The dirty little bastard is probably having an X-rated dream about sexy MILFS and Grannies. I feel slightly guilty about breaking up the party for Billy, but my needs are more urgent than his right now. I grab hold of his arm and violently shake it and he wakes with a look of terror on his face.
“What the fuck, McMillan! I was having a lovely fucking dream, until I thought I was in a bloody earthquake. What the fuck do you want? It’s still fucking dark, ya maniac.”
“Yep, sorry, Billy, but I need your help again. This time it’s urgent.”
He is still only half-awake and after rubbing his eyes and stretching his arms, he sits up and shakes his head. “It’s always urgent with you, McMillan. What is it this time?”
“I need you to get me access to a mobile phone for thirty minutes … by nine o’clock this morning.”
My request makes him smile and after a delay of a few seconds, he nods and says, “Sure, no problem. What would you like, Apple or Samsung? How about the color, any preference on that? Give me a fucking break, Sean. You’ve got me mixed up with someone else — how the fuck am I gonna get my hands on a mobile phone by nine o’clock?”
Under normal circumstances, he would be right, but to speed things up I thrust fifty quid under his nose. “I need you to make it happen, Billy. Get me the phone and there will be another fifty waiting for you.”
My cash is running out fast, but I don’t have any other options and if everything goes well today, by tomorrow I should have more than enough evidence to get me out of here anyway.
“Why don’t you just use the payphones? You can use my calling card for a tenner. It’s a lot easier and a lot less risky than using a mobile.”
“I need to speak privately to someone, and I don’t need some fucking nosey screw listening in on me.”
“So why not just bribe someone yourself to borrow a phone?”
Sometimes Billy comes across as being reasonably intelligent — now is not one of those times.
“Get real, Billy, half of the cons in here wouldn’t piss on me if I was on fire and the other half would happily start the fire and keep it going with petrol.”
“Oh yeh, that’s right, I forgot for a moment that you’re a copper.”
“Ex-copper, Billy — now, do you want this money or not?”
His acceptance was never really in doubt — fifty quid in the nick is a King’s ransom and with the other fifty on delivery, he will probably clear at least seventy for himself after paying to borrow the phone. The questions and feigned reluctance are just part of the game for Billy. With the game over, he snatches the cash from my hand, tucks it under his pillow and rolls over in his bed to face the wall.
“I need it by nine, Billy, you understand that, yeh?”
“For fuck’s sake, yep, I got it,” he grumbles. “Now piss off and let me get back to my dream.”
Straight after the morning ablutions, I watch as Billy heads off to breakfast and two minutes later, I follow him. Breakfast is the only real opportunity to track down a phone before nine in the morning. The canteen is as busy as ever, but neither Cartwright nor Taylor appear to be on duty today. I was probably right about last night being a Lulu’s night and I smile remembering the image of Taylor in his mincy leather shorts.
Billy has already found a place at one of the tables and without making it too obvious, I join the queue at the hotplate and try to keep my eye on him to see if he is keeping his promise.
Although he seems to be chatting a lot with a few different cons, I have learned already that this means nothing with Billy. He is normally very chatty with whomever he is sitting next to in the canteen. As far as I can tell, though, he does appear to be more guarded with today’s conversations and occasionally one of the other cons seems to discretely nod or point in the direction of someone on one of the other tables.
However, knowing Billy as I do, he also might well just be describing the numerous wanks and the dreams he had last night. My hopes that he is actually working on tracking down a phone get a boost when he picks up his breakfast tray and makes a space for himself on another table. He immediately starts chatting with a black guy with long greying dreadlocks and two minutes later the nod of agreement between them is unmistakable and Billy once again picks up his tray and walks back across to his original table.
Unfortunately, though, he catches the attention of the duty Senior Officer.
“Oy, McGuigan, what’s with all the fucking table hopping? Are you up to something, boy?”
“Sorry, sir, I was just trying to get comfortable, that’s all.”
I don’t know this particular officer and I haven’t heard anything bad about him, but a prerequisite of being a screw is a sarcastic sense of humor and I can sense already that he is going to jump on Billy’s comment.
“Oh, well, I am fucking sorry that our benches are not comfortable enough for you. I didn’t realize that we had fucking Goldilocks staying here. How about your porridge, is that alright for you? What about your bed, can I get you an extra pillow or some satin sheets?”
If I didn’t suspect already that Billy’s comment was in danger of delaying the arrival of the phone, I would be laughing as hard as most of the other cons, but I need the phone as early as possible. I need Billy not to do or say anything else stupid now and, thankfully, he doesn’t.
“No, everything is alright, sir, thank you.”
This makes no difference to the outcome, though. The officer puffs himself up like the lead actor in a Shakespearean play about to deliver his finest lines, “Well, that’s just wonderful to hear. I’m so glad that our facilities meet your satisfaction, McGuigan. But I think you’re just being kind and I would hate to think that we were putting your peachy little arse through any discomfort. I think thirty minutes of bench polishing after breakfast should help soften them up a bit. How does that sound?”
“They really are okay, sir, they don’t need to be any softer.”
