by Caro Savage
A shiver ran through her. She blinked again and shook her head, clearing the cobwebs of sleep from her mind.
But the vision remained the same. The door was wide open.
She slowly pulled the covers aside and stepped from the bed, her prison-issue vest scant protection from the chill night air, goose pimples immediately forming on the surface of her skin, on her arms and legs.
She brushed her hair out of her eyes.
Mesmerised by the black rectangle of the doorway, she straightened up and padded towards it, pausing at the threshold.
She had walked in and out of this cell many times before. But that was in the daytime. Now, at night, it was different. This cell was her home, her comfort zone. Out there, it was dark, in shadow.
A primal fear tugged at her, but something else – curiosity – made her tentatively place her foot over the threshold, the black shadow engulfing her toes, then the rest of her foot.
The open door was inviting her to walk through it and she couldn’t resist. It was almost as if she was hypnotised by it. The rest of her body was swallowed by shadow as she passed through the portal and left the cell.
Out in the corridor, all was dark and silent. Oblique shards of moonlight cut across the shadow, but everything else was black.
At night it looked much bigger and felt much emptier, like the vast emptiness of space, almost infinite in what it could contain.
She stood there for a moment outside her cell, enveloped in the murk. The concrete floor was cold and gritty beneath her bare feet. She was silhouetted in the doorway by the moonlight entering through the small window in her cell, her figure defined in a square of light cast against the opposite wall of the corridor.
Again, the faintest of breezes ruffled the hairs on her head. It was as if the prison was alive and the corridor a respiratory tract within this vast slumbering beast as it breathed slowly in its sleep.
She inhaled… exhaled. Relaxing now, accustoming herself to this new and unusual situation.
But then a noise…
The tiniest of scuffles… out there in the shadows. Indistinct. A scraping of something across the pitted surface of either the floor or the walls of the corridor.
She froze, her goose pimples rising up even further, the tiny hairs on the surface of her skin standing up. Her eyes narrowed, her pupils widening to let in as much light as possible onto her retinas as she strained to peer into the darkness to make out whatever it was that was out there, because there was definitely something out there.
She strained to listen.
Silence once more. Was she imagining it?
Again, a scuffle. No, there was definitely something out there. There was something moving in the corridor.
The rustle of fabric on fabric.
Her breathing became a little faster now. Her heart beat a little harder. She swallowed and squinted out into the darkness.
Suddenly a movement. Something cut through a shard of moonlight. Out of shadow and back into shadow, so fast that she couldn’t make out what it was.
She stifled a gasp as a jolt of fear went through her. She took an involuntary step backwards and bumped into the door frame of her cell. She grasped it for support, her palms slippery with perspiration.
Craning her head, her gaze shifted from one shard of moonlight to the next. But there was nothing.
A rustle of fabric, closer now, just a few metres from her. Something there. Someone there.
She retreated back into her cell, back into her comfort zone, away from the alien darkness of the corridor and whatever lurked there.
But she realised then that she was trapped in here. There was no route of escape and she could not close the door because it locked from the outside.
An intense terror took hold of her, rooting her to the spot. The segregation block, supposedly the most secure part of the prison, offered no protection for her now.
She stood there in the middle of her cell transfixed by the black rectangle of the doorway and what was about to emerge through it, for she knew something was coming.
In the shadows, silence.
Then she saw it…
The glitter of metal.
The glitter of polished steel.
And the figure standing there, wreathed in penumbra, holding the blade in a black leather-gloved hand.
She opened her mouth to scream.
And then the figure came at her out of the shadows. Lightning fast. Faster than she could anticipate. Faster than she was able to draw breath to form a scream.
41
The lockdown was the first sign that something was up. Soon after that there was a cell search, in which a prison officer wearing rubber gloves rooted through her personal belongings. His name was Brian Bunter as Bailey recalled. She’d never talked to him before.
‘Hey it’s Brian, isn’t it?’ she said. ‘What’s going on?’
But Brian wasn’t particularly forthcoming, merely issuing a non-communicative grunt. He was somewhat overweight and his bald head had begun to glisten with a faint sheen of sweat from the exertions of lifting up their mattresses to look underneath.
‘Looking for murder weapons?’ she asked.
He looked up at her sharply, his eyes narrowing suspiciously.
‘I thought so,’ she said.
‘Another murder?!’ said Sharon, who was standing in the corner watching him with her arms crossed. ‘What’s that now? Three? How about bumping up security a bit?’
‘What do you want? A personal bodyguard?’ he sneered.
‘Feeling a little bit safer would make a nice start.’
‘Are you scared?’ he taunted.
‘No!’ she said defensively, but to Bailey’s ears she didn’t sound too certain.
As soon as the lockdown was lifted, Bailey headed down to the prison yard. As she made her way along the landings and descended the stairwells, she couldn’t help but catch the dark murmurs of the inmates huddled protectively in their groups. Already they knew about the murder. The guards, too, conversed with one another in low, grave tones, momentarily hushing when she passed. A palpable feeling of fear and suspicion permeated the echoing dingy Victorian structure and she was glad to get outside.
