by Nick Oldham
He rolled down his shirtsleeves and buttoned them at the cuffs. He stood up and walked smartly out onto the landing, his arms folded across his chest. He went to a point which overlooked the association area.
Coysh and Wallwork were sitting huddled over a chessboard.
Coysh looked up, saw Trent and nodded.
He moved a bishop. ‘Mate,’ he said, and stood.
Trent walked quickly back to his cell where he immediately stripped naked, bar his footwear, and re-dressed in the cold wet clothes which had been soaking in the wash-basin. He took the torn pillowcase and squeezed out some of the excess water.
Before leaving the cell he grabbed the knife.
He knew from experience that the chances of meeting other prisoners or maybe even a screw were pretty scarce at this time of day. Most people were down on association or beginning to form an early queue for the evening meal. Screw activity was focused on those areas with the occasional officer prowling about ... or, as Trent knew today, in a cell with a drug dealer sampling some wares. Trent’s luck would have to be pretty low for him to meet anyone who mattered on the journey between his cell and level two.
He saw no one.
Quietly he mounted the metal staircase which led up to level two, peering ahead of him down the walkway in front of the cells, checking the all-clear.
A second later he was on the landing. Level two. Home to Blake et al.
The cell Trent was interested in was the fourth along.
The other cell which interested him was third along.
He crept quietly, hearing Blake’s raucous laughter and voice from the fourth cell. There were other voices too. Trent recognised them all. They belonged to his tormentors and the black rapist, and because of what they had done to him, they were all going to die.
He sneaked into the third cell - empty, as promised - knelt down by the first bunk and reached for the sports bag which had been placed there by Coysh just a few minutes earlier. Trent dragged it out, unzipped it and carefully unwrapped the pillowcase from around the milk bottles. He placed them side by side on the cell floor, removing the tinfoil tops.
He picked out the petrol-soaked strips of cotton from the baked-bean tin and pushed them into the mouth of each bottle.
Last, but not least, he found the Zippo lighter which he had previously ensured was safely stored in the side compartment of the sports bag.
Before lighting the strips, he wrapped several of the water-soaked strands of torn pillowcase around his head for protection against any possible backdraught.
The lighter flared first time. He moved the flame towards one of the bottles.
‘What the hell y’doin’?’
Trent dropped the lighter, spun round and saw the shape of the large black man standing at the cell door; it was the one who had raped him. He had been involved in the card-game next door for almost two hours and had come out to stretch his legs.
Trent reacted instantly.
His right hand flew round to the back pocket where he had put the knife and whilst he reached for it he rose and hurled himself towards the black man with more speed than he knew he had. By the time he reached him, the knife was in his right hand and executing an unstoppable upward arc towards the man’s chest. It entered just below the sternum with such force and at such an angle that Trent was able to drive the point of the blade into the heart. He actually felt it enter that organ. Felt the resistance of the muscle wall, felt it burst through into the right ventricle.
The man was astounded by the speed. He didn’t have time to react in any way at all.
Trent double-forced the blade and screwed it horribly as though he was wrenching the handle of a table football game. At the same time he grabbed the man’s curly hair and pulled him into the cell.
He was dead.
Trent eased the limp body down onto his knees, then onto his face, withdrew the knife, wiped it clean on the man’s back and returned to the milk bottles and cigarette lighter.
Time was running out.
He lit each bottle. The blue flames faltered slightly until they took hold.
He picked up two bottles, one petrol, one napalm, and weighed them thoughtfully in his hands as he wondered just how he was going to do this.
He decided to take a chance.
The landing was clear, so he quickly placed the burning bottles in a row outside the cell door.
Then he took two petrol bombs, a deep breath, spun into the doorway of Blake’s cell and announced, ‘Your time has come, you bastards!’
The three men inside were sat on the edge of two beds with a small table between them. Halfway through a card-game, they looked up, annoyed by the interruption.
At which moment Trent acted.
With all the force he could muster he aimed the first bottle at a point on the floor in front of the table and smashed it down.
It burst on impact. With a whoosh of flame the petrol splashed up and ignited.
Trent immediately bowled the second bottle in.
It crashed and exploded, engulfing the cell in flame.
Trent bent down, picked up two napalm bombs and they went the same way as the others - smashing on impact, their contents being sprayed all over the men in the cell - with the added effect that the home-made napalm clung and burned fiercely.
Blake avoided the full blast of the first two bombs, but could not avoid the napalm. He screamed as gobs of fire splattered all over him. One shot down his throat and burned him from the inside.
The other two men were victims of the first firebombs.
One managed to run out of the cell, a demented, writhing fireball, screaming in agony as he burst his way past Trent. He stamped frenziedly across the walkway and flung himself over the railings into space, dropping like a comet into the safety netting below. Here he thrashed about wildly, suspended twenty-five feet above the association area, watched by stunned, open-mouthed inmates and staff. All helpless to assist him.
Without watching this, Trent lobbed the remaining bottles into the cell, ducking as the heat and flames bellowed out. The fingers of fire caressed and singed his protective clothing.
The last bottles did not have a great effect because most of the damage had been done, the first explosions having sucked and burned up most of the available oxygen.
Trent did not wait. As the last bottle left his hand he turned and hared for the steps which would take him down to his level. He knew the majority of people would make their way up onto level two from the opposite direction, from the steps nearest to the association area.
In order to aid his passage, he ripped the wet protective strips off his head and screamed, ‘Help! Fire! Get some help! People hurt!’ as he tore down the walkway, pointing frantically in the direction from which he had come.
He pushed his way through the gathering number of people running towards the scene of the inferno. No one seemed to take a blind bit of notice of him.
He landed back in his cell probably forty seconds after the last petrol bomb had exploded. He was breathless, shaking. He ripped his clothing off and stuffed the wet garments underneath his mattress, jumped into his own clothing, pulled up his shirtsleeves and sat on the bed.
His arms were bleeding nicely.
They needed to bleed some more.
He reached for the tin of pig’s blood.
Danny had been a naughty policewoman over the years. In more ways than one.
Regulations state that all officers must hand in their pocket-books for safe storage purposes each time one is completed. Danny had only ever handed pocket-books in during her two-year probationary period. She preferred to keep them in her locker and now, fifteen years on, she had a stackful on the top shelf which she would be hard- pressed to explain if called to account.
It was, in essence, a complete history of her police service, minus the first two years.
She reached right to the back of the shelf and found the one she was looking for. Pocket-book number 12. The twelfth boo
k issued to her in her third year of service, showing how busy she had been in those days when she had been bright, keen and conscientious. Twelve in less than three years was pretty good going.
Of late, Danny recorded little in her pocket-books, just the bare necessities. The book she was using at that moment was over two years old.
She smiled when she saw the pink-covered, dog-eared log. Her memories flooded back fifteen years to those simple, uncluttered days of her first posting at Blackburn police station in the east of the county. Flicking the book open to the last page she glanced down the index of names and incidents she had attended. As she read them to herself, standing in a locker-room at Blackpool police station, she found she remembered each one.
Amongst the names were:
Loughlin: Burglary (he’d broken into a sweetshop on Eanam.)
Alexander: Parking offence (that bitch had been a real cow to deal with.)
Allcock: Prostitution (one of the many Blackburn hookers.)
There were numerous other names, all invoking their own particular reminiscence.
Eventually she saw the name she had been searching for.
Lilton: F/arm cert.
Danny riffled to the entry on page 21. Her memory was now well and truly jogged. She read the entry, then her eyes became misty as she visualised the day.
Visiting people who had applied for firearms certificates was a routine job usually carried out by more experienced officers. That particular day Danny’s shift was 2 p.m.-l0 p.m., and the guy who usually covered the outer rural beats of Blackburn had reported in sick. Much to Danny’s surprise, the Sergeant allocated her his beat for the day. She had been expecting to spend another eight hours trudging round the town centre, picking up shoplifters and drunks. The chance to work a mobile beat was pretty rare for a woman in those days, especially at her length of service. It was a beat usually given out to the older ‘lads’ as a bit of a sweetener.
She was handed the keys to the Panda car and the stack of routine enquiries and told to come in for her refreshments at six.
Danny could see herself marching confidently down the corridor. Twenty-two years old, slim as a beanpole. A non-smoker who hardly drank at all but enjoyed lots of uncomplicated sex with a variety of guys, mainly detectives. Fit as a flea and a regular member of the County Athletic Team.
What great days.
As she went out to the car she collected her PR from the comms room. Whilst fiddling with the radio harness she accidentally dropped the pile of enquiries onto the floor. The Constable who had issued her radio, and who was desperate to find his way into Danny’s knickers, picked them up for her, like the gentleman he was, or purported to be.
He noticed the Lilton firearms enquiry on top of the pile.
Danny could not quite recall the exact words. They were along the lines of, ‘I wouldn’t trust him with a catapult, never mind a thirty-eight.’ A remark which set Danny’s alarm bells ringing.
She asked why.
The PC told her. ‘Always beating his wife up. Real volatile git.’ He handed her the enquiries and changed tack to a more favourable subject. He asked Danny out for the tenth time.
And for the tenth time, she politely refused.
He sighed despondently and waddled his short twenty-two-stone frame back into the radio room.
So that afternoon, before going out on patrol, Danny sat in the report room and leafed through all the messages, reports and any references whatsoever to do with Joe Lilton of Head Bank House, Osbaldeston, Blackburn.
She got the impression the overweight Constable had a point.
After she turned out from the station, she enjoyed half an hour tootling round the country lanes, not having a single deployment. Then she got bored and made her way to Osbaldeston, a quiet village close to the River Ribble.
There was a fair smattering of wealth in the area and Head Bank House was a large, detached building surrounded by a couple of acres of landscaped gardens. Danny knew from his firearms application form that Lilton described himself as a self-employed trader. Further digging had revealed he owned six shops which sold High Street seconds at knock-down prices.
