‘Saw what happened at slop-out,’ said Hargrave, his voice hardly above a whisper, talking prison fashion, lips practically unmoving. He was a greying, wisp-haired man who had been a schoolteacher outside. Charlie still found it difficult to believe that after murdering his wife Hargrave had tried to dissolve her body in a mixture of lime and acid, even though Hargrave had talked at length about it and why he’d done it, because he found her in bed with his brother. The brother had been the headmaster, responsible for the school curriculum roster: he’d given the man two free periods by mistake, instead of a history lesson which would have kept him at school. Hargrave had killed him, too. Hargrave was in charge of the prison library in which Charlie worked, as his assistant.
‘The bastard picked on me.’
‘You asked for it, Charlie, scuffing about like that.’
‘Got bad feet.’
‘You cheeked him: shouldn’t cheek someone like Hickley. He’s authority and you can’t beat authority.’
That was something he’d never been able to learn, thought Charlie. ‘Careful it doesn’t involve you,’ he said sincerely.
Hargrave shook his head. ‘No one bothers about me, Charlie. I’m not one of the hard ones but there’s a kind of respect for a lifer.’
‘It’ll pass,’ said Charlie.
‘Be careful, till it does. You’ve got a long time to go.’
‘Yes,’ agreed Charlie, distantly. ‘Bloody long time.’
‘Papers have already been delivered to the library,’ said Hargrave.
Charlie mopped the last of his porridge from the bowl with a piece of bread. He supposed it was natural that Hargrave would want to talk about it.
‘Did you know him?’ asked the convicted murderer.
The name given throughout the trial, which he’d followed from the library papers, was Edwin Sampson, although if the man was the KGB agent the prosecution made him out to be then it would obviously have been part of the legend, the cover story to cover his time in England as an illegal.
‘No,’ said Charlie.
‘Papers say he worked in security: thought you did that, too.’
‘It was a long time ago for me,’ said Charlie. ‘And there’s a lot of different departments.’
‘They say he did a lot of damage.’
‘They always do.’
‘Word is that he’ll come here, after sentencing.’
For the first time Charlie started to concentrate. ‘Here?’
‘That’s the word from those who work in the governor’s office; guilty as buggery, so they say.’
‘Hickley said something, at the sluices,’ remembered Charlie.
‘That he was coming here?’
Charlie shook his head. ‘Just something about having got another of us bastards. Makes sense of the remark though, if he were coming here.’
The bell sounded, ending breakfast. The departure from the canteen was slow, as usual.
‘I want a drink,’ said Charlie. Like Hargrave, Charlie kept his head bowed, so no one would see even the words his lips formed.
‘What?’
‘A drink.’
‘That means Prudell: he’s the supplier.’
‘I know.’
‘He’d shop you, Charlie.’
‘I know that, too.’
Hargrave remained silent.
‘I’d understand if you said you wouldn’t get it for me,’ assured Charlie.
Hargrave sighed. ‘Money or tobacco?’
‘Tobacco.’
‘How much do you want?’
‘As much as I can get: I’ve saved up half a pound.’
‘It won’t be easy,’ said Hargrave.
‘I appreciate it, Eddie.’
‘Sure.’
‘I mean it. We could share it; the booze, I mean.’
‘Don’t drink, not any more,’ said Hargrave. ‘Pissed when I killed the missus, so I don’t drink any more. If I’d been sober I wouldn’t have hit her so hard. Wouldn’t be here.’
‘It’ll be there, if you want it.’
‘What do you want?’
‘Whatever there is.’
‘I’ve heard there’s whisky. And gin,’ said the older man.
‘Whisky, if there’s a choice.’
The mess hall was almost empty now. Charlie and Hargrave stood at last and joined the line to file out.
‘Thanks Eddie,’ said Charlie.
Hargrave didn’t reply.
The morning was spent re-indexing and replacing on the shelves the books that had been returned overnight but Charlie was ready long before the first borrowing period, the half an hour before the midday break. The dark-haired boy he’d seen at breakfast that morning with Prudell was the first one to enter the library.
