‘Trousers down, lean over.’ He concentrates on the patient, because even here, this is normal, this is who he is.
‘Try anything and you’re a dead man.’
‘You’re really not my type, Mr Sahid.’ Wolfe adjusts the angle-lamp and crouches, trying not to breathe too deeply. An arsehole is just an arsehole. Though the smell intensifies somewhat when showers are rationed.
‘Any noticeable change in bowel habits, other than the blood you mentioned?’ There is hardly any flesh left on Sahid’s backside. The brown skin is fading to a dull beige, dry and flaking. This is more than poor diet and five years without sunshine. ‘Going to the toilet more often? Passing looser stools? Pain when you go to the toilet?’
‘Not particu— What in the name of God are you doing?’
‘Keep still, please, try to relax. I’m checking for swelling just inside the anus. OK, we’re done. You can get dressed.’
Phil has filled the sink again, adding hot water that he’s had to bring from the kitchen. Water from the taps is never hot after eight o’clock in the morning.
‘Thank you, nurse,’ Wolfe says, as he sometimes does.
‘Suck my dick,’ Phil replies, and passes him a towel. Wolfe joins Sahid, who is dressed again, on the bunk.
‘You look like you’ve lost weight, to me.’
Sahid gives a flat smile. ‘My bathroom scales are broke. It’s hard to tell.’
‘Trousers feel looser?’
A grudging nod. ‘A bit.’
‘Any itching?’
A shrug. It means little, anyway. With hygiene so poor, itching of the genitalia is more or less the norm. Some cons seem never to take their hands out of their trousers. The constant movement down there could be scratching; few like to enquire.
‘How’s your appetite?’
‘How’s anyone’s in this place, the shit they serve us.’
Wolfe thinks of the porridge he was given in his first week, with actual shit in it. He’d taken a mouthful before realizing where the smell was coming from. ‘If you’re lucky, Mr Sahid, you’ve got haemorrhoids. I can’t see anything, and I don’t have the equipment for an internal examination, but it’s quite possible you’ve got enlarged blood vessels inside your rectum. They’ll be causing the bleeding you talked about, any itching you might have experienced, and can also cause discomfort, particularly when passing stools.’
Sahid looks at his guards. ‘You two, outside.’ He doesn’t bother looking at Phil, just raises his voice a fraction. ‘You too.’
They obey him. It wouldn’t occur to them not to. The door closes.
‘And if I’m unlucky?’
No point not giving it to him straight.
‘The symptoms you described to me just now can be indicative of bowel cancer.’
Wolfe gives him a second or two. No one wants to hear that word. And if word gets around that Sahid is seriously ill, his position as head of the Muslim Boys, the most powerful gang in Parkhurst, will be undermined. And there is always another gang just waiting for the opportunity to strike.
‘This is not a diagnosis, mind you. You need to see Dr Evans, have him carry out tests. If he refuses to refer you, remind him that under the Prison Act you have the right to prompt medical attention.’
‘Is there anything I can do in the meantime?’
The man is scared. There really is no leveller like cancer. ‘Assume it’s haemorrhoids. Tell everyone it’s haemorrhoids. Increase the fibre in your diet, if at all possible, and drink plenty of fluids, especially water. Avoid painkillers that contain codeine, it can make constipation worse.’
Sahid gets to his feet. ‘Thank you, Doctor.’ He glances back, at the supplies that, of course, Wolfe isn’t allowed to have, but that are tolerated because these informal daily surgeries help to keep the peace in the block. And go some way towards repairing the damage when peace doesn’t hold out.
‘I’m sorry about what happened this morning,’ Sahid says. ‘In the lavatories, I mean. I hope you know it was nothing to do with my people.’
‘No harm done,’ says Wolfe, even though he’s still sweating when he thinks about it.
‘Anything you need?’
Sahid and his contacts are among Wolfe’s main suppliers. When drugs, money and phones are smuggled into prison, a packet of aspirin or a roll of medical plaster often slips its way in too.
