Jailbird

by Caro Savage

  It was when the car stopped that they started on her. Within the tight confines of the vehicle, they grilled her relentlessly, two in the back on either side of her, and two in the front, all of them aggressively firing questions and accusations at her.

  They alleged that she was an undercover cop, claiming they had it on good authority from a source inside the police who’d tipped them off to her presence. But whether that was true or whether they were bluffing, she wasn’t going to admit that she was anything other than an innocent secretary.

  Never break cover. Whatever they might say. Whatever they might claim.

  Never. Break. Cover.

  They knew an informant must have been involved in her infiltration and they wanted to know who this traitor was. They wanted her to give up Spyros. But she couldn’t afford to do that. She denied all knowledge of what they were talking about.

  But these weren’t the kind of people who took no for an answer.

  So they hauled her out of the car, dragging her through the puddles into one of the workshops – a cold, bare room – where they chained her up and hung her from a meat hook suspended from one of the metal rafters.

  And they left her to him.

  Her torturer.

  She hadn’t seen him before. Perhaps they’d brought him in especially. A professional sadist with a taste for designer labels and clove cigarettes. He was methodical and systematic in his infliction of pain. And up close, in his face, it was plain to see that he derived pleasure from her every gasp of agony.

  They established a strange twisted intimacy revolving around the name that he wanted from her… the name that she steadfastly refused to give him… and the pain and violations which inevitably followed her denials.

  At some point, she spat in his face. Fuck you. He didn’t like that. Made her pay. But she knew that the longer she resisted, the longer she would stay alive, for as soon as she caved in, they would have no further use for her.

  She lost track of how long they kept her hanging there, chained up from the rafters, caked in her own blood. All she knew for sure was that if it kept on going the way it was going, then she’d eventually die. But chained up as she was, escape was impossible. And in a place this out of the way, her screams would go unheard.

  It was while she was being held there that Spyros caught wind of the fact that they’d captured an undercover cop. Fearful that she would expose him under the pressure of their brutal methods, he panicked and fled. He ran to the police for protection, taking his wife and two children with him, knowing full well that the gang would not only kill him but them as well if they knew he was an informant.

  The problem, however, was that neither Spyros nor the police had any idea where the gang was holding Bailey, so they were powerless to help her. She was all by herself.

  As soon as Spyros split, the gang realised that he was the traitor they were looking for and that they therefore no longer needed Bailey. So they unchained her with the intention of disposing of her.

  Teetering on the verge of consciousness, weak from loss of blood, dehydrated, she knew that the end had come. Regardless of whether they knew she was a policewoman or not, she knew that they couldn’t risk keeping her alive after what they’d subjected her to.

  Pretending to have passed out completely, she let them drag her out of the workshop, all the while forcing her shattered mind to desperately try and fathom some last way out of this.

  They threw her in the boot of a knackered old Toyota sedan and slammed the lid shut, leaving her in darkness. Lying there, she could overhear them talking, discussing the best way to get rid of her. And what she heard confirmed the worst rumours she’d heard about them. They were going to throw her in the crusher.

  According to gangland hearsay, this was how they liked to dispose of their enemies – by putting them in a car which then went into a giant industrial baling press to be crushed into a compacted cube of scrap metal. That was to be her fate.

  She listened to them arguing about who was going to do it, and as she lay there in the boot of the car, she knew that she had an ever-decreasing window in which to try and make her escape.

  Eventually one of them was nominated to drive the forklift truck and take her to the crusher. She squirmed around desperately in the cramped blackness, probing in vain for some means of escape. A short while later there was a loud crunching sound as the prongs of the forklift truck smashed through the side windows of the car. She felt the car being lifted up and carried along.

