Blame

by Simon Mayo

My fourth ’bin of the night. Way to go, Ant.

  The Remand cell in Pentonville held six bunks in a stark, brightly lit box of a room. Three apparently sleeping inmates occupied the two berths to her left and one in front. She walked over to the right-hand, bottom bunk and sat down briefly before keeling over and hitting the pillow. Pulling a blanket over her, she closed her eyes. She heard the guard leave and the door beep twice as it locked.

  Ant normally slept facing the wall, but she had no idea who was in the cell with her; she needed to be watchful. And she had never been more aware of the plastic and metal strap attached to her back. In Spike, everyone had one. When she’d gone outside, she’d removed it. Now she was the only strutter in a place full of cons and hunchies. She was behind enemy lines. If they found out who she was, she’d have the whole prison – guards and inmates – chasing her. She had to stay alert.

  But as she lay down, Ant felt waves of tiredness flow over her. The seemingly endless supply of adrenalin that had kept her wired through the night was being overpowered by exhaustion. Even though there was extreme danger in the cell, she pulled the beanie low and allowed her eyes to close.

  Just two minutes . . .

  Ant woke with a start. Shouting filled the cell and she opened her eyes. The men in the bunks opposite her were arguing – something about men not turning up, though the accents were strong. A podgy, shirtless man – Glaswegian, Ant guessed – was kicking out at a skinny man in the bunk above him. A third man crouched on the floor, clearly desperate to join in. He seemed to be waiting for orders.

  The Scot rolled off his bunk and jabbed his finger at the man above him. ‘If you had done your job,’ he yelled, ‘we wouldn’t be here.’ He gestured around the cell and, seemingly for the first time, noticed they had company. ‘And we wouldn’t be sharing our space with the likes of him.’ He pointed at Ant and they all turned to look.

  She didn’t move, just returned their stare. She felt the adrenalin kick in, her stomach lurching, but she remained motionless. Her best hope was to stay as silent and still as possible. The beanie covered some of her face, the blanket covered most of her body. There was no need to panic.

  The men glanced at her, then looked away as the skinny man on the top bunk spoke.

  ‘They’d have come, Mr Campbell. Honest. But they were . . . scared off.’ He glanced nervously at the man standing by his bunk, who had started punching the frame, seemingly for fun.

  ‘Scared off?’ Campbell said. ‘Really? By my good friend Treves here?’ He pointed at the crouching man. ‘Cuddly and safe Day Treves?’ He laughed, but the man on the bunk nodded hard and fast.

  The cell fell silent. Ant sensed the danger.

  If they fight, it’s nothing to do with me.

  ‘So you knew we would fail? You knew the others weren’t coming?’ His voice was quiet, barely a low rumble, but the menace was clear.

  The skinny man fidgeted with his bedding. ‘Well, I hoped—’ he began.

  Campbell held up his hand. ‘Enough. Treves? You’re on.’

  This is nothing to do with me.

  As Day Treves leaped up towards the bunk, Ant saw that he was smiling. His watery eyes didn’t change, the rest of his face didn’t move, but his mouth twisted.

  Campbell spoke to Ant. It was almost a whisper. ‘You – face the wall.’

  Suits me.

  She turned and faced the wall.

  The sounds were terrifying enough. She heard a strangled gasp. She heard body blows. Fists on flesh. She heard someone collapse onto the floor. Grunting. Muffled screams.

  This is getting close. Still not my fight. Still not moving.

  Silence.

  Then a crashing weight landed on Ant’s legs. She swallowed her shout and turned to see a man sprawled across her bunk. He was cut above both eyes, the wounds bleeding freely. He wasn’t moving. Treves was crouched, one hand touching the floor, ready to go again.

  ‘I said, face the wall,’ Campbell spat. Ant thought hard. Was it conceivable that she could keep her identity hidden for much longer? Was it likely she could just slip out unnoticed? She thought not. And she remembered the noise the door had made.

  It’s my fight now.

  Ant didn’t face the wall. Instead she pushed the skinny man’s body off her legs, then sat up.

  ‘I can get you out,’ she said.

  The effect of Ant’s voice in the Remand cell was electrifying. Campbell and Day Treves stood frozen to the spot. The skinny man lay bleeding, forgotten, sprawled over Ant’s bunk. She knew she wouldn’t have the advantage for very long.

