by Simon Mayo
‘Is that a goose?’ whispered Daisy.
Ant nodded. ‘A goose with good timing,’ she said.
‘That’s some coincidence,’ said Daisy. ‘Doesn’t look like a fighting goose, but maybe we have a friend somewhere after all.’
‘Maybe . . .’ wondered Ant.
A few POs tried to grab the goose, but it evaded capture, running and honking behind the stands, until it eventually took off and flew away.
Grey breathed deeply and tried again. ‘Justice. Justice, ladies and gentlemen, is why we are here today. Justice is why you are watching this at home. When justice is attacked, the nation needs to respond. Not to take revenge – that is not our way – but to seek redress for crimes committed. And our redress’ – he looked around the courtyard – ‘is the re-strapping of these offenders.’
The central camera now switched to close-ups of the bench. Ant hissed, ‘Look at the ground,’ and suddenly all viewers could see of her and Daisy was the top of their heads.
Grey continued. ‘Already convicted of heritage crimes, these criminals rioted, then escaped from HMP London. Many died in the course of this violence. This cannot stand. In accordance with our laws, each has received a statutory extra fifteen years to their sentence. In addition, it has been decided that as they brought this misfortune on themselves, they should carry out their own re-strapping.’
Clearly some in the crowd had not heard that this was to happen; gasps of shock and astonishment rolled around the courtyard.
‘The message from Bodmin today is this: you cannot escape justice! In the end it will find you out and take you down!’
‘Sounds as though he was expecting applause,’ said Daisy.
‘Misjudged his audience then,’ said Ant. ‘Maybe he heard it in his head.’
Grey motioned a PO towards the medical boxes. ‘Commence the re-strapping!’ he ordered.
Dread and fear swept along the bench. Ant felt every muscle tense. How can I get selected without messing it up for Mattie?
The PO opened the first box and removed what looked like a small crossbow. She could see a handle and trigger at one end, and the steel loading plate at the other.
‘The new strap-gun,’ she muttered.
A small whimper came from Daisy and she buried her face in Ant’s shoulder. Ant watched the rest on the big screen. Putting the gun down on the table, the PO removed a black box from which he slid the first strap. It loaded in seconds. She heard the terrifying double click as its titanium needle slotted into position and was made ready. Then the collective shudder of six hundred terrified strutters.
‘Prisoner Blakely,’ said Grey. ‘Take the strap-gun. Prisoner Raath to the table please.’
‘No!’ The shout came from Amos, who was on his feet. He turned to face Grey. ‘I’ll go first. I’d like to go first.’
‘What is this?’ called Grey, visibly furious, a wave of surprise rolling in from the stands. ‘The order is set. You cannot “volunteer” in my court, Amos Shah. Sit down!’
But Amos didn’t sit down. ‘I want to set an example,’ he said, refusing to meet the eyes of anyone on the bench, his voice breaking. ‘I . . . deserve it.’
‘You do indeed deserve it,’ said Grey, ‘and that is why you will be re-strapped and back inside prison in a few moments. In the correct order!’ Two POs pushed Amos back to the bench. ‘Prisoner Blakely and prisoner Raath. Now.’
Ant felt Daisy’s arms tighten around her neck.
I have nothing to say. I have no comfort to give.
‘It’ll all be over in seconds, Daisy,’ was all she could manage.
Slowly Daisy unwound herself from Ant and was helped to her feet by Denholm. Ant glowered at the PO but he wasn’t looking. Daisy stepped reluctantly towards the strapping table. From the stands came the sound of a woman crying. Ant recognized it as Daisy’s mother Sarah. The effect was instantaneous. Daisy had recognized it too and she immediately stood up straight, wiped her face with her hands and walked purposefully to the table.
A voice from somewhere: ‘We love you, Daisy Raath!’ Then another: ‘You’re a hero, Daisy.’ Ant was aware of the watching guards reacting, but her attention was on the hypodermic syringe in Blakely’s shaking right hand. He looked as terrified as Daisy.
In the pin-drop silence Ant heard Daisy say, ‘Make it a good one, please,’ and then she leaned over the strapping table. She pulled up her shirt and lay perfectly still. Blakely stepped forward, his left hand poised above her vertebrae, seemingly unwilling to even touch her spine.
