by John Macken
‘Fuck off,’ he said.
Reuben lifted his tray and changed direction, spying another empty space on a different table, this time opposite a shaven-headed inmate.
‘Not there, darlin’,’ the man growled without looking up.
Reuben paused, about to sit down regardless. Blend in, the inner voice urged. He took his tray and walked away, glancing around, aware of the scrutiny. The dining room was packed, the conversation loud, inmates seated in what looked like established groups. Reuben tried for a third time, a free chair at the end of a long table. He dropped his tray down gradually, making eye contact, attempting to appear firm but not too firm. The answer came back instantly.
‘No one sits there, fuck-face.’
Reuben hesitated, weighing the prisoner up. He was bearded and intense, but not too large. Reuben pulled the chair out and sat down, staring at the man, refusing to be messed about again.
‘Did you fucking hear me?’ the prisoner asked, his voice rising, his eyes wild.
‘Yes,’ Reuben replied, ‘I heard you.’
He picked up his fork and stabbed it into the lasagne, slicing down and dissecting it. The man slowly rose to his feet.
‘You are a dead man,’ he said.
Two other inmates at the table stood up. Reuben squinted at them. They were larger than their companion. Reuben watched them check for guards before walking round the table to him. The first, a snub-nosed man with thick black stubble, reached down and yanked the fork out of Reuben’s hand. The second, balding and sturdy, with a thin mouth and piercing blue eyes, lifted Reuben’s tray off the table.
‘You don’t sit there, new boy.’
‘No one fucking sits there.’
The two men walked over to the table Reuben was first turned away from, and dropped his fork and tray in an empty place. The tattooed prisoner moved to say something, but was dissuaded by the stares of the two men. Behind them, Reuben reluctantly stood up and headed over to his tray.
‘You sit there and eat your dinner,’ the prisoner with the black stubble instructed.
‘Then we’ll come and find you, explain a few things to you,’ his partner added, cuffing Reuben’s cheek with the palm of his hand, a mock slap used to emphasize the point.
They sauntered back the way they had come, their eyes fixed on Reuben, not letting up until they reached their food. Even then, for a few long seconds, they monitored him between mouthfuls, muttering to each other. Please, Reuben said to himself, don’t let them have recognized me. The newspaper interviews, the late-night current affairs programmes, the odd appearance in court. It was more than possible. The mission would be finished before it started.
Reuben slouched over his tray, opposite the tattooed prisoner, who stared at him with open contempt. So much for blending in. He had been in Pentonville just seven hours. It would only take one attentive soul, one bright spark, one prisoner he had come across before, and he would have to get the fuck out and quick. Forget Michael Brawn, it would become a matter of survival. He had heard the stories – everybody had. Ex-coppers in prison brought the psychos out of the woodwork. He made a stab at eating his food, which was suddenly cold and unappetizing.
3
Reuben entered the toilet block, his head down, the need acute. There was a urinal which ran along the length of the far wall. At right angles to that stood four sinks, small metal mirrors above each, and opposite the sinks was a row of flimsy formica cubicles, with walls and doors which stopped half a metre above the red-tiled floor. Reuben appreciated that privacy was not encouraged in the toilets of Pentonville.
He pushed his way into an empty cubicle and sat down, his stomach suddenly fluid, his colon spasming. Reuben had pictured this moment numerous times since leaving his laboratory in the morning, and none of them had cheered him. There was no other way to do what he needed to other than accept that it was going to be unpleasant and messy. He closed his eyes and pushed, hovering slightly off the seat, his hand in position. It hurt like hell, hard and unyielding, a sensation he wasn’t eager to prolong. He gritted his teeth and made it happen, his eyes watering, blood on the toilet paper, an acute stinging pain making him smart.
When he had finished, Reuben flushed and left the toilet. He checked that he was alone before running the hot tap and squirting some soap into the water. Then he dropped the Kinder egg in, wedging it so that it blocked the plug hole. He squirted out more soap, washed the egg and scrubbed his hands. The door opened and an Asian inmate with two pierced earlobes wandered in. Reuben picked the egg out, sure that it was clean, and took it to the towel. The prisoner watched him. Reuben kept his back to him, dried the Kinder egg and towelled his hands. He left the toilets, the egg in his pocket, one vital part of his mission accomplished.