‘I want a good spy book,’ said the boy. He lisped.
‘There isn’t one,’ said Charlie.
Sir Alistair Wilson had been disappointed with the Chelsea Flower Show. Or, to be more strictly accurate, with the roses. Because growing them was his hobby they were all he’d bothered to see. He thought the attempt to hybridise the Provence Duc de Fitzjames was a disaster, like sticking the stem into colouring instead of preserving water, which made a mockery of the bloom. And the hybrids themselves were pleasing but not outstanding: only the Mullard Jubilee was worth anything more than a second glance. He left early and considered going to his club but then decided against it. If he entered the Travellers without an obvious luncheon companion he risked being ambushed by bores and he didn’t want to relive an expedition up the Nile when the fallaheen knew their place and were damned glad of it or debate the superiority of mule over husky for an Arctic crossing. Instead he went immediately to the office. Although it was lunchtime and Sir Alistair wasn’t scheduled back until mid-afternoon his deputy, Richard Harkness, was in the office. Sometimes the Director wondered if Harkness slept on the premises.
‘Disappointing show,’ said Wilson.
‘I’ve never been,’ said Harkness.
‘Wouldn’t bother this year, if I were you.’
‘I won’t.’
‘How’s it look?’ demanded Wilson. Instead of going to his desk he went to the window with its view of the Thames and the Houses of Parliament beyond. His right leg was permanently stiff from being crushed under a falling polo pony and it was sometimes more comfortable to stand than to sit. Today was one of those days.
‘Good, I think,’ said Harkness. ‘Five obvious messages, four doubtful.’
‘Imagine the Russians will have intercepted?’
‘Maybe not all,’ said Harkness, who was given to caution. ‘But some; I’m sure they will have monitored some. Be astonishing if they hadn’t.’
‘Dangerous then?’
Harkness frowned at the question. He was a neat, proper man, pink-faced and tightly barbered: the suits were always dark and waistcoated and unobtrusive, the shirts hard-collared, the ties bland. People never remembered Richard Harkness: he didn’t want them to. ‘It was dangerous, from the beginning,’ he said.
Still looking out over London, Wilson said, ‘Sometimes I think how safe and protected we are here. Not like the poor buggers out there in the streets.’
Harkness, who was accustomed to his superior’s occasional philosophising, said nothing.
Wilson bent, massaging his rigidly stiff knee. ‘We’re going to need a lot of luck,’ he said. ‘A hell of a lot of luck.’
‘Somebody is,’ said Harkness.
Chapter Two
It took three days for the purchase to be made and Charlie was cheated. It wasn’t Hargrave, he knew: the poor old sod was as much a victim as he was, bullied by Prudell into taking or leaving what he was offered. For half a pound of tobacco Charlie got a flat medicine bottle of whisky, less than half what it should have been. As soon as he tasted it, Charlie knew it had been watered, too: he hoped it really had been water. Weakened or not, it was still marvellous. Bloody marvellous, in fact, the warmth of the booze feeling out through his chest
and then deep into his gut, the welcome return of an old friend. Charlie knew it would be weeks before he could save up another sufficient quantity of tobacco and so he rationed himself, one sip in the morning, another in the afternoon, holding it in his mouth until it began to burn and then slowly releasing it, savouring its journey. Marvellous.
The library racks were metal, pre-drilled along the edge for any sort of adjustment or construction, to fit the room in which they were erected. They had a lip, about half an inch deep and by selecting small sized books he was able to create a secure hiding place for his bottle beneath them while at the same time maintaining the height to match that of the volumes on either side.
The rumour that the Russian spy currently on trial would be committed to Wormwood Scrubs spread throughout the prison, increasing the pressure on Charlie. On the way back from the sluices one morning he was nudged – he never discovered by whom – at the landing stairway and if he hadn’t been tensed against something happening and grabbed a guard rail he would have plunged down at least one set of metal stairs, towards the level below. There was never a seat for him in the recreation room, where there were fixed times to watch television and if he stood other prisoners grouped in a mob in such a way that he couldn’t see the set. Once, sufficiently alert again, he just managed to get his hand out of the way of the release of scalding steam from the tea urn and on two occasions he found a fly and a spider in his food.
