Slammer

Slammer Page 11

by Allan Guthrie

  *

  'Why are you dressed?' Lorna said when she got back.

  'Couldn't sleep.' He'd loaded the gun again the minute Watt left. Slid the magazine back into the grip. Racked the slide to load a bullet into the chamber. Flicked the safety on. Tucked the gun in the back of his waistband.

  While he waited for Lorna, he checked his stash in the garage. Watt had left it alone, like he'd said. He was full of surprises. Glass popped a couple of bennies. Needed to be awake now. Needed to think about what had happened and what he was going to do about it. He had to make them stop.

  He wanted to tell Lorna everything, but he knew if he did, she'd leave with Caitlin. He couldn't go with her, give everything up, let Watt win. And he couldn't face life here on his own. She'd get back with David. Glass would be fucked. Some other bastard would bring up his child.

  He'd come to a decision.

  He'd tried to shoot Watt once. Next time he'd make sure the gun was loaded.

  First step was to find out where the fucker lived.

  'Everything okay?' Lorna asked.

  'Yeah.'

  'Then why are you crying?'

  She put her arms around him and the warmth and shape of her reminded him how good things used to be.

  *

  Glass had thought about hiding the gun again before heading off to work, but where was he going to put it? Couldn't leave it in the usual place for Watt to find again. He finally decided to put it in the glove compartment of the car. For now, at least, till he could think of somewhere better. During the drive, he thought about relocating his stash too, but decided that if Watt had wanted to nick it, he'd have done so already. Glass had never seen Watt so much as take a drag of a joint at Mad Will's. Seemed totally disinterested. Maybe it interfered with the porn. Or maybe he was a recovering junkie.

  After he'd parked and started the walk towards the gatehouse, Glass almost turned back to the car. He'd love to take the gun into the Hilton with him, blast the fuck out of Caesar and Horse. Problem solved. Well, partly. There would still be Watt to deal with. But the problem would be reduced, at least. Course, he'd never get the gun through the metal detector.

  He walked on, unarmed.

  Inside, Crogan was on duty alone, looking bored. But as Glass approached, his face grew more and more animated until he looked as if someone was standing on his toes.

  Glass said, 'Something the matter?'

  'Some people want to see you. Shaw's office.'

  'Who?' Some people wanted to see him? This time of night? That didn't sound good.

  'I'll let them know you're here.' Crogan turned and picked up the phone.

  *

  In S.O. Shaw's office, Shaw said, 'It's what they call a blanket party.'

  'Never heard of it,' Glass said.

  He looked at the pair of suits sitting next to Shaw, chairs pulled at an angle round the desk. One of them looked about fifty and was taking delicate little puffs on a Meerschaum pipe. The other was twenty-five years younger, continually scanning the room as if he expected a lorry to come crashing through one of the walls any minute just so he could say, 'I knew that was going to happen.'

  They'd introduced themselves when Glass stepped into the office: Detective Sergeant Fitch and Detective Constable Richmond. Said they just wanted a little chat. So far, though, they hadn't said anything, let Shaw do the talking.

  There was a small package on the desk. Wrapped in gold paper. Exactly the kind of paper Watt used when handing Caesar's drugs over to Glass.

  'No,' Shaw said, glancing at the detectives. 'Fortunately blanket parties don't happen too often.'

  'So what happened?' Glass said. 'And' — looking at the cops — 'why do you guys need to speak to me?'

  'No need to get defensive.'

  'I'm not.' He wasn't. But he hadn't slept much and it was hardly surprising he'd be a little irritable. He'd have to be careful how he responded. He needed to find out what a blanket party was, and what he had to do with it.

  And why these policemen wanted to speak to him. And what was in that package on the desk.

  Fuck it. He needed to calm down. He shrugged. Hoped he looked the picture of nonchalance. He breathed in a lungful of smoke and coughed. Hoped his sore eyes weren't going to start watering. That was all he needed.

  Shaw continued: 'Fox is in hospital.'

  Glass's first thought was that maybe Fox had been struck by a virus. A particularly nasty one, of course, to have hospitalised him. Or maybe he had appendicitis. Or kidney stones. Something like that. But then he realised that Shaw wouldn't be talking in quite this manner if it was something so straightforward. And the police wouldn't be here either.