  Summoning up her last reserves of energy, she pushed with all her might at the lid of the boot… but it was locked shut. Then she remembered that, with some cars like this, it was possible to push down the back seats in order to create extra storage room. So she turned her attention to the back seats, feeling for some kind of lever or latch that would push them down. But she couldn’t find anything. In the end, brute force sufficed. She dug down deep inside herself to find the strength in her weakened legs. Squeezing herself into a position of maximum leverage, she repeatedly slammed her feet into the back seats until something finally snapped and one of them went down.

  Peering through the gap, she could make out the stacks of rusted cars passing by as they trundled through the scrapyard on their way to the crusher. Eventually they came to a halt, and with a jerk and a crash, the car was dropped to the ground next to the crusher.

  From her vantage point in the boot, Bailey could just about see what it looked like – a giant metal box-shaped contraption which had a booth at one end with a huge hydraulic arm with pincers that would pick the car up and drop it into the opening at the top.

  She pushed her head out a little further and saw that the forklift truck driver had parked the truck and was now walking over to the crusher. By the looks of it, fortunately, he was now the only person in the vicinity. This was her only chance.

  She watched him begin to climb up the metal ladder into the crusher’s control booth. As he was doing so, while his back was turned, she furiously squirmed out of the boot, into the back of the car and then wormed her way out of one of the broken passenger windows. She rolled away through the mud and the puddles, scrambling for cover beneath a towering stack of rusty cars.

  From her concealed position, she watched as he operated the hydraulic arm, lowering the metal pincers onto the car’s roof, clamping them shut with a metallic crunch, lifting it up and then dropping it into the crusher. She saw him smiling to himself as he methodically worked the levers in the control booth, the crusher wheezing and groaning as it chomped the car one way and then the other with the deafening sound of rending metal.

  She didn’t stick around to watch the cube pop out the other end. Instead, she slipped rapidly away through the piles of cars, limping through the dirt as fast as she could, exhausted beyond all belief, willing herself onwards, searching for a way out of this metal graveyard.

  But the place was like a maze, with many paths leading to dead-ends among the chaotic mounds of scrap metal. Turning a corner, she suddenly found herself out by the workshops. There they were, standing around outside, smoking, chatting and joking amongst themselves like nothing was amiss, like they hadn’t just decided to throw a woman into an industrial car crusher.

  The Rottweilers noticed her and starting barking their heads off and straining at their leashes, trying to get away from the metal post they were chained to. But the gang members didn’t cotton on, couldn’t understand why the dogs were barking. They shouted at them to shut up.

  Bailey drew back sharply, retreating into the forest of rusted metal, and eventually managed to navigate her way to the concrete wall which enclosed the place. She determined that her best bet was to clamber up a precarious stack of rusted cars next to it, and then haul herself over the top. So that’s what she did, slicing her hands on the jagged glass of the broken bottles, dropping down on the other side into the weeds and gravel of an empty lot.

  She staggered away through the backstreets, eventually getting to a main road,
where she managed to wave down a supermarket delivery lorry. The driver, aghast at her blood-covered appearance, wanted to take her straight to the hospital, but she insisted on going directly to the nearest police station.

  The gang were eventually sent down on the basis of the evidence that she’d gathered, along with the testimony of Spyros, and most of them were now serving long sentences. She in turn had been commended for her courage and her professionalism.

  As for the supposed source inside the police who’d betrayed her, nothing had ever come to light despite Frank’s best efforts to get to the bottom of it. One of these days she’d find out who it was though, no doubt about that. And when she did, her justice would be unforgiving.

  And her torturer? He had never been caught, or even identified. He was out there somewhere. But she would never forget his face, never forget the smell of his clove cigarettes, never forget the pleasure he took in violating, hurting and maiming her. She would get him too at some point, that was for sure, and when she finally caught up with him, she would make him pay dearly for what he’d done to her.

  He’d given her the scar on her left cheek, carved it slowly into her face with his straight razor and a lascivious grin. She’d been offered plastic surgery to deal with it. Maybe she’d take up the offer one day. But not until she’d found him. Until then she’d wear the scar like a badge of faith, along with all the others across her body – a commitment to never give up in her quest to track him down and punish him.

