The Final Mile: A SAM POPE NOVEL

by Enright, Robert

  It wasn’t too bad. His reputation and his manner soon got him a seat at the top table, with the inmates bending over backwards to work for him. The prison guards were either paid off or their families threatened.

  When Harris was in attendance, Chapman towed the line. He was too old to fight back, but after a decade under his watch, he’d come to respect Harris for his dignified leadership.

  Sharp, on the other hand, was a joke of a man but he had a thirst for power that Chapman could manipulate.

  Once Harris retired, and it was soon coming, Sharp may be in line for the throne, but The Guvnor would be running The Grid.

  And now, as he sat opposite Sam Pope, he couldn’t help but smile at the hand fate had dealt him once more.

  * * *

  Despite the ominous warning of the large, bearded man before him, Sam ploughed into the dinner like a man possessed. Having survived off the one measly bowl of cold porridge afforded to him in solitary, the taste of vegetables was welcome. It was the first proper meal he’d had since his time spent in West Hampstead Police Station, where an affable officer had ensured he was well fed and had also brought him something to read.

  Sam was under no illusion that this dinner was being provided out of the goodness of his fellow inmate’s heart. As he mopped up the last remnants of gravy with his final fork of meat, Sam looked up at the man opposite and took his last mouthful. The man warmly smiled, nodded, and then relaxed back in his seat.

  ‘Good?’

  ‘Not bad.’ Sam wiped his mouth with the back of his hand.

  ‘I should think so. It came from my private stash.’

  Sam stared at the man, who seemed aggravated by his lack of appreciation. The man cleared his throat.

  ‘Do you know who I am?’ His tone was menacing, yet clearly rehearsed.

  ‘The cook?’ Sam shrugged.

  ‘Very funny. My name is Harry Chapman. Ring any bells?’ Sam shook his head. ‘Or, like I said, you can call me The Guvnor.’

  ‘I’d rather not.’ Sam extended his hand. ‘I’m Sam.’

  ‘Oh, I fucking know who you are. See, while you may have had the country shaking in its boots for the last year or so, I’ve been doing it for nearly four decades. And I may have been in here when you went on your little quest for justice, you still stepped on toes you really shouldn’t have.’

  Chapman carefully eyed Sam, the lack of fear in the man’s eyes causing his fists to clench in anger. He continued.

  ‘Now, you want to go around killing bad guys or bent coppers because your little boy got killed, that’s fine by me. As far as I’m concerned, there is nothing worse than a bent copper and most of the fuckwits running the streets these days don’t know their arse from their elbow. In some ways, you were actually providing a service. But then you took down a good friend of mine, Frank Jackson.’

  ‘He had friends?’ Sam responded, knowing his flippant answers were angering Chapman. The Guvnor pursed his lips in contemplation.

  ‘Friend might be a little strong. How about acquaintance? Frank ran a tight ship in his High Rise. He paid the right people to keep the wolves from the door and his clientele was almost as valuable as the money he made. His building was the number one location on the High Street, which you’ve pretty much brought crashing to the ground since you filled him with bullets.’

  ‘So?’

  ‘The High Street belongs to me.’ Chapman slammed his hand on the metal table to emphasise his point, the impact echoing loudly throughout the dark room. ‘Every building, every bag of cocaine, every disease-ridden whore. They belonged to me. I may be on this side of freedom, Sam, but believe me, I still ran that fucking show. But then you strolled in, the avenger, with a gun in his hand and nothing to lose. This isn’t the wild fucking west, son, and while you didn’t have anything to lose, unfortunately for you, I did.’

  Chapman sat back in his chair to catch his breath and Sam noticed the beads of sweat beginning to form across the man’s thinning hairline. As he pulled out a handkerchief to dab at it, a guard appeared from the darkness with a glass of water. Sam raised his eyebrows to meet the scowl of the man, who slipped seamlessly back into the void. Chapman took a sip of water and continued.