  ‘I can get you out,’ she repeated. ‘If you want. You might rather stay here, of course. But it sounds like you have unfinished business.’ Her voice was steady, controlled – and clearly female.

  It was Campbell who found his voice first. ‘But you’re a girl,’ he said, the astonishment in his voice matched by the open mouth of Treves.

  ‘It’s a long story,’ she said. ‘Do you want to get out or not?’ She needed to keep the conversation where she wanted it; they had think of her as an escape route, not as a woman.

  ‘And how would that happen then?’ said Campbell. ‘You’re just a kid.’

  ‘But a kid who knows what she’s doing. Do you want to get out of here or not?’

  Make them answer that question.

  They were still frozen to the spot, struck dumb by her words. Skinny man coughed, then spat blood onto Ant’s bedding. It broke the spell.

  ‘Day,’ said Campbell. ‘Sort him.’

  Treves reluctantly walked over to Ant’s bunk, only tearing his eyes away from her at the last minute. He hauled the barely conscious man to his feet, then dragged him over to the other bottom bunk, dropping him as quickly as he could.

  Treves had come a few steps closer to Ant. His smile was back. ‘Nice smell,’ he whispered.

  Ant returned his stare. ‘Oh, the whisky?’ she said. ‘Yeah, it’s a bit strong.’

  Campbell shook his head. ‘No, he means you.’

  Two more steps and Treves was sitting next to her. Ant didn’t move, forcing herself to focus on Campbell – he was the power in the room. Nothing would happen here that he didn’t allow.

  ‘You haven’t answered my question,’ she said.

  ‘OK,’ he said. ‘Yes, I’d like to get out of here. Yes, I have unfinished business. But no, I don’t think you can help. And I’d say you have about twenty seconds to convince me otherwise.’

  Treves edged closer.

  ‘Wrong,’ said Ant. ‘I’ll tell you when this friend of yours is back on his bunk.’

  Stay fierce.

  Campbell was intrigued. No one had spoken to him like this in years. He sauntered over to where Ant sat and dropped to his haunches. ‘Sweetheart, let me explain something to you. You’re a wee girl in a small room with three cons. A drug dealer, a psycho and me. That’s not a good place to be. If you think you’re in charge . . .’

  Hemmed in by Treves to her left and Campbell in front, Ant was sweating again. ‘Obviously you’re in charge,’ she said, ‘so tell this creep here to back off.’ She had no doubt that the ‘psycho’ he’d mentioned was Treves. He smelled of smoke, sweat and urine. And his leg was touching hers.

  ‘He likes dancing girls, you see,’ said Campbell. ‘That’s what he’s hoping for.’

  Ant edged away, but she was now up against the bunk frame. She glanced at the cell door and, set into the wall next to it, a small plastic box with a red light.

  ‘Can we talk about getting out of here?’ she tried. ‘There’s a PO coming for me in—’

  ‘I think you should dance,’ said Campbell, smiling. ‘Then we’ll listen to your plan. If you keep Treves here happy, everything will be so much . . . easier.’

  Ant cursed. ‘Do I look like the sort of person who dances?’ she spat.

  ‘I have to say, honey, I think you do.’

  Outside the cell door, the piercing wail of the general alarm made them all start.

/>   Treves glanced at Campbell. ‘It’s starting again. And without us,’ he said.

  The Scot lashed out, punching the wall in frustration. ‘We should be out there!’ he yelled. They heard shouts and running feet. ‘Your PO that’s coming for you,’ he said. ‘That’s your plan? That’s how you can get us out?’

  Ant nodded.

  ‘Well, here’s mine.’ Campbell took a running kick at his bunk; it bent where his trainer made contact. Treves joined in and the bunks started to sag under the assault.

  They’re going to trash the cell. And trash me with it. Change of plan.

  ‘OK, I’ll dance.’

  You sure about this?

  For the second time in two minutes, Ant had stopped the men in their tracks. They spun round.

  Keep the advantage.

  ‘I’ll dance. You sit here.’ She stood up. ‘I’ll dance, then we can all smash the place up. By then my PO should have come . . .’ She tried her best smile.

  And it worked. She knew she was playing a very dangerous game, but she had just the one card to play and she had to play it now.