  Shaw said, 'He was beaten up.'

  A moment of elation, Glass thinking, just what the bastard deserves. He had to hold a smile in check. 'When?' he asked.

  'This afternoon,' Shaw said. 'By some of the inmates.'

  'Who?'

  Shaw shrugged. 'We don't know. A blanket party. What they do, they sneak up on the victim and cover his head with a blanket. Somebody holds it there while the rest of them — pardon my French — beat the shit out of him. The victim has no idea who his attackers are. He can't rat on them afterwards.'

  'What about the cameras?'

  'Fuckers picked the right day.' Shaw looked pained. 'Cameras were off.'

  'Oops,' Glass said. 'So you've no idea who might have done it?'

  'Course I do,' Shaw said.

  'But that's speculation,' D.S. Fitch said.

  Glass coughed again, cleared his throat. 'Is Fox very badly hurt?'

  'Bad enough,' Shaw said. 'Broken ribs. Broken wrist. Lots of bruising. Lost some blood. But he'll live.'

  Shaw stared Glass in the eye for so long that Glass had to look away.

  'How do you feel about that?' Richmond said.

  'Glad he's going to make it, of course,' Glass said.

  'Of course,' Fitch said. He moved his pipe into the corner of his mouth. Placed both hands on the package on the desk.

  Glass's face flushed. The temperature in the room seemed to have cranked up several notches.

  Fitch turned the package to face Glass. Someone had written on the outside: For The Atenshun Of Nick Glass.

  'This was found in Officer Fox's pocket after the attack,' Fitch said. 'We've already taken the liberty of opening it.'

  Glass saw that the outside packaging was loose. He knew they'd been waiting for him to look inside. He felt uncomfortable about doing so, though.

  He reached forward, picked the package up, hands shaky. He hoped they didn't notice. The gold paper came away easily enough. It had been loosely wrapped around a wadding of bubble wrap. Inside the bubble wrap was something Glass recognised right away.

  But he had to carry on. He found the end of the wrap and unrolled it. Peeled the cassette tape out of the packaging. Turned it over. Pretended to examine it. Laid it on the table.

  Then he tucked his hands under the desk, linked his fingers together and squeezed. Looked up at Shaw, but Shaw wasn't paying attention to what he was doing. Shaw was looking at his face, trying to fathom what he was thinking.

  The cops were staring at him too.

  Glass wasn't sure what to think. Or what to say.

  He looked at the desk again, at the cassette tape lying there. Jesus, his face was hot. 'What's …' His throat was dry. He started again, 'What's on the tape?'

  'The parcel's addressed to you,' Fitch said. 'So I wonder if you'd like to guess.'

  Glass shook his head hard. 'Shouldn't you be having that … thing … analysed?'

  'You think?' Fitch said. 'Dust it for prints and all that? I thought I'd just take it home and record over it.'

  Took Glass a second to realise Fitch had made a joke. He didn't laugh. 'S.O. Shaw said he had an idea who was behind this. You should pursue that line of enquiry.'

  Fitch looked at Richmond. Nodded. 'Pursue that line of enquiry. Hmmm. What do you think, Constable?'

  'Hard to prove,
' Richmond said.

  'That's not the point,' Glass said. 'You can't let these guys away with it.'

  'What guys?' Fitch said.

  'Whoever it is you think did it.'

  'Did what?'

  'Beat up Fox.'

  'What about the tape?'

  'What about it?'

  'Good question,' Richmond said.

  And right away Fitch said, 'What if we think it was you?'

  Glass stared at him. Then looked at Shaw, who looked down at his lap. What the fuck had the bastard said? What if they thought it was him on the tape? They recognised his voice? Well, they would. That was the whole point.

  Shaw straightened up and nodded. 'Officer Glass, it's no secret that you and Officer Fox don't get on too well.'

  'I wouldn't say that,' Glass said.

  'Well, I would. And it's not hard to back up. Want me to cite incidents?'

  Richmond said, 'We know about the kitten.'

  Jesus Christ. Glass said, 'It wasn't mine.'

