by Simon Mayo
‘It’s a memory stick,’ he said quietly. ‘That’s what’s in the strap-key case. It must be.’
Ant pulled it out of her pocket, opened it and took out the lining, as she had many times before. She shrugged. ‘No it’s not,’ she said, holding it out.
He took the case and repeated Ant’s inspection. ‘It’s got hinges,’ said Max, running his finger down the spine of the case. ‘Unusual.’ He was frowning now. ‘Don’t see them much these days.’ He tried to pull out the long pin which acted as the pivot for the two halves of the case, but it wouldn’t budge. He squinted at the pin’s head. ‘Well, well . . .’ he said.
Ant leaned forward, all tiredness disappearing in an instant. ‘What?’ she whispered.
With his fingernails doing the work, Max twisted the pin. It started to move.
‘It’s a screw!’ he said. ‘The thinnest screw ever!’ Slowly he twisted the pin from the hinge and the two sides of the case fell apart.
Max held them up for Ant to see, smiling broadly. Embedded along the edge of the lid was a metal prong. She teased it out with her nails. It flashed in the headlights of a large truck that was just turning into the car park.
‘A USB,’ she whispered. ‘And I’ve had it all along.’
Max stood up, brushing a cascade of food crumbs to the floor.
‘Where are you going?’ asked Ant, taking the pieces of case back.
‘I’m going to smile nicely at that waitress,’ he said. ‘Then maybe we can use her computer.’
The Cable Broadcast and TV Services truck edged slowly towards the prison gates. Inside the cab, the two technicians were arguing. The driver, a large man with a CB&TV T-shirt stretched across his frame, was trying to calm his panicking colleague.
‘It’s OK. I’ll explain that the missing passes are my fault. I’ll say they’re back at the office.’
It had just turned 5 a.m., but the woman’s company T-shirt was already sweat-stained. This was only partly due to the early morning heat.
‘This is HMP Bodmin,’ she said. ‘You don’t get in without the right tags! You said they were here!’
‘And they were,’ he insisted, ‘but I’ll handle it. They need us – there’s no other TV truck around. We’ll be fine.’
The first steel barricade was set a few metres from the outer wall. Two prison officers approached as the vehicle came to a stop. The driver lowered the window.
‘All right?’ said one of the POs, peering inside. He nodded at the discarded burger containers. ‘That’s a healthy breakfast you’ve had there. Save me any?’
The CB&TV man forced a smile. ‘Maybe next time,’ he said.
‘No worries,’ said the PO. ‘Glad you’re here! They can’t do much without you guys!’
‘Well, there’s a problem,’ said the driver. He lowered his voice to a conspiratorial whisper. ‘I left our passes back at base. I know that’s bad, but maybe there’s some forms we can fill in? Can we get temporary passes? Like you said, with no cameras, there’s no Correction.’
The PO looked as though his morning had just been ruined. He sighed deeply. ‘Really?’ The driver nodded sheepishly. ‘OK, stay here.’
The man consulted with his colleague, and they both got on their radios.
‘How can you lose security passes?’ muttered the woman.
‘You’re not helping,’ replied the driver.
While they waited, the PO carried out the usual vehicle checks: a chassis inspection followed by a cursory glance inside from the back doors. ‘Your cameras had better be more switched on than you,’ he said.
Twenty minutes later, and with a sizeable queue building behind the TV truck, temporary ID cards were handed through the window. The PO half smiled. ‘You guys are fools. But fools that, today, we need. So this time we let you in. These only work outside, OK? You don’t get into the prison with them.’
The driver nodded his thanks. ‘Apologies again. We only need to be in the courtyard.’
‘It’s quite crowded already,’ said the PO. ‘You know where to park.’
The steel barricade lifted, and the truck trundled into the prison grounds. Two more barriers, and they arrived in the melee. The courtyard was teeming with workers, scaffolding and trucks. The noise of shouted commands, hammering metal and revved engines all flooded into the truck.
‘Not sure I like the idea of a public re-strapping,’ said the CB&TV woman, sounding unnerved.
