by Nick Moseley
‘And you fell and hit your head on a table, you said?’ the doctor asked.
‘Yeah. When all the lights were out.’
‘Well it’s a little messy but I don’t think stitches will be required,’ Bookbinder said. ‘How do you feel? Any headache, dizziness, nausea, that sort of thing?’
‘It hurts, obviously,’ Trev said. ‘I was a bit wonky immediately after it happened, but I’m not too bad now.’
‘And any blurred vision, ringing in the ears?’
‘Blurred vision yes, but only right afterwards,’ Trev said. ‘I thought I had some ringing in the ears but it turned out it was just Grace Montano shouting at me.’
‘Trev,’ said Desai.
‘Don’t worry, I’ve heard far worse in this office,’ said Bookbinder. ‘The prisoners are usually quite… open with their opinions on the staff.’
‘I bet,’ said Trev. ‘Have you been here a while, then?’
‘Over thirty years,’ said Bookbinder. He wrapped a piece of bandage around Trev’s head and pinned it in place.
‘Bloody hell,’ said Trev. ‘Thirty years in this place? I bet that’s longer than most of the prisoners get!’
‘Our oldest inmate has been here for one hundred and fourteen years,’ said Bookbinder mildly. ‘The term “life sentence” takes on a whole new meaning when you’re applying it to a vampire.’
‘I hadn’t thought of that,’ Trev said. ‘But even so. How could you stand thirty years here? It’s the creepiest place I’ve ever been.’
‘I noticed it at first, of course, but I soon got used to it,’ Bookbinder said. ‘I’ve found it’s almost impossible for the human mind to stay in a perpetual condition of fear or anxiety. Over time, anything can become “normal”.’
‘I hope I never have to find out whether that’s true,’ Desai said.
Trev nodded agreement. ‘Amen. So what’s the prognosis? Am I going to be OK or is my head likely to fall off the next time I cough?’
‘I don’t think there’s any danger of that, though I wouldn’t rule out a mild concussion,’ Bookbinder said. ‘Take it easy for a few days. If you experience any of the symptoms I’ve mentioned then you should probably speak to your GP.’
‘I might be stuck here for a few days yet, with the lockdown in force,’ Trev said.
‘Ah yes,’ said Bookbinder. ‘Well you can always speak to me while you’re here.’
‘Haven’t you been called to the scene to look at Corbyn’s body?’ Desai asked.
‘No, I haven’t any scene-of-crime training,’ said Bookbinder. ‘They’ll take the body to the mortuary and I’ll do an examination in the morning.’
‘You seem very relaxed about it all,’ Trev said.
‘What do you mean by that?’ said Bookbinder, rather sharply.
‘Nothing,’ said Trev. ‘It’s just that you’re the one member of prison staff I’ve seen who’s not climbing the walls about Corbyn’s death.’
Bookbinder sat down behind his desk. Trev noticed his eyes flick to one of the desk’s drawers and guessed that was where the booze was stashed. ‘I’ve seen it all before,’ Bookbinder said, lacing his fingers across his stomach. ‘Nobody ever did a better job by stressing themselves out before starting.’
‘Are deaths in custody that common?’ Desai wondered.
‘Here? No, they’re very rare,’ said Bookbinder. ‘This is the first one in over five years. I’ve dealt with a few in my time, though.’
Desai cocked her head to one side. ‘Any idea how someone could have killed Corbyn through a locked cell door?’
‘There are a few potential ways I can think of,’ said Bookbinder. ‘I’m not going to start guessing until I’ve seen the body.’
‘Fair enough,’ said Desai. ‘Anyway, thanks for patching Trev up. We’d better get back to our rooms before Grace sends someone to check on us.’
‘She called me on the radio and asked me to let her know when I was finished with you,’ Bookbinder said, picking up his walkie-talkie and waggling it in his hand. ‘Do you know the way to the staff quarters or do you need directions?’
Trev gave Desai a pleading look and she sighed. ‘Yes, we would like directions, please.’
Bookbinder doodled a little map on a piece of notepaper and handed it over. They thanked him and left him to continue pickling himself in peace.