Reuben headed for the TV lounge. Finding the prisoner he needed to track down was going to take time. It was a big place. One needle inmate in a haystack of twelve hundred miscreants. Reuben knew what he looked like, and the wing he had been assigned, but that was it. He hadn’t been in the dining room, or in any of the other areas Reuben had been able to gain access to. Now, after dinner, he was free to roam until nine p.m. That gave him almost three hours. And if there was one thing prisoners liked to do after their evening meal, he knew from experience, it was watch TV.
It was difficult to define the space as a room. Without walls, it felt more like a cage than a lounge, a metal enclosure with a concrete floor, and barred walls and ceiling. Twenty inmates were slouched on chairs, watching a TV which was mounted high in the corner. Around it, nothing but space, extending high into the atrium, suicide netting and steel walkways the only things visible for fifteen vertical metres.
Reuben skirted around the outside, careful this time to choose a seat that wouldn’t raise anyone’s interest. He was about to sit down on an orange plastic chair when the two men from the dining room entered and walked straight over to him.
‘Oh no you don’t,’ the taller man said. ‘You get to come with us.’
They steered Reuben out and down a long corridor to a room with brick walls and a rough plastered ceiling, part of the old communal area. Two inmates were in the middle of a game of table tennis. The hypnotic ricochet of the ball, from bat to table to bat and back again, was as rhythmic as a clock, the noise echoing in Reuben’s ears, his eyes darting to follow the motion. And then, in a feat of surprising speed and agility, the shorter man with the thick stubble sprang forward and caught the ball in mid-flight. The noise stopped and Reuben’s eyes came to a standstill on him.
‘Match fucking point,’ he said, stamping on the ball.
The two players glanced at each other. Then they dropped their bats and walked out. On his way to the door, the one closer to Reuben met his eye. Reuben recognized what his face was betraying. His expression said, I wouldn’t swap places with you for the world.
Reuben clenched his fists behind his back. He watched the man who had caught the ball pick up the table tennis bat and turn it over in his hands, aware that his reactions were quick and his coordination extraordinary. His colleague closed the door, and said quietly, ‘We know who you are.’
‘Got word from the outside.’
Reuben tensed himself. He had been recognized already. The men paced closer to him.
‘From now on, you do what we say.’
‘And you stay the fuck where we can see you.’
‘If you want to stay alive.’
They talked almost in unison, as if they had already rehearsed what they were going to say to him. He thought momentarily of the interview rooms at GeneCrime, where he had witnessed the same approach to countless cases, CID officers working as a team, insinuating and intimidating, a double act of interrogation.
‘You play by our rules.’
‘Or you don’t play at all.’
A cold, leaking nervousness tightened Reuben’s stomach. Fingernails dug deep into the palms of his hands, curled fists ready.
‘But, see, Mr Hobbs wasn’t very fo
rthcoming.’
‘So you tell us why you’re here.’
Understanding finally came to Reuben. He let out a long breath and slowly moved his hands to his back pockets. ‘I tried to kill my wife,’ he muttered through a disguised breath of relief, the words again feeling false and lacking substance.
‘And why should that interest Kieran Hobbs?’
‘We’re friends.’
‘You don’t look like one of his friends.’
‘I’ve been helping him with a few things.’
‘Like what?’
‘Can’t say.’
The two men, Kieran Hobbs’ associates, glanced at each other, unsure.
‘See, if we’re going to look after you—’
‘Someone tried to kill Kieran. I was able to find out who it was.’
The shorter of the two scratched his dark stubble, his eyes wide. ‘So you’re a snitch?’
‘No,’ Reuben answered. ‘I just know people. Kieran paid me to find out who sent the assassin, a man called Ethan de Groot, and I did. And he owes me the odd favour. So when I knew I might be going down—’
‘He agreed to have you minded.’ The taller prisoner softened. ‘Look, I’m Cormack. Cormack O’Connor. And that there’s Damian Nightley.’