‘The T four!’ hissed Jimmy, who was now next to Ant. ‘Fourth one up!’
Blakely counted the bumps on Daisy’s back, found the T4 and placed his finger just to the left. Sweat poured off his face as he held the syringe millimetres from her skin. He wiped his eyes, muttered some words to himself and held his breath. Ant held hers. Six hundred in the stands held theirs. Just when everyone thought Blakely wouldn’t be able to do it, he stabbed the needle into Daisy’s back. Unsure how deep it should go, he pushed it in further. A few screamed; everyone shuddered. Blakely squeezed the anaesthetic home and pulled the needle out.
From the crowd: ‘Keep strong, girl.’ From the bench: ‘Nearly there, Daisy!’ Jimmy’s voice.
Blakely now snatched up the strap-gun. He inspected it briefly, then moved it along Daisy’s spine. With his left hand he held the gun’s loading plate in place; his right finger curled around the trigger. The whole crowd heard him say, ‘I’m so sorry, Daisy,’ and he fired. The hiss of the compressed-air shot was followed by Daisy’s scream. A short, gasping scream to begin, then a series of staccato, gasping cries.
The screen showed Daisy’s back, new strap in place . . . but the angle was wrong – the plate sloped sideways and blood was running everywhere. Blakely flapped his hands and tried to adjust the position. Daisy screamed again.
A medic came and pulled him away; panicking and distraught, Blakely dropped the strap-gun, then stepped on it as POs tried to calm him down. Grey shrieked into his microphone.
The medic helped Daisy up but she collapsed in his arms. Those on the bench heard him call to Grey, ‘She’s done! She can’t strap anyone now.’
A flash of annoyance showed on Grey’s face before he remembered the cameras. ‘Of course,’ he said, and waved her away.
On the bench the full horror of what had been done was hitting home. Daisy’s blood was still visible on the gravel and Ant was shaking with rage. Mattie was sitting very still, his eyes closed. I should go to him.
She got up, but a large PO pulled her down again. ‘You’re here, he’s there,’ he said. ‘It’s staying that way.’ She slumped back next to Jimmy.
‘The strap-gun is damaged,’ he hissed from behind his hand. ‘Look!’
On the podium, Grey was inspecting the trigger, which seemed to have lost its tension. He stepped up to the microphone. ‘A new strap-gun will be needed. We will resume in five minutes.’
As the screens filled with ads, Ant looked around. The delay had supercharged the atmosphere. The brutality of Daisy’s re-strapping had left everyone stunned, but now, with nothing to do but talk, the paralysis had worn off. Angry voices could be heard around the stands. In spite of the guards, people had their heads together, fingers pointing.
Behind Ant, Grey looked uncomfortable. His eyes roved around the courtyard, looking for trouble. He summoned a nearby PO and jabbed his finger in four different places.
‘I see danger,’ Ant heard him say. ‘There. There. There, and there. Known troublemakers. Take them away – get them out of sight! Someone needs to get a grip.’
Jimmy edged closer to Ant. ‘What are you thinking?’ he said.
‘A million things all at once,’ she said.
‘But mainly?’
She cupped a hand over her mouth again. ‘Mainly that I can’t afford to do anything because of what they’ll do to Mattie. And that I can’t afford to just sit here waiting to be shafted like Daisy.’
Figh
ting broke out in the stand near Ant. Now that the cameras were no longer live, four POs with batons were clubbing their way along a row. Grabbing their victim like a snatch squad, they then clubbed their way back again. In their wake they left sprawled and bleeding strutters. The crowd anger kicked up a notch.
Suddenly the ads had finished and the Correction logo was back. Ant and Jimmy spun round to face the podium in time to see a wooden box arrive, presumably holding the new strap-gun.
Grey had returned to the mic. ‘Welcome back. Our technical troubles have been sorted – apologies for the delay. The re-strapping continues. Prisoner Shah to the strap-gun, prisoner Noon to the table please.’
Amos was back on his feet. ‘No! The other way round! I want—’
But Jimmy was already at the table, shirt removed. The dressing on his wound looked clean. Not much room for Amos to aim at. Come on, Amos, make this easy on him.