  ‘When you’re sitting comfortably, I can get started . . .’ Ant moved till she was standing near the door; they sat down on her bunk. Treves’s mouth was open.

  ‘This had better be good,’ said Campbell. ‘If it isn’t . . .’

  Ant put a finger in front of her lips. ‘Why don’t you stop talking and watch?’ she said.

  Both men smiled.

  Outside, the alarm stopped. The shouting from the other cells continued, but inside Remand cell 9, there was silence. Ant calculated Campbell and Treves were four metres away from her; the skinny man still facing the wall. The cell door and its security box a metre to her right. Ant’s pulse, already high, ticked up a few beats.

  Have you even thought what you are doing?

  ‘Ready?’ she said. They nodded like schoolboys. She played the plan through in her head.

  You have one chance, Ant. Maybe not even that.

  She’d never danced. Not really. Never saw the point. But she did know how to attract their attention. Ant turned her back on the men and started to shift her weight from one leg to the other. Her hips moved from side to side and she started to unbutton her shirt. The men behind her cheered in surprise just as her fingers found the lanyard plastered to her skin. She tugged at the cord and, hidden from her audience, MacMillan’s security pass popped into her hand.

  ‘Come on, love, let’s see some action here! Keep the troops happy!’ called Campbell, and started clapping.

  She needed to unhook the pass from the cord – and quickly – but it was fiddly. ‘Just undoing this button!’ she said, and the clapping got louder.

  The pass came free. Ant’s hips swayed more. A step to the right. A bigger step to the left. Half a metre from the door. She palmed the pass in her left hand, turned and continued her half-dance, half-hustle. She forced a smile as she placed both hands behind her back; one hand pulled out her shirt, the other tucked the pass into her waistband.

  The panicked, gasping sound was delayed by only a second. But as Ant moved the card, she realized that someone else had been watching.

  The skinny man’s shout was a loud one. ‘Oh my God, guys! She’s got a strap!’

  Now she really was in trouble.

  Ant dived for the door. Card in hand, she sliced it through the security box before anyone had moved. She stabbed MacMillan’s code into the keypad just as Treves got to his feet. The red light on the box changed to green and the door clicked open – just as Treves grabbed her shoulder. She dipped left and swung the door inwards, smashing it into his forehead. Treves fell to the floor, howling in pain.

  She had taken two steps out of the cell when Campbell rugby-tackled her. Ant crashed down, but was up first and kicked him hard between the legs. Now Treves was up again, and by the time she had disabled Campbell, he was on her. Head down, he charged into her and they tumbled to the floor. A hand grabbed her throat and started to squeeze. Lying on her back, she kicked out, but Treves had long arms – she couldn’t reach.

  ‘You nasty little strutter filth,’ he spat. ‘You’re going to die.’

  Ant’s vision was already blurring. She heard groans and more shouts, then – with a deafening clatter – the alarm again. There was a momentary hesitation in the grip around her throat, and with all the energy she had left, Ant twisted round, tearing herself away. She gasped for air. On her knees, she saw Treves look straight past her, distracted by a PO who was now advancing, baton in hand, yelling into his radio for help.

  Treves pointed at Ant. ‘She’s a strutter! I just felt her strap!’

  The guard glanced at her. When he’d locked her up, she’d been a drunk man called Czezny.

  Ant tried to speak. ‘They attacked me! They’re thugs.’ Her voice was husky enough to keep the guard’s attention on Treves. Campbell was recovering. He’d be on his feet in seconds, but now had a PO between him and Ant.

  ‘Back in the cell! Get back in the cell!’ shouted the guard, his pepper-spray can now aimed at Treves’s face.

  Ant had seen enough. Reinforcements would be on their way; it was time to go. She needed to take advantage of whatever chaos was out there. She turned to run, then stopped as PO Brian MacMillan, his head bleeding now, came crashing through the doors in the corridor.

  He grabbed her by the wrist. ‘Spike!’ he said. ‘Now!’ He pulled her back through the doors and led her along a maze of empty passages. ‘Short cut to the tunnel. I’ll explain.’ His breathing was laboured and he was clutching his left side.

  ‘Where is everyone?’ Ant managed, her breath coming in short bursts.