‘We do what we always do,’ came the reply. ‘We drive the truck, plug everything in and keep our mouths shut.’ He opened his door. ‘But first I need to get rid of some of that coffee . . .’
Ant and Max, painfully squeezed into a cupboard housing spare TV monitors, stared at each other. The silence suggested that the second technician had also gone for a toilet break, and Ant was exploding with impatience. Looking at Max, his face just a few centimetres away, she raised her eyebrows.
Ready to go?
Ant could feel Max’s heart thumping like an echo of her own.
‘Wait!’ he whispered, listening intently. The cacophony outside made it hard to tell if anything was happening inside.
‘She’s gone,’ insisted Ant.
Max nodded and pushed open the cupboard door. The truck was empty, its bank of screens dark. From their hiding place they pulled out a small cotton bag. Henry’s ‘supplies’ hadn’t been the food they were expecting. A selection of tools, bits of the drone and some tea bags were all bundled up with a leather belt.
‘What do we take?’ hissed Ant.
‘Some tools might make us look busy,’ said Max. ‘Whatever we can carry; hide the rest.’
From their pockets they pulled out the stolen CB&TV security passes and slung them around their necks. They filled up with tools and then edged towards the open door. The truck had parked alongside a wall so the view was of mossy granite. Ant was about to jump out when Max hauled her back. He was passing her a small monitor from their cupboard.
‘Take this,’ he said. ‘If we’re both carrying them, we look important.’
‘You look scared,’ said Ant.
‘I am scared.’
‘What do I look like?’
Max, briefly taken aback, opened his mouth then closed it. He tried again. ‘Mostly scary,’ he said.
‘Just “mostly”?’
‘But you still look like the girl who is wanted by the police. Even with the hat and scarf.’
Ant pulled her cap down, then adjusted the scarf. ‘I’ll bear that in mind.’ She took the monitor and stepped out. Following the noise of construction, she walked swiftly along the narrow corridor between the truck and the prison wall. She recognized where they were. Ahead was the prison courtyard where they had seen Daisy and Jimmy taken from the coaches.
At the corner she hesitated, Max swiftly at her side.
The courtyard was being turned into circus. Rows of plastic seating were being fitted together. It already resembled a small amphitheatre, with a podium in the middle and a viewing gallery at one end. Scores of workmen swarmed around, watched by prison officers stationed at regular intervals.
‘It’s like they’re setting up a gallows,’ said Max. ‘For a public execution.’
‘Well, let’s see if we can spoil their horrible little party,’ said Ant.
She ran her eyes over the CCTV cameras that ringed the courtyard, and hoisted the monitor onto her shoulder. Max copied her, using the screen as a shield, and they strode into the tumult.
The viewing platform seemed near completion: three-tiered, with seats and camera positions, it was the obvious place for the monitors. Ant took a few steps towards it, then suddenly wheeled away, heading for the first bank of seating. The framework was high enough to hide them from the security cameras.
‘What’s going on?’ hissed Max.
‘Denholm and McTavish,’ said Ant, dropping her monitor. ‘Those POs by the podium? They’re from Spike! If Grey has brought staff with him from London, then we really are screwed.’
Max peered between the wooden slats. ‘Well, they’re coming this way,’ he said.
‘Did they see us?’ Ant crouched down to see for herself.
‘No, they look too casual.’
They shrank further into the shadows provided by the seats and watched through the gaps. The sweating POs slumped into two plastic-moulded seats – the wooden plank above bowed slightly. There was the sound of squishing water bottles.
‘Could do with a beer,’ said one voice.
‘That’s Denholm,’ mouthed Ant.
‘Not till this charade is over,’ came the reply.
‘McTavish.’
Max leaned in close to Ant. ‘I think I’m just going to ask,’ he whispered urgently. She grabbed his arm but he pulled away. ‘They know you, not me.’ And before she could protest he was gone.
Ant crouched down, holding her breath.
What are you doing, Max?
She caught glimpses of him between the wooden slats, moving at speed. He stopped right next to where Denholm and McTavish were sitting, and she heard the clunk as he rested the monitor on the metal handrail.
‘Where would this go, gents?’ said Max. ‘I was just given it and told to find the director.’
