle waiting to see if they needed to intervene. They glanced from Ant to Grey, waiting for instructions.
The cameras cut back to the assessor. His lips were pressed together in the beginnings of a smile. ‘Some of our number need to reflect carefully on their actions,’ he said, a steely tone to his voice. ‘The truth is rarely comfortable. And in the case of your family, Miss Norton Turner, the truth is intolerable. Run the film.’
Ant’s fists were balled so tightly, her nails were starting to cut into the skin of her palms.
‘Matthew Turner,’ said the voiceover as a photo of the seven-year-old Mattie appeared on the screens. A scared little boy with wild corkscrew hair stared out. ‘Son of gang leaders Kyle Turner and Shola Murray. Wanted for embezzlement, GBH, theft and drug dealing, they disappeared three years ago.’ Old photos of a young, well-dressed white man and a smart black woman faded in over busy, dramatic music. ‘While the country suffered, they lived the high life, spending their stolen money on holidays, cars and property. They spent their time in the company of some of Britain’s most notorious crooks. But when police closed in, Turner and Murray disappeared, leaving their children, Matthew and Abigail, behind.’
Gina was hugging Mattie, Dan had his arms around Gina. Ant stared at the screen. She watched as social media footage of family gatherings played; angry and puzzled, she leaned towards Dan.
‘They’ve shown all this before. They’ve gone through our history. I don’t understand . . .’
‘They’ll have something new,’ said Dan. ‘Though God knows what . . .’
The film had switched to images of Dan and Gina. Ant saw Dan flinch.
‘Fostered by Dan Norton, son of swindler John Norton, and Gina Norton, daughter of notorious fraudster Ben Hoffman, Matthew continued to live a life of luxury, fuelled with money that had been stolen from hard-working families. And now new evidence has emerged . . .’
‘Here we go,’ said Dan. Gina buried Mattie’s face in her shoulder.
‘. . . of Matthew’s violent past.’
Dan put his hand firmly over Ant’s mouth. She pushed it away but swallowed her rage.
‘Witnesses have reported many occasions when Matthew resorted to the bullying and violent behaviour he had learned from his parents and grown up with.’
‘You have got to be kidding,’ said Dan softly.
The film showed a close-up of a skinny man in his forties. He twitched as he spoke. ‘My name is Tony Pellow. My son used to play with Matthew Turner. He was a foul-mouthed bully from the start. Vicious, actually. Pushed my kid around and threatened him if he told anyone. Spoiled. That’s what he was, spoiled. Like the whole world owed him a living. He deserves to be inside.’
Gina was sobbing quietly, her head resting on Mattie’s. ‘But that’s not true!’ She looked up at her husband. ‘Dan, they’re just making it all up!’
Now a round woman with long highlighted blonde hair filled the screen. ‘I’m Tess Clarke. I had to throw the boy out. Came into my house and just helped himself to my kid’s things like he could have anything he chose. When my son tried to stop him, he spat at him. Called him really nasty things. Kids like that need to be taught a lesson.’
Footage of Mattie working on Indoor Relief was brief, cutting quickly to a live shot from the hall.
‘I wonder,’ said Assessor Grey, ‘if we can see the offender’s face?’ A wide shot took in Mattie, Gina, Dan and Ant, and the shocked faces of the inmates around them. The camera zoomed in closer.
‘Matthew Norton Turner. Look at me please.’
‘Stay where you are, Mattie,’ hissed Ant.
‘Actually, yes,’ said Gina. ‘Stay where you are.’ She looked at Grey, tears streaming down her face. ‘That was inexcusable. It was all lies and you know it. Mattie’s never hurt anyone.’
Around the hall people stirred as they watched what was for many of them the first act of defiance in Correction.
‘Molopaa,’ Ant spat.
‘I will choose to ignore your insult, whatever it was. You all know the punishment for denying the truth,’ said Grey, flushing slightly under his TV make-up.
And Mattie stood up.
‘You don’t have to say anything,’ Gina whispered as he slid off her lap. He pulle
d his hand free. The cameras had their close-up; he stared at the floor, then at the assessor.
Grey said, ‘You and your sister are here because of the heritage crimes of your foster parents. But given the additional crimes of your real parents, yours is the most crime-ridden family we have found. Anywhere! And now we hear more evidence—’
But before he had finished, Mattie spoke.
‘I’m sorry,’ he said.
‘What?’ hissed Ant.
There were gasps of surprise around the hall. Grey cocked his head to one side, eyebrows raised.
‘Some of us might have missed that. Could you just repeat what you said – louder this time?’
Mattie lifted his head a little. ‘I’m sorry.’
‘For your bullying and violent behaviour?’
‘Yes. It won’t happen again.’
‘Mattie, stop!’ whispered Ant.
‘I think he knows what he’s doing,’ muttered Dan.
Grey scratched his chin. ‘Very well.’ His tone suggested he was trying to decide whether to believe Mattie or not. He turned to the cameras. ‘We have, I believe, just seen our new criminal justice system in action. Can anyone seriously doubt the wisdom of what we are doing here? Does anyone think we would have got that admission from Norton Turner if he hadn’t been confronted with his actions? Prison works!’ He beamed at the cameras, then switched to an expression of sad reflection. ‘His sister, on the other hand, will need to spend some time on her own this weekend reflecting on her foul-mouthed outburst. And another six months on her sentence.’
As Grey wrapped up the broadcast, Dan reached for Ant’s arm. She pushed him away and leaned over to Mattie.
‘What was all that?’ she exploded. ‘What are you sorry for?’
Gina added, ‘Mattie, you’ve never bullied anyone . . .’
Mattie looked at Ant, then Gina, big tears rolling down his face. ‘You got another six months, Abi! Why did you shout like that?’
Ant shook her head. ‘I don’t care about the six months. Someone had to say something. At least people will know we’re not all rolling over and taking everything they dump on us. But then you come along and just say sorry . . . everyone will think you did all that stuff.’