Ben Bracken: Origins (Ben Bracken Books 1 - 5)

by Robert Parker

  The door is opened for them, and the dense din of the prison ecology wafts out immediately, an airborne audio mulch that clangs towards the approaching men. They cross through the doorway, and survey the scene. About 35 inmates sit dotted across 10 rows of tables, little groups of men already formed rows apart. Recreation time is staggered to allow for smaller groups of 30-40 inmates to circulate, with a different mix everyday. Ben thinks it is actually quite sensible - it’s theory is to stop resentment boiling and frictions emerging. It would work perfectly, if it weren’t for the fact that the staff are too wrapped up in their own thing, drunk on their own power, to really commit to the planning of a system that would appear unpredictable to the inmates. Everyone has worked it out long before today. Factions have emerged and bonded, and they know what days and sessions they will see each other again. It’s become as organized and as routine-friendly as weekly village book club get togethers.

  But it has all helped in Ben’s planning. He had committed to memory this routine, which allowed for him to plan so carefully. It allows him to do little things like exactly that which he is doing right now, as he walks through the door - he glances over to the right far wall, where the quiet bleeders and readers sit. They are named as such thanks to the similarities between two groups: those that sit quietly and hope that the prison experience passes them by without too much incident and horror, and those that adopt a fashion just as quiet, but sneak along using anything and everything they can to swim along easier. They latch themselves on to all the other groups in the prison, like a parasitic barnacle on the belly of much bigger sea dwellers, trying to eke what they can from the relationship. It hacks off most, and they are more often kicked back. The readers never protest, so the bleeders use them as a hub. Just another example of inner-prison politics.

  Maddock is a bleeder, and was very happy to make the acquaintance of Ben, the enigmatic soldier turned murderer. Ben encouraged their contact for one solitary purpose - for his ability to do something special. Maddock, behind the scenes, could get things in and out of the prison, with particular success at the latter. And if Ben is to succeed today, he needs to get something out. He dropped the package with Maddock two days previously, in another supposed random cobbling together of inmates in the prison gym. Ben took an extra large wash-bag to the weight-room that day. The deal to process the bag out had already been sealed, thanks to Ben’s negotiation powers regarding prison commodities. Certain things are currency inside the walls, where money still has power but not as much power as cigarettes, sex or food. Ben didn’t have any of the first two to give up, but thanks to Ben’s various volunteering jobs around the prison, viable to him thanks to his spotless behavior, he did have some rather sought-after Green and Black’s Dark Chocolate that had been found in a handbag left in the ‘lost and found’ bin after someone’s conjugal visit. It seems the present was forgotten about, more pressing matters at hand. As Ben glances over to the group, as he and Craggs head to the coffee dispensers stationed on the far wall, Maddock catches Ben’s eye and nods cheerfully - and Ben now knows the bag, and it’s vital contents, are out of the prison away to somewhere they can really mean something.

  The bag’s displacement from prison doesn’t mean that they can’t turn back now, but it does mean that if Craggs does what he so incessantly asserts he can and will, Ben’s plan is well in it’s way to a successful outcome. But the very placement of Craggs deed is very important, as is who and what witnesses it. Namely, the cameras.

  Ben pours himself a coffee, deliberately not offering one to Craggs, who still sticks by his side. Ben is reluctant to give caffeine to Craggs, and jitter the jitters further. Showing a wherewithal Ben didn’t expect, Craggs senses this, and turns to face the various groups in the room. Ben pours the coffee, hoping it’s caffeine kick will be the one last twist of the pencil sharpener before the big exam, sending him into the oncoming events in the best possible fashion. Ben feels ready, no doubt, and as he sips the ascetic sludge he glances skywards - to give the cctv one last check over.

  The room is covered by three cameras, wide over each of the three entrances to the room. Ben had guessed largely at the viewing angle covered by each unit, and had worked out one pocket of dead space lodged in the back right corner of the room - directly under one camera, just out of the gaze of the other two. Austerity measures again, thinks Ben - the prison’s enforced cheapness giving jigsaw pieces for his plan. He unhurriedly gravitates them both into the hidden corner, and leans against the wall, facing the hall.