Ant shifted till she could see Max’s right leg. She imagined Denholm and McTavish sizing him up.
‘No idea, mate, sorry.’ Denholm.
‘We’re prison officers, not press officers.’ McTavish. Classic PO answers.
‘Fair enough,’ said Max. Then, as if it was an afterthought, ‘Quite a show later . . .’
Oh, I know what you’re doing . . .
‘Re-strapping,’ said Denholm. ‘Seen it once before. It’s not nice. And there’s quite a few to get through.’
‘Serves them right and everything,’ said McTavish, ‘but no one likes this whole . . .’ He was struggling for the word. ‘This whole . . . display.’
‘Really?’ said Max. ‘I thought everyone loved it.’ There was the sound of more water being chugged.
‘Yeah, and no one as much as our Dear Leader,’ said Denholm. ‘You seen the governor on television? He likes to make speeches when the cameras are on. Reckon he’s writing one at the minute.’
Is he now?
‘How many are getting done?’ asked Max.
Ant picked up the forced casualness in his voice. Here we go.
‘All the ones they caught,’ replied McTavish. ‘In age order.’ Ant’s heart rate kicked up a notch. ‘Starting with the old guy, Blakely.’
‘Right,’ said Max, his leg bouncing with tension. ‘Then the kids?’
‘Yup.’
‘Did their folks get out of that fire? I forget now . . .’
Ant wrapped her arms around herself.
‘Some did,’ said McTavish. The tone of his voice made Ant’s stomach twist into knots. ‘Sarah Raath got out. Mishal Noon got out.’
The silence that followed seemed to stretch for ever.
Denholm took another swig of water from the bottle. ‘Ahmet Shah didn’t.’
Oh, Amos.
‘And the Nortons never made it. You know, the foster parents of those kids that were on the run?’
‘Oh, right.’ Max was barely audible. ‘They had a boy of their own too, I think,’ he said.
Ant felt hot tears on her cheeks and dug her fingernails into her palms.
‘Shame. Terrible business,’ said McTavish. ‘They seemed like good people. Hey, you forgot your screen!’
They are really dead, and it really is my fault.
Seconds later Max reappeared under the seating and dropped to his knees, his face twisted with grief. Ant crawled closer, the gravel sticking to her palms, but he held up his hand.
‘Max, I’m so sorry,’ she whispered.
He shook with silent sobs, seemingly oblivious to her presence. She longed to comfort him, but he clearly wanted no help from the very person he blamed for his parents’ deaths. They were kneeling no more than two metres apart, but it seemed to Ant as though a chasm had opened between them.
‘Please don’t blame me,’ she breathed.
Above them, boots were moving. There was a sudden darkening, a shadow along the prison wall. They had company.
‘And what have you two done today?’ said Governor John Grey. ‘Or do I know already?’ He beamed. ‘Max Norton? I knew we would meet sooner or later. And Abigail Norton Turner! How lovely to see you again.’ He spread his arms. ‘Well, welcome to Her Majesty’s Prison Bodmin. I think you’re going to be here for a long, long time.’
Improvise.
Ant flung a fistful of gravel in Grey’s face. He howled in surprise and pain, and she followed up by slamming her head into his kidneys. As he crumpled, she hurled another volley of stones before POs with tasers took her down. Hit once in the hamstring and once in the neck, Ant felt all her muscles spasm with pain like she had never experienced before. Grunting, she collapsed. The agony lasted only a few seconds, but by the time it had subsided, rough hands had dragged her and Max into the prison building. She felt the strap-key case being pulled out of her pocket.
Ant vomited copiously; Max swiftly followed suit. When she opened her eyes, she realized they had an audience. Grey, holding a dressing to his bleeding face, stood in front of a squad of armed POs. He watched impassively as she retched and spat.
‘Why don’t you come closer?’ she said in a harsh whisper. ‘I could be sick on your shoes rather than wasting it on the floor.’
‘Cuff them,’ he ordered brusquely. Denholm and McTavish stepped forward and hauled Ant and Max to their feet, steel handcuffs snapping around their wrists.
‘I want to see my brother!’ said Ant.