  ‘Money is what equals power, Sam. Not position. Your attacks on the High Rise, your obliteration of the Kovalenkos, all of it directly hit my pockets. Now in here, I can get whatever I want, whenever I want. The guards know it. The inmates know it. And I want you to know it.’

  ‘That’s very impressive,’ Sam said dismissively.

  ‘Shut your fucking mouth. As far as I see it, you’ve cost me millions of pounds. And the only reason I haven’t had your solitary door ripped from its hinges and had you beaten to death is that it’s too good for you. I would hazard a guess that you would quite like to die a martyr to the hero worshippers who see you as more than what you really are.’

  ‘And what’s that?’

  ‘A killer.’ Chapman clasped his hands together, interlocking his fingers and doing his best to calm his temper. ‘Whatever reason you tell yourself, you killed those people because you liked it. I get it. I’ve slit enough throats in my time to get the lust for it, the power surge that rattles through every muscle when you end a man’s life. But you have this irritating boy scout bullshit which means death is too good for you. So instead of dying for what you took from me, you’re going to work it off.’

  ‘You want me to wash your car?’ Sam asked, but this time, Chapman smirked.

  ‘I would suggest you take this seriously. There are a lot of desperate men in this place, Sam. A lot of them wanting the smallest crumb from my table and I’ll make every single day you have left in this place a living hell. You don’t have any guns in here. No plans. No backup. Like Sharp says, everyone walks their final mile in this place and up until I decide when yours has arrived, you will work for me. Is that clear?’

  Sam regarded Chapman with an unnerving stare and then pushed his plate to the centre of the table and stood.

  ‘Thanks for dinner. Oh, and although I’ve only been here for a week or so, I’d steer clear of quoting anything Sharp says. You wouldn’t want to get tarred with that brush.’

  ‘Quite.’ Chapman slowly lifted himself from his chair. ‘Obviously, you need a little time to think about it so let me just reinforce exactly what I mean when I say I run this place.’

  Chapman slowly lifted his hand into the air and then clicked his fingers. Instantly, the halogen bulbs clunked loudly, illuminating the entire cafeteria. Sam scanned the room and lined up against the walls, previously shrouded in darkness, where over ten prison guards, all of them with their metal batons in their hands.

  Each with their eyes locked on Sam.

  Fixing them all with an unblinking stare, Sam cracked his neck and then calmly walked back through the room towards the door, a silent dare to any of them who fancied their chances. Even before one of them provided the Guvnor with a glass of water, Sam knew they weren’t alone. He also knew that the numbers were against him and if all of them called his bluff, then he was in for a hell of an uncomfortable night.

  The guard nearest to the door stepped forward, meeting Sam a few paces from the exit and with a swift flick of his arm, he drew the baton up and brought it crashing down.

  He stopped it less than an inch from Sam’s temple.

  Sam didn’t flinch.

  The guard scoffed nervously, his eyes darting around the room for support and then he slowly stepped to the side in embarrassment. Sam sighed and looked back over his shoulder at Chapman, who arrogantly smirked.

  ‘Can I go now?’ Sam asked with a sense of boredom.

  ‘Of course.’ Chapman motioned with his hand. ‘But keep your energy up for tomorrow night, Sam. You’re going to need it.’

  Sam took a step, stopped, and turned back.

  ‘What’s tomorrow?’

  The Guvnor, who had retaken his seat, fixed Sam with a confident gaze, stroked his bearded chin, and smiled.
/>   ‘Day one.’

  Chapter Twelve

  ‘Fancy another?’

  Matt Allison offered his best smile, and Singh sighed inwardly. For all intents and purposes, he was a good man. Well-built and with a strong jaw, he was the identikit police officer. For over a decade, Allison had been on the beat, loving the thrill of the unknown and the adrenaline of every 999 call. But after a nasty traffic collision caused serious damage to his spine, Allison had to step away from his dream job.

  He was lucky not to be paralysed, but his limited mobility meant there was no chance he could return to the streets. Not to be outdone by the cruel hands of fate, he took up a position as a prison guard at Her Majesty’s Prison Pentonville in Kings Cross and from what Singh had gathered, he was well liked and respected.

