Locked Up

by GB Williams

  If she had any reaction to the acknowledgement, she didn’t show it. She simply looked away and carried on her rounds; same old, same old. He, on the other hand, felt punched in the guts. With her brown hair always scraped back in an unflattering bun, Teddington’s mouth looked too flat and unsmiling, her nose sharp, and her brown eyes had no distinction, except sometimes, they did. There was something about her. Something –

  ‘You getting a boner for Teddington now?’

  Charlie switched his attention from the guard to the gnarled man opposite. Baker was in for a five stretch; Charlie had known him for ten years.

  ‘Hey Teddington!’ Baker tipped his head up to call.

  Now Charlie looked up too. Teddington had stopped, her ringless hands on the rail. She didn’t say anything, but her attention was on Baker. Everyone else’s attention was on the exchange.

  ‘Charlie boy here was wondering if you would be his Teddy-bare tonight.’

  This wasn’t the first time someone had used sexual innuendo against Teddington, and she was both used to it and untouched by it.

  ‘Sure, in his dreams.’

  The crowd laughed.

  She clasped her hands behind her back and continued her slow pace around the landing, as if the interruption had never happened.

  Charlie bore the ribald exchange without comment, knowing full well Teddington would be putting up with just as much, both from inmates and her officer mates.

  Turning, he looked at Baker. 49 going on 65. Baker’s love for the Costa Del Crime had resulted in skin like leather, and a near pathological hatred of dentists had left his teeth – what remained of them – crooked and yellow-brown. His old blue eyes laughed at Charlie. Charlie let his eyes wander up to the first floor. Teddington wasn’t within view. His eyes drifted back to Baker. Some things didn’t change. Baker’s eyes were crinkled around his smile. Charlie knew that look. Baker had intel to hand across.

  ‘Not now,’ Charlie told the man.

  Dumping his food, Charlie paced back to his cell, ensuring the journey took him past Teddington. Each maintained an indifferent manner; as they passed he said, ‘I’m in.’

  She didn’t pause, didn’t react.

  Back in his cell, he checked the note. He hadn’t imagined it, someone was asking for his help. It wasn’t Robbins’ hand writing; his was too blocky. It had to be Teddington. The delivery system, if nothing else, showed that.

  His last cellmate had covered the wall between the bunks in pictures of topless women. Earlier Charlie had removed a few of those and used the sticky tack to put up the kid’s drawings on the wall by his bunk. Standing beside the bed, elbows on the thin mattress, he looked at those images now. Daddy and Me. A family scene he would love to buy into, but things with Cathy were beyond repair and Oscar barely knew him. They were probably better off without him, but when he got out he was going to know his son whatever that woman thought of him.

  He heard slow, measured footsteps on the landing. It was only ever the screws who walked like that.

  ‘Teddington?’ The call was soft as she walked past. Taking one step back to put her central to the doorway, she turned on her heel and stepped up to the door.

  ‘Charlie.’

  Now he had her attention, he wasn’t sure what to say.

  Her eyes darted nervously, checking the corridor.

  ‘What’s going on?’

  Her breath was overly controlled, her stance full of stress rather than regimented posture. He knew uncertainty when he saw it.

  He turned to her, stepped closer. ‘You asked for my help.’

  For a moment she closed her eyes, swallowing. When she looked up again, he saw the apprehension. She was stuck; he could see it. Between a cliff and a crag, and terrified it was all about to come crashing down on her. He knew that feeling.

  ‘Forget it.’

  ‘Not a chance,’ the dark statement held her back when she shifted. ‘Is this about Tommy?’

  ‘Don’t.’

  This time her look was as dark as the warning.

  ‘I’m not that easily put off.’

  Her regard was steady, but the slight frown gave her concerns away. Her lips parted, and for a fleeting moment, he saw need. ‘Tommy committed suicide.’

  He didn’t believe that statement any more than she did. ‘Don’t lie to me, Teddington. And don’t think I can’t spot a lie a mile off. I’m used to it. I was a cop, remember?’