Wolfe and Phil have already been through the stock. ‘We’re getting low on paracetamol, as always. Ibuprofen would be good too. Bandages and plasters always needed. Any donations gratefully received. Ideally not smuggled in up someone’s arse.’
‘I’ll make enquiries if Superdrug can deliver.’
‘And that map I asked you about?’
‘That’s in hand.’ The other man nods as he gets to his feet.
The door opens. There is a blast of noise and stale disinfectant from the corridor. Something is kicking off somewhere close. In the next cell, music begins, full volume. Sahid’s Muslim Boys have largely put a stop to non-Islamic music on the wing, but when disguising the sound of a fight, it’s tolerated.
Wolfe turns to the window. He shouldn’t, it never ends well, but sometimes the temptation to look at the outside world, even a tiny square of it, is irresistible. The smell of tobacco and stale feet tells him that Phil is back.
‘Who’s next?’
‘Stan from H. Wanker’s been cutting himself again. I told him you wouldn’t see him unless he hands over his tool.’
Wolfe clenches his eyes shut and tells himself that this is a normal day, he’s had a hard morning at the Bristol General, spent several hours in surgery. This afternoon will be bad too, consultations and meetings, a late finish, but then he can drive home and take his dog for a run in the forest.
He looks up at the green canopy, watches the light dance through. He can hear twigs breaking beneath his feet, the dry leaves scratching in tree hollows. Behind him is the soft padding of his dog’s paws.
And Daisy. He tries not to think of Daisy during the daytime, but sometimes she creeps in, is upon him before he can steel himself to keep her out. The glint in her eyes, the cold curve of her smile. Daisy, after all this time, the woman who will never leave him.
He takes a deep breath. And another. The panic is fading. He can go on. One more day. He nods at Phil, who is used to him by now. ‘Show him in.’
Chapter 28
HMP Isle of Wight – Parkhurst
Clissold Road
Newport
My love,
In the eyes of the world I am a monster, the unspeakable, unnameable thing. I am that which must be buried in unholy ground, against which women veil their faces and children are pulled in terror. I am creation warped and twisted, the evil that walks amongst human kind.
I have been told these things so often, by voices so loud and so many, that I was on the verge of believing them.
And then you came into my life. You look at me with those clear, bright eyes and I can see no trace of fear. There is no hint of dissemblance behind your smile. You talk, touch my hand, tell me what must be so and why, and I feel normal once more. You remind me that I am a man. You remind me of one, undeniable truth.
I cannot be a monster, if I am loved by you.
Hamish
PROPERTY OF AVON AND SOMERSET POLICE. Ref: 544/45.2 Hamish Wolfe.
Chapter 29
My darling Hamish,
I was sleeping when we met. I’ve been sleeping my whole life. You woke me. Not with a kiss – oh, if only! – but with the knowledge that there is another in the world like me. You are the shadow that never leaves me, even when the light fades completely, I sense your presence. You are the other half of me. Together we make a whole.
I feel as though I’ve waited years to say these things to you. To say I love you, and hear you say it back. I will rescue you, my handsome prince. I will pull you from the grip of those prison walls and then never let you go again.
I yearn too. But I know we will be
together, and that day is coming soon.
Yours, always,
Me
PROPERTY OF AVON AND SOMERSET POLICE. Ref: 544/45.2 Hamish Wolfe. Letter found in Wolfe’s cell at HMP Parkhurst. (NB: Of hundreds of letters received by Wolfe during his time at Parkhurst, this was one of fewer than a dozen that he kept. Most of that number were from the same anonymous author.)
Chapter 30
THIS IS THE THIRD LOCKDOWN this month. Everyone is on edge, like dogs kept in a kennel that is too small. The slightest grievance, real or otherwise, gets blown out of all proportion. This one kicked off in the showers, as they often do, when they don’t start in the dining room, or the games room, or the exercise yard, or even chapel. Someone with a score to settle. A fist shooting out. A well-aimed boot kick. Two bodies thud together and crash to the ground. A second later, pandemonium.
Wolfe sits on his bunk, folding and refolding a small, thin rectangle of paper.
