Banged Up

by Jack Dickson

  “How did you find oot aboot it?”

  He hadn’t expected this. Jas’s mind clutched at plausibilities. Then one was provided:

  A frown. “Same place you got the heroin?” Dalgleish was staring at the chess board, eyes fixed on the helpless white king.

  Jas blinked, seizing the prompt. “Paul telt Mhairi everythin’, afore he got oot.” The lie came easily. Using the man’s own assumptions against him came easier still. But gave little gratification.

  Sigh. “Your visitor.” Dalgleish raised his eyes, gunmetal blank. Large fingers gripped the top folder. “McGhee’s sister – ah shouldda worked it oot. You eyeways did keep strange company.”

  Jas watched large fingers tighten around the blue folder. “Nae mair strange than you. Sometimes it pays aff – like your arrangement wi’ Johnstone pays aff. Dae you buy his road-tae-Damascus act?”

  Eyes narrowing. “Ye’ve seen him?” Disapproval.

  Movement between halls was prohibited ...

  but so was the dealing of drugs. “Aye, me an’ Neil had a wee chat.”

  Disapproval deepening. “Ye’ve nae idea whit’s at stake here.”

  “Oh, ah understand all right ...” He pushed his respect for this man away, seized the edge of the desk. Fingers tightened. “An’ it’s ...” The phrase circled in his head, then dropped to earth. “... none o’ ma business.” Jas moved his gaze to the folders. “But that is – whit aboot the weapon an’ the condoms?” He refocused on the grey face.

  Large hands picked up a blue folder, thumbed it open.

  Jas stared at the small bald spot on the crown of a grey head.

  “Ah see nae record of ony charges against you.” Gunmetal raised.

  A vision of Paul McGhee standing here, two months ago, uttering a similar question and receiving a similar response flickered on the wall behind an iron-grey head.

  Privileges.

  Favours.

  Arrangements ...

  “Noo, ah want that PC ...”

  “Ye’ll get it.” Jas strained to keep his face expressionless. “Satisfy ma curiosity, though: did Paul come tae you wi’ the ... proposal, wantin’ away fae Johnstone, or did ye make him the offer efter ye worked oot whit he hud access tae?”

  A shadow of a flinch. Then impassivity recloaked the face.

  “Come oan: ah ken aboot the whole thing – the McGhee/ Hamilton break-in, the single cell – the favours the wee bastard got aff ye. Why did ye no’ jist turn him over tae the polis?”

  Folder closed, replaced on the desk. “Hadrian ainly wants its property back – Maxwell Fulton’s prepared tae waive criminal charges if ...”

  “Is this an example o’ the Hadrian philosophy? Private deals withoot polis involvement?”

  “Nothin’s ever black and white, Anderson – you ken that ...” Pause.

  Something in the voice pushed the years away.

  ... black and white ...

  Alan Somerville.

  Nearly twenty years ago.

  ... black and white ...

  ... Jas glanced down at the chess board, then raised eyes to the man on the other side of the desk.

  Large hands rubbed the rugged face, then removed themselves.

  Jas stared into gun-metal eyes.

  Long nights in the Gorbals.

  Flexibility. Adaptability ...

  “Jist tell me where ah can pick up the PC, and ah’ll see you git an easier time of it – if ye get sent doon fur the drugs charges, ye’ll be back in here fur a while.”

  Jas raised an eyebrow. Bribe? Or threat ...

  ... two sides of the same coin.

  “Don’t be naive, man.” No flicker on the thick-set face. Gunmetal eyes fixed him, safeties off. “You of aw’ people should understand the way things work.”

  Eyes flicked down to the threatened white king. Heart pounding, Jas let the man talk.

  “This is aw’ merely temporary.” Ian Dalgleish sat down. “Hadrian’s goat a big future – the Scottish Prison Association couldney organise a blow-job in a hairdrier factory!” Elbows on the desk, hands clasped. “We’re the future, man ...”

  “The future that had their ain security breached by two kids an’ a delivery van?”

  Forced laugh.

  Something began to make sense: not grassing, but ...