  ‘And now you’re a murderer.’ Her eyes widened, like she couldn’t believe she’d said that. He wasn’t sure he could believe she’d said it, either.

  Her eyes dipped then slipped to the side. She froze; he suspected she saw something he couldn’t. When she looked up again her eyes were clear, her posture altered, but it was just for show.

  ‘What’s wrong, Charlie boy?’ This time, her voice was softer and lower, as she took a single step inside. Her voice wouldn’t carry beyond the grey peeling walls of this one cell. If he was interpreting right, she was flirting. What’s going on?

  ‘Not sure how to ask to see Teddy-bare? You desperate to deliver that impressive package?’

  It wasn’t just what she said, or the way she said it. It was the way she looked. Her eyes had darkened, she had licked her lips, and she was smiling. God, she was actually sexy under all those masculine clothes. And she thought he had an impressive package, one which was busy crowding his jeans again. She lowered her lashes, blatantly staring at his groin. The murmur of appreciation was primal and suggestive, and hardened him to the point of pain.

  Caught off-guard, his reaction was instant and insistent. In acting the siren, she had become one. How sexy would she be if she really wanted it? He’d not really thought of her that way, but now, he couldn’t think of anything else. She thought he had an impressive package? She brought her eyes back up. The instinct to reach for her was almost too much.

  She grabbed the door and pulled it shut as she stepped back out.

  ‘What is up with you lately?’

  The door clanged, the scrap of the key told him it was locked. That last harsh demand had been Robbins’. Whatever game Teddington was playing, it was a dangerous one. Locked up here, there was nothing he could do about her situation right now. He peered down at himself. Nothing he could do about her situation, but there was something he could do about his.

  4

  Charlie contemplated the slop on his plate. How does anyone make porridge even more uninteresting than porridge already is? He was tempted to admire the kitchen’s achievement. Instead, he sat at the grey table in his grey room and felt … grey.

  Yesterday evening’s physical relief had done nothing to ease his knotted thoughts. He did not consider himself very good at very much, but he knew people. He knew Teddington. Absently stirring the slop, he worried about her. For three years, she had been calm professionalism personified, but not yesterday.

  ‘Still thinking about your Teddy-bare?’

  Charlie focused on Baker, slouching in his doorway.

  ‘Thinking about bacon and eggs,’ he said the first thing that came to mind. ‘Sausage and tomato.’

  ‘Add black pudding and you might just have a decent breakfast,’ Baker said, as he stepped inside, wincing disparagingly at the glutinous mass on the plate before he sat down. ‘Which that is not. So,’ he looked Charlie up and down, ‘you interested in what’s going on out there?’ The too old head nodded towards the door. ‘Or you keeping to your state of splendid isolation?’

  Letting the plastic spoon fall into the bowl, Charlie sighed, sat back, and looked at Baker. ‘Anything interesting enough to break isolation for?’

  Baker’s eyebrows rose in a quizzical, comic book expression. Inside his head, Charlie added the honker sound effect. ‘Tommy Walters is dead. You don’t think that’s interesting?’

  Of course, he did, but he knew better than to show his hand. ‘Official word is, he topped himself.’

  Baker huffed a sigh and stood, slouching back towards the door
. There, he twisted back, almost sneering at Charlie. ‘You know, I remember a time when you used to listen to the unofficial word and had the balls to make up your own mind. Prison hasn’t changed you for the better.’

  Staring at the now-empty doorway, Charlie had to agree. He had changed, and it wasn’t an improvement. Some days, he couldn’t even face himself in the mirror. Slowly, his eyes drifted down. He might be a mess, but not as much of a mess as the porridge. The chair scraped on the floor as he stood, returning the offering to the kitchen for washing. Let them deal with the concrete mess; his stomach couldn’t.

  The things Baker had said played on his mind. Remaining safe these last three years had meant staying out of trouble, keeping his nose clean by not inserting it into other people’s business. The bowl clanged down with the others and Charlie drifted to the notice board. He had requested time in the gym, but didn’t expect to get any. Running his eyes down the list, his own name jumped out at him – not on the gym list, but on gardening detail. Still, he had plenty of time before it started. In no particular hurry, he wandered back towards the stair, past Baker’s ground floor cell. The man was leaning against the door jamb. As Charlie approached, he raised one eyebrow in query to the older man. That was enough. Baker shifted to step from his cell, and as they passed, the exchange was made as easily as ever.

