The Sinner

by Martyn Waites

  Down the road, deserted at this hour, he glanced behind in the wing mirror.

  She was still standing there. Watching him go.

  20

  Tom was too tired to get up. He had barely slept, only drifting for a couple of exhausted hours when the dawn arrived. Now, he just wanted to roll over, stay in bed all day. He didn’t even mind having the door locked. At least he would be safer that way. Probably. But he had to get up. He was working, things to do.

  He didn’t want to open his eyes, though. Or his nostrils, for that matter. Cunningham was sitting on the toilet. From the smell, his body was in as parlous a state as his psyche. The lack of privacy, or dignity, was something Tom didn’t think he could ever get used to. He had been in the army and was used to living up close to other men in regimented conditions, but this was worse. He tried to block out the groans Cunningham was making too.

  Instead he retreated once more inside his own mind. Tried to think. Plan.

  No news from Sheridan and no way to call him until later. He expected to be pulled out any second but until that happened he had to come up with a way to keep himself safe.

  Clive. No surname yet, just that. And he didn’t recognise him either. He had tried to place him, gone through as many faces as he could remember from undercover operations, villains he had crossed, but he came up with nothing. Yet it seemed that Clive knew him. Or knew who he used to be. And that kind of knowledge was currency in prison. He couldn’t see any other way Foley knew he was here.

  The art class. He was supposed to be attend again this morning. He couldn’t risk it. If Foley said something, did something, it would jeopardise more than just this operation.

  The cell door was opened.

  ‘Breakfast. Up you get. Outside, line up.’

  Tom threw back the covers, got up. He pulled his joggers on, slipped a sweatshirt over his head, laced up his trainers. His day clothes barely differed from his night clothes. And showers were a rare commodity on the wing. He had begun to smell like every other inmate. A mixture of poorly washed and dried clothing, cheap soap and sweat. Prison cologne.

  He had a quick wash, still holding his nose, brushed his teeth, made his way to the door, looked out at the wing. All the other prisoners were lining up to receive their food from the kitchen. He joined the queue. Face as neutral, as slack, as possible, his eyes on full alert all the time. He didn’t know if Darren had any friends on the wing who wanted retribution for what he’d done to him. And that was without the threat of Foley. The food smelt like bad school dinners. Tasted even worse. But it was that or starve. Again, he thought of the army and was unsurprised that so many ex-squaddies ended up in prison. There was little in the way of lifestyle adjustment to make. Only downwards.

  Then he stopped dead. He hoped his expression hadn’t changed but was sure it had. What he saw threw him off guard. There, about ten people ahead of him. Clive. Queuing up for breakfast.

  Tom’s mind whirled. Why was Clive on his wing? When had that happened? Must have been overnight. Why the move? Could be any reason. But he knew the main one: Foley wanted Clive to keep an eye on him. A few days ago he might have dismissed that as fanciful but not now. It wasn’t a huge leap of the imagination to think that Foley could do something like that. He still had influence, power, money. Enough to pay off a few officers, for sure.

  Tom could do nothing, say nothing. So he just pretended he hadn’t seen him. Tried to look from the corner of his eye, see if Clive was watching him.

  He reached the counter, chose his food, took it back to his cell to eat.

  Cunningham came in after Tom, sat down, started to eat. The door was closed behind him.

  ‘Another day,’ Cunningham said, trying for a smile.

  ‘Yeah,’ said Tom.

  Cunningham finished his food, placed the tray on his bunk. Stood up, hovered over Tom. It was clear he had something to say and Tom knew it had to do with his behaviour during the night. Tom said nothing. Waited.

  ‘It’s hard sometimes,’ Cunningham finally said. ‘You know. At night.’

  ‘Yeah,’ said Tom, as noncommittal as he could manage.

  Cunningham sighed. ‘It’s hard.’

  ‘Yeah,’ Tom said again. He waited, wanting to grab Cunningham, scream at him: Just tell me where they are! But he didn’t. Instead he said, ‘Do you tell the psychologist about these dreams?’

  ‘Sort of. No, not really. She might . . . I don’t know. Laugh or something. Or send me somewhere worse.’