  ... blackmail. “Paul worked oot there wis somethin’ important oan that hard drive, didn’t he?” His mind was racing. “Did ye bend another o’ Hadrian’s rules tae get him early release, in exchange fur the PC?”

  Expression frozen. Dalgleish moved out from behind the desk.

  “Bendin’ the rules is part o’ everyday life – ah telt ye that, years ago.”

  He stared.

  Alan Somerville.

  Rules ...

  Gunmetal returned the stare. “Ah could huv you an’ McGhee’s sister fur handlin’ stolen goods – oan toppa the dealin’ charges ...”

  Jas blinked. Rules could be bent either way.

  “... but whit guid wid that dae either o’ us?”

  Blackmail ... worked both ways.

  Dalgleish pulled the telephone towards him, lifted the receiver and held it out. “Phone her – phone McGhee’s sister an’ tell her tae bring the PC tae a ... spot o’ your choice.”

  In the sudden silence, Jas listened to the burr of a dialing one over the sound of a bluff being called. He scrabbled for plausible stalls, then remembered he held an equal number of cards..

  ... or so the man before him thought. Jas took the receiver, replaced in in its cradle. “We dae this ma way.” The dialing tone died. He stared at Dalgleish.

  Confusion, badly hidden. And the beginnings of something else.

  The bruises on his body pulsed. “Ah need tae be sure ye’ll keep yer word – somewan’s already hud a go at me!”

  Frown. “That’ll no’ happen again – no’ inside a Hadrian prison.” Dalgleish stood inches away. “You have ma word.”

  Inches stretched to miles. Jas scowled, recalling share prices and long-term projections. “Diz Maxwell Fulton ken aboot yer drugs rackets? Or is that your way o’ showin’ initiative?”

  The face was ashen, powder-burned.

  Jas seized the advantage, followed his line of thought. “Diz he ken his officers dae deals wi’ cons tae get this PC back?” He gripped the edge of the desk, pushing away the past.

  Dalgleish was staring at him.

  Ears strained beyond the unlocked door, to sounds of keys and trays rattling. “Why didn’t Hadrian report the break-in tae the polis?” Jas released the desk, stared at Dalgleish. Something was making sense. “It wisney jist damage limitation on bad publicity, wis it?”

  Pause, then: “There’s sensitive information on that PC – nae use tae onywan else, but Mr Fulton would like it back, nae questions asked.”

  “McGhee worked this oot?”

  Silent assent.

  “He strung ye along fur it?”

  Sigh. Nod.

  Jas stared. A bullet-headed teenager had bought his early release, then welched on the deal: no wonder Paul McGhee was keeping a low profile.

  “Hadrian huv the chance tae make a difference – a real difference. This is a crucial time for the company.”

  Jas looked up from the chessboard.

  Dalgleish stood ramrod straight. “Justice, man – that’s whit it’s aw’ aboot. Visible justice – we have tae be seen tae be dealin’ wi’ oor criminal population. If the courts continue tae award custodials at their present rate, we’ll need a new prison every three weeks. Hadrian already huv the contract tae build four over the next two years – we re the maist competitive security company around – wi’ a good track record ...”

  His mind was elsewhere, back in a holding-cell, nearly twenty years ago.

  Dalgleish talked on. “We can build them, and we can run them – have you ever seen Barlinnie so in control?”

  He thought about last night, about the night before and the nameless kid screaming three cells down ..
.

  “Things are very competitive in the private security business: Hadrian canny risk the information some ...” Scowl. “... moron saved ontae the hard drive fallin’ intae the wrong hands ...” Gunmetal stare. “... you’re a fair man: ah ken ye’ll want tae do the right thing. The PC is, after all, oor property.”

  Jas blinked.

  A bell rang ...

  He ignored it.

  ... again ... and again ...

  ... until the sound was obliterated by an unfamiliar but instantly recognisable siren.

  Buzzing.

  Ian Dalgleish moved swiftly round to the other side of the desk and lifted the telephone. The baritone was low. barely audible over the siren’s whine. Jas tried to hear the words. Failed.

  The call was brief.

  Dalgleish opened a drawer, removed a set of keys and a mobile phone.