Standing in the sunshine, she peered around the yard. She spotted the gang sitting on one of the concrete picnic benches.
They nodded to her as she went over and sat down amongst them. She was keen to find out what they knew of the situation, but they were midway through verbally abusing the remaining police forensics officers and detectives who were packing their material back into their vans a short distance away on the other side of the chain-link fencing.
They were making the inevitable pig-snorting noises and turning up the ends of their noses in imitation of pigs’ snouts.
‘I smell bacon!’
‘Fucking pigs!’
‘Oink oink!’
Bailey played along with them in an attempt to fit in, feeling vaguely embarrassed for herself and for her police colleagues who, if they were in earshot of the taunts, pretended not to hear them.
Eventually the mockery subsided.
‘Do you know what they do to pigs in abattoirs?’ said Toni, a nasty grin on her face. ‘They hang them upside down and cut their throats. That’s what I’d do to a pig if I had one all by myself.’
Bailey observed her. Was she making a veiled reference to Alice?
The thought of what Toni might do to her if she ever discovered that she was a police officer was too awful to contemplate. But at the same time she felt exhilarated that she was fooling them.
That was one of the things she loved about working undercover – the adrenaline rush you got from being in dangerous situations, from being around people who’d kill you in the blink of an eye if they knew you were a cop, where even the smallest slip-up could cost you your life. It was a perpetual high-wire act and most of the time there was no kind of safety net. Her non-undercover police colleagues admired her guts but also thought s
he was crazy. But they’d never understand. No one ever understood until they’d actually done it. The adrenaline was a drug, perhaps the most dangerous drug of all – seductive, terrifying and powerfully addictive. That’s what had hooked Bailey in the first place and still now she craved it…
Toni turned to Bailey and met her stare. For a few brief seconds, Toni looked into her eyes. Then she spoke softly, dangerously.
‘What would you do if you had a pig all to yourself?’
Bailey tried to think of an appropriate response but all she could come up with in the heat of the moment was: ‘I’ve always been partial to pork scratchings myself.’ She imbued her words with what she hoped was a sadistic tone, hoping they’d read something unpleasant into it.
Puzzled glances passed between members of the gang. She cringed inwardly.
Then Keisha nodded and smiled in approval.
‘Yeah! Skin them alive and then deep-fry them. I like it!’
They all laughed. Toni looked grudgingly amused.
‘So what’s going on?’ said Bailey, nodding towards the police vans, trying to sound as casual as possible.
‘A murder in the segregation block,’ said Rong.
‘A scalping?’
Shrugs passed around. Bailey couldn’t tell if it was because they genuinely didn’t know or whether they were just being coy.
‘Who was it?’ she asked.
‘Someone who’ll be sorely missed,’ said Toni.
From the heavy sarcasm in her voice, Bailey guessed that whoever had been killed wasn’t a friend of the gang.
They didn’t say anything more about it and Bailey decided not to pursue the matter. For now.
42
Creepers of smoke curled through the air, sinuous and sleek. They twisted and broke, disintegrating into the grey haze which filled the cell. The low bass thump of the dub pulsed softly from the stereo system.
Strings of origami ducks hung from the ceiling, attached to lengths of cotton. They twisted and turned slowly in the layers of grey smoke. Crazy Mel’s handiwork was everywhere. It looked like an infestation of brightly coloured origami creatures had overrun the cell.
Kay, Seema and Mel sat slumped in a dope haze.
Seema took a drag of the joint she was holding, the harsh herbal smoke biting into her lungs. She held it down for a few moments then released it, letting it escape upwards from her mouth in a vertical stream.
She pondered on the important matter that they were discussing, listening to Kay as she held forth on it.
‘That’s when the red warning lights go off,’ Kay was saying. ‘That’s when the alarm bells start ringing. When the price is actually printed on the packet.’
‘I agree with you to a certain extent,’ said Seema. ‘When you see that, you know the quality isn’t going to be great.’
‘I mean, a pack of custard creams for thirty-five pence? The manufacturers actually feel the need to state that on the packet, to make sure that they’re not sold for any more than that. It’s like an explicit admission that these are biscuits of an inferior quality.’
‘Yeah, but custard creams have never been a high-end biscuit. They’ve always been a working-class biscuit.’
‘I’m just using them as an example. The same can apply to bourbons, Jammie Dodgers, fruit shortcakes…’ She counted them off on her fingers.
They were revisiting one of their favourite topics of conversation – biscuits. It was a complex and diverse subject that all three of them were able to discuss for hours on end.
‘I think one thing it’s important to remember,’ said Seema, ‘is that it’s possible to mitigate the poor quality of any biscuit merely by dunking it in a cup of tea.’
Kay shook her head. She wasn’t convinced.
‘But even on that level inferior biscuits possess suboptimal dunkability potential. Surely you must have noticed that?’ She turned to Mel. ‘Mel? Have you noticed that?’
But Mel was just sitting there staring at the opposite wall, her eyes wide open, trapped in some kind of trance, and had clearly not been paying attention to what they had been talking about.
Kay snapped her fingers in front of Mel’s face. ‘Mel? Earth to Mel. Come in, Mel.’