‘Nice chap,’ Trev said as they worked their way back through the maze. ‘Though with the amount of alcohol he’s got in him he might be a significant fire hazard.’
‘Not a good night to be drunk on duty,’ Desai said. ‘No wonder he didn’t want to go and show his face at the murder scene. He’d better hope that Grace doesn’t find him in that state, considering the mood she’s in.’
‘She must know he’s a drinker,’ said Trev. ‘He was three sheets to the wind but he was able to sort out my wound without making a complete rat’s knacker of it. That suggests he’s used to being drunk at work.’
Desai grimaced. ‘A rat’s knacker?’
‘Yeah. Like a pig’s ear, but worse.’
‘Right.’
‘Anyway, if he is an alcoholic then Grace must be aware of it, if she’s as switched-on as you say she is.’
‘If that’s true, I can’t understand why she hasn’t sacked him.’
‘Too much hassle to recruit someone new, what with the place closing?’ Trev suggested. ‘He still seems able to perform his duties, so maybe she’s turning a blind eye to it for now.’
‘Maybe,’ said Desai. ‘Or maybe he knows where the bodies are buried.’
Trev frowned. ‘What bodies?’
‘Not literally,’ said Desai. ‘It’s a turn of phrase.’
‘Oh yeah,’ Trev said. ‘With Corbyn’s murder and everything I thought you knew something I didn’t. You think Bookbinder has some blackmail material on Grace?’
‘Who knows?’ said Desai. ‘There’s something going on behind the scenes here, that’s for sure. Whether Corbyn’s death is tied into it or is something separate, I’ve no idea.’
‘Is that what you meant when you said we’ve “walked into something” earlier?’
Desai nodded. ‘Feargal’s been keeping an eye on this place for a while. He’s never trusted Veil Security, though he wouldn’t criticise them openly. I think he’ll be very glad when Spectre’s Rest is closed and he only has one prison to worry about.’
‘We need to speak to him as soon as we can.’
‘Yes. He won’t be happy when he hears about Corbyn.’
‘No,’ said Trev, remembering that the vampire’s death could well have cost them knowledge of the traitor’s identity. ‘Perhaps you ought to take the call when he rings back. I’ve been shouted at enough for one evening.’
Desai’s only response was a snort. Trev decided to take that as an emphatic “no”.
With Bookbinder’s map to guide them, they found themselves back in the staff quarters without much difficulty. Desai said goodnight and disappeared into her room. Trev hurried down the corridor to his own room; even with the lights back on, being alone again brought the feeling of unease creeping back. He passed the common room, keeping to the opposite side of the corridor and resisting the temptation to glance inside. The memory of the shadow on the wall came back to him and he shivered.
Mishti’s right, there’s something going on here, he thought. But I think it’s something a lot scarier than staff incompetence, or whatever else she thinks it is. I need to get out of here, and quickly.
He got to his room without anything leaping at him from the shadows and shut the door. It had a lock on the inside, which Trev jiggled until the bolt clunked into place. He felt a little safer, although not much. Corbyn had been locked in a high-security cell, and it hadn’t saved him.
On a whim he picked up the phone. The dialling tone was back. It must have come back on when the power did, he thought. Whoever shut off the generator must have knocked out the phone lines as well. Which indicated a very well-prepared as
sassin, and made the lock on the door look even less likely to keep Trev safe. He spent a fruitless five minutes trying to jam the chair under the door handle like he’d seen in various movies, but it kept falling over.
Too stressed out to go to bed, he abandoned the chair and went back to the phone. He dialled his Granddad’s number. The old man picked up promptly, as he always did.
‘Hello?’
‘Evening, Granddad.’
‘Trevor! I’ve been trying to get hold of you all afternoon and your phone’s been switched off. Where have you been?’
‘I’m at Spectre’s Rest,’ Trev said. ‘There’s no mobile phone signal out here.’
‘What on earth are you doing there?’ said Granddad, surprised.
‘Deacon sent Mishti Desai and me here to interview Corbyn,’ Trev said. ‘He claimed he had important information that he’d only disclose to me.’
‘Corbyn was what I was calling about,’ Granddad said. ‘I heard about it this afternoon. Well done for catching him.’ Trev heard the unspoken rebuke in Granddad’s voice – why didn’t you tell me about it?
‘Thanks,’ said Trev. ‘I was going to call and tell you the tale, but it’s been a manic couple of days.’
‘Well, never mind, no harm done,’ Granddad said, with rather forced jollity. ‘What was the information he wanted to disclose?’
‘Not sure,’ Trev said. ‘He didn’t get the chance to tell me before someone murdered him in his cell a couple of hours ago.’
There was a pause. ‘What?’ said Granddad.
‘Yeah,’ said Trev. ‘Power went out. When the lights came back on, Corbyn was dead.’
‘Good lord,’ said Granddad. ‘Does Feargal know?’
‘Not yet,’ said Trev. ‘We haven’t been able to get hold of him. Apparently he’s out on an op this evening.’
‘What’s the situation at the prison?’
‘Nobody in or out,’ Trev said. ‘I’ve been told to stay in my room in the staff quarters. One of the Veil Security guys has disappeared, so I’m guessing he’s the number one suspect.’
‘Be careful, Trevor,’ said Granddad. ‘Keep your head down until they catch this chap. Stick with Mishti, she’s got her head screwed on.’
‘Will do,’ said Trev. ‘But there’s something weird going on here, Granddad. I saw some kind of creature outside, and the atmosphere was freaky even before Corbyn died.’
‘A creature? What do you mean?’
‘I don’t know what it was. It was in the shadows. But it had glowing green eyes.’
‘Have you told the prison staff about this?’
Trev puffed out a breath. ‘Yeah. I don’t think they believed me.’
‘You were the only one who saw it?’
‘Yeah.’
‘Oh dear.’ Granddad sucked his teeth. ‘We need to get you out of there.’
‘Not going to happen at the moment,’ Trev said. ‘Like I said, nobody in or out. Plus Grace Montano and I haven’t really hit it off. I don’t think she’ll be making an exception for me, unless Deacon tells her to.’
‘Let’s hope he does,’ Granddad said. ‘I’ll see if I can get hold of Feargal tomorrow morning and try and convince him to get you and Mishti out. Is there anything else I can do in the meantime?’
‘There was something I was thinking about,’ Trev said. ‘As long as we’re stuck here we might as well try and find out what’s going on. It’s going to be difficult for Mishti and me to do any snooping around with Grace Montano on our case, but if someone smaller and more nimble were to get in to give us a hand…’
‘I think I know just who you mean,’ said Granddad. ‘I’ll do what I can.’
‘Thanks,’ said Trev. ‘I’d better go. I’ll give you a call tomorrow if I get the chance.’
‘All right,’ said Granddad. ‘Speak to you soon. And Trevor–’
‘Be careful,’ Trev finished for him.
Fourteen
Trev didn’t get much sleep.
He left the light on. He didn’t much fancy being alone in darkness again that night. In fact, he wasn’t sure whether he’d be able to sleep with the lights off ever again.
The room was cold and the blanket he’d been given was thin. He scrunched himself up beneath it, one eye half-open and fixed on the door. Every time he began drifting off he’d flinch awake, checking that the door handle wasn’t slowly turning as the assassin – or worse, the shadows – tried to get into his room. The handle remained stationary, but his fear of that otherwise innocent object was enough to keep him from managing more than a few snatched minutes of sleep.
It was morning by the time something did happen at the door. Somebody knocked on it. Trev tried to focus his eyes on it, wondering whether assassins or creepy shadow-figures would be polite enough to knock before bursting into their victims’ rooms.
He peeled his tongue away from the roof of his mouth and said thickly ‘Who is it?’
‘It’s Mishti,’ said Desai’s voice. ‘Grace wants to see us, but we’ve got time for breakfast first, if you’re quick.’
‘Give me five minutes,’ said Trev.