“Tough shit, McGuigan, I insist — report to the cleaning store straight after breakfast and get straight back here with a tin of polish and a cloth.”
With that, he walks away leaving Billy looking slightly dazed and more than a little confused over what has just happened.
It could have been a damn sight worse, though, and after a few minutes, I catch his eye and gesture for him to hurry up. Two minutes later, he is on his feet to empty his tray and he disappears out of the canteen, presumably to go to the cleaning store.
By eight-thirty he is back with the polish and cloth and gets to work on one the benches under the watchful eye of the senior screw.
Back in the cell, there is nothing else for me to do but wait for Billy to get back. Having a phone by nine o’clock is impossible now and I can only hope that he doesn’t run into anymore problems, but it’s out of my hands so I lie down on my bed and watch as the hands on my watch move at an accelerated rate past 9.15, 9.30, and 9.45. Finally, at 9.52 am, Billy appears at the door of the cell and pushes it closed behind him.
“No fucking time for sleeping, McMillan — I need to have this back by 10.15 or I’m gonna be eating my own fucking testicles for lunch.”
I am up off my bed like a shot and Billy hands me a small blue Nokia phone.
“I asked for thirty minutes, Billy.”
“Seriously, just take the fucking phone, Sean. You don’t have long.”
He’s right and I thank him and then, with a gesture to the door, I add, “I need you to wait outside and guard the door.”
“What?”
“Billy, come on, fucking move it, times ticking and you only get the other fifty quid if I get to make my call.”
Reluctantly, he leaves and I retrieve the paper with Darren’s details from the hiding place. Along with his home address, Cath was also able to provide me with his mobile number and his home number.
There is a good chance that if I call the home number, his wife or one of his kids will answer so I dial the mobile number and take a deep breath waiting
for the call to be answered.
The first time it rings for a long time and then the connection drops. I consider trying the landline number but instead I hit redial and try the mobile again. This time my call is answered quickly, by a grumpy and annoyed Darren.
“What?”
I’m certain that it is him, but I ask anyway, “Good morning, am I speaking to Darren Phillips?”
My voice obviously means nothing to him and now his manner is aggressive. “Yes it fucking is, and this had better be fucking good for you to be calling me at ten on a Sunday morning.”
“Aww don’t be like that, Darren. Not to an old friend. Even if you did leave me dying on the floor in the bathroom of the Corner House on Boxing Day.”
I imagine that my comment has knocked the wind out of him and he is probably going to cut me off in a few seconds.
“I guess you didn’t expect to ever hear from me again, did you? But don’t even think about hanging up, Darren. You will be in prison so fast your feet won’t touch the fucking ground and I will make sure that your missus Karen joins you. Your kids will get fostered out to nice Arab families and by the time you both get out of prison, they will be praying five times a day towards Mecca and spitting on infidels.”
He doesn’t respond, but I can hear his breathing and I change my tone to something more reasonable.
“There is another way, though, Darren, the same deal is still on the table — community service instead of a custodial sentence. That was a good deal in December, it’s an even better deal now in February.”
“Why is it a better deal now?” he responds.
“Don’t play the fool, Darren. You’re now facing a charge of attempted murder; that’s fucking why it’s a better deal. You and your mates left me dying in a pool of my own blood, and it’s taken me all of this time to recover. By rights I could have you in prison already, but I still need you to do the job I asked you to do. One burglary and you get to walk away with a couple of years of community service and signing on at your local station. In my book, that’s the fucking deal of the century.”
There is another delay of a few seconds and then he speaks again, “What did you say your name was again?”
“It’s Sergeant Walker, Darren.”
“Oh yeh, that’s right, Sergeant Walker from the Serious Crimes Squad. I still think you’re talking a load of horse shit, but I really don’t have much of a choice, do I? Tell me what you need again.”
Happy that he appears to be onside, I relax a little and tell him to grab a pen and paper and then I take him through the plan again. As we go through the details, he mumbles his acknowledgement a few times and everything seems to be going well until I tell him when it needs to happen.
“No, you’re fucking mad. If I go blundering in there without properly scoping the place out, the risk of getting caught is bloody huge. I need at least two or three days.”
“You don’t have fucking three days, Darren. I told you before, this job is of national importance and it needs to happen today. Whatever you find in there needs to be delivered to the solicitor’s office I just told you about by ten tomorrow morning. If you’re not up to it, tell me now and I will find someone else and send the boys in blue round to pick you up.”
He knows that I am talking shit about finding someone else for the job. If there were anyone else, I would have found them already instead of waiting until the last minute to contact him again.
The attempted murder of me is no bluff, though, and I am confident that he won’t risk me having him arrested.
“Well, what’s it to be, Darren? Are you in or out?”
“I’m in, but I want a written guarantee about this arrangement for my protection.”
“Don’t push your luck, Darren, the only guarantee you’re getting from me is a guarantee that you will be old and fucking grey by the time you get out if you fuck this up or back out. Now get on with it, the clocks ticking. If the stuff is not delivered by ten tomorrow morning, you had better start running.”
Before he has the chance to argue or ask more questions, I cut off the call and turn off the phone. My hands are shaking, but I don’t know if it is through nerves or excitement at getting my plan back on track.