  He was just a little too blatant in his attraction to her.

  As he went to get them both another drink, she scolded herself for her actions. Allison was a good man and in a rugged way, quite attractive, even if middle age had greyed his hair and slightly bulged his waistline. But he’d made the effort tonight, with his beard trimmed neatly and his smart shirt had clearly been brought for the occasion. The guilt Singh was feeling was that to him, this evening was a shot at potential happiness.

  For her, it was a fact-finding mission.

  As he returned to the table with another pint of ale and a gin and tonic, he afforded her his best smile. She returned in kind, thanked him for the drink and took a sip.

  ‘So, what’s it like being the hottest detective in town?’ Allison asked, before taking a swig of his drink.

  ‘Not as glamourous as you might think,’ she responded, poking the stirrer into her drink dismissively. ‘Lots of attention.’

  ‘You must be used to that.’

  She smirked, flattered slightly and that small twinge of guilt returned. The bar was packed, the Thursday night crowd in London was the same as every other night.

  Out for a good time.

  Swathes of local businesses had poured in, with numerous co-workers drunkenly clambering over each other with regrettable abandon. Judging by the wedding rings around some of their fingers, Singh wondered how many were possibly on the verge of making a drunken mistake. Quickly, she returned to the conversation.

  ‘Well, funnily enough, in our line of work, attention isn’t always a good thing.’

  ‘That’s true.’ Allison agreed as he sipped his pint. ‘Being called an ugly cunt by an inmate isn’t much fun.’

  Singh scoffed into her drink, her mind racing at the thought of actually enjoying herself. Judging by the effort Allison was making, he saw this as a date. Despite being the one to call and arrange the meetup, Singh had to disassociate herself from that idea.

  She wanted to find out about Sam.

  Somewhere in the back of her mind, the notion that he was the reason she wouldn’t allow herself to enjoy it gnawed away at her like a toothache.

  But this wasn’t about them, if there even was a them.

  She still hadn’t found anything relating to Sam’s incarceration at Pentonville. No reports. No news articles.

  Nothing but closed doors and vacant shrugs.

  The most wanted man in the UK finally put behind bars, yet nobody wanted to talk about it.

  ‘Lots on your mind?’ Allison asked, his words slightly worried. Singh returned a smile.

  ‘Long week, that’s all.’

  He nodded, more to reassure himself than in agreement and took an anxious sip and placed down the empty glass.

  ‘Another?’ She offered, but he held up a firm hand.

  ‘No, this evening is on me.’ He stood, nodded to her half empty glass and she shrugged her acceptance. When he returned, the confident swagger that verged on desperation had returned.

  Singh seized her moment.

  ‘Must be a media frenzy at your place at the moment, eh?’ she said playfully as she finished her previous drink.

  ‘Not really. People don’t get that excited about prisons these days unless Ross Kemp is telling the world how shit they are.’

  Singh giggled flirtatiously. She hated herself for doing it. She was a highly trained, highly decorated detective with over a decade on the job. Her career had seen her burst into drug dens with an assault rifle, bring down paedophile rings, and fight against Ukrainian sex traffickers.

  But here she was, using her gender and the possible allure of a sexual encounter to get what she wanted.

  To her, it felt like a betrayal.

  Not just of this sweet man’s trust, but of every value she held dear.

  But she needed to get to the truth.

  To do what was necessary.

  It’s what Sam would do.

  ‘Oh, come on.’ Singh sipped her drink. ‘Not a day has gone by where the press hasn’t asked me about arresting Sam Pope. Bringing in the biggest vigilante this country has ever seen. They must be swarming all over your prison like ants at a picnic.’

  ‘I’d liken the press more to flies around pig shit.’ Allison chuckled. ‘But no, it’s been fine.’

  ‘Bullshit.’ Singh playfully retorted. She saw a flicker of excitement in his eye and as he peered over his shoulder, she felt the muscles in her body tighten.

  He was about to tell her something.

  Trust her.

  She felt sick with guilt.

