Fifty Years of Fear

by Ross Greenwood

  ‘The carotid then.’

  ‘Yes, both if possible, but it’s not as easy as you may think. They are inside the neck amongst other tissue. If we make a mistake and don’t incapacitate him, he will kill us instead.’

  A cornered and wounded Kilkenny was a worrying prospect.

  ‘How long would it take if we severed one of his carotids?’

  ‘Around eight to ten seconds at a guess. As you can imagine there haven’t been any studies to assess the rate of loss of consciousness. He would definitely bleed out in a few minutes and there’s no way they would have the expertise on hand to save him. It’ll be messy and I don’t suppose he’ll just let us do it.’

  Never a truer word had been spoken. It was ridiculous to be discussing the facts as though we were about to perform a life-saving operation. The stakes in some ways were higher.

  ‘You’ll be murderers. All of you, even those that stand watch.’

  ‘It’ll never come to that. I’ll stay with the body and confess to the murder. We’re going to make a weapon in the woodwork class. I’ll tell them I surprised him and then finished him off. There are no cameras in the showers, and the one that’s near the office, we’ll smudge with toothpaste. Nobody else knows anything. I’ll be long dead before it ever goes to trial.’

  ‘Got it all worked out. Who’s going to help? Karen?’

  Karen was the heroin addict I’d met seven years past. Turns out his nickname was actually Charon, (pronounced Kha-ron) after the mythical Greek ferryman who carried the souls of the newly deceased across the River Styx and into the Underworld. He was usually depicted as a living skeleton in a cowl so it was a witty comparison. Unfortunately, he’d been in prison so many times over the years it had evolved into Karen.

  Charon himself would have been a handier assistant.

  ‘Yes, Karen, Bomber, Deadly Leadley and Johno. Joe Sparrow and Rolt as distraction.’

  They weren’t a hopeless crew for a desperate job. Karen had long given up on life and would have been easily swayed by the weakest of rewards. A few bags of brown would have done the trick. Bomber was a big black man called Cedric Boumba from somewhere in Africa. He was a rapist.

  Johnno was in for murder. He was still on trial, so innocent until proven guilty and all that. If you believed his story, there were extenuating circumstances but he’d still slain his own parents. Morally, he should have been on the wrong side of every argument. Maybe he had a taste for murder now.

  Deadly Leadley was his prize asset. He came from Poland and was in for a long stretch. He’d done some terrible things to a woman he’d kept in a shed, and had been told it was unlikely he would ever be released. He was aggressive and had little to lose. Ironically, he had received his nickname for being a bully. Apart from Karen and Joe, they were young strong men. They would have a chance.

  Doc’s posse was a foul collection of God’s mistakes. It wasn’t right that they were judge and jury, Kilkenny the accused, and Doc the executioner. I’ve always said normal rules don’t apply, but perhaps they did? They do say you will be judged by a jury of your peers so maybe it was apt. I didn’t want any part of it.

  I walked to the telephones at the back of the wing and telephoned Silent Kevin. It rang out, but I stayed and looked down at the inmates. I could see Bomber and Leadley playing pool together and laughing. Prison was a strange place. They were unhappy about being bullied, yet I suspect if they had the chance to rule the wing themselves, they would do. Their deeds were as bad if not worse than Kilkenny’s.

  Prisons should run self-awareness courses. Drum it into them that there isn’t a hierarchy of crimes, even though the sentencing makes it seem that way. There is no such thing as a victimless crime.

  If Kilkenny had given up the right to be treated as a human being, then so had most people in these places. Nevertheless, he would still have a mother, siblings, children, or innocent others whose lives would be shattered by the taking of his life.

  Those who have nothing to lose are the most dangerous in any society. How can you beat the suicide bomber when he is prepared to sacrifice everything?

  Doc was a dead man walking. He was so close to the end that you could sense death’s hand on his shoulder. However, revenge is a powerful motivator. Maybe the strongest of urges. That was all he had left. It would give him the energy to commit one last heinous act.