Amos took the hypodermic and, before anyone could react, crushed it beneath his shoe. He turned to face Grey.
Amos, what are you doing?
‘I said this should have been me,’ he said, and put the strap-gun to his head.
Ant and Jimmy reacted first. They launched themselves off the bench, Jimmy going for the rugby tackle, Ant going for the gun.
‘Amos, no!’ Ant jerked his arm up just as he pulled the trigger. There was an explosion of sound – the strap-gun firing, people screaming, gravel crunching. Ant landed on top of Amos’s arm, the gun falling from his grasp. She picked it up – hot from the firing and, to her horror, sticky with blood. She spun round. Where Amos’s ear had been there was now just a flap of skin; blood ran freely down his neck. ‘Amos!’ she yelled.
POs descended from everywhere, throwing her and Jimmy back onto the bench. She felt something under her stumbling feet – it was the half-fired strap. Picking it up, she reloaded it into the strap-gun and looked around for Grey. He was shouting instructions, but in that second his eyes swivelled and met Ant’s. They flashed with fear, then darkened.
‘Get the girl! Get the strap-gun!’ he yelled, and she was immediately pinned to the ground. The strap and the strap-gun were wrenched out of her fingers, and then she was manhandled onto the podium. She was aware of Amos being carried away and a circle of POs around the bench, but in front of her Grey was smiling.
‘Correction is overrunning,’ he explained matter-of-factly. ‘Unsurprising in the circumstances. But if, as I am told, we have time for just one more re-strapping, it is going to be yours. You will not escape again, Goose Girl! We go again! Prisoner Abigail Norton Turner to the table . . .’ He paused briefly for effect. ‘And prisoner Matthew Norton Turner to the strap-gun.’
Ant’s face clearly exhibited all the horror Grey was hoping for. She was quickly led to the strapping table and pushed forward onto its still bloody surface. She heard the uproar and pandemonium behind her: Mattie shouting; cries from the crowd; then Grey making one final speech.
She gripped the side of the table and twisted her head round as far as she could. Mattie was being given the syringe, but he was staring straight at her. She nodded and mouthed, ‘You know what to do.’ A PO appeared and held her head down, forcing her to look away.
Grey called for silence as Mattie approached the table. He held the needle in his left hand. There were shouts from the stands, but Ant’s voice was louder.
‘Mattie! Steady hands! Hold the syringe high!’
A small voice behind her. ‘I’m here.’
‘How much time on the clock?’ Her voice was now only audible to her brother and the man holding her head.
‘One minute. A bit less.’
Forced to look sideways, Ant noticed a sudden movement under the far stand. A green flashing light shone clearly in the space between two rows of seating. She swallowed, blinked, then looked again. It had moved to a different position but it was still there. A green light. A drone’s green light. And if it was hiding, it wasn’t a prison drone. Which meant . . .
Max.
My God, we have a chance.
Mattie’s voice cut in. ‘Abi! Less than a minute!’
‘OK. Grab my T-shirt,’ she said. ‘When I say so, lift it up as far as it’ll go. Then stand back. OK?’
‘OK.’
Ant took a deep breath and closed her eyes. Heart hammering in her chest, she yelled, ‘Now!’
She felt Mattie’s hands tug hard. The fabric strained, then tore, out the job was done. She knew the TV shot would be a close-up of her exposed back.
Let them watch. Let them read.
En . . .
De . . .
Twa . . .
Kat . . .
‘Is it clear?’ she yelled at Mattie.
‘Yes, it’s clear,’ he said.
‘Can people see?’
‘Yes, they can see.’
She stayed motionless. This was the moment. This was what she had wanted. Ant listened to the crowd. She knew they were reading. She could hear the words – muttered, then shouted. The PO holding her down was reading them too. He read slowly, as if unable to believe what he was seeing. He read it out again, every word sounding like the sweetest thing Ant had ever heard. She felt the pressure on her head relax. She twisted free. Glanced at the screen. She had a brief image of her lower back in freeze-frame – three lines of Mattie’s small, precise handwriting:
John Grey
is son of gangster
James Lee Glancey
Then the screen went blank. Grey had pulled the plug.
‘Was it on for long enough? Could you read it?’ Ant shouted.
Mattie nodded and smiled.