  ‘She won’t do any of that. Just tell her. She’ll understand.’ And hopefully make my job easier, he thought.

  Cunningham nodded, said nothing more.

  Tom turned on the TV. Breakfast television. Brightly painted presenters in a brightly painted studio. Compared with the drabness of the cell it hurt Tom’s eyes. He blocked it out, tried to think.

  Clive had forced him to put down art on his education choices. Or rather made the choice for him. But what had Clive put down? He had seen Clive’s form. He tried to visualise the paper, Clive holding the pen in his hand. There were marks against certain subjects. If he could only remember . . .

  He opened his eyes again. Got it.

  The door opened once more. An officer stood there, clipboard in hand.

  ‘Right. Killgannon, Art. Cunningham, Bookkeeping. Get ready, you’re going now.’

  Tom stood up. ‘I’ve made a mistake. Can I change it?’

  The officer stared at him, face impassive yet angry at the same time. The majority of them seemed to have perfected that look, he thought.

  ‘Please,’ Tom said. ‘I’m not trying to cause trouble or make your life difficult. I’ve just put down the wrong thing. I went to art the other day and hated it. Can I go to the carpentry workshop instead? Please.’

  ‘You’re not supposed to change like that. You have to do it properly.’

  ‘I know. But I don’t know who to talk to. It’s my first time in here. Please. I’m not messing you around. I’ve made a genuine mistake.’

  Tom waited. If that didn’t get through to the officer he would have to try another way. But he wasn’t going to the art class today under any circumstances.

  The officer sighed, looked at his clipboard. Erased a mark, made one somewhere else. ‘Go on. Put it down to clerical error. Wouldn’t be the first time.’

  Tom smiled. ‘Thank you. I appreciate it.’

  ‘Get moving, then.’

  He did.

  On the wing the inmates were lining up, getting ready to go to their respective classes and workplaces. Their names and destinations were called out and they left with their officers. Tom saw Clive standing near the back of the line.

  ‘Carpentry shop, this way.’

  The group started to follow the officer. Tom stepped in with them, coming up next to Clive.

  ‘Hello, Clive. Surprised to see you here. Changed wings, have you?’

  Clive jumped. The colour drained from his face and it took him a few seconds to regain his powers of speech.

  ‘What . . . what you doing here? You’re, you’re supposed to be going to art.’

  Tom smiled. It was a lot less pleasant than the one he had given the officer. ‘Change of plan, Clive old son. I’m doing carpentry now.’

  ‘But . . . you can’t . . .’

  ‘Can’t I?’

  Tom moved in closer. Grabbed Clive’s arm, gave it a squeeze. Clive winced.

  ‘Going to be spending all morning together. I think it’s time we had a little chat. Don’t you?’

  From the expression on his face, Clive clearly didn’t agree.

  21

  The same two officers who had given the tour of the topping shed escorted them to the workshop. There was something different about their attitude, Tom noticed. As though they had been told a secret about him and it had changed their opinion. They weren’t scared of him, but they were apprehensive. Tom couldn’t decide if they wanted to rush him, or back away from him. But
they were definitely watching him more closely.

  On Foley’s payroll.

  His closeness to Clive on the walk was making them take even more note. Clive tried to telegraph his fear to them, show them in his eyes and body language that something wasn’t right. Tom countered this by seeming as cheerful as possible. The officers were given no excuse to intervene.

  As they walked, Tom noticed another inmate coming in the opposite direction. He was unescorted but that wasn’t the most unusual thing about him. His face was covered in scars but strangely overly symmetrical. Like he had placed a mirror too close to one side of his features. He noticed Tom and Clive walking together. Clive just stared at him, as if silently begging him for help. The scarred man ignored him, kept looking at Tom. Then he smiled and was gone.

  Tom tried to shake the encounter from his mind. He didn’t know what had just happened but he knew it wasn’t a positive development.

  They arrived at a prefabricated hut. One of a number erected on a patch of land by the furthest perimeter fence. Some had been turned into offices, some classrooms. Tom entered with the rest of the group. Gave his name, number and wing to an officer inside, looked around.