‘Like Santa’s frigging grotto in ‘ere.’ Sedge, a Scot in his early twenties, has been dragged into the cell by Phil because if you spend too long on the corridor during a lockdown, you’re likely to find yourself swept up with the reprisals. Participant or bystander, it makes little difference when the batons start swinging. He looks over at Wolfe. ‘Fuck’s he doing?’
‘Ornithology.’ Phil can never remember the term origami, and Wolfe has given up reminding him. Ornithology isn’t way off beam. Often he makes bird shapes. Not today, though. Nor is he making yet another Christmas bauble. There are more than enough of those hanging from the ceiling.
‘He makes things out of coloured paper. Look.’ Like a proud parent, Phil is directing their visitor’s attention towards the narrow, metal window ledge. ‘It’s like having a window box.’
Most often, Wolfe makes flowers. Their simple, regular form makes them amongst the easiest of shapes to create and he is a relative newcomer to origami. Using the coloured paper his mother sends he’s fashioned roses, tulips, chrysanthemums and lilies, that to his mind seem to emphasize the drab squalor of the room, but which nevertheless delight Phil. Other inmates on the block have started to copy their Christmas decorations, fashioning their own chains, which are relatively simple, begging lessons in how to make the baubles, which are not. There have been rumours that the Governor is getting concerned about the fire hazard, is threatening to have the home-made decorations taken down. This worries Wolfe. His chains and baubles are important to him and Phil.
‘What are these about?’ Sedge can’t keep still. He stands below Wolfe’s bookshelf, looking up at the row of paperbacks, seven of them by the same author. ‘Throw the Key Far.’ Sedge spells out the words slowly. ‘A true-life tale of harsh justice, by Maggie Rose.’ He pulls the book from the shelf, oblivious to Wolfe’s glare of annoyance, and opens it at a page marked with a yellow Post-it note. ‘Part…, part…’ he tries.
‘Participle.’ The tone of Wolfe’s voice makes Phil frown, nervously. ‘She uses the participle sunk, when she really needs the past tense, sank. It’s a common mistake.’
Sedge flicks through the other Post-it notes peering out of the top of the book. ‘So you’ve, like, gone through the whole book, looking for mistakes?’
‘It passes the time,’ says Wolfe.
In the corridor someone is hurting, although not so badly that he doesn’t have the strength to swear and threaten the officers who are trying to contain him. Then he falls silent, and maybe he is hurting that badly now.
‘Can’t get my fuckin’ ’ead round it.’ Sedge has grown bored with the books and has found Wolfe’s pile of mail on the narrow desk. He’s flicking through the latest batch of coloured, even scented, paper and photographs. ‘Are these bints mental, or what?’
Wolfe is fairly certain that Sedge’s reading ability is limited to the more basic of the graphic novels. Not that he’d care. He feels no need to protect the confidentiality of women he will never meet. ‘You could describe it as a mental disorder,’ he says. ‘But it’s pretty much common to every woman in the world.’
‘You what?’ Sedge says.
‘All women are drawn to the alpha male.’ Wolfe goes back to his folding and twisting. ‘They can’t help themselves. The cleverer ones, the feminists, will deny it, but the evidence is against them.’ He glances up at Sedge, sees no sign of light dawning. ‘It’s instinctive,’ he tries again. ‘The bigger, stronger, smarter men are going to be better at protecting the women and their children. They’ll bring home more food. A man who is capable of killing is the ultimate protector.’
‘Aye, but, like…’ Sedge has an idea in his head, is struggling to get it out. ‘You can’t protect any of ’em. You can’t even bring ’em home a takeaway pizza, you’re banged up in here, so how does that work?’
‘It works even better. It makes me a fantasy figure. They can dream about how dark and dangerous I am, with no chance of real life getting in the way. They’ll never find out that, like most blokes, I can be a bit of a twat.’
Phil looks up. This is something he and Wolfe have discussed before. Phil is yet to be convinced. ‘Yeah, but like, my missus, she won’t take shit from no one, especially not me. I just don’t get what you say about birds secretly wanting to be bossed about. It’s the other way round at our gaff.’