  Chapter 47

  I hadn’t slept all night. Treacle was on first thing in the morning with another new officer and the beating was planned. That’s right. I’d persuaded them it would be better to teach him a lesson than commit that most final of crimes. They were concerned that if it didn’t go well, he would hunt them down, one by one, and they'd never escape from his violent reign.

  However, they agreed, albeit reluctantly, that they would become worse people than Kilkenny if they went through with a murder.

  My role was simple. I had to stand at the entrance to the showers and warn them if anyone came. Now it was set to go ahead, the planning of it seemed complicated. There were too many variables; he might alter his routine, or the phone could ring, or anything in fact. It wasn’t like we could change the plan and delay as Doc was fading fast. Without his leadership, the task would fail.

  I paced up and down in the cell. Did sit-ups, star jumps, press-ups, anything, to distract my mind. That was one of the worst things about prison; the lack of being able to go for a walk. I suspect it’s what drives captive animals wild.

  The act of stretching your muscles, filling your lungs, and leaving your cares and all others behind you, at least for a while, is many a thing’s salvation. The tiger in his cage paces up and down, up and down, going madder and getting angrier by the stride. No wonder they maul people when they get the chance.

  Nothing could distract me, and I gave in and focused on what would soon occur. I believed life would be different afterwards. I knew something would go wrong, almost as if I could feel the atmosphere in the air was charged differently.

  The digital clock on the TV became my focus, and I watched the minutes tick by. More life lost. Sometimes in the past I’d stare at the time on the microwave as it heated my soup and thought watching the seconds count down was a waste. I used to make myself wipe a surface or tidy a cupboard instead. However, inside my time had no value, so I threw it away.

  Eventually my door opened and I unclenched my fists. I stepped out of my cell and watched Treacle, and the other unlucky soul whose life would also be damaged that day, unlock the top landing. Bomber and Leadley came out of neighbouring cells and nodded at each other. I watched them turn and stare down to the final cell on their floor and wait for Doc to appear. Their faces gradually built worried expressions.

  Just as Bomber moved to go down there, Doc appeared. He shuffled out of his cell, hunched over, like Yoda, when he was at the end. He rested his walking stick on the railing. That was the sign. It would happen today.

  If sex offenders are in a jail with regular inmates, they exercise at different times. Otherwise they would get abuse, and possibly tarmac or some other projectile, thrown at them from the other yards. As usual, at five to eleven, came the call. ‘Exercise to the gate.’

  It was a warm morning, the kind that reminds you of where you are and what other people might be enjoying. Despite that, few would resist the chance for some warmth and natural light.

  The wing occupants sensed trouble that day and everyone who wasn’t involved left the wing. Treacle closed the gate behind the last person and returned to his office. He then started something we call “bolts and bars”, and the prison calls AFCs – Accommodation Fabric Checks.

  Each morning, one officer has to go to every cell and check the fixtures and fittings haven’t been loosened for weapons or escape purposes. They also checked for bottles of hooch or any other unauthorised items. There were fifty-six cells on our wing, so it would take him over an hour. Exercise was an hour. All we needed now was Kilkenny to do what he always did; take a shower.

&nb
sp; I played table tennis with a weak chinned lad, Rolt, who had received eighteen months for amassing the biggest collection of child porn in Suffolk for many a year. I actually found Rolt more objectionable than every other person on the wing.

  He’d tried to tell me, when he first arrived, that he hadn’t touched any children, so what did it really matter? It wasn’t like he'd taken the pictures. The stuff was on the internet for anyone to look at, so what difference did it make? I think I would have been incensed if I hadn’t been so shocked.

  I explained that, by him watching those pictures and movies, he created a demand for them. Two crimes were being committed. A child was abused to make the pictures, and he committed a crime by watching. If many viewed them, more would be made, and further children would suffer. He looked at me in the same way you would if someone quoted you £40 for a burger.

  I often wondered at the strange nature of some of the sickest minds in Britain playing table tennis with each other. Maybe the monotonous ping and pong was a tranquiliser for our troubled minds. Actually, not mine. Like always, when I played table tennis with Rolt I imagined beating him to death with the bat. It made it more enjoyable, making me expel more effort, and was surprisingly tiring.