Hargrave didn’t sit with him any more. Charlie didn’t blame the man. Their only contact was in the library and even then surreptitious because there was a screw on duty.
‘Seen it happen before,’ said Hargrave. They were shelf stocking and Hargrave was in the line beyond, blocked from view by the intervening books so Charlie could only hear his whispered voice.
‘How long does it last?’
‘No telling.’
‘I’m pissed off with it.’
‘You’re supposed to be.’
‘What can I do?’
‘Nothing.’
‘I’m going to get hurt.’
There was a pause from the unseen man. ‘It might stop, if you were.’
‘You mean I’ve got to let it happen! Don’t be bloody stupid!’
When the silence stretched out, Charlie said, ‘I’m sorry.’
At last Hargrave said, ‘I’t’s your attitude, Charlie – fuck everyone. You treat the officers like idiots and you haven’t aligned yourself with any group, here in prison. No one likes that: you’re supposed to conform.’
‘I don’t conform.’
‘You’re going to get hurt,’ confirmed Hargrave. ‘You’ve been inside long enough to know that. So far you’ve been lucky. Or clever. Or whatever. But it can’t last. You can be smart-assed outside, because at the end of the day you can always go home, safe by yourself. But there’s nowhere to go in jail. You’re here. Always.’
Completely concealed against any observation, Charlie grimaced. Why hadn’t the bastards kept their promise! Where was the sodding deal! He looked along the rack, to the carefully regimented set of books hiding his precious booze. There wasn’t much left: less than a third. He needed more.
‘Take a beating, Charlie.’
‘Bollocks.’
‘Until you’ve been taught a lesson that all the landings in this block recognise, then Hickley’s a cunt. You can’t make prison officers look cunts, Charlie: not even if they are.’
That night Charlie took the bottle back to his cell. He was careful, confident that he was unobserved, removing it from its concealment under the pretext of replacing some returned books and easing it down the waistline of his trousers, against the skin at the back, so the elastic of his under-pants kept it in place; the trousers were sufficiently ill fitting to prevent any bulge and his tunic jacket was low, as well.
There was sticky tape in the library, for basic repairs to torn books and Charlie took some of that with him to the cell. The bottom of the lavatory pot was recessed, creating a small cavity and into it he wedged the bottle, securing it with the tape.
Charlie sat alone, ostracised, during the evening meal and at recreation didn’t bother to go to the television room where he would have been an object of more amusement than whatever was showing on the screen. Instead he stayed in the cell, waiting for lock-up. He squatted on his bunk, back against the wall, feet on the bed edge, so that his knees were tight against his chest. The pot was the object of his concentration. He was trapped, just like Hargrave had said he was: there wasn’t any comparison to anything he’d known outside, no matter how expert he had been. Tough spots, certainly: apparently disastrous on several occasions. But there’d always been room to move, to manoeuvre: somewhere, if winning was impossible, where he could run. He’d never cared that the odds were against him, because always he’d been able to think himself out. Which was an apt word. He wasn’t out, not any more. And wouldn’t be, not for another twelve years and eight months and one week and one day. He was in, caged and trapped like an animal in a circus and like an animal in a circus confronted by men in uniforms, goading him with prods and sticks to snarl and fight. Except that in circuses the goads weren’t supposed to hurt.
How much longer for Christ’s sake before the doors were closed and he could get to the bottle! The landings and balconies outside murmured with activity, an ant-hill of humans. Or should it be sub-humans?
Charlie was conscious of people passing outside his cell and of their gazing in. He didn’t respond. It came at first, like it always did, by sound and not the sound of the final bell; a metal against metal noise, impossible initially to identify as doors being closed and secured and then more recognisable, the solid clang and then the scrape of ratchets engaging cogs as the keys were turned. Charlie stayed gazing at the concealment pot. He swallowed, dry-throated and ran his tongue tentatively over his lips. Not long now. Not sufficient to get pissed on: to forget even. Just the only direction in which to run. The sound was very near now, solid and positive, like corks being driven tightly into bottles. Charlie moved at last, putting his feet against the floor and sitting upright, looking expectantly towards the door.
Hickley filled the entrance, with Butterworth behind. And then Charlie saw two more warders as well and knew it wasn’t lock-up time.
‘Cell search,’ announced Hickley.
Set-up, thought Charlie. Fuck!
He got to his feet. ‘Nowhere else?’ he said.
‘Not interested in anywhere else, just here,’ said Butterworth. As if fearing Charlie hadn’t heard, he said again. ‘Cell search.’ He jerked his head. ‘Outside.’
Obediently Charlie moved out on to the landing, putting himself between the two waiting warders. He stood with his back against the rail, gazing back in. Hickley and Butterworth were very good, working as a team, jabbing at brickwork for loose or disguised mortar, expertly stripping the bed and pressuring the mattress and pillow for anything concealed, then upending the actual wooden furniture, probing the undersides of drawers and frames, knowing every hiding place. They left the pot until last purposely Charlie was sure. Hickley turned it over, the confident conjuror knowing the rabbit would be in place.
‘What’s this then?’
‘I don’t know.’
‘Never seen it before?’
‘No.’
‘Perhaps it’s a sample,’ said Butterworth.
‘He’s not on the hospital list,’ said Hickley, moving ponderously through their prepared joke.
Hickley withdrew the stopper and made the pretence of smelling the contents. ‘Whisky!’ he said, the voice that of someone making an important discovery. He came to the door, looking out at Charlie. ‘What you doing with alcohol in your cell?’
‘Not mine,’ said Charlie stubbornly.
‘Bullshit.’
‘Don’t know anything about it.’
‘You’re up before the governor,’ announced Hickley. ‘You’re in trouble. Big trouble.’
Asshole, thought Charlie.
/> The governor’s name was Armitrage. He had a pink face, a lot of white hair, disordered clothes and the distracted, absent-minded demeanour of an academic. It was an impression heightened by his attitude towards the prisoners. He regarded them as a hopeful schoolmaster regarded unruly pupils, slightly bewildered and vaguely disappointed at their rejection of the trust he placed in them but always refusing to abandon the expectation that they would one day reform and make the world a perfect place.
‘You’ve heard what Chief Officer Hickley and Mr Butterworth have said?’
‘Yes, sir.’
‘And you insist you know nothing whatsoever about it?’
‘Yes, sir.’
The governor looked expectantly towards the two warders.
‘Nothing there during the cell search a week ago, sir,’ insisted Hickley, stiffly to attention. ‘He’s sole occupation, on your instructions.’
Armitrage came back to Charlie. ‘It’s a serious matter.’
Charlie said nothing.
‘I ask you again, what was a partially filled bottle of whisky doing in your cell?’
‘Don’t know, sir. I’d never seen it before.’ Charlie was conscious of the tightness with which Hickley and Butterworth were holding themselves. Armitrage was a man who would never thoroughly convict without proof and by maintaining his ignorance, Charlie was denying that absolute proof. He was making it worse for himself on the landing, but he didn’t give a fuck: things couldn’t be much worse than they already were. Twelve years, eight months, one week and one day. Dear God!
‘I’m not convinced,’ announced Armitrage.
One way or the other, guessed Charlie. ‘Don’t know anything about it, sir,’ he repeated.
Armitrage sighed, looking aimlessly around his desk. The office was in the highest block of the prison and the windows weren’t barred. Charlie could see the barbed wire topped walls and then the White City beyond. There were some high buildings which he guessed were the television centre and beyond that tufts of trees. Shepherds Bush straight in front, Charlie calculated: Notting Hill to the left. There were people out there, ordinary people, worried about mortgages and debts and girlfriends being pregnant and bosses not liking them and imagining that nothing could be worse, whatever happened to them. Lucky sods.
The Blind Run Page 2