The Sinner

by Martyn Waites

  The hospital wing was never busy. Extreme cases were taken to the local hospital, handcuffed to their beds with a guard attached. But that was expensive and a drain on man hours and overtime. So everything was either dealt with as quickly as possible with the injured inmate back on their wing or, in rare cases, left to recuperate on the hospital wing. There was only one patient there now. And he had a visitor.

  The officer on the door looked quizzically at this visitor. ‘What d’you want?’

  ‘Have a word with a patient. Visiting time, innit?’ He leaned forwards. ‘You know who I am.’

  The words had the desired effect. The officer looked scared. Didn’t want to disobey orders, but knew where the real authority lay. He looked quickly round, checked no one else was there. ‘Go on, then. Inside. Quick.’

  He unlocked the door, locked it behind him. Stayed where he was.

  One patient in the whole wing. Raised leg in plaster, arm in a plastic cast slung across his chest. Head popping out of a neck brace.

  Clive.

  He sat on the edge of the bed, startling Clive to wakefulness.

  ‘Well, you’ve been in the wars, haven’t you? Look at the state of you.’

  Clive quickly oriented himself. Fear immediately took hold. He tried to shrink away from him. ‘What d’you want? Haven’t you done enough? I’m in here, aren’t I? I haven’t said anything.’

  ‘Clive, Clive . . .’ He smiled. At least he intended it to be a smile. ‘Just came to see how you are, that’s all. Pay my respects.’

  Clive stared at him, wary. Said nothing.

  ‘We go back a long way, Clive, don’t we? All the way back to Manchester. Those were the days, eh?’

  Clive again said nothing. Watching, waiting.

  ‘They were good times. You, me, Mick.’ He sighed. ‘Ah, Mick . . .’ He shook his head. ‘What a cunt he turned out to be.’

  ‘He didn’t recognise me,’ Clive said at last. ‘We both came in together. And he didn’t recognise me.’

  ‘Well to be fair, Clive, the years haven’t been kind to you. Smack and booze’ll do that.’

  ‘I’m clean now.’ A quivering pride, a strength in his voice.

  ‘And well done you. No, I’m not here to talk about that. I’m here to reminisce about the good old days. And they were good, weren’t they, Clive? Before that bastard took us all down.’

  ‘Yeah,’ said Clive, placated but still on guard. ‘They were.’

  ‘We lived like kings. We were kings.’

  Clive tried to nod. Winced from the pain.

  ‘All in the past now. All in the past. We lost everything that night, didn’t we? I mean, some more than others. I mean, you ran, didn’t you? Thought you’d get away. No money, nothing. No way of making a living. All gone. So what did you do? Hit the bottle. Big time. And heroin.’ He sucked air in through his teeth. ‘Bad stuff, Clive. Very bad stuff. Never get high on your own supply. You should know that. It’s all right for the punters but we don’t touch it.’

  ‘Yeah well, like I said. I’m clean now.’

  ‘I know, Clive. I know. And you tried to get back into the good books. Well done.’

  Clive tried to nod once more. Gave up. Just listened. Too tired to talk.

  ‘But you weren’t the only one to lose something that night. I lost plenty. I lost everything.’

  ‘I . . . I know . . .’

  ‘But mentioning Tom Killgannon’s niece . . .’ a headshake. ‘That was out of order, Clive.’

  ‘I . . . I know. And I’m sorry.’ He tried to move his encased arm. ‘But I’ve paid for that.’

  ‘Well yes. And no. Because you’ve started him thinking. You’ve tipped him off. And when you get well again he’s going to come looking for you wanting another chat. And you with your blabbermouth, Clive, you’re going to tell him more. Aren’t you? Who killed her? How she died?’

  ‘I’m not . . . I promise . . . I won’t . . .’

  ‘Well, you say that Clive, but we both know that’s not true. So I’m sorry Clive, it has to be this way.’

  Clive started to cry.

  He eased the pillow from behind Clive’s head, cradled it and placed it tenderly on the mattress. He placed the pillow over Clive’s tear-wet face. Clive tried to cry out.

  ‘Shh. Come on, Clive. Be Brave. You know it has to be done.’