  It was like being back at school. Workbenches dotted the room, tools hung in locked cupboards on the walls, felt tip outlines of each so missing ones could be easily spotted. A couple of full-size lathes. The teacher wearing a grey overall, waiting for everyone to enter.

  It was the same as the art room. The regulars went to their benches, took out their work. Went through the procedures to be given tools to work with. Everything counted off, ticks on clipboards. Tom, being new, didn’t know what to do or where to go.

  ‘You’ll need an induction,’ said the teacher. Sour looking, middle aged. Nose wrinkled as if perpetually smelling something unpleasant. Talking like he might expire before he’s finished his sentence. ‘There’s always a few new ones every week. Just wait there till I’ve sorted everyone out with work to do.’ His worn-out features and bitter eyes seemed to resent not only the inmates being there, but the officers and himself as well.

  He walked off, made a cursory circuit of the room, nodded at what he saw then returned to Tom and the other two men with him. They were then given a tour of the room, had the machinery and tools explained to them, given warnings about what would happen if they misbehaved or even worse, misused the tools in any way. He asked whether any of them had experience of working with wood. The other two put their hands up. The teacher took them away, got them started. Tom was once again left on his own.

  He saw Clive at the other side of the room, sanding down a small box. He checked to see if anyone was watching him. They weren’t. He went and stood next to him.

  ‘What you making?’ Tom kept his voice as loud and cheerful as possible, as though he and Clive were old mates.

  Clive had no option but to respond. ‘A box.’

  ‘I can see that.’ Laughter from Tom, the funniest joke in the world. ‘What kind of box?’

  ‘For my granddaughter. Something for her to keep. To remember me by.’

  ‘Nice,’ said Tom, voice still loud. Then he let it drop. Moved in so no one else could hear. ‘I know you’re only a small bloke, but I mean. Bit tiny for a coffin, isn’t it?’

  Clive stared at him.

  Tom, unblinking, kept on. ‘I could work with it, though. If I had to.’

  He straightened up, smile in place once more. Clive’s eyes darted round, hoping someone had heard, but knowing they hadn’t.

  ‘So what’s going on, Clive?’ asked Tom, his voice as conversational as possible. ‘You set me up with the art class. And you know who with. Now I’m guessing you’re not bright enough to pull that one yourself. So why do it?’

  ‘Don’t know what you’re talking about, mate.’ Trying desperately not to look at Tom, concentrate on his box.

  ‘Yeah you do. You filled in my form. And I know who you’re working with. Or rather for. Want me to say his name?’

  Clive said nothing. Just kept sanding away.

  Tom bent in again, pretended to be admiring Clive’s handiwork. Even pointed at a dovetail joint. ‘You set me up. With Foley, Clive. Didn’t you?’

  No response.

  ‘I’d go so far as to say that you recognised me as soon as I arrived here. That right?’

  Clive kept sanding.

  ‘Then you went straight to Foley, told him I was here. And Foley told you to get me to the art class. How’m I doing so far?’

  ‘Nice . . . nice story.’ Clive’s voice as uneven as his handiwork.

  ‘Yeah. Lovely. And then after that, Foley managed to get you sent over to my wing. Spying on me, Clive? Reporting back? Surely Foley could have got someone else to do that. I’m sure you’re not the only one on the payroll.’

  No response.

  ‘But there’s something niggling at me, Clive. You see, I could well believe you capable of all that. Well believe it. But here’s the thing. I’ve never seen you before in my life, Clive. I’d remember a weaselly little face like yours. Might have even slapped it around a few times. But I’ve racked and racked my brains and got nothing. So tell me, Clive, where do you know me from?’

  Clive stopped sanding, looked up. ‘You don’t scare me,’ he said, the words barely coming out in between swallows, his Adam’s apple bobbing up and down so much it was quivering.

  ‘Your voice says otherwise.’

  ‘I’m protected. You’re not. Not in here.’ Voice stronger.

  ‘You’re only protected as long as you’re useful, Clive. And at the moment you’re useful. But only while Foley wants you. When that changes you’ll be tossed aside. If you’re lucky, that is. Might be worse. Then what’ll you do?’

  Clive stared at Tom. A weird intensity began to grow in his eyes. As though he was developing bravery.

  ‘You haven’t a clue, have you?’ said Clive. ‘Not a clue.’

  ‘About what, Clive?’

  ‘About what’s going on here. About you. Not a clue.’ He was on the verge of laughing. A giggling, unhinged laugh. ‘Have you?’

  Tom wanted to keep pressing, find something out, anything that would give him a clue. But his interrogation was cut short.

  ‘Killgannon,’ shouted a voice from the door.

  Tom looked up, startled. ‘Yeah?’

  ‘Solicitor visit.’ An officer had come to the door, a slip of paper in his hand.

  Tom straightened up. His heart began to beat faster. This was it, he thought. He didn’t have to question Clive about anything. That wasn’t important now. All that could be dealt with later. When he was on the outside.

  Because this was it. Sheridan had come through.

  He was going home.

  22

  The officer left the room with a combination of reluctance and relief. Maybe he wanted to listen in, thought Tom, but it was too much to break those rules even for Foley.

  The room they met in was part of the admin block, near the Governor’s office, away from the main body of the prison and any ears or eyes. Solicitor meetings were private, but Sheridan had another reason for the secrecy. As a detective he was no doubt responsible for putting away plenty of the inmates so his cover would be blown the second he walked onto a wing.

  Sheridan was already sitting at the desk. Files and briefcase in front of him. Props and set dressing for a solicitor. Tom pulled up a chair to join him. He tried to gauge the detective’s face, but Sheridan kept his head down, looking at the desk.

  ‘Thanks for coming,’ said Tom. ‘Glad you’re taking this seriously.’

  Sheridan nodded.

  ‘So this is it, then? I’m walking out?’ Tom allowed hopefulness to enter his voice.

  Sheridan looked up. Tom saw his eyes. And hope died.

  He knew that look from his time in the force. The expression an officer assumed to impart bad news. Usually when informing a relative of a death. But any bad news would do. Such as telling an innocent prison inmate his appeal
had been turned down. Or an undercover officer that he had to stay where he was, even if there was a good chance it would lead to his death. Something like that.

  Sheridan sighed. ‘I thought it better if I came to see you, tell you face to face.’

  Tom stared, quelling the conflicting emotions rising within him, keeping his voice steady. ‘I think you’ve already said it. What the fuck is going on?’

  Sheridan leaned across the desk, hands clasped. He looked pained, sounded sincere. If it was just his training showing then he was very good. But he looked like he meant it. ‘It’s not my decision. Honestly.’

  ‘Yes it is, you’re in charge of the operation.’

  ‘There’s . . . I talked to my superior. He wants you to stay. Thinks the threat isn’t too great.’

  ‘He’s not the one inside, though, is he?’

  ‘No, he’s not.’

  ‘He’s not the one whose testimony put someone away for life. A someone who threatened to hunt him down and kill him. And the threats were taken so seriously I was put into witness protection. And now that person is here, inside with me. And he’s running this place. And he could have me killed . . .’ Tom clicked his fingers. It echoed round the room. Made him realise how low, controlled his voice was ‘. . . like that.’

  ‘I know.’

  ‘So why am I not out of here?’

  ‘Because . . . they want you to make progress with Cunningham. That was the prime directive of the operation.’

  ‘But I won’t make progress with Cunningham if I’m dead, will I?’

  Sheridan looked up, startled. Tom’s voice had risen louder than he intended. Tom hoped no one outside had heard that.

  He settled back, tried to regain control of his emotions. ‘Will I?’ he repeated.

  ‘Look,’ said Sheridan, hands raised in a gesture of useless supplication, ‘I’m on your side. Honestly. I’ve done a few jobs like this in the past. Never on your scale, obviously, but I know what you’re going through.’

  Tom opened his mouth again. Sheridan cut him off.

  ‘OK, OK, I don’t know what you’re going through. Not like this. But I can appreciate the pressure you must be under. And I argued your case. I honestly did. I don’t think you should be here any more than you do. I want nothing more than for you to walk out with me right now. But—’