  'Taking Headcase Harris out for exercise,' Fitch said. 'Him all covered in excrement. Must have made you feel terrible.'

  They'd done their homework all right. Probably not that hard. Shaw wouldn't take much persuasion to blab. 'Yeah, I can see how you might think I was provoked,' Glass said. 'I don't like Fox. That's no secret. But I didn't arrange to have him beaten up. That's the truth.'

  'That right?' Fitch dipped into his jacket pocket and his hand reappeared with a piece of folded paper. He made a big show of unfolding it. 'This came with the package.' He gave it to Glass. 'Take a look.'

  The note read: Job done. Fox on the run! Hope u & ur luvd ones r well, watt?

  Caesar. If there was any trace of doubt in Glass's mind, it was gone now. He swallowed. 'What's on the tape?'

  'A pop song. Pro-drugs, apparently. 'Ebeneezer Goode'?'

  Glass breathed deeply.

  'Maybe there's a message there,' Fitch said. 'For you.'

  'It's a set-up,' Glass said. 'If I had arranged this blanket party, I would have told the fuckers not to contact me. And I'd specifically have said not to leave a package addressed to me with a stupid note in it and a shite pop song. You can't take this seriously.'

  'Can't we?' Richmond said.

  'No,' Glass said. 'Only an imbecile would think I was involved.'

  'Well,' Richmond said, 'lucky for us we don't.'

  Now that he knew the tape wasn't the one he'd feared, Glass was all set to carry on being angry, but Richmond's comment stopped him short.

  'It's transparent, as you say,' Fitch said. 'Somebody wanted to drop you in it, so they concocted this afternoon's little scenario. Just for you.'

  'Looks that way,' Glass mumbled.

  'What I want to know,' Fitch said, 'is why.'

  Glass felt his lower jaw clench. He said nothing. Wondered if the policemen saw the veiled threat in Caesar's note. Probably not. It was hard to figure out how an outsider might read those words: Hope u & ur luvd ones r well, watt?

  But Glass knew exactly what it meant. He supposed Caesar thought that was a clever piece of misspelling.

  'Why this particular "shite pop song"?' Fitch carried on. 'Do you know something about drugs and this prison?'

  Maybe he should tell the police. Here they were. He could tell them. Get it all over and done with.

  But what was the penalty for bringing drugs into a prison? Illegal possession of a firearm? Jesus, no, he couldn't tell them. It was too late for that. He had to take responsibility for himself. His actions had got him to this point. His actions would have to get him out of it.

  Glass shook his head.

  Fitch said, 'Well, if you don't know why, then I'd settle for who.'

  'Someone who can write,' Shaw said. 'Which eliminates two-thirds of the prison population.'

  Glass got up. 'I've no idea.'

  'And you really don't have any idea why someone would send you this?' Richmond said.

  Glass stuck his hand in his pocket. 'These people, they're hard to understand. I don't know why anyone would slit someone's throat and fuck them to death. Or what motivates someone to cut a guy's head off and play football with it on the street. No, I've no idea what provoked this. Maybe I looked at someone the wrong way. Or I'm too tall. Or too small. Or my hair's too long. Or short. Or curly. Or I have a stupid name. Or—'

  'I get the picture.' Fitch sighed. 'We may need to speak to you again, Officer Glass.'

  'You know where to find me,' Glass said. 'Mind if I get to work?'

  *

  Crogan walked into the locker room, in civvies. 'How'd it go?'

  Glass said, 'Shouldn't you have gone home by now?'

  'Wanted to catch you. Find out what happened. See if you were okay.' He grinned. 'Okay, I'm just a nosey bugger.'

  Crogan was more than that. He wasn't exactly a bosom buddy, but he'd always been friendly. And that was such a rarity in the Hilton that Glass took a chance.

  'I need a favour,' he said.

  Crogan rubbed his chin with his thumb. 'From me?'

  'It's to do with Caesar.'

  Crogan stopped rubbing his chin. 'Keep talking.'

  *

  During the night, Glass pegged in every half hour, like he was supposed to, walking up and down the corridors, checking that everything was okay.

  It was. Apart from Caesar. His cell alarm went off, again and again and again.