Danny drove down the wide, arcing driveway laid with white chippings crunching under the tyres of the battered Ford Escort. She drew up outside the front door next to a brand-new Jaguar and a slightly older Mini. Danny was calling on spec. It looked as though she’d struck lucky.
As soon as she stepped out of the car she heard raised voices from inside the house. A big argument. Man and woman. She stood and listened and tried to work out what it was about. It seemed to be about infidelity.
She walked confidently to the front door and jammed her thumb on the doorbell. The shouting continued. She kept her thumb on. It rang loudly. The shouting stopped. Footsteps. The sound of crying. Footsteps getting closer to the door. The door opening.
The woman was very glamorous in a tacky sort of way. She was in her mid-thirties. Her mascara had run, making her look like a surprised owl.
This was Mrs Lilton, Danny assumed. She looked puzzled to see a uniform at her door. ‘What d’you want?’ she asked sharply. ‘No one’s called the police, have they?’
Danny shook her head. ‘I’m here on another matter ... but are you all right? Do you need some help?’
The woman stared disgustedly at Danny. ‘Yeah, I’m okay - no thanks to you lot. As if you care.’ Her breath reeked of alcohol fumes. ‘You’ve never cared yet, have you? So what d’you want?’
‘To see Joe Lilton, please.’
‘Why? Won’t it wait?’
‘Not unless he doesn’t want to get a firearms certificate.’ As she finished the sentence, Joe Lilton appeared behind the woman.
‘Come in, come in,’ he said graciously to Danny. ‘There’s nothing going on here but a little family disagreement.’ He looked at Danny and their eyes locked ever so briefly and he knew she knew he was lying to his back teeth.
Danny remembered that face well, now, fifteen years later. Those pinched, mean features, now fleshed out by ageing.
At the door of the house in Osbaldeston, he had placed his hands on his wife’s shoulders. She had juddered visibly at the touch. ‘Come on,’ he said gently to her. To Danny he stated, ‘A misunderstanding, that’s all.’
Yeah, no mistaking it, Danny thought, closing her pocket-book.
It was the same Joe Lilton who was now Claire Lilton’s stepfather.
What a small world.
‘Oh, fucking hell, he’s bleeding like a stuck pig, for God’s sake!’ the young, blood-covered prison officer screamed to the paramedics. ‘And he’s got internal bleeding too, for some reason,’ he blabbered. ‘Christ!’ he mouthed. ‘The bastard puked a whole gob-full all over me!’
The young man looked down his chest. He retched at the sight of the thick red globules all down the front of his uniform shirt which had once been white.
‘God, I’ve never seen anything so foul. Taken a load of pills too.’
He was blithering these words to the green-jacketed paramedics whilst they stretchered the supposedly dying Trent expertly through the twists and turns of the prison, along walkways, down steep stairwells.
Finally they emerged at the yard behind the front gates of the prison where three ambulances, a couple of fire tenders and two cop cars were drawn up.
Trent was dumped in the back of the nearest ambulance.
Having listened to the screw babbling on, Trent was having difficulty keeping a straight face. He desperately needed to belly laugh, sit up and say, ‘Fooled you, you stupid set of cunts.’
Instead he continued to play the part of someone who has just tried to end his own life with a concoction of drugs and the old opening-of-veins ceremony.
When he heard the ambulance doors clunk shut, he was satisfied. Then more so when he experienced the forwards motion of the vehicle. Then orgasmically so, when through his rolling eyes, he saw the blue lights begin to flash and rotate.
He was on hi
s way to freedom.
It had worked perfectly.
The prison officers, as Trent had rightly predicted, had reacted to the crisis like a bunch of headless chickens, running around the prison, not knowing whether they were coming or going. The fire in Blake’s cell, the discovery of the four bodies - two burnt-out in the cell, one knifed to death in the adjacent cell and the other toasted alive whilst suspended above an audience - had thrown them into utter confusion. No one seemed able to take control of the situation. Having a suicide attempt thrown in on top of all that was the last straw.
When they had seen how bad he was, Trent was certain they would not mess about by transferring him to the woefully inadequate medical wing. It did not have the staff or facilities to deal with someone who had tried to shred his arms and taken such a lethal dose of junk he was bleeding internally and puking blood.
He knew their reaction would be to get him out of the way, cart him off to the nearest Casualty unit.
Which is exactly what they did. And to speed things up in the chaos, they cut corners. Obviously they could not handcuff Trent because of his injured arms, but nor did they search him. They seemed happy to believe that the small penknife they found next to the bed was the one with which he had mutilated himself.
An absolute dream.
Having said that, the task of keeping a mouthful of pig’s blood ready to cough out onto a screw had created a few trying moments. That had been a case of mind over matter. It was a good job the screw had raced into the cell when he did (urged by Vic Wallwork, playing his part in the scenario), because Trent was about to puke anyway.
And now he was in the rear of the ambulance.
He moaned. He groaned. He writhed and twisted his body in agony, ensuring they could not quite find his pulse or clamp an oxygen mask on him or stick a tube up his arm.
‘OOOARH - urgh,’ he uttered with deep pain, loving every moment of it.