  A surge of raw emotion threatened to overwhelm her. For a brief moment, she thought she might break down and cry. Only Alice would have understood. If only Alice was still around.

  Poppy must have sensed her disquiet. She gently stroked Bailey’s shoulder.

  ‘Bad memories, huh? Forget about him.’ Her fingers began to trace a slow path down Bailey’s spine. ‘Just forget all about him.’

  Her voice was husky and soothing, her caress tender and healing. The tattoo gun had been switched off and the cell was silent but for their breathing.

  ‘I’ve got a plan,’ said Poppy softly. ‘For when I get out of here.’

  ‘It’s good to have a goal to work towards.’

  Poppy sighed, a soft melancholy sound injected with desire. Her fingertips continued their ever-so-gentle route down Bailey’s spine. Her touch sent electrical tingles up her back. The atmosphere was suddenly charged with a sexual tension that had caught Bailey wholly by surprise.

  ‘It’s like a dream of mine,’ said Poppy. ‘And I want you to be part of it.’

  ‘Uh… you do know I’m straight, don’t you?’

  Poppy’s fingers paused their progress. ‘Sure. I know you are.’

  ‘But we can still be friends, right?’

  ‘Sure.’ Poppy’s voice was colder now, more businesslike.

  She climbed off Bailey.

  ‘We’re done for today,’ she said.

  ‘But we’ve only just started.’

  Bailey sat up. Poppy was standing by the window, gazing out at the distant reservoir. Bailey could see that she had been hurt by her rejection.

  ‘Tell me about your plans,’ she said gently.

  ‘Some other time maybe.’

  Bailey shrugged and put her clothes on. She genuinely liked Poppy and didn’t enjoy seeing her upset, but she had a feeling that whatever she now said would only aggravate her mood.

  As she turned to leave the cell, she paused for a moment in the doorway and glanced over her shoulder in regret, hoping for a reprieve. But it was clear from Poppy’s demeanour that she was hoping in vain. So she continued on her way, annoyed with herself for feeling so perturbed.

  70

  The inmates sat in the canteen eating lunch whilst the prison officers made their rounds, taking down their applications. Applications were any requests that the inmates might have for particular items or things that they wanted to do, such as arrange a visit or purchase a new computer game.

  Bailey sat alone in the corner of the canteen, watching the inmates and the prison officers as they interacted with each other. She had her eye on one particular inmate:

  Mel.

  She was sitting, as always, with Kay and Seema.

  Ever since their recent near-calamitous encounter, Mel’s hysteric utterance had been playing on Bailey’s mind.

  Hairdressa.

  What did that mean exactly?

  Mel hadn’t been in any state to answer further questions, but Bailey’s instincts told her that she was onto something and that she should dig a little more. This time she’d try and catch Mel when she wasn’t with the other two. She just had to remember to play it careful.

  Bailey had observed that Mel had a routine of sorts. Directly after lunch she usually went for a walk in the yard by herself, after which she would go and get stoned with Kay and Seema.

  Bailey had decided that Mel’s post-lunch walk presented the best opportunity to catch her alone for a second approach.

  A shadow fell across the table.

  ‘Any applications to make today?’

  She recognised that voice.

  She looked up. It was Terry standing there. So he was back at work again. A shudder of revulsion went through her.

  She smiled a fake smile.

  ‘No. Not today,’ she said.

  He nodded slowly, his gaze lingering on her. Did he suspect her or was she just imagining it? She watched him walk off, once again feeling the icy grip of paranoia. She glanced around the canteen. It suddenly felt like the walls were closing in on her. She needed to get out of here.

  She looked back to where Mel had been sitting. Her seat was now empty. Bailey stood up, put her tray in the rack and walked out of the canteen.