‘Jezz, this one is well fit!’ Sedge has pulled a photograph from the pile. Wolfe glances over. It is a selfie, taken in a bedroom. The girl is naked from the waist up.
‘She looks fifteen.’ Wolfe takes it and drops it in the bin. ‘If I could be bothered, I’d send it home to her parents. And we’re talking fantasy here, mate. Just about every erotic film or book going is about a young, innocent woman being dominated by a dangerous man. All women secretly long to be dominated.’ He grins to himself. ‘Especially by a bloke who’s fit and handsome. That’s why I get the letters, you Scotch pillock, and you don’t.’
‘Frigging Nora, look at the tits on this one!’ Sedge probably isn’t listening. He hands another photograph over to Phil who nods, appreciatively. ‘Hamish, mate, why don’t you get some of ’em to visit?’
‘That’s what I keep saying,’ Phil pipes up. ‘He should find one he likes the look of, write to her a few times and get a relationship going. Has to be better than just getting visits from his mum.’
‘Yeah, why not, mate? Don’t you want a woman?’
Hamish smiles to himself and glances up at the calendar on the wall. ‘Maybe I’m waiting for the right woman.’
The flower is finished. Wolfe twirls it between forefinger and thumb.
‘Nice one.’ Phil has given up watching the action on the corridor and comes back to admire the flower. ‘Want me to put it on the ledge?’
‘No thanks, mate. I’m keeping hold of this one.’
‘What is it?’
Wolfe looks down at a dozen, slim white petals, the yellow centre, and raises it to his lips. ‘It’s a daisy.’
Chapter 31
‘WHY IS YOUR HAIR BLUE?’
The child before Maggie is a girl of about six years old.
‘It’s my favourite colour,’ Maggie tells her.
‘Mine’s pink.’
‘Kelsey, don’t bovver the lady.’
Kelsey doesn’t even glance at her mother.
‘I like pink too,’ says Maggie. ‘I nearly wore my pink coat today.’
‘Why didn’t you?’
‘I don’t know, it just felt like a white coat sort of day. Do you ever have days when only one coat or one dress will do?’
Kelsey stares.
‘It won’t stay white for long in this place.’ The woman, several seats away, is in her mid thirties. Her blonde hair looks freshly dyed and her make-up better suited to a nightclub than a prison. On her lap is a baby of about eighteen months old. ‘Not seen you ’ere before. First time?’
Maggie nods. If she accepts Hamish Wolfe as a client, she’ll be entitled to legal visits, which will be more flexible, and conducted in private. Until then, she is a v
isitor like any other.
‘We come every fortnight. Costs a frigging fortune: B and B in Southampton, three of us on the ferry. Not so bad in summer, the kids get to go to the beach, but this weather it’s a bloody pain.’
‘Are you visiting your husband?’
The woman wrinkles her nose. ‘Well, not my husband, exactly. We’re not married yet. We will, when he gets out. Kids are his, both of them. We’re a proper family.’
‘Is he due home soon?’
‘Five years. If he behaves.’
‘That sounds like a long time to me. It must be difficult.’
The woman pulls up the hem of her skirt and scratches the inside of her knee. ‘Well, it’s not what you sign up for, is it? I miss the money, obviously, although it were never that regular, and I never really knew where it were coming from. Mainly, though, it’s the sex I miss. Having someone there at night. It’s hard for him, too, if you know what I mean.’
Maggie glances uneasily at the six-year-old girl. Her pale blue eyes are flicking from one woman to the other.
‘I’d move closer but I stink.’
The room smells of cleaning fluids and stale smoke. Maggie can smell perfume, instant coffee, cheap white bread. She can’t smell the woman sitting a few seats away.
‘I don’t wash when I come here. Not for four days. Five if I can stand it. My Jason likes to smell me. The real me, he says, not perfumed me.’
There is no answer to this that Maggie can think of.
‘Who you here to see, anyway?’
‘Hamish Wolfe,’ Maggie says.
Is she imagining it, or has the buzz of conversation noticeably dropped? Are more heads turning her way?
‘You ’is girlfriend?’
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