  ‘It has to be in this corner,’ says Ben quietly to Craggs. ‘Like we discussed.’

  ‘I’m not a dummy,’ Craggs responds sulkily.

  ‘Then no excuses for fucking up’ Ben hits back. ‘Is he here yet?’

  ‘Not yet.’

  ‘Keep an eye out.’

  Craggs fidgets, rubbing his eye nervously. Ben worries he might take his own eye out with the secret shank if he’s not careful, which would certainly put the mockers on things.

  Ben too is waiting for someone to arrive, and he scans the rafters diligently. It’s a figure he sees every day, and who’s impact is always felt. It’s someone he has spoken to on only a handful of incidents, but who always leaves an impression. It’s an impression of irrepressible smugness, sheer intoxication of his standing and rancid arrogance. A fat man, who always seems levered into suits too small, making it look like he is much more overweight that he actually is - Harry Tawtridge, Chief Warden. He is a man that Ben has seen abuse his position more than anybody else in Strangeways, on each conceivable level. He has stolen money and possessions from inmates, instigated beatings on which to gamble among the guards, paid for silence when things have gotten beyond him, dished out punishments with scant regard for rhyme, reason or consistency. Ben has always despised the actual physical things Tawtridge has done, but it’s his overall personality and attitude which Ben finds deplorable and serves to crystallize how repugnant he is. He once told an inmate that he looks forward to his family visiting so he can get a look at the inmate’s 14 year old daughter, who he described as ‘ripening’. He made an inmate dance a striptease on a dining table for vital asthma medication. It turns Ben’s stomach.

  Tawtridge dwells on the rafters above, on a high platform overlooking his kingdom, while the guards stand on a gangway lower, keeping eager watch.

  ‘He’s here’ whispers Craggs, breaking Ben’s train of thought. Ben tries not to take too much notice, but he needs to get a fix on Quince - the hapless bastard who’s day will come to an abrupt end.

  3

  Through the same door that Ben and Craggs had arrived, saunters a man so average he almost fades into ignominy as he walks. He arrives with little physical fanfare, and his appearance matches perfectly the lack of fireworks. Short hair, clean shaven, not ugly but not a dish, just... nondescript. He could be a pedestrian in Grand Theft Auto - there to flesh out the background, to add depth to the scene, but ultimately pointless. And exactly like in GTA, immediately susceptible to a sticky end.

  Ben feels that Craggs has stiffened next to him, coiled tight with the morbid electricity of the deed that is to come.

  ‘Take a breath,’ Ben whispers. ‘Keep lucid’.

  ‘Don’t tell me to keep lucid. I’m gonna slice this prick.’

  ‘We need to wait. Beckon him over in a moment, get him in position. You’ll know when it’s time.’

  ‘Why can’t I just stick him now?’

  Ben had his own reasons why that could’t be the case, but to divulge them would let too much of the cat out of the bag and strip Craggs of his big moment - because it will also be Ben’s big chance, if it goes right. Civility is also important - they need to make it look like everyone is on good terms until the deed itself.

  ‘Because,’ Ben explains, ‘you need to get away with it, don’t you. I don’t care what a murder charge would do to your street cred, but you need to give the powers that be a fragment of doubt. That starts with the guards not seeing
it, and the videos missing it.’

  Craggs thinks about this for a moment, the gears near-visibly whirring. ‘Yeah’, he simply says. His right hand stays wedged firmly into his pocket. Good, thinks Ben - he can now focus on the next part of his plan, so he walks into the main body of the room and takes a seat at an empty table. Once there he looks over at Quince, just as a flicker of light high in his peripheral vision makes him look skywards. Silhouetted by a garish halogen bulb, a round and angular shape that can only be attributed to a large man in a suit. Tawtridge.

  No time like the present. Immediately, Ben strokes his chin - the signal to Craggs that it’s OK to proceed.

  Craggs takes a deep breath, and waves animatedly in Quince’s direction. This does precisely nothing, and Quince keeps perusing for a seat.

  Craggs lifts his fingers to his mouth, and whistles loudly. This causes a few heads to turn, and the volume in the room to dip a touch. Quince himself looks over, finally, to which Craggs makes a beckoning gesture with his hand.