  Eventually Clive stopped crying and his body went limp. He kept the pillow on until he was sure that Clive wasn’t pretending, that he actually was dead, then removed it, looked down at him. Shook his head sadly.

  He let the pillow drop onto the bed, turned and left the ward.

  The officer was on the door.

  ‘I was never here.’

  The officer stared at him. Then looked nervously at the ward. Then back to the visitor.

  ‘Never. Understand?’

  The officer was too terrified to disagree.

  He walked slowly back to his wing.

  41

  Dr Louisa Bradshaw had never fully made her mind up about Paul Shelley. As a prison governor he seemed competent but not spectacular. No standout schemes for rehabilitation or to cut reoffending. No brave trials, no particular vision, no rocking the boat. Just keeping on keeping on. Like he was only in the position for a short while and wanted to hand it over to the next incumbent as he found it. A safe pair of hands. And plenty of other clichés that he would no doubt employ when asked about his job. A remarkably unremarkable man. Or perhaps, she thought, that was just the impression he tried to give. Perhaps the truth was something else.

  She sat beside him in his office, noticed just how hot it was. Not warm, hot. Uncomfortably so. Did he do that on purpose, to make colleagues and inmates alike feel ill at ease? If so, why? And how did he stand it himself? She didn’t know, but wanted to shed her jumper she was so uncomfortable. The fact that she was wearing a T-shirt with the NASA logo underneath stopped her. Not work-appropriate. But then she didn’t think it would ever be this warm.

  The office itself was as expected. Framed photos on his desk of his wife and children. All as unremarkable looking as him, she thought, mentally chastising herself for judging on appearances. Surely working in this place had taught her not to do that.

  The lighting was softer than in the rest of the prison and there were some framed certificates and photos on the wall. Diplomas and cricketing photos. Shelley dwarfed in pads and a helmet, holding the bat in an aggressive way, the ball nowhere to be seen. Shelley and others bundled up in rough weather gear, on top of a mountain, all smiling at the camera. Probably needs something like that, she thought, after spending most of his working life stuck in a place like this.

  There was still something off about him, though, and Louisa couldn’t quite place what it was. At one time she would have dismissed feelings and intuitions as something for the new agers, not specialists like her. But again, this place had taught her to respect her instincts. It always seemed like there was something he wasn’t telling her. A secret he didn’t want to share. Something to do with the way the prison was run. Her place in it. She might have imagined it but he had seemed to be on the verge of saying something to her a few times, breaking down whatever self-imposed barrier he had erected, testing to see if she could be trusted. Then changing his mind. She had said nothing at those times, just filed it away.

  The door opened. An officer brought in Tom Killgannon.

  Louisa was shocked, but hoped she didn’t show it. That wouldn’t be professional. However, the change in Killgannon since she had last seen him was more than noticeable. His hair was wilder, beard more unkempt. Bandages and plasters covered his arms, face and shoulder. Bruises and cuts grew round them. That was to be expected since his attack, but something in his manner marked him as different too. He seemed less like the man she had first spoken to and more like a hardened prisoner. The tattoos on his arms that she had previously dismissed now seemed more prominent. His body seemed harder, leaner. He might still
have that softness, that intelligence in his eyes, but they were hooded now, hidden. She couldn’t tell what was in there.

  ‘Sit down,’ said Shelley.

  Tom sat.

  Shelley leaned forwards, hands clasped together. Like an old headmaster trying to reach a bright but wayward child. Or bargain with one who was uncontrollable.

  ‘Has a night in segregation given you a different perspective?’

  Tom looked up. Louisa still couldn’t see his eyes. ‘On what?’

  ‘On telling me why you were attacked. On why you think you were important enough for two very dangerous criminals to take the risk of further punishment and take you on?’

  Tom shrugged.

  Shelley looked down at his hands, back at Tom. Trying again. ‘How did you come to be alone in that room?’

  ‘Ask your wing staff. One of them escorted me there. Then locked the door after me.’

  Shelley looked uncertain, unsure how to proceed. ‘I won’t hear any criticism of my staff, Killgannon.’

  ‘Then stop asking me pointless questions. Because you’ll hear a lot. This whole thing should go to adjudication. Your staff led me in there. There was a noose and two ugly bastards waiting for me.’

