As they started their creaky, bumpy journey, Leroy’s fellow prisoners made their feelings known. At the top of their voices. From abuse hurled at the escort officers and each other, to sexual references tossed in the direction of any woman unlucky enough to be passing by. They seemed to have an opinion on everything and everyone. Leroy added an extra layer on top of his claustrophobia. Fear. He was straight out scared of his fellow travellers. He hoped this noise and abuse wasn’t a sign of things to come at Dartmoor Prison. So far the whole experience wasn’t a good start to his new life in a new prison. He shrunk away from the noise, trying to blot it out, pushing back into the seat and turning slightly, trying to keep his back to the other prisoners.
Once on the motorway, the gentle rumble of tyres on asphalt calmed Leroy and he was able to relax a little and inspect his surroundings. Not that it took very long. He was sat on a grey plastic seat in a space smaller than an old fashioned telephone box. But a Dr Who Tardis this wasn’t. The space wasn’t larger inside than it seemed on the outside. White plastic was everywhere, gouged with irreverent messages from previous occupants. There was nothing to read, nothing to occupy his mind and he sunk into a daze. He became drowsy and must have dozed off, for he was woken by a dramatic clap of thunder.
The view outside his aircraft-type window was obscured by dark heavy clouds. They looked full of the rain they seemed determined to dump on the road. He watched with mounting fascination as the big fat heavy rain drops began to fall. One, two, four, eight, sixteen... until they fell so fast Leroy couldn’t count them anymore. The drops fell faster and harder, bouncing ankle high off the ground, their rapid tattoo drilling into his brain. A tattoo that became louder as the raindrops turned into hailstones, some as large as golf balls. They carpeted the road, turning it into a white, icy, highway to hell.
The van, unable to find purchase on the road, began to veer first one way and then the other and Leroy, with nothing to hold onto, put his arms out and placed his hands palm up on each wall. Wet with sweat, they simply slid off the plastic. As the van swerved, Leroy went with it, unable to do anything but ride the storm. He heard tyres squeal as the van slewed sideways. With a bang, the van hit an unseen object and fell over, sliding along the road as though it were still on its wheels, not on its side. Leroy was thrown out of his seat and ended up lying, face down on the side wall that had suddenly become the floor.
After several seconds of screeching metal grinding against the road and Leroy feeling like he was on fairground ride, the transport ground to a halt. For a moment all was still. The kind of pregnant pause found inside the eye of a tornado. The brief period of calm, before the world descended into chaos once again. The other prisoners all began shouting at once. Cursing the weather, the officers and the van. But underneath their yells Leroy could hear something else. He tuned out the yelling from his fellow prisoners as best he could, concentrating on the underlying sound. He recognised it as water. Water that was gushing and gurgling. That’s when Leroy realised the van must have fallen into a river. His fears were confirmed when he felt his trousers getting wet. Water was permeating the prison van, seeking out and finding the smallest of gaps. Unchecked. Leroy and his fellow prisoners couldn’t get away. The cubicles, so small and narrow, meant they were unable to stand. The doors were locked so they were unable to escape. There was no sign of the escorts. And the water was rising.
2
Three years earlier...
Leroy Carter was fed up. Fed up with being him. Nothing more than a thin, reedy, black kid, too tall for his trousers, with feet too big for his trainers. His mother had thrown him out of the house. Again. Telling him to get out from under her feet. Saying that he was a useless lump of good for nothing, as she pushed him out of the door. Shouting at his retreating back that he’d better get a job, or else. Then slamming the door shut with such force that one of the numbers fell off it, joining the peeling paint covering the front step that reminded Leroy of ash from his mother’s cigarettes.
It wasn’t his fault, he’d moaned. He’d tried to tell her that the Polish had taken all the jobs. But she hadn’t listened. She’d wanted him to pay his way. Pay his keep. She’d said she had bills to shell out for and no money to pay them with. Well, it was no wonder, Leroy thought. She kept drinking away the bill money. More interested in buying her next bottle of wine or cider than feeding the electric meter.