  ‘There’s another fire. B Wing. They’re all there.’

  ‘Another fire?’

  ‘Yup. I started it,’ said MacMillan matter-of-factly.

  Ant’s mouth dropped open. ‘You what?’

  ‘Let’s get to the tunnel.’

  ‘And the alarm?’

  ‘Started that too.’ MacMillan removed his jacket as they ran, then, wincing, threw it at Ant. ‘Put this on. It might confuse people for a few seconds. We’re gonna need a lucky run here.’

  She gasped as she saw his blood-soaked shirt. ‘Brian, you’re injured!’

  ‘I’ll get it sorted in Spike,’ he rasped.

  They burst through more doors, and Ant realized they were entering D Wing, just a few metres from the tunnel entrance.

  ‘What’s happening, Brian? You said this would be straightforward, but everything’s gone wrong. What happened to you?’

  ‘What’s my pass code?’ he said, ignoring the question.

  ‘You’ve forgotten?’ said Ant, concerned.

  ‘Tell me,’ he said, his words slurring. ‘It’s important.’

  ‘8B 3S 2C3.’

  MacMillan glanced across at her. ‘Good. Keep a record of them. Keep. A. Record. You got that? Grey’s gonna go crazy, but they’ll get you out OK. Then they’ll change your life.’

  She was puzzled by his choice of words, but they were approaching the fingerprint-activated door.

  MacMillan rammed his finger onto the sensor – the lights stayed red. ‘My God, they’ve locked us out,’ he muttered.

  Ant took his hand and wiped his index finger on her shirt. ‘Too much sweat and blood,’ she said. ‘Try again.’

  He placed his finger on the pad again. There was a heart-stopping pause, then the light turned green and the door swung open. As soon as the gap was wide enough they squeezed through.

  Ninety seconds to Spike. It was Ant who led the way, glancing back to make sure MacMillan was keeping up. He ran with one hand pressed to his side. He looked wiped out, his face white, eyes bloodshot.

  What happened to you?

  They reached the first gate in the tunnel. Ant was about to kick and run as she had before, but it was shut. And locked.

  ‘Keys!’ she shouted, and stepped aside as MacMillan pulled the bunch of keys from his belt. ‘And why is it shut an
yway?’ She looked anxiously down the tunnel to the second gate – it appeared to be open.

  MacMillan was trying to single out the key he needed when a screeching metal-on-metal sound filled the tunnel. They spun round to see what appeared to be a large grey piece of piping forcing its way between the steel door and its frame. The motor was still trying to close it, grinding and pushing without effect – the door was stuck open.

  MacMillan cursed. ‘Who the hell is doing that?’

  ‘I’ve got a good idea,’ said Ant, her voice tight. ‘Just find the key. Then we go through and lock it again. But you have to hurry.’ He slowly fingered the keys. ‘Brian, which one is it? Tell me and I’ll do it!’ But the more urgent her voice, the slower MacMillan became. When he dropped the keys altogether, she dived for them. ‘Describe it!’ she yelled as she spread out the keys.

  MacMillan closed his eyes, forcing the words out. ‘Silver. Short. Wide bow,’ he whispered.

  From the steel door behind them came the sound of screeching metal, followed by the groan of the dying motor. As the broken door swung open, two men stepped into the tunnel entrance. Campbell and Treves. Campbell still held the two-metre pipe he’d used as a crowbar, Treves brandished a knife. They saw Ant and MacMillan, and a bloodcurdling yell echoed down the tunnel. Both men sprinted towards them, eyes fixed on Ant.

  ‘Silver. Short. Wide bow . . .’ she repeated, sifting frantically. ‘This one!’ She found the key and glanced over her shoulder; her pursuers had closed to three hundred metres. She rammed the key home and twisted, pushing the door open. She was about to go through when MacMillan slumped against the bars.

  ‘Brian! We have to go!’ She pulled him to his feet. She knew she was faster than the other two, but with MacMillan she’d be caught within seconds.

  Leave him. He’s a screw. Save yourself.

  Two hundred metres.

  ‘Brian, focus! We have to run! Please!’

  He stumbled towards the gate and leaned against the metal frame, reaching for his belt.

  With an increasing sense of hopelessness, Ant tugged at him, pulling him through. ‘Brian! We have to close the gate!’