Damian managed a brief half smile before saying, ‘But look, see, if we’re going to mind you, you’re going to have to do a fuck of a lot better than you did at dinner. The last guy you sat down opposite, you want to stay well away from. If Boucher comes looking for you, we ain’t going to be able to help.’
‘Aiden Boucher?’ Reuben asked.
‘You know him?’
‘I’ve heard of him.’
Reuben cut to a large wooden lecture theatre a few years earlier, packed with an attentive audience of police and CID. Slides flicked on to the screen, showing the face of Aiden Boucher from different angles, clean shaven and looking younger than he had in the dining room. DI Charlie Baker had been standing at the lectern, briefing CID on Boucher’s possible involvement in the murders of four homeless men. What had stuck with Reuben about the talk was the way Charlie had directed his laser pointer, hovering on the pupils of the projected face, which made it look like there was a demonic fire in Aiden Boucher’s eyes.
Cormack cleared his throat. ‘So you keep yourself to yourself, and don’t step on anybody’s toes.’
‘Especially not psychos like Boucher,’ Damian added.
‘And we’ll look out for you.’ Cormack stepped away from the table-tennis table and opened the door. ‘We can’t protect you from everyone, but you’ll be OK if you stick close to us.’
Reuben walked out, following Damian and Cormack, suddenly feeling immune and protected among twelve hundred restless criminals, most of whom would see an ex- copper as fair game.
4
The green phone card had the letters HMP stamped deep in black across its middle, indented, almost branded. Reuben pushed it into the slot, a process that the mobile phone had made almost obsolete, outside prison at least. He dialled from memory, slouched over so that his head was almost covered by the scratched metal hood which guarded each of the telephones in the row. The hood reminded Reuben of the imitation of privacy which Pentonville sought to encourage. Like the flimsy cubicles in the Gents, the barely partitioned toilet in the cell and the walls made of bars rather than brick. Designed to make you feel there was seclusion when really that was the last thing the prison wanted.
The call was answered swiftly with the words, ‘DCI Sarah Hirst, Metropolitan CID.’
‘You OK to talk?’ Reuben asked.
‘Sure.’ The sound of a door being slammed. ‘Any signs of Michael Brawn yet?’
‘’Fraid not.’
‘Has anyone twigged?’
‘I thought they had, that I’d been recognized. But no, so far so quiet.’
Sarah was silent for a second. ‘Good,’ she said eventually. ‘So, what’s it like?’
Reuben glanced out of his hood. A short queue of tracksuited prisoners were chatting and fidgeting, waiting their turn. The other three phones were occupied by inmates, similarly slouched over, all trying to muster some privacy for their words to loved ones, or lawyers, or associates. ‘Not great,’ he said quietly, acutely aware of the need not to be overheard. ‘Fair share of psychos here, one or two of whom we’ve put away. Aiden Boucher, for example. Almost ended up being his fifth victim.’
‘Jeez. Nasty piece of work.’
Reuben cupped the end of the receiver with his palm and continued to talk as quietly as he could. ‘It’s going to be a long week, but I’ll survive. Just got to find a way of taking a DNA sample from Brawn that is one hundred per cent dependable.’
‘Any ideas how?’
‘I’ll have to wait and see. Not sure how close I can get to him yet.’
‘Don’t get how you’re going to do it without him noticing.’
‘Nor me. But the good news is Kieran Hobbs has two of his men keeping an eye on me. Cormack O’Connor and Damian Nightley.’
‘I’ll look them up,’ Sarah answered, ‘see what they’re in for and whether you can trust them.’
Reuben heard the scratch of pen on paper, and heard Sarah whispering their names under her breath while she jotted them down.
‘Thanks,’ he said. ‘I’ll call you back later.’
‘When you’ve nailed Brawn, go see the governor. I’ve spoken to him and he knows the score.’
‘Who else is in on this?’
‘That’s about it. You, me and the governor makes three. And Moray and Judith of course. That quiet enough for you?’