He and his sore feet trudged their way down Broad Street. His hands were in the pockets of his short, scruffy jacket that was no match for the cold, damp day. He kicked an empty beer can abandoned by a homeless man who was shuffling along in the opposite direction. A bundle of threadbare filthy clothes, clutching his meagre possessions which were stuffed into a large plastic carrier bag that was splitting at the seams. As Leroy watched him he wondered if that was how he would end up. Homeless. Unloved. Unwanted. Unemployed. A shiver went down his back and he kicked the can again with such force that it sailed through the air and bounced off the window of a nearby shop.
A head poked out of the doorway and shouted, “Hey, did you just kick that can?”
“So?” bristled Leroy and injected into that single word all the attitude he could muster.
“So, are you bored or something?”
As the man walked out of the shop Leroy saw he was wearing a uniform. His hair was cut so short there was hardly any of it. But his bulk made up for his lack of hair. His muscular arms and legs strained the fabric at the seams.
“So what if I am?” said Leroy.
“Well, I was just thinking that if you had nothing better to do, you could pop in for a chat and a cuppa.”
“Who me?”
“Yes, you. I don’t see anyone else.” The man in the uniform grinned at Leroy. “Come on, don’t be shy, one sugar or two?” he asked, disappearing back into the shop.
As Leroy stood on the pavement, undecided, he looked at the window he’d just hit with the beer can and saw it wasn’t a shop window at all, but an Army Recruitment Office.
Army, eh? Leroy thought. Now that’s an idea and after a moment’s indecision, went through the door.
“Here you are,” the soldier said, holding out a steaming mug. “Careful it’s hot,” he warned as Leroy grabbed it. “I’m Sgt Evans, by the way.”
“Leroy.”
“Pleased to meet you, Leroy,” Evans said with a nod of his head. A head that reminded Leroy of a bristled loo brush.
Looking around the mostly empty space, Leroy saw the walls were decorated with large pictures of soldiers in varying poses. They were lying down peering through rifle scopes, on an assault course, driving tanks and jeeps and cleaning guns. There was a large desk and a couple of chairs in the window. A bookcase overflowing with leaflets and forms, box files and random bits of equipment Leroy couldn’t even begin to name, stood drunkenly against one wall.
“Ever thought of joining up?” Evans asked, his weather beaten, yet friendly face, smiled at Leroy. It seemed the man did a lot of smiling. The skin around his eyes and mouth crinkled into well-worn grooves as he grinned.
“Me? Na,” said Leroy, still looking at the posters on the wall. Drawn to them like a moth to a light.
“Why not?”
“Well, you wouldn’t want me, would you?” Leroy began to study his feet instead of the posters.
“Why ever not? You look like a fine, fit young man to me. Tall. Not overweight,” Evans said and Leroy squirmed under the man’s scrutiny.
“Yeah, but, I’ve got no exams.”
“So?”
“And I’m useless and in the way and can’t even get a job at bloody McDonalds.” Leroy’s voice was quavering, so he coughed and looking at Evans said, “Not that I want to work there, like.”
“Don’t blame you, mate. I wouldn’t either. Boring as hell. Not nearly as exciting as the army.
“Exciting? Really?”
An exciting life was something Leroy definitely didn’t have. His grey existence meant the days ran into each oth
er with nothing to distinguish one from the other. Anything had to be more exciting than his drab life.
“Bloody hell yes,” replied the soldier. “You wouldn’t believe where I’ve been,” and he proceeded to give Leroy a potted history of his exploits around the world. Telling tales of Cyprus, where he’d skied in the morning and lay on a beach in the sun, working on his tan, in the afternoon. Of jumping out of aeroplanes and going on gruelling exercises with his mates in his unit.