  The door behind burst inwards. The room was filled with shouting grey. Gunmetal eyes caught his. Booming baritone over the shouting:

  “Back tae yer cell, Anderson – we’ll continue this conversation later!” The eyes darted away.

  The huddle of grey looked scared and unprepared. And preoccupied.

  Thoughts of his own safety returned. Taking advantage of the confusion. Jas scooped the contraband from the top folder. The Bic dropped to the floor. The condoms went straight into his pocket. He moved towards the door.

  Beyond, the siren’s howl continued to announce the outbreak of a disturbance somewhere in the prison.

  The corridors were devoid of denim and peppered with swiftly moving grey uniforms, all of whom advised him to return to his cell but made no effort to accompany him there.

  Regardless of how far Dalgleish had gone to try to gain control of Barlinnie, it hadn’t worked.

  Jas knew whatever was happening was happening in another hall.

  He also knew Hadrian would need most of their meagre staff to handle it.

  Reaching the end of a corridor, he looked both ways.

  Right: cells ...

  Jas remembered Stevie’s information.

  ... left: an opportunity? The powerful odour of over-cooked vegetables told him the dining-hall and kitchens must be somewhere close by.

  Jas inched along yellow-brick wall, following his nose.

  No cells in this part of the prison. Storerooms. He quickened his pace, turned a corner.

  No security gates in this area ...

  ... he could smell the outside, a damp, frosty smell. Jas broke into a run.

  Ahead, a caterpillar of figures in white overalls and hair-caps straggled out of a room and walked away from him, a grey figure bringing up the rear.

  The kitchens..the freezer ...

  DI Ann McLeod’s request for evidence.

  ... sweat poured down his face. This part of the prison was warmer than the cell area. A rumble beneath his feet told him the boiler-rooms were directly below. He reached the doorway from which the kitchen workers had emerged, glanced in. Some sort of food preparation area.

  Empty.

  As he strode past stainless-steel cutting tables and an enormous cooking range, his brain raced ahead.

  Even if he did find drugs, there was no proof the drugs had been brought in by Dalgleish ...

  ... another rumble – not below his feet, this time. And distant voices.

  Jas ignored the sound, veering past a bank of sinks. He gazed at two doors.

  One marked Refrigeration Room authorized personnel only. The other unmarked ...

  He seized the handle.

  ... and unlocked.

  Jas pushed opened the door, fumbling for a light switch.

  The room was lined with chest-freezers.....

  ... banging. In the distance.

  He glanced over his shoulder, then turned back and opened the lid of the freezer nearest.

  Misty air. Frosted joints of meat glistened up at him. Rolling up the sleeves of the scratchy jumper, he plunged elbow deep into rigid animal flesh and began to heave.

  Three plunges later his arms were numb and the floor was littered with ossified haunches.

  Jas wiped icy sweat from his eyes.

  Nothing ... pointless ...

  He turned and strode back into the main food-preparation area. Eyes scanning ... then locating the object of their scan.

  In a corner. Not a chest-freezer. One of the upright variety ... He ran towards it.

  ... and locked. Fingering the small padlock, he glanced around for something he could use as leverage.

  Nothing.

  All utensils were locked away.

  Jas sank to his hunkers. He stared at the freezer, suddenly struck by the silence. No bells ... no footsteps..

  ... just distant rumblings ... and voices. He scrutinised heavy steel preparation tables for anything he could use ...

  ... then paused. Following the legs of the structure nearest, he noticed it wasn’t bolted to the floor.

  The scratchy jumper stuck to his skin, making him itch. Jas pulled it over his head, wrapped it around both hands then gripped the far edge and ...

  ... pushed.

  The solid table crashed into the freezer with a satisfyingly damaging thud.

  He pulled ...

  ... then pushed again.

  And again ...

  ... after four impacts, he stopped, listened.

  Bootsteps ... running ...

  Jas shoved the table against the freezer one last time.

  Sounds of splintering metal ...

  ... and the breaking of a vacuum seal.

  He stared at ripped hinges, then at the still secure padlock holding the door shut.

  Bootsteps ... nearing ...