  It was probably stupid, but Charlie felt like something inside him had woken up. Is it possible I’ve missed solving puzzles? For the first time in a long time, Charlie felt the thrill of the chase. He quickly tamped it down.

  Sitting on the chair in his own room, he grabbed a book from the shelf and opened it, using it as cover to unfold the note from Baker.

  TW Hero OD. Belly stab. Unknown sharp.

  Closing the book, the note inside, Charlie placed his elbows on the table, put his hands together and leaned on them. None of it made sense.

  Deciding to let his unconscious mull it over, Charlie stripped off his shirt and swapped his jeans for joggers, then started exercising. Sit ups, dips, press ups, squats, the plank, T-stands. Sixteen reps, three repeats, three circuits. Concentrating on his workout allowed his mind to mull over what he knew about Tommy’s death until the discrepancy was that last idea standing. Tommy had been a dealer and a stoner, but he didn’t use heroin, didn’t even like needles. And what exactly was the sharp implement? The lack of reference was strange. How could they not know what the sharp was? It didn’t make sense.

  Something was rotten in the state alright, but not Denmark, here, inside HMP Blackmarch – though everyone referred to it as Whitewalk. Was someone really trying to tell him one of the guards was corrupt? Why was he, of all people, struggling to believe that? He’d been a cop, for God’s sake. That hadn’t saved him from a downward slide.

  He was on the last set of dips when footsteps stopped outside his door. His hands gripped the rounded bar of the lower bunk, as he controlled his triceps in the down stroke. So, someone had stopped; it would either be to mock or insult. He’d made it clear in the first week of being here he wasn’t anyone’s bitch or bodyguard. He was big enough not to need a gang and any that tried to impress him usually ended up pressing wounds to stem the blood flow. So, Charlie took no notice of the intruder, as he kept his gaze forward, watching the wall, and pushing through the muscle burn. His peripheral vision told him his visitor wore black trousers – a guard.

  Sanchez, this time.

  Charlie carried on. He’d never had trouble from Sanchez; there was no reason to expect any now. He was on the return lift when Sanchez’s hand landed on his shoulder, keeping him at the painful halfway point. Sanchez was no roid head, but he was strong. Charlie had no option but to stay where he was. To go down would be submission, to fight would mean defeat and removal of privileges. So, he remained stationary, no matter how his triceps screamed.

  ‘You were disrespectful to one of my colleagues yesterday.’

  Listening to the East End accent, the clear pronunciation almost felt incongruent. Charlie grit his teeth. What was really incongruent though, was hearing London and seeing the Iberian Peninsula. He decided not to highlight it was actually Baker who’d been disrespectful; no point in prolonging this torture.

  ‘It’s not to happen again.’ The words were intoned with quiet menace. ‘Understand?’

  His teeth clenched against the lactic acid burn. ‘Yes.’ Charlie kept as still as his twitching muscles would allow him. Sanchez didn’t move. ‘Sir.’ Only once the uniform disappeared did Charlie allow himself to collapse to the floor.

  5

  Charlie stood in line behind the eleven other men on gardening detail. As the others had before him, he passively spread for the pat down, before being allowed through the external door. The stench assaulted him before he’d even stepped through. Manure. Moving into the next queue, he quietly waited for Robbins to hand out his assignment. The twisted grin Robbins showed before he spoke confirmed the assumption of what Charlie was going to spend his time doing. Shit shovelling. Great.

  From Robbins, he moved over to the tool shed, where he found Teddington handing out – and getting signatures for – their assigned equipment. Last in line, Charlie found himself alone inside with her. Like all the others, he told her his assignment, but before she turned, he added, ‘What was the sharp?’

  Fear flickered in Teddington’s eyes, but she blinked, readjusted her jaw and it was gone.