  ‘How did your alleged attackers get into that room?’

  ‘Ask them.’

  ‘They’re not here anymore. Their injuries were quite serious. They’ve been moved to other institutions where they can receive better treatment.’

  ‘Colour me surprised. Scared of the lawsuit?’ Tom hadn’t raised his voice yet. All his words were in the same flat, weary monotone.

  ‘So what had you done to annoy them?’

  Tom shrugged. ‘Never seen them before in my life.’

  ‘But you must have—’

  ‘Stop fucking about.’ Tom leaned forwards quickly, spoke sharply. There was power in both of those things and Shelley was taken by surprise. Louisa too, to a lesser extent, but Shelley actually jumped back. ‘You know what’s going on. There was a noose in there. They were sent to either hurt me, intimidate me or kill me. They’d been paid to do it. And you know who by.’

  Shelley stared at Tom. Tom returned the stare. Louisa saw his eyes for the first time. The intelligence was still there but no softness.

  Shelley looked away, pretended to find something on his desk fascinating. ‘You’re making ridiculous allegations, Killgannon.’

  Tom laughed, shook his head. He turned his attention to Louisa. ‘Why are you here?’

  She was shocked at the frankness of the question. This wasn’t the man she had spoken to recently. Or if it was, something very bad had happened to him since then.

  ‘I’m . . .’ she began ‘. . . here to assess you. See if you’re fit enough to go back to the wing.’

  ‘Fit. You mean mentally? So I can do your investigating for you without attacking anyone else who comes to kill me, is that it?’

  Louisa reddened. ‘Something like that.’

  ‘Investigating?’ asked Shelley.

  ‘Ask her,’ said Tom, indicating Louisa with his thumb.

  Louisa said nothing.

  Tom turned his attention back to Shelley. ‘Just tell Foley not to send any more people after me. Then I won’t have to fight them off.’

  ‘Foley?’ said Shelley too quickly. ‘Dean Foley? Why would he take an interest in you?’

  Tom took his attention from Louisa, returned it to Shelley. He smiled, blurted out some kind of laugh. ‘Ask him.’

  ‘I’m asking you.’

  Tom looked between the two of them. Louisa thought he was making up his mind about sharing something and was reminded again of Shelley. With Tom it seemed different. Not that he didn’t want to share something, more that he was now almost beyond caring what would happen if he did.

  Tom sighed. ‘Right,’ he said. ‘I’ll tell you. Do whatever you like with this information afterwards.’

  They waited.

  ‘Tom Killgannon’s not my real name. I’m an ex-copper and I’m here undercover.’

  Shelley laughed out loud. ‘Bullshit. Any undercover operation in my prison goes through me. I’d never heard of you before you arrived and started causing trouble.’

  ‘It was supposed to be done secretly so no one would know, especially not the target.’

  ‘Who is?’ Shelley asked, amusement in his voice.

  ‘Noel Cunningham. I’m supposed to get near him, befriend him, find out where those kids’ bodies are in return for letting him out to visit his mother.’ He looked at Louisa who was about to speak. ‘When you asked me to do the same thing I couldn’t believe it.’

  Shelley looked between the two of them. ‘You asked him to do the same thing? Why?’

  ‘Because they seemed to have bonded. And there was a good chance Cunningham would open up to him.’

  Shelley sat back, smiled. ‘So you tell us now that you’re undercover. Taking this very seriously, aren’t you? Very good. Keep going.’

  Tom ignored him. ‘I was the person whose testimony brought down Dean Foley. He knew me back in Manchester under a different name. I was undercover then. He made me, sent those two men over to me.’

  ‘Is that right.’

  ‘My contact, DS Sheridan of Devon and Cornwall Police is dead. He can’t vouch for me.’

  ‘Of course he can’t.’

  ‘But his partner, DC Blake should be able to.’

  Louisa had wondered who Dean Foley’s target was. Now she knew. She also noticed a change in Tom’s demeanour when he mentioned the Detective Constable’s name. Like saying something he didn’t believe. She couldn’t work out why.

  ‘Well let’s give her a call, then, shall we?’