The next twenty-four hours will be crucial in deciding whether I walk out of here with my honor restored or will need another plan to save myself and to bring down the Network. Once again, my fate is in the hands of others, but that’s not Billy’s concern. As he pushes open the door to the cell, his only priority is keeping his testicles intact.
“Time’s up, McMillan, quick hand it over, I need to get it back before the Rastaman comes looking for me with his pliers.”
I hand Billy the phone and, without saying anything, he stuffs it down the front of his sweats and charges out of the cell.
It’s going to be the longest twenty-four hours ever, so to help pass the time, I borrow a moth-eaten copy of Papillon from the prison library and settle back down on my bunk for the day.
Papillon is a classic prison story set in a notorious penal colony on French Guyana and the storyline mirrors my own situation in many ways. The protagonist, Henri Charriere, played by Steve McQueen in the 1973 movie version, spent many years on numerous failed escape attempts before eventually succeeding. This is not French Guyana and I don’t have the same worries of passing time that Charriere had, but I still need to get out of here and Charriere’s refusal to give up gives me renewed confidence and inspiration.
Other than leaving my cell for lunch and dinner, the rest of the day is uneventful. My Chinese friend gave me a few dirty looks during the dinner service, but otherwise he kept his mouth shut. No doubt, each evening in his cell he is like a kid with an advent calendar counting down the days until Christmas. I’m almost sorry that I won’t be around to see the look of disappointment on his face when he realizes that there is jack shit under the tree for him this year.
Billy was his usual pain-in-the-arse self all day and was in and out of the cell and constantly asking about his request and other mindless questions. I have to say, though, that despite my first impression of him, he is a decent enough lad and, let’s face it, I couldn’t have gotten this far without him.
Just after lunch, Billy was in a particularly chatty mood and when it became clear that he had no intention of letting me get back to my book, I asked him what he had done to get himself in prison. As it turns out, he was arrested for shoplifting and possession of a small amount of marijuana. Due to his previous record for similar offences, he is looking at anywhere between eighteen months and five years inside if convicted. He is twenty-two years old, the same age as Ben Pinto, my son.
Wow, I still can’t get used to saying that and I guess it’s going to take some getting used to.
It’s been less than a week since I discovered that I had a son conceived as a result of my tryst with Maria Pinto in 1994. Finding out that you have a son just six or seven years younger than yourself would be enough to blow the mind of anyone and I haven’t managed to fully get my head around it yet. But when this is done and I am free again, I am determined to make things right for Ben and Maria.
I also want to help Billy, I am confident that Jean Monroe will be able to deliver on his request, but he deserves far more. If I walk out of here tomorrow, it will be in no small part due to the help that he has given me. Community service would be a far more fitting punishment for someone that has done so much to help me close my case. More prison time will only serve to harden Billy further and I won’t allow that. I will speak to Jean Monroe again as soon as I can to look into his case.
By seven o’clock, and despite my best efforts, I can’t concentrate on my book anymore and I start to stress again over Darren. It’s been nine hours since I spoke to him this morning and for all I know he could have packed a bag and skipped the country by now.
However, I don’t think he would do that. He has a wife and kids and even though my offer was too good to be true, I am convinced that he wi
ll go through with it. If my only leverage had been the burglaries, then perhaps not, but an attempted murder charge is something completely different.
I tell myself that he will do it and by ten tomorrow morning, the spoils of his raid should be on Jean Monroe’s desk. But what if I am wrong? What if he was right about needing more time to prepare? What if the spoils don’t exist or they are not where I think they are? My assumptions have been based completely on what I believe Detective Superintendent Douglas and Assistant Chief Constable Butterfield would do, but I have been outsmarted so many times before by Douglas. I continue to torment myself for another two hours about what might or might not happen until finally I manage to divert my focus away to something else more positive. I hadn’t been planning to travel tonight but now I have an idea to give Darren more of an advantage. At eleven thirty, after another brisk in-cell workout, I put on my prison-issue hoodie and retrieve the watch, wallet, and envelope from Catherine.
I have already used most of the information that she was able to provide for me, but the one significant item still to use is the photograph of tonight’s target. The picture is high resolution and was professionally taken just a few months ago. The image and address are clear in my mind and ten minutes after lights out, with Billy once again snoring like a walrus above me, I chant my way back to yesterday.
The Past – Saturday, 17th February 2018
Geographically, Cobham in Surrey is just seventeen miles south-west of London, but it is so far removed from the hustle and bustle of city life that it could well be in another country entirely. With an overall population of under ten thousand inhabitants, the leafy suburb of Cobham has a population density of just over three-thousand people per square mile compared to more than fourteen thousand in London.
Additionally, and in complete contrast to the eclectic mix of race, religion, nationality and political affiliation I might come across in London, Cobham seems to comprise almost entirely white, middle class, maybe Tory, voters. That’s certainly the way it seems anyway. I have been walking around the town for more than two hours now and have not seen a single person who could be described as black or from the sub-continent. I’m not saying there is anything wrong with that, of course, it’s just strange to see when I have spent almost the entirety of my life in and around multicultural London.
The Network Page 13