He had a deodorant shower and put on the change of clothes he’d brought with him. Desai shook her head at him as he emerged from his room like a hibernating rodent dragging itself out of its burrow. She’d swapped the smart suit of the previous day for a more practical jumper and jeans, and had her hair back in its long plait.
‘Two minutes,’ said Trev, shambling past her to the communal bathroom. He regarded himself in the tarnished mirror. His face was puffy and pale, and there were the kind of bags under his eyes in which he could have carried his shopping. He splashed some water onto his face and cleaned his teeth before joining Desai in the corridor.
‘Didn’t get much sleep?’ Desai asked him as they set off in the direction of the staff canteen.
‘Not a wink,’ Trev admitted. ‘This place has got me on edge. I hope Grace wants to see us so she can tell us we can go. I don’t think I can cope with another night here.’
‘I wouldn’t get your hopes up,’ Desai said. ‘They’re still in the early stages of the investigation. I don’t think they’ll be letting anyone leave until they’ve made some sort of progress.’
‘They know who did it,’ Trev said. ‘It’s Phelps. They just need to find where he’s hiding.’
‘They don’t know it was Phelps,’ Desai said. ‘The fact that he’s gone missing is suspicious, but it doesn’t prove he killed Corbyn.’
Trev shrugged. ‘Yeah, because innocent people often go into hiding in the aftermath of a crime they didn’t commit.’
‘There’s this thing called “innocent until proven guilty”, you know,’ Desai said. ‘You might want to look it up.’
‘If there’s a decent cup of tea and a bacon sandwich in it for me, I’ll confess to Corbyn’s murder myself,’ said Trev, a huge yawn contorting his face.
‘Based on the food they were serving yesterday, I don’t think that confession will be needed,’ said Desai. ‘Personally I’d settle for a nice piece of toast. Not even they could spoil toast.’
As it turned out, they could. Desai examined the black square of carbonised bread on her plate, shrugged, and smeared a thick layer of strawberry jam onto it. Across the table from her, Trev wasn’t doing much better with his bacon sandwich. The meat was as grey as his cup of tea, and was composed mostly of stringy fat. He took a bite, chewed slowly and swallowed. Then he lifted the top slice of bread and emptied a large quantity of ketchup onto the sandwich before continuing.
‘If tomato sauce counts as one of your five-a-day, I’m off to a good start,’ he said. He held up his dripping sandwich and shook his head. ‘A bad bacon sandwich. I never even knew such a thing existed.’
‘Don’t point that thing at me,’ said Desai. She took a bite of her toast and winced. ‘I think I just broke a tooth.’
‘I could put up with the murder investigation, creepy shadows and lack of sleep,’ Trev said,
‘but bad food as well? That’s where I draw the line.’
‘You can put your case to Grace in a minute,’ Desai said. She choked down another bite of toast. ‘She probably has to eat in here all the time, though, so don’t expect much sympathy.’
‘What does she want to talk to us about?’
‘Well they’ll have to interview us both about last night, for one thing,’ Desai said. ‘And hopefully Feargal will have called back by now.’
‘This is going to be a fun day, I can tell,’ Trev said. As if to underline his pessimism, a dollop of ketchup dripped out of his sandwich and onto the front of his jumper.
Desai was right. Montano did indeed want to interview them about the previous night. Trev volunteered to go first, and so found himself in Montano’s office, still wearing his sauce-stained jumper, answering her questions while Richie took notes. The rotund guard wrote on his notepad in the kind of indecipherable scrawl that was usually only seen on doctors’ prescription forms. Trev wondered why Richie seemed to keep drawing the short straw when it came to his duties; maybe he’d upset Montano at some point in the past.
Montano herself looked like she’d had even less sleep than Trev. Her eyes were bloodshot and the lines on her face seemed to have deepened overnight. Her voice was a harsh rasp as she fired out questions. Trev answered truthfully, though he held back on telling her about the shadows in the common room and outside Cell Block A. He didn’t think she’d believe him, and that would detract credibility from the rest of his statement.
Eventually she ran out of questions. She closed her eyes and pinched the bridge of her nose. ‘That’ll do for now,’ she said.
‘Any sign of Jerry Phelps?’ Trev asked.