  ‘I told you to forget it,’ she hissed.

  ‘I told you I can’t.’

  Her lips compressed, but as she drew in a breath, he watched her brown eyes gather steel. ‘Okay.’

  He waited, sure that there was more to the simple response than just agreement with his statement.

  ‘And I don’t know.’

  She picked up a spade and pointed to the page for him to sign it out. Leaning forward, he whispered, ‘I got Sanchez’s message.’ As he took the spade, he was surprised by the confusion in Teddington’s captivating eyes.

  Outside, all he had to do was follow his nose. The fresh manure released new steaming wafts every time he thrust the spade in. Already pumped from the earlier workout, his muscles started to strain to all the hard work of digging the fertiliser into the clay-based soil. While he found the work physically exhausting, sweat soon soaking his clothes, it gave him plenty of time to think.

  Tommy was a supplier, working for Keen, the wing boss, Category B. Keen ran a lot on the wing, including who got on the cleaning detail and got to go to the gym. There was no official sanction for such controls, of course. Officially, all privileges were for each inmate to apply for and the screws to permit. What could be controlled was who applied, and a swift jab to the kidneys soon got the ‘unwanted’ message across. For Charlie, it had been the guy on the treadmill beside him constantly spitting in his direction. Now, Charlie and Keen had a standoff agreement. Keen didn’t bother Charlie, Charlie didn’t bother Keen. The garden duty, however, was the province of relative new boy – Winehouse, the Garden Godfather.

  Winehouse had been in possession of the garden for pretty much as long as anyone could remember. When Keen had arrived, he had quickly taken over every other part of the community, but he had stopped at the garden and no one quite knew why. But Winehouse was ambitious; the garden wouldn’t be enough much longer.

  Pushing the spade into the worked soil, Charlie stood, as if trying to catch his breath, while taking in the people around him. Eleven other inmates surrounded him, but only nine were working. Robbins and Teddington were in different areas doing their work, watching the men and ensuring compliance. Neither did or said anything about Winehouse sitting, relaxing, lording over his estate as his bodyguard, Paul, stood at his shoulder. Everyone keeping the state of status quo. Taking up the spade again, he resumed digging. Why am I here? He was no more in Winehouse’s camp than he was Keen’s. He’d never expressed an interest in gardening, though he found even his assigned task a relief from the monotony of grey cell walls.

  Charlie resumed his
digging at he tried to envisage the bigger picture. Tommy was a supplier, but Keen controlled most of the drug supply inside, because Tommy worked for Keen. Not that it would stop Winehouse getting his hands-on drugs if he wanted them.

  ‘You can stop now.’

  Charlie dug the spade into the diminished heap, before he turned to face Teddington. Using the back of his wrist, he wiped sweat from his brow to stop it dripping into his eyes.

  ‘Tommy was murdered.’ Though breathing hard, he kept his voice down.

  ‘Not according to official reports.’

  An amoeba could see it, so why would they cover it up?

  Reputations. Charlie couldn’t remember the exact statistics, but he knew murder within the prison system was extremely rare, a handful at most; five in a year in the whole country was considered a bad show. No unit wanted that on their patch. It was obvious why the top dogs would want to cover it up. But, clearly, Teddington didn’t feel the same. Now wasn’t the time to call her on it.

  ‘Tommy never worked in the garden.’

  The smallest shake said no. ‘Records disagree.’

  Which meant one of the screws was covering up. That was the rotten thing about this state prison. He reasoned that was probably Teddington’s motive, too. She was a good person; she wouldn’t turn a blind eye to a murderer.

  ‘How did you get garden detail?’

  The question was completely out of left field, and Charlie blinked. ‘You don’t know?’

  He watched the slight frown mar her forehead. The expression didn’t last.

  ‘You applied for gym yesterday, I booked in for the afternoon.’

  ‘Never happened.’ Even though the schedule would have been after the lockdown ended, his name hadn’t been on the list.

  ‘I’ll look into that.’ She paused, glancing around, but only her eyes moved.

  Charlie gave a single, silent nod.