  Quince looks surprised, as if to say ‘me?’ and Craggs gives him an easy thumbs up - what could possibly go wrong? Ben is mentally checking off the progress, and everything is ticked off so far.

  Quince makes his way through the throng, leaving a small wave of faces turning to the corner. Last thing for Ben to check is another plant in the crowd - so he glances 10 feet from the corner, at the nearest reinforced door to the hall. It’s clear, as it should be, and sitting at the nearest inconspicuous seat, staring at Ben with simmering intent, is the big, round, eager face of Hopkins. Hopkins has been there 4 years, and it’s been four years too many - and everyone knows it. It is the single worst kept secret inside the prison walls. He tells everyone his desire to escape, wardens, inmates, cooks, cleaners, whoever. He’s still got 7 to go. He is in Ben’s eyes, simply put, just too dense to attempt anything - like so many, all mouth, no trousers.

  So, on this occasion, Ben has given him the trousers if he has the balls to wear them. He whispered it to him in the lunch line on Tuesday just gone. For a couple of seconds, on Thursday’s afternoon rec room session, the door by the back left corner will be open for a couple of seconds. If he wants to have a go at getting out, he’ll never have a better opportunity. He just has to man up and take it. And here he is, sitting like a loyal bloodhound waiting to fulfill his destiny. Ben nods so slightly to him that it barely appears as a movement - more of a ghost of a nod. Hopkins reads it loud and clear, and waits.

  Quince gets nearer, only fifteen feet now.

  Ben knows it is go time. All the pieces are in place. As Quince arrives in the corner, Ben faces the people who are still watching the corner. Out of nowhere, almost surprising to Ben despite his knowledge of Craggs’ intentions, the quiet is punctuated by a series of thuds, the shriek of a stricken man, and the faces in front of him turning to grim surprise. He assumes that Craggs has done what he asserted so many times he would, and the next thing he sees is Craggs himself walking calmly across the room, back in full view.

  The bare horror of this brutal moment, stripped of the usual uproar of a sudden violent attack, shocks Ben - the sheer blunt ugliness of it. For the first time, Ben feels guilty.

  A moment passes of crystal near-silence. Nobody moves. Nobody dares breathe. All that can be heard is the soft footsteps of Craggs walking across the middle of the floor, and the odd scrape and rustle coming from Quince’s direction. The fact that Quince is not making any vocal sounds suggests to Ben that Craggs must have got him pretty good. The snapshot of time seems to last forever as Ben waits...

  And then it happens. A loud siren echoes from what sounds like deep in the earth below the prison, like the distant alarm over London during the Blitz. Then follows shouting from above.

  ‘Nobody move!’ a guard shouts, but Ben can’t see where it came from. He looks up, to try to get a fix on Tawtridge, but now he can’t see him in the lofty shadows. ‘Everybody stay where you are!’ another voice bellows.

  The quiet returns, and everyone sits stock still. Quince has stopped scratching about in the corner, and Craggs has found a seat, both hands on the table in front of him, a crooked, smug smile on his face below narrowed eyes. Ben feels like shaking his head at the sight of that, and can only look at him as a poor deluded misguided little shit. Then Ben remembers that he must take responsibility for some of the misguidance, so he backs off on the thought a touch.

  The door by the corner bursts open, and guards storm in. The first four run to the grounded Quince, and more pour in. Hopkins glances at Ben, in urgent need of approval, and Ben gives him one last push with a nod. Three more guards enter, making a grand total of six inside the rec room, and as the door is swinging shut behind what seems to be the last guard to enter the scene, Hopkins leaps to his feet and barrels at the door as fast as he can.

  He makes it, just, and is into the corridor beyond. And this sparks utter pandemonium.

  A second inmate, in seeing someone make a break for it, can’t resist temptation, and makes a break for it also. Human nature takes over, that fear of being left out, and that, combined with the exposed opportunity to attempt escape through a quickly closing door, proves to much for others, and the door is bombarded with almost ten other inmates who follow.