  Shelley picked up his office phone, found the number from his rolodex, dialled. It was answered. ‘Governor Paul Shelley, Blackmoor Prison. Could I speak to a Detective Constable Blake? Yes, I’ll hold.’ He looked directly at Tom, still smiling. ‘You’re in luck. There is a Detective Constable Blake. They said they’d put me through to her.’

  Tom watched him impassively.

  ‘Yes,’ said Shelley. ‘DC Blake.’ He introduced himself once more. ‘I’ve got an inmate here called Thomas Killgannon. He says he’s an undercover operative working for both yourself and DS Sheridan, is that true?’

  Tom stared at him.

  ‘Oh,’ said Shelley, ‘I’m sorry to hear that. My condolences. No . . . you haven’t. Right. Thank you. Sorry to waste your time.’ He replaced the receiver, looked back at Tom, triumph in his eyes. ‘Never heard of you.’

  ‘Speak to her commanding officer.’

  ‘Who would that be?’

  ‘I don’t know.’

  ‘I’m sure you don’t. You were right, though. About DS Sheridan. She says he’s dead.’

  Tom’s face changed. Sadness tinged and desperation appeared on his features.

  Shelley sat back, threw his hands in the air. ‘Thanks for the entertainment. I suppose you’re to blame for the death in the infirmary last night too, aren’t you?’

  ‘What?’

  ‘Clive Bennett.’ Shelley looked at something on his desk. ‘Isn’t that the inmate you attacked, that got you your first spell on the segregation block?’

  ‘Bennett. Bennett. That’s him. Looks different now. That’s why I didn’t recognise him . . .’

  ‘I suppose you know him too.’

  ‘He was one of Foley’s gang back in Manchester. You can check that. He joked about my niece. She’s dead. That’s why I lost it and attacked him last week.’

  A shadow passed over Shelley’s features at the mention of Foley’s name. ‘Get him taken back to his wing.’ He looked at Louisa. ‘Can’t win ’em all, Dr Bradshaw.’

  Louisa didn’t want to move, didn’t want the conversation to end. ‘I’d like to keep working with him.’

  ‘What, treat him for being delusional?’ Shelley laughed at his own joke.

  Louisa was beginning to think Tom Killgannon wasn’t delusional
. Or at least there was more to his story than he was saying. She addressed Tom directly.

  ‘Will you feel safe back in general population?’

  Tom shrugged. ‘As safe as I can in here.’

  ‘Fine. Then I’ll take you back there.’

  She stood up. Tom did the same. Shelley just watched them go, the smile no longer in place.

  42

  ‘How are you feeling?’

  Tom looked at Louisa, walking alongside him. She had set the pace and didn’t seem to be in any hurry to get back to the wing. She seemed sincere but he still didn’t want to engage her in conversation. He had just tried that and it had got him nowhere. He was aware of how much his most recent spell on the seg block had changed him, tipped him into a different character. He didn’t feel like he was even Tom Killgannon anymore. He felt like he was becoming someone else. Someone harsher, harder. Even crueller, maybe.

  ‘Are we in session now?’ he said, his words virtually spat at her. ‘Is this therapy?’

  She seemed upset by his tone. ‘It’s a genuine question. How are you bearing up?’

  Louisa stopped walking, looked round, checking for eavesdroppers. No one was in earshot. They could hear voices, cries echoing down the corridors, but no one nearby.

  ‘I believe you, Mr Killgannon.’

  ‘Not Tom anymore?’ He couldn’t take the sneer out of his voice. It seemed to have settled in permanently.

  ‘I’ll call you Tom if you like. It doesn’t change what I’m saying though. I believe your story.’

  Tom looked wary. ‘Why?’

  ‘Because . . . I shouldn’t be breaking client confidentiality, but someone fitting your description was mentioned to me by another of my patients recently. Your description and background. And how it personally impinged on them and their situation. Then you say all this today and I just put two and two together. Am I right?’

  ‘If by other patient you mean Dean Foley then yes, you are.’

  Louisa fell silent, thinking before speaking. ‘What if . . . bear with me here, what if . . . I were to get you two together. Somewhere neutral like my office, just so you can both talk to each other in a safe space? Have a conversation away from all the other pressures of this place, try and come up with some kind of, I don’t know, way of going forwards for both of you? Would that be worth trying?’