  Neither of us put our backs in to it that day as we both had roles to play. Leadley and Bomber were playing pool badly, trying not to watch Treacle walk in and out of each cell. I saw Johnno poke his head out of the showers, wondering what the delay was. Doc and Karen talked on the phones, possibly to each other, but of the main man, there was no sign.

  Treacle finished the lower landing and skipped up the stairs. Kilkenny came out of his cell with a towel round his bare shoulders. It’s against the rules to be on the wing without a shirt on, yet Treacle didn’t give him a second glance and ducked into the first cell to avoid confrontation.

  Kilkenny strutted down the steps as if he was Sinatra coming on stage. My hackles rose. They were flattened by the incredible definition of Kilkenny’s chest. I hadn't thought he was as big as last time I saw him, but perhaps that was fat. Power and fluidity shone from him and I felt afraid. We would need more men.

  Kilkenny’s presence froze Rolt with fear. I hammered the ball at him but only Rolt’s eyes followed as it fired past and towards Kilkenny’s face. I took a step back. He caught the ball and suspended it in the air between two fingers. It was at his mercy, as were we, waiting to be crushed.

  After what seemed like hours, yet can only have been seconds, he bounced it off the back of Rolt’s head and swaggered away. Doc and Karen came over from the phones. When they got to the last cell before the office, Doc knocked five times on the door. The small old man, Joe Sparrow, popped out and followed the rest to the showers.

  I couldn’t help but think of Captain Ahab as Doc beckoned me to follow. The final person to go in apart from Doc, was Karen. He dragged a sock from his pocket and dropped in two pool balls. He felt its heft and twisted it round his hand.

  My position as look out meant I could see in the showers and down the landing at the same time. Upstairs, I saw Rolt going towards the last cell Treacle had visited. The distraction was in place, so we were clear to proceed. What I saw in the showers though, beggared belief.

  Johno lay unconscious in one of the corners. Kilkenny grappled with Bomber, while Leadley tried to pull him over by the legs. He would have had similar success pulling two pine trees over. Bomber slipped on the wet floor and Kilkenny drove a huge haymaker onto the top of his head. He slumped.

  Leadley was losing his grip, meanwhile Karen was swinging his improvised mace around with wild abandon. Joe Sparrow had a sharpened pool cue in his hand and jabbed away at Kilkenny as effectively as a lion tamer with a broom. Joe was rightfully more concerned by being hit by Karen. Kilkenny grabbed the sock as it flew past and yanked. Surprisingly, Karen didn’t let go and barged into him causing them to stagger back and trip over Bomber. They all rolled on the floor.

  ‘Do something,’ Doc whispered.

  Oddly, it was quiet. The occasional grunt of effort but no energy was wasted in shouting. The scene reminded me of the late Steve Irwin and his crew trying to suppress an enormous crocodile as it lashed out. This croc was winning.

  All that kept Kilkenny on the floor was the old man jabbing at his face and Karen, who wriggled like an electric current was going through him. Bomber and Leadley were done.

  I’d seen it regularly with violence inside. Too often, the bulk was manufactured with steroids which would give at the first challenge. Even if the hard yards had been spent in the gym, they were of limited use. Enormous muscles on big men used massive amounts of energy so after impressive demonstrations they were a wasted force.

  The wiry types kept fighting. Kilkenny was in control. He began to wind me up. All through this potentially deadly assault, his face hadn’t changed. A small grin shone, as if he had expected it, and cared little. He finally got an arm around Karen’s neck and subdued him.

  ‘Please, Vinnie. He’ll win. Think of what he did to that innocent girl.’

  ‘What girl? The prostitute?’

  He gave me a strange look.

  ‘It wasn’t a prostitute. She was a checkout girl. On her way to work for the seven-a.m. shift at Tesco, she used a shortcut through the park. Kilkenny waited in the bushes. He dragged her in and raped her whilst holding a broken bottle to her neck to keep her quiet. He took ages. It was the drugs, he couldn’t finish.’