  He frowned, hauled the table back and gripped the freezer’s hinges with both hands. If he was lucky?

  A drugs cache: the key to which only a Hadrian officer was likely to possess.

  Jas pulled ...

  If he was unlucky? A fridge full of cheap margarine and an advancing posse of Hadrian-booted feet demanding to know what he was doing here and why he had demolished a piece of Her Majesty’s property.

  ... more snowy condensation.

  He gritted his teeth and pulled again. Jas peered through the two-inch gap he had made, then tugged harder.

  Something clutched at his guts.

  Jas stared at the frozen face of a bullet-headed teenager, eyes zeroing in on the large tongue which protruded from the open, frost-etched mouth.

  Twenty-Two

  WISPS OF WHITE CURLED around the icy face, tendrilling towards him. Jas backed away.

  Paul McGhee had got early release, all right.

  Thumps from above. And a crash.

  He tore his eyes from the stiff, lifeless body and glanced over his shoulder.

  Sounds of running ... distant running ... getting closer.

  Mhairi’s brother wasn’t going anywhere, but he was ...

  ... eyes barely registering a snow-covering of small white packets, Jas closed the freezer door. A lingering chill licked the back of his neck. He picked up Telly’s scratchy jumper and ran from the kitchens ...

  ... straight into a helmeted grey form. “What you doing down here, Anderson?”

  He stepped back, staring at the visored face but recognising the voice. Brodie was holding a large transparent shield. “Ah want tae make a phone call!” Fingers gripped his bare arm:

  “Change the record, eh?” Bravado less convincing than usual. “Get back to your cell!” Pulling.

  A rumble. Then the sounds of running ... and shouting.

  Jas twisted away. “There’s ...”

  “Just get moving, Anderson!” Brodie re-gripped and pushed him along the corridor.

  Jas gave up and complied. Rumblings above were increasing in volume.

  Behind, he could hear bootsteps. He walked towards metal stairs, mind sifting through contradictory accounts ...

  Ian Dalgleish.

  Neil Johnstone.

  The former was doing more deals with more
prisoners than he’d thought.

  The latter had killed at least twice ...

  ... and had known Paul McGhee intimately. The vow of nonviolence flickered in Jas’s head, ephemeral as candle flame.

  Two sets of boots clattered on metal stairs and joined echoing voices and more bootsteps from above.

  Jas paused. Something tingled in the air around him ...

  ... he opened his mouth. “There’s a body in wanna yer freezers!” The shape of a riot shield against his spine:

  Information ignored. “I said get a move on, Anderson!”

  He was pushed through a doorway and into a sea of shielded Hadrian grey.

  And banging. From behind locked doors.

  The smell of panic and confusion twitched his nostrils. Jas scanned the group of officers for faces ...

  ... all obscured beneath helmets and face-guards.

  “Ah’m serious! Go look for yersels ...”

  “Shut it!” Brodie pushed him towards a bulky figure. “Get him back to his cell!”

  Helmetted nod.

  He felt himself pushed towards more metal stairs. Jas turned back to the faceless Hadrian officer. “Where’s Mr Dalgleish?”

  “Never you mind, Anderson, just get back tae yer cell – we’ll handle this!” A fist pushed again.

  Jas frowned and walked on past rows of locked doors.

  B-Hall seemed in control ...

  ... for the moment.

  When they reached the cell, the metal door was trembling under the force of blows from inside. He knew it was the safest place to be – during a riot, at least. Jas waited while the door was unlocked.

  On the other side, Stevie’s fist raised, mid-thump. A look. Then thumping resumed.

  Behind, slamming. Then locking.

  He moved past Stevie. The cell resounded with vibrations from inside and out. “When did this start?” Jas turned.

  Amber eyes glowing, adrenalin-tinged. “Tea time – over somewan borrowin’ somewan else’s radio ... C-Hall’s bin sealed aw’ ready ...” Fist raised, another two thumps on the door. “They’re gonny tear the fuckin’ place apart!”

  Jas sat down on the lower bunk. Paul McGhee ... dead ...

  Over thumps: “Where were ye, onyway?” Pause in thumps. “Did Dalgleish turn up? Did ye ...?”