  ‘Thing is, we haven’t seen him.’ Allison shrugged. ‘We were all on high alert, there was even talk about a possible assault on the prison to get to him, but nothing.’

  ‘What do you mean?’

  ‘I mean’ – he looked around making sure no one was in earshot – ‘he didn’t show up.’ Allison spoke in hushed tones. ‘Me and the boys, we were excited, you know? I mean, he may be a criminal, but the man is a legend. He took down so many scumbags, he put us all to shame. But the day came, the trial finished, and by the evening, we all clocked off, and nothing’s been said since then. Word from the skipper is to keep quiet and not talk about it.’

  ‘Are you telling me that Sam Pope never made it Pentonville?’

  ‘Yup.’ Confidently, Allison finished his drink. ‘Fuck if I know where they buried him.’

  For a few seconds, the bar froze. None of the drunken banter or tedious pop music filtered through. Singh sat, shell-shocked, her mind racing as if she’d just emerged from water, before all her senses returned, along with a sense of clarity.

  ‘I have to go,’ she said firmly, standing immediately. Concerned, Allison stood, his hands held out in surprise.

  ‘Is everything okay?’

  Singh stopped and laid a sympathetic hand on his arm. He was a good man and she could see the hurt in his eyes. She knew he would question everything he said, where he went wrong. The usual checklist people who were looking for love ran through when a date fell through.

  With an apologetic smile, she answered him.

  ‘No, Matt. I have a bad feeling that things are very far from okay.’

  Before he could respond, Singh marched to the door and as the cool breeze of the spring evening hit her, she felt the air rush into her lungs and she allowed herself to breathe.

  * * *

  The security system at Ashcroft had amazed Sharp since the day he’d started. No expense had been spared and it was common knowledge that the government had contracted the very best experts to create an impenetrable system and they’d been just as generous with the staff employed to run it.

  During the quiet hours, between the staggered exercise breaks and dinner time, Sharp enjoyed spending time within the security office, the numerous screens on the wall offering a visual of every corridor and cell.

  Watching the inmates maintaining their hourly push up routines was mundane, but there was a perverted sense of power Sharp felt when he observed them sat on the toilet or pathetically masturbating.

  Even in their most private moments, Sharp ruled over them.

  Along with the misguided sense of control, he enjoyed the fear he instilled in the
security operators, especially Spencer Watkins. The man had more degrees than Sharp could count, but while his brain may have been impressive, his thin, breakable frame was not and Sharp enjoyed adding a little extra impetus into every backslap he gave the man.

  Small displays of his strength, along with the hours of footage of him belittling and beating the inmates, meant Watkins shrunk into himself when Sharp sat idly by his side.

  Today’s entertainment was Sam Pope.

  Sharp glared at the screen, watching with a jealous rage at the calm man who sat quietly in his small cell with his legs crossed and his eyes closed. The idea of being locked away in this underground hellhole seemed to hold no fear to him and having reviewed the footage from his discussion with Chapman, the very real threats to his future had raised zero concern.

  Sam’s calmness worried Sharp, but he would never admit it. The thought that he could beat Sam into submission, break him so he bent to his will was quickly becoming a fool’s errand.

  After reviewing the footage of Sam’s dinner with Chapman, Sharp had begun to worry about how he would be perceived by The Guvnor going forward. Sure, Harris was sat in the main chair, but Chapman was running the prison. The inmates scattered when he walked by, laughed when he told a terrible joke, or asked ‘how high?’ when he told them to jump.

  Sharp was Chapman’s safety net.

  A very well-paid safety net.

  With the man’s limitless fortune, Chapman had offered Sharp riches and pleasures beyond the paltry salary he earned from the government, and had sent him to the few establishments Sam hadn’t burnt to the ground.

  With the money in his bank account and his name on the guest list, Sharp had indulged in his most depraved fantasies. Multiple women had been trapped under his meaty body, submitting to his grotesque demands while he stuffed as much cocaine up as his nose as he could. He could do whatever he wanted with them and he would often laugh when he tossed whatever money he deemed their worth, as they cried over what he’d put them through.