  Mel sat on the ground by herself at the edge of the yard, staring down at the dirt with wide-open eyes. Her lips moved furiously as she conducted some intense debate either with herself or with some party invisible to all but her. Her face flitted wildly from expression to expression – puzzlement, anger, surprise, humour and back to anger – punctuated frequently by a pointed finger, a conciliatory palm, a clenched fist.

  On the far side of the yard, Bailey stood and watched her, attempting to gauge the best way to approach her. As she did so, she reflexively massaged the red bruises on her neck that she had sustained from Mel only too recently.

  Bailey wondered if Mel had a shank. She looked paranoid enough to carry one and unbalanced enough to be capable of sticking it into anyone who might upset her. And, as Bailey knew, it wasn’t that hard to upset her.

  Sod it, she thought. Let’s just get on with it.

  She set off across the yard towards Mel, skirting the groups of inmates standing around in the afternoon sun. As she neared Mel, she slowed to the kind of cautious, guarded pace that you might use to approach a large, dangerous-looking dog.

  ‘Hey,’ she said quietly, as she stopped a few feet away from her, the closest safe distance from which to conduct a conversation.

  Mel blinked up at her, frozen in mid-gesticulation. Her bulging eyes showed no recognition as she looked Bailey up and down blankly.

  ‘It’s me, Bailey, remember?’

  Mel eyed her warily.

  Hoping to appear less threatening, Bailey squatted down on her haunches so she was facing Mel on the same level.

  ‘I wanted to have a little chat with you,’ said Bailey gently. ‘Is that okay?’

  ‘Mel just wants to chill out… chill out, yeah.’

  ‘Sure, Mel. I’ll let you chill out. Just one thing though. When we were… uh… chatting the other day, you said a word. You said…’ Bailey braced herself. ‘…Hairdressa.’

  At the sound of the word, Mel visibly tensed and her eyes narrowed in suspicion. Again, Bailey felt the bite of certainty that she was onto something, that Mel knew something. She was determined to find out what it was.

  ‘I was just wondering what you meant when you said that.’

  Mel blinked and shuddered. ‘Mel doesn’t want to talk about it
.’

  ‘It’s something to do with your past, isn’t it?’ said Bailey. ‘Is that why you take so many drugs, Mel? To forget about something that happened in the past?’

  Mel rocked gently, staring back down at the dirt, her voice now wobbling unevenly. ‘Friends… all my friends… all gone now.’

  ‘Tell me what you meant, Mel,’ Bailey persisted. ‘What did you mean when you said Hairdressa? Is it a person?’ She paused. ‘Is it the killer?’

  Mel stared at the ground mutely, trembling, her eyes open wide.

  ‘If you’re scared, Mel, I can protect you,’ said Bailey. ‘Tell me who the killer is and I can protect you. Tell me and we can all be safer. Do you know who the killer is? I think you know.’

  But Mel was now lost in some trance of memory. She seemed to have forgotten that Bailey was there.

  Bailey snapped her fingers in front of Mel’s face. Mel jerked her face up at Bailey, her teeth bared in a snarl. Bailey flinched, almost toppling over backwards. She recovered her balance and fixed Mel with a firm gaze.

  ‘I think you know something, Mel. I think you know something very important. I think you know who the killer is.’

  Mel’s demented bloodshot eyes bored into Bailey. ‘Mel knows… Yes… Mel definitely knows…’

  Bailey’s breathing quickened. Excitement seized her. She was almost there.

  ‘Tell me what you know, Mel,’ she whispered. ‘Tell me who the killer is.’

  Mel opened her mouth, ready to speak and spill whatever she knew. Bailey leaned forward in anticipation.

  Then Mel abruptly closed her mouth. The derangement in her eyes had receded slightly to be replaced by a sly and calculating look.

  ‘What’s it worth?’

  Bailey did a double take. ‘Sorry?’

  ‘I said what’s it worth? Ain’t nothing for free in here.’

  Bailey sighed. ‘Okay. How much money do you want?’

  Mel shook her head and licked her lips hungrily.

  ‘I don’t want no money.’

  71