Grey was at the microphone, deathly white and shaking. ‘Correction is over!’ he shrieked, then jumped down from the podium. He ran over to Ant, snatching the strap-gun from Mattie. ‘It might not be on TV, but I shall re-strap you now,’ he hissed. ‘Without the anaesthetic!’ He lunged for her, but Mattie was ready. As the governor raised his hands, Mattie jabbed the anaesthetic needle into his leg. Instantly Grey pulled up, yelping. He tilted as the feeling drained from his leg.
‘It’s too late, Grey,’ said Ant, smiling. ‘It’s over. You’re the son of a crook. James Lee Glancey. Bankrobber, fraudster and thug. The whole world knows!’
The green light was moving again.
‘I pulled the show, you idiot!’ Grey said, trying to balance. ‘I took us off air before anyone could read it!’
In the stands, strutter and PO alike watched and listened, his words amplified by his lapel-mic.
‘It only had to be there a second,’ said Ant. ‘It’ll be a screengrab all over the world.’
Grey hobbled towards her, strap-gun held at arm’s length like a pistol. ‘You’re a criminal from a criminal family! A filthy strutter!’ he said. ‘No one will believe a word you say! Cuff her. Put her back on the table and let’s finish this!’
Six POs moved towards her, batons and pepper spray at the ready. Ant noticed the green light had edged closer too, and now she could see its operator. The briefest of smiles.
‘You’re right, no one would believe me,’ said Ant, ignoring the advancing guards. If we hadn’t published all the details of your father’s crimes. Everything you placed on the memory stick? The stuff you thought I hadn’t seen? That’s gone everywhere too. The crimes, the contacts, the bank accounts. The Liverpool heist, the Gravesend shooting, that security van in Plymouth. The big houses you grew up in, the holidays . . . Everything. It really is over. You’re a strutter, Grey. You’ve just been found out.’
‘You can say anything you like, Goose Girl,’ he spat, ‘but we’re not live any more. These words are going no further than this courtyard.’ Then, to his guards, ‘She is lying, of course. Put her on the table!’
It was Denholm who was nearest. He cuffed Ant to his wrist, but Ant held up her free hand and he didn’t try to stop her. ‘Wait! I have one more thing to say. Just hear this and make up your own minds.’
The other guards looked at Denholm,
who nodded. She had permission to speak.
Ant addressed them directly. ‘I know all these facts because of one of your comrades, Prison Officer Brian MacMillan. The first PO to die in the London riot. He risked his life telling me about Grey’s father. MacMillan was used by Grey. Grey got me to go into Holloway and Pentonville, knowing it would cause trouble; he let the riot spread. MacMillan could have been saved, but Grey chose to let him bleed to death. John Grey is a monster. He is no friend of the prison service!’
‘The man was an idiot,’ spat Grey. ‘He was chosen because he fraternized with your kind. My brave men here understand the bigger picture.’
‘Your brave men?’ said Ant. ‘You told me in Spike that prison was full of “hopeless failures being looked after by hopeless failures” . . .’
Grey waved her words aside. ‘They see the bigger picture, understand the larger war. And in a war there are casualties. MacMillan was a casualty.’
Ant noticed unease on the faces of Denholm and his colleagues. Grey did not.
‘The other guards who died?’
‘Casualties.’
‘And my foster parents?’ said Ant.
‘Casualties.’
‘Amos’s dad?’
‘Oh, who cares?’ said Grey. ‘Just strap the girl.’ Then, with sudden alarm, ‘Who is that guard – the one with the green light?’
Ant didn’t need to look. ‘He might be dressed as a guard, but if you look carefully, you’ll see it’s Max Norton. The man whose dead parents you just described as “casualties”. And that green light is a drone camera which has just broadcast everything you said. Your cameras may have been switched off, but his wasn’t.’
John Grey, his face ashen, turned to face Max, who was beaming. In his palm lay the reclaimed drone camera, its green light still flashing brightly.
‘Heard every word, Grey,’ called Max. ‘The Stamper has a great little microphone. That was some confession.’
The moment power left John Grey was visible to everyone. His shoulders dropped, his jaw sagged, his body seemingly deflating in front of them. By instinct he managed to straighten his tie and rearrange his hair but he was a man lost.