‘Sure you do.’ Grey walked past them into a fiercely lit corridor. ‘Follow me!’
Ant and Max were led past bemused staff, who moved aside as they realized who was striding towards them; a scrum of POs and press followed in their wake. Now reunited with their security passes, the two CB&TV crew fussed with cameras and headphones. Two flights of stairs and Grey swooped left, ignored a saluting PO who was holding the door open, and turned to face his new inmates.
‘Unlock them,’ he said to the POs, ‘and wait at the door.’
As the cuffs came off, Ant caught Max’s eye. He was spent. Exhausted, in pain and in mourning, she wasn’t sure he could walk another step. Or say another word.
I’m on my own here.
Grey had gone over to the window where she had spied him on their drive around the prison. A thousand years ago. It was a sparsely decorated room, austere even. One desk with a small zipped bag on it, one chair. A computer screen. Whitewashed walls – no paintings, pictures or curtains. A modest green carpet.
Grey guessed what she was thinking. ‘Each inmate is allowed seven possessions in their cell. I lead by example.’ He turned to face them, still holding the cloth to his face, and Ant realized he was already wearing TV make-up. The bag on the desk.
‘You’ll need some blusher,’ she said. ‘Hides the blood.’
Grey pursed his lips, folded the dressing and put it in his pocket. He ignored her provocation.
‘I have one more possession now. One that was stolen from me a while back.’ From his jacket pocket he produced the strap-key case and opened it. ‘Back in its box,’ he said, stroking the key.
I know you’re not watching, Max, but nicely reassembled anyway. He knows nothing.
Grey’s voice was harder now. ‘Do you know how much trouble you caused me? Do you know we had to change the strap design after you stole this? You cost the country millions of pounds – a debt you’ll be paying off for the rest of your life! However long that may be . . .’
Ant got the threat. So that’s why the key didn’t work on some straps . . .
‘So,’ he said, TV voice back again, ‘is there anything you want to tell me? Anything you’ve learned while you were an on-the-run?’
‘Yes,’ said Ant. ‘I’ve learned that my friends are brave. And that a
s we were the first to escape from Spike, we are an inspiration to strutters everywhere. There will be many others.’
‘Will there, Abigail? Will there really?’ he said sarcastically. ‘And that’s it? Nothing else?’
Say nothing. He’s fishing.
Ant shrugged. ‘I don’t know what you mean.’ She focused on Grey, avoiding the strong temptation to glance at the strap-key case.
He nodded slowly. ‘Oh, I just thought that after all this time you might have a list of grievances . . . against me, against the prison service . . .’
Say nothing.
‘Would it make any difference?’
Grey smiled coldly. ‘Maybe not.’ He nodded to himself, as if he’d resolved an issue to his satisfaction. ‘So.’ He folded his arms. ‘It took longer than I expected,’ he said. ‘But here you are. And what should I call you now? Abigail? Ant? The “goose girl”?’ He raised a finger to his chin as though trying to work out an answer. ‘Well, whatever. Same girl, same problem. And why the goose I wonder? It’s a wild goose, I think . . . Am I right? A cross-breed maybe? Uncontrollable, untamed. How romantic, how moving. They make a lot of noise, I think . . . I am right, aren’t I? And here’s the thing . . .’ He smiled with satisfaction. ‘They bite when captured! We all need to keep our distance.’
Ant glared straight back and said nothing.
‘And of course you have one more name! You are the Not to Blame girl too. I should thank you really. Because of you, I am now a governor. Because of you, the old ways are gone. John Grey is on the rise, Abigail. So thank you.’
She glanced again at Max, who was swaying slightly, eyes closed. Big tears rolled down his face. Grey noticed her concern and raised an eyebrow. ‘Why so sad?’
Now she spoke. ‘You killed his parents. Why do you think?’
‘The riot killed his parents,’ said Grey. ‘And who caused the riot? Who provoked two whole prisons to attack a third? You did, Abigail. You killed his parents.’
Max was swaying now. ‘Can he have a chair?’ she said.
Grey smiled. ‘Can he have a chair? My chair? Of course not. It’s the governor’s chair, and has been since 1897. He can sit on the floor if he can’t stand.’