  The guards leap into action, swinging with batons - forgetting Quince, who is well into shock and on his way to a death. The batons connect with prisoners, as the guards try to keep the guards back from the door, but they can’t stop an initial wave of perhaps four getting through. More and more prisoners are on their feet now, enraged by the sight of their fellow inmates copping a beating.

  So far, so good for Ben, as a violent melee breaks out, and the situation is quickly ascending into an all out riot. Ben remains seated, as chairs squeak all around him as more and more prisoners get to their feet, and the skirmish between guards and inmates escalates with every shout and every crunching baton blow.

  Ben waits, but he can’t wait long - more guards are surely en route. He watches the door, and bides his time, the commotion gathering, punches flying, fifteen inmates against six guards... when Ben spots his opening. The door is open, wide and clear. He sprints for his own freedom.

  4

  Ben runs, dodging deftly two other prisoners who head for the fray, and others that had the same idea as him. As Ben gets to the door, he is one of three who get there at the same time, and he is jostling for position with two other blokes eager for that taste of freedom. In front is a stairwell landing, with two options - go up or down.

  ‘Down is out guys’, says Ben, ‘Go for it’. Without hesitation, they do. Ben gives them a split second to make a start, then he jogs up the flight of stairs, completely opposite to his fellow escapees. He ascends one floor, then two, then three. He pauses, to catch his breath for a second, then approaches the door at the right of this elevated landing. Through the window and the wire grating of the door, he can see Tawtridge standing high on a gantry surrounded by lights, overlooking the rec hall. He has one hand on his head, the other in his mouth chewing his nails. His body on edge like a cat, he looks down anxiously.

  Ben knows that the door should be locked, and he tries it anyway - and to his damn-near joy, he finds it open. Tawtridge’s feeling of invincibility has led him down a dangerously lazy path, and Ben feels Tawtridge is extremely lucky that it was Ben himself who found him and nobody else. He opens the door, and at once the sound of the cavernous space above the riot fills his ears. Yelping, clattering, shattering, clamouring. The sound of brutality and flight. Above the commotion, Tawtridge doesn’t hear Ben’s arrival.

  ‘Chief Warden’ shouts Ben.

  Tawtridge spins around, sweat flicking from his face as he moves. He looks like hell - a picture definition of the ‘stuck pig’ metaphor, if ever there was one. He looks scared by Ben’s presence, as if his moment has finally come.

  ‘It’s OK, Chief Warden,’ Ben soothes but with urgency, ‘But we need to go now.’

  Tawtridge stands and
processes this. Distrust oozes from him, and wrought indecision.

  ‘I’m not here for trouble - I’m here to do my time, better myself and go home. And I feel that getting you to safety is the right thing to do.’

  No movement from Tawtridge, but glass shattering from below punctures and clatters up to them.

  ‘I am a soldier. You know this about me. I am bound by a sense of duty, it’s what got me here in the first place. Duty says I need to get my commanding officer to safety, and in this scenario, that’s you. But we need to go now.’

  That works - Tawtridge is moving to Ben, a shuffle at first but then quicker steps. In a moment, they are back in the stairwell.

  ‘Your office is reinforced? With a panic button?’ Ben asks.

  ‘Yes’ replies Tawtridge.

  ‘We need the quickest way there that does not go down. I don’t want anyone to see you.’

  ‘We need to go, up... and across, over the rec hall.’ Tawtridge stutters and fumbles his words weakly.

  ‘Then lead the way. I’ll get you there. And run.’

  And with that, they run up the next flight of stairs, clanging as they go. Ben glances down the gap through the middle of the stairwell, and sees hands grasping the bannister as they rise.

  ‘They are coming Chief Warden. Keep moving.’

  At the next metal landing, there are a number of openings, down which one could travel, but the central opening straight ahead is the widest, and it is the one that Tawtridge heads for. Behind Ben, there is a the familiar steel-tinged thudding of footsteps on the stairs below, echoing up the spine of the stairwell. This could well put things in jeopardy if they are sighted.

  ‘Faster’ he commands.

  Tawtridge ups from nervous jog to an all out free-wheeling sprint. Ben keeps pace with him, while glancing back often at the increasingly smaller entrance at the far end of the corridor. Nothing there yet, but it can’t be long.