Eventually, Mel blinked and looked at them. She swallowed. Her eyes rolled fearfully.
‘He’s a duppy,’ she whispered hoarsely. ‘He’s in here and he’s gonna get us. Mi fraida duppy!’
Kay raised her eyes to heaven. ‘You and your bleeding duppies. They’re nothing but old wives’ tales. They’re all you ever seem to be going on about since your cellmate got topped.’
It appeared that Mel was still fixated on their previous conversation – about the most recent murder.
‘It did happen in the segregation block,’ said Seema. ‘That place is like a fortress. Big thick walls and permanently locked doors. Yet Natalie was murdered inside her cell. Tell me how that happened. I mean, if you’re not safe in segregation, then where are you safe?’
‘Locked doors and walls don’t mean nothing to a duppy,’ said Mel. ‘He can walk through walls. If a duppy wants to get you, he’ll come and get you wherever you are.’
‘What a load of bollocks!’ scoffed Kay. ‘Natalie was a snitch. That’s why she was in segregation. That’s why she was killed. End of story.’
‘But scalped?’ said Seema. ‘She was killed just like the others. That’s what I heard. All carved up. Like properly fucked up. There’s something weird about that. Something evil.’
‘Ah duppy killed her,’ said Mel, her voice rising an octave.
‘Duppies don’t exist,’ sneered Kay. ‘Just like Santa doesn’t exist.’
Mel fixed her with a baleful stare. ‘Duppies a real! Mo real dan yuh can know! Inna Jamaica everyone knows dat duppies a real! De duppy ah guh fi guh cum inna here an guh fi guh kill wi aal!’
Seema and Kay glanced at each other. When Mel started talking in patois, it meant she was working herself up into one of her frenzies, and once she got going it was never quite certain what the consequences could be. They didn’t call her Crazy Mel for nothing.
Seema grabbed the stack of origami paper and shoved it at Mel. Mel started folding furiously, obsessively constructing an origami duck, folding the paper back and forth. Faster and faster. Like a blur. Her eyes wide.
They watched her, strangely fascinated.
The completed duck tumbled onto the floor alongside the other origami creatures. Seema picked it up and began to string it onto a length of cotton.
Mel plucked another sheet of paper and started another creature, the haunted look never leaving her eyes.
Kay and Seema weren’t in the mood to discuss biscuits any more.
43
The morning meeting wasn’t going well for the Governor. The prison officers, sprawled across the chairs in front of him, seemed to be in a particularly defiant mood today.
‘I think I can speak for all of us,’ said Terry, ‘when I say that security is quite clearly a systemic issue within this prison. There have been three murders now. Three brutal murders.’
‘The last one happened inside the segregation block,’ said Amber. ‘That’s maximum security. That’s supposed to be one of the safest places in the prison.’
‘I’m well aware of the implications,’ snapped the Governor. ‘This is both completely unprecedented and completely unacceptable.’
He sternly scanned the assembled prison officers.
‘I have been talking to the police and we are both of the opinion that a member of staff may have been involved in some way.’
He let his words hang ominously in the air. He scrutinised each of them in turn, hoping to detect a shifty lowering of the eyes or some other physical giveaway indicative of guilt.
The officers themselves were looking around now, regarding each other anew, their perceptions of their colleagues tainted with the seeds of suspicion. The atmosphere was one of unease and uncertainty.
The Governor had them on
the back foot now and he was pleased about that. It made him feel like he was in control again.
‘The police will be questioning you all in depth and they will get to the bottom of it,’ he said. ‘And you will extend your fullest co-operation towards them.’
They muttered and groaned and exchanged resentful looks with each other.
‘Why are we the ones who are being treated as criminals?’ remarked Terry. ‘We’re just trying to do our jobs the best we can.’
‘You will co-operate with the police,’ repeated the Governor. ‘And you will help them get to the bottom of it.’
‘And in the meantime?’ said Maggie. ‘The inmates are getting jumpy. They’re getting scared. They don’t feel safe. We have a duty to protect them.’
‘Business will go on as usual,’ said the Governor. ‘Unless you’re suggesting some kind of permanent lockdown, you know as well as I do that there’s little else we can do beyond what we’re already doing.’
They all knew that the prospect of a permanent lockdown was completely unviable. Even just a temporary lockdown caused huge disruption, affecting everything from the processing of new inmates to the operation of basic services such as the canteen. But, more significantly, the Governor knew that that kind of emergency action would signify to those outside, not least to his superiors, that he had lost all control over the situation inside the prison. And he would never permit that to appear to be the case.
‘You could hire more staff,’ said Terry. ‘This kind of thing is happening because we can’t do our jobs properly. Because we’re understaffed and overworked. Not only is it affecting the safety of the inmates, it’s affecting our safety as well. So far it’s just been them who’ve been getting murdered, but I can’t imagine it’ll be long before it’s one of us. We need more staff and we need side-handle batons.’
The Governor rolled his eyes and sarcastically mouthed ‘side-handle batons’ as Terry was saying it. He’d heard that petition so many times before.
‘You’ll make do with what you’ve got,’ he said.