Mates, thought Leroy. It would be nice to have mates. It would be nice to have a job, too. And money in his pocket. It would get his mother off his back. Get him away from her grumblings and her drinking. Her moods were something awful for she wasn’t a happy drunk. She was nothing more than an addicted moron and Leroy had had enough. Alcohol had its fangs in her and wasn’t about to let her go anytime soon.
“How old are you?” Evans broke through Leroy’s musings.
“17.”
“That’s good. You can join up at 17. But you’d have to get your mum to give her consent.”
“Consent?”
“Yes, she just has to sign this form,” Evans said, turning away and grabbing a piece of paper off a shelf and handing it to Leroy. “It says that as your parent and legal guardian, she agrees to you joining up before you’ve reached the age of 18.”
“Oh, right.”
“Here are some leaflets for you to look at. They tell you about the different trades you can learn in the army. So maybe I’ll see you in a few days when she’s signed the form? And then we can talk about which regiment would be best suited to your skills.”
“Maybe you will,” said Leroy and after thanking Evans for the tea, left the recruitment office, thinking that maybe he was going to be a somebody, not a nobody, after all.
3
Seven days earlier...
The cold metal gate slipped out of her fingers and slammed shut, the metal clang echoing around the corridor, making her jump. The once cream painted security gate was now pitted and flaking, where keys, handcuffs, tools, buckets and all the other stuff carried around or used by officers and prisoners alike, had bashed against them. Emma’s face burned with embarrassment. She hoped nobody had noticed and looked around. No, thank goodness they hadn’t. Or if they had, they were pretending they hadn’t. The prison trustee was still mopping the floor, head down, intent on his task. The prison officers at the desk were standing around chatting amongst themselves, their smart white shirts and black ties marking them out from their charges, who wore grey sweatpants and matching sweatshirts.
Emma blew out a long breath and relaxed. Locking the gate behind her, she stuffed her keys into the leather pouch she wore on a belt around her waist. The chain they were on dangled out of the pouch and up and around to her belt, where it was securely fastened. She smiled slightly to herself. Let’s face it, a prison gate suddenly slamming was enough to make anyone start, no matter how used to it you were. And Emma should be used to it by now. She was, after all, Emma Harrison, newly appointed Junior Governor at Reading Young Offenders Institute (HMYOI) as Deputy Head of Offender Management. So she pulled back her shoulders, pushed her glasses up into her dark brown hair and strode down the corridor, back to her office, her long slim legs hidden under a pair of trousers.
As she walked along the utilitarian corridor, her key chain bumped gently against her leg. Its touch was reassuring. Marking her out from the prisoners. She may be incarcerated, as they were, but the difference was that she could go home at night, whilst the young men were locked in cells. She glanced down at the files she was carrying. The top one was for one of the young offenders in her care. Leroy Carter. She’d just been discussing him with the governor and talking through her recommendations. Carter was nearly 21, which meant that he had to leave Reading and transfer to an adult facility. Emma knew he wanted to stay and had told the Governor that. Not that it had made any difference. The decision was out of their hands. But the Governor had listened to her idea that Dartmoor could work for Carter and had promised to try and get him a place there. It was the best she could do. She wished she could change the rules, but no matter how she felt about a prisoner, she wasn’t about to push it and potentially jeopardise her career. She hadn’t spent the last few years on an intensive development scheme, a fast track course for would-be-governors, to throw it all away.
Three years ago she’d had difficulty finding employment once she’d finished her degree. To be more precise, employment that interested her. After long discussions with her foster mum and dad, she’d decided what she didn’t want to do. Go into business - she didn’t have the corporate mind-set of her father. Be a teacher - she had the belief in education that her mother had, but not the will to face hordes of kids every day teaching them stuff they’d forget the minute they left the classroom. She toyed with media - but had done the wrong degree for that. Banking? No, money was for spending not looking after, in her opinion.
It was during one of her frustrating job searches on the internet that she’d come across an advert for HM Prison Service. She’d flippantly thought she rather fancied being surrounded by good looking, fit, strong, young, prison officers. But as she’d read further, she’d seen an opportunity to indulge firstly her love of education and secondly her character trait of always seeing the best in people and wanting to help them.