  Glass ignored it. Caesar could make an official complaint in the morning. Glass didn't think he would, though.

  All Caesar wanted was to talk to Glass, see if he was suitably scared now, scared enough to take part in the escape plan. But Glass wasn't scared at all. Not any more.

  He had a plan of his own. Just the thought of it was giving him a major buzz. Felt just like a cocaine rush.

  Caesar had controlled Glass's life for far too long.

  TUESDAY

  When Glass woke up, it was with a shout. His finger felt as if someone had grated it down to the bone, and set it alight. It throbbed and burned like no pain he'd felt before. He lay in bed wondering what kind of hell he'd fallen into.

  He threw back the quilt and raised his hand. His right index finger was gone. Well, most of it. There was a stump attached to the knuckle, a bandage over it, spotted with blood. After the shock passed, he tried to remember what had happened.

  He remembered driving home from the Hilton. The last thing he remembered was pulling up outside. After that, nothing.

  He called for Lorna. She didn't come so he called again. Maybe she was out. Then he remembered something. She'd been packing. He remembered seeing her suitcase. He thought maybe she said she was going to her mother's with Caitlin. She'd left him? Then what? He'd taken a bucketload of pills and had a horrible accident?

  His gun was on the bedside table. Maybe Lorna'd found it, got pissed off with him for not getting rid of it like he'd promised. A couple of blister packs of pills lay on the table too. And a handwritten note. Wasn't Lorna's writing, though. It read: OXYs. Powerful painkiller. Take one every four hours.

  Half of one pack was gone. He squeezed out another pill with his left hand until it poked through the foil, grabbed it between his teeth. Swallowed. Did the same again.

  He stared at his hand, trying to will his finger back where it belonged. Maybe there was something wrong with his eyes. He looked at his other hand and all his fingers were there.

  He ought to remember losing his finger, for Christ's sake. He stuck his hand back under the quilt, out of sight, tried to think who might have left the note.

  When he did get up, he was none the wiser.

  He kicked something on his way out of the bedroom. One of Caitlin's tumblers. He bent down to pick it up. Smelled sour milk and something meaty, saw the carpet stained red. Noticed the walls, pink patches against the magnolia. Looked like he'd cut his finger there and tried to clean up the mess.

  He needed to examine his finger, see the extent of the damage.

  In the bathroom, he removed
the bandage, his hand shaking. He glanced at the stump, saw the charred flesh, the bone sliced through, and vomited into the sink. Nothing but frothy liquid and the two pink and beige capsules. He kept vomiting till there was nothing left in his stomach. Even then, he carried on, shivering as bile forced its way up his gullet and out his mouth. Eyes watering, he picked up the pills, turned on the tap with the heel of his hand, leaned over the sink, let the water clean the pills, swallowed them again. He put his mouth under the stream of water and sipped and spat, sipped and spat.

  After a time, he reached into the medicine cabinet, found a fresh bandage. He needed more than that, but it would have to do for now. What he really needed was medical attention. But he knew what would happen if he went to the hospital not knowing how he'd lost his finger. They'd take him away, lock him up. And then he wouldn't be able to do what he'd planned.

  Losing his finger wasn't going to kill him. The wound was cauterised. He had painkillers. The OXYs had started to kick in and the pain was bearable.

  He even thought about having a shower but the idea made him feel sick again. As he shuffled past the bath, he noticed that Lorna had left the curtain pulled across. That wasn't like her, but he didn't mind, so he left it. While he took a leak, he wondered if there was any chance of salvaging their relationship. She was so different when she wasn't drinking. Sometimes he still felt that she loved him. She was gone, though. For now. She'd come back after he'd sorted out Watt.

  Nothing had changed. Watt was still going to die. But for Watt to die, Glass needed an address.

  Mad Will would know it. But Glass didn't think Mad Will would tell him.

  No point asking Mafia. He wouldn't rat on his brother, even if his brother made up evil shit about him. Could say there was equally no point asking Caesar. But there was a difference. Glass wasn't prepared to shoot Mad Will or Mafia to get the information. Caesar, on the other hand … well, Glass was almost wishing the fucker would refuse to speak. If anyone was responsible for fucking up Glass's life, it was Caesar.

 

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