‘Any quieter and they’d need radar to detect us. Thanks.’
‘Then the governor will get you transferred back to the same courthouse, and I’ll pick you up from there. And, Reuben?’
‘Yes?’
‘Don’t take any unnecessary risks.’
Reuben smiled. ‘Don’t worry, I won’t.’
He scanned the corridor again quickly. And then he saw him. Coming his way. ‘Shit,’ he said.
‘What?’
‘Got to go.’
A tall, lean man was picking up the next phone along as the previous caller headed off. Reuben replaced his receiver. The man had his back to him. He was slightly taller than Reuben, his hair jet black and neat, his wide shoulders hunched, his sweatshirt pulled up to reveal his forearms. His face in a dozen different arrest photos. Obvious and unmistakable.
Michael Brawn, in the flesh.
Reuben picked the receiver back up and pretended to dial another number, frantically wondering what to do, all the time straining to hear what Brawn was saying. He faced him slightly, watching his jaw move, unable to see his features but catching fragments of his conversation: ‘The last Friday. October. The third of the fourth. May.’ Reuben pulled out a small address book and quickly started to scribble down the words. Brawn’s accent was Mancunian with hard vowels and, almost hidden among them, rounded London consonants.
‘Saturday the eighth,’ he continued, ‘the first of the first—’
‘Oi! Virgin! One fucking call, man.’
Reuben half turned, continuing to record Michael Brawn’s words while pretending to talk. A couple of prisoners were glaring at him.
‘Hang the fuck up, or I’ll do it for you,’ the closest to him said.
‘The penultimate Monday. Ash Wednesday . . .’
Reuben inscribed the last few words. ‘Cunt-face! Put the fucking phone down now!’
Reuben paused, weighing up his options. The second prisoner was twitching, his teeth bared. He flashed back to Stevo’s training, seeing the punches, the kicks, the actions of defence and attack. And then the mantra returned: blend in. Reuben replaced the phone.
Without looking back, he walked away, past Michael Brawn and past the scratched metal hoods of the phones, and loitered at the end of the corridor, where it gave way to a communal space dominated by a pool table. Two inmates were playing, lost in the shot one
of them was taking. Reuben watched for a second, sensing the seriousness of the game, excited that he had encountered Michael Brawn on only his second day, wondering how the hell he was going to DNA-test him.
Moments later, Brawn strode past him, turned right down an adjacent hallway and disappeared. Reuben waited a second, fingering the address book in his pocket, full of days and months from Michael Brawn’s mouth.
Then he turned the corner and followed him.
5
The TV room was packed with eager prisoners, forty or fifty of them, standing and sitting. On the screen, twenty-two football players were arranged around the circumference of the centre circle, their heads bowed, wearing black armbands, observing two long minutes of silence. The TV room was hushed as well – a rare moment of reverence. Reuben had now learned which block Michael Brawn was housed in, which floor and which corridor. The exact cell, though, had been difficult to narrow down. Reuben had lost him behind a closed set of doors, but he knew he was confined to one of twelve potentials. Although Reuben had loitered in the vicinity on three separate occasions during the day, Brawn had remained firmly ensconced in his room, blank metal doors hiding him from view.
Until now. At the very front, and towards the right, Michael Brawn was sitting bolt upright on a blue plastic chair. As the two minutes’ silence ground on undisturbed, Reuben, standing to the side and slightly behind Michael Brawn, observed him for a few seconds. He was inanimate, statue-like, straight and erect. His skin shone white, blue veins bulging below the surface. He pulled deeply on a skinny roll-up every few seconds. And then, with no warning at all, he jumped to his feet and screamed ‘Cockney wankers!’ at the television. In Reuben’s peripheral vision, he saw hardened lags glance at one another. Others stared at Brawn with obvious hatred. The organized silence continued to hang in the heavy smoke-laden air.
Then, near the back, another shout erupted from a thick-necked prisoner with a shaven head. ‘Shut it, Brawn,’ he said.
Michael Brawn swivelled to face him. ‘John fucking Ruddock,’ he said with a smirk. ‘Why don’t you come here and make me?’