Her father thought she’d gone completely mad when she’d told him and immediately trashed the idea. Which, of course, had instantly set her goals in concrete and made her determined to get accepted into the prison service.
Within a couple of months she’d made it and after eight weeks of training at a Regional Training College, she was posted to her first establishment as a prison officer. A woman’s jail in a town some way away from the family home in Wokingham. So she’d moved out and found a room in a shared flat near the prison. Once there, the first hurdle she’d had to get over was her age, being only 21 at the time. And if anything she had looked younger than that. A lot of the prisoners had asked how old she was. ‘Are you old enough to do this job, Miss?’ they’d say. Emma used to laugh and change the subject. Not wanting to give away any personal information about herself by answering their questions about where she lived and if she had a boyfriend.
One of the hardest aspects of the prison officer training had been riot control and how to control and restrain a violent prisoner. She’d hated it. It was tiring, hot, sweaty and smelly work. The riot helmet was the worst because it was so restrictive. She’d hardly been able to hear or see a bloody thing when she’d first put it on. The heavy gear she’d had to wear made her feel like a Sumo Wrestler. But the worst part of the whole thing had been the fear. Scenarios had kept going round and round in her head. Showing what could happen if she made a mistake. If her shield slipped. Or her visor moved. A weapon in the hands of a violent, angry, deranged man or woman could do some serious physical damage. It was around then that she’d had a few doubts about the career path she was on. She’d wondered if working in prisons was right for her. But in the end she’d decided to continue. After all riot duty wasn’t an everyday occurrence.
The other barrier to a long term career in the service was the abuse. Sometimes it seemed all she received was a flurry of expletives from inmates, rather than the civilised conversation she was aiming for. Swearing was the norm. Back-chatting was a regular occurrence. Sometimes threats were made. Many times she’d wondered what in God’s name she thought she was doing. As she went from post to post and prison to prison, she made a small climb up the career ladder each time. She’d kept her eye on the bigger picture and told herself that in a few years it would all have been worth it. There would come a time when she could do the type of work she really wanted to do.
And now that time had come. Working in offender management meant it was up to her to find the best way of supporting the individual needs of prisoners. And for her that main way would be through education. Bringing to the fore her burning belief that education was the key to success
in life. A way of empowering people. For knowledge was power. Whether it was helping an illiterate boy to read and write, or encouraging those with potential to take the exams they’d never been interested in before - it didn’t matter. What mattered was helping them to understand that they could take control of their future. That they needn’t go back to their crime-ridden lives. There was a better way.
Alright, so it was all a bit idealistic. Emma wasn’t naive enough to think it would work for everyone. But it would work for some. And that was good enough for her. So rather than teaching in a school or in an establishment, Emma had a wider remit, to look at each boy’s needs and recommend the best way forward. With the emphasis on education as much as possible.
She was convinced it was working for some of her charges and particularly for Leroy Carter. But Leroy’s circumstances were about to change and it was down to her to deliver the bad news. Somehow she had to turn it into good news. But how?
*****
You can purchase Past Judgment at Amazon:
http://mybook.to/B00PLXLTZ6
Meet the Author
I do hope you’ve enjoyed Glass Cutter. If so, perhaps you would be kind enough to post a review on Amazon. Reviews really do make all the difference to authors and it is great to get feedback from you, the reader.
If this is the first of my novel’s you’ve read, you may be interested in the other Sgt Major Crane books, following Tom Crane and DI Anderson as they take on the worst crimes committed in and around Aldershot Garrison. At the time of writing there are seven Sgt Major Crane crime thrillers. In order, they are: Steps to Heaven, 40 Days 40 Nights, Honour Bound, Cordon of Lies, Regenerate, Hijack and this one Glass Cutter.
Glass Cutter: A Sgt Major Crane crime thriller (A Sgt Major Crane Novel Book 7) Page 17