  The mist came down like a lightning flash. I strode towards the now sitting Kilkenny and grabbed the pool cue out of the old man’s hand. I powered into Kilkenny and pushed his back to the floor, trapping his free arm with my knee. I knew fear, and then so did he.

  The sharpened tip pressed against his neck and I tensed my muscles as Kilkenny’s eyes bulged in anticipation. Then, nothing. I didn’t want to kill anyone, whatever they’d done. I relaxed my grip. The only sounds were the heavy breathing of tired men. A small smell of illness and an exhausted pant approached my side.

  Doc knelt down with a cough, put two hands on top of the cue and drove it through Kilkenny’s neck until it hit the solid floor. He took a tea towel out of his belt and wiped the pool cue. He stared at me with the same smile that Kilkenny had worn. I looked down at Kilkenny’s stunned face as the blood collected around his collar.

  Karen struggled free, pulled Bomber and then Leadley to their feet, and left. I turned and watched the old man slip away. Johno was gone too. The metallic smell assaulted my nostrils and I backed up. I suppose Kilkenny could have moved but maybe he understood the moment the cue retracted, his life would pour from his body in seconds. It was a strange sight, Doc might have been saving him in another lifetime.

  ‘I knew you’d do that, Vinnie. We couldn’t have done it without you. I’m sorry for lying to you about only hurting him. The world will be a better place.'

  Doc gasped and put a hand to his heart and I stepped towards him.

  ‘A screw is coming,’ came the shout.

  ‘Go. Leave now.’ He tried to take a huge breath but failed. I was walking away as I heard his final whispered piece of advice. ‘It’s almost funny,’ he managed. ‘You’re frightened of life, and we’re scared of you. Let the creature out, Vinnie. It’s who you really are.’

  I moved to the exit and took a final look. My friend, Doc, had cheated me with his dying breaths. He pulled the cue out and blood flowed into the drains. Kilkenny’s arms came up and held Doc's wrists as one of his legs twitched. Doc leaned back and drove his weapon into Kilkenny’s eye socket.

  As I staggered down the wing, I realised I knew Doc about as well as I knew myself. He was sick and bad, and I hadn’t seen it. But, there lurked something uncontrollable inside of me and he’d known it. I was no better than him and he'd won. I'd become an accessory to murder. Another award to add to my role of honour on judgement day.

  I sat on the small plastic seat in my cell and put my head in my hands. I searched my memory for those nights with Kirsty that sent me to this pla
ce. The past blurred after so much time. The monotony and routine in here had consumed me. I had two more years to do, looking at the same screaming faces. What was the point?

  An appointment slip on the floor of my cell caught my eye which I hadn’t noticed in my fervour to get out of sight. Visit hall, three p.m. the next day, with Frank Roach. I suppose they couldn’t let him on our wing to talk, so he'd arranged it through the visit department. Thank God for that. I had heard nothing from him for a while.

  The previous week he passed a message to the orderly saying they moved him to the remand wing, and that he would get an appointment for us to discuss our case. "Our case"; those were the words he’d used. I tried, again, to recall what he meant by them. Still, I could feel myself sinking. At least a chat with him was something to look forward to.

  Too soon we forget the horror of what we’ve done. People died and I’d taken a hand, and yet there I was thinking normally. I would need to keep my calm. Sweat beaded on my forehead as I thought of the amount of men on whose silence we now relied. If one broke, we would all go down.

  The noise on the wing elevated. Even in my cell, I heard a multitude of heavy footwear running towards the showers. Muffled swear words and barked orders echoed around the ceiling. I turned my TV on and raised the volume. No doubt they would come for me soon.

  Chapter 48

  We hugged when we got to the visits’ hall. Frank's bones jarred my arms. I held his shoulders afterwards and looked from eye to eye.

  ‘You okay?’

  ‘I’m coping, just. I don’t know how you’ve put up with this for so long.’

  ‘When you get given as much time as I did, it’s better than the other option.’

  We sat down. An officer kindly came over and gave us a cup of coffee each as inmates aren’t allowed to go to the little shop. It felt like a normal visit except neither would go home.

  ‘I guess you need to do some talking, Frank. What happened?’