PERFECT FOR FANS OF SUSIE STEINER Someone is dead because of Jamie. Yesterday they were alive. Jamie Worth is a newly qualified as a firearms officer and is called to a domestic disturbance. Events get out of hand, and he shoots and kills a teenaged girl who appears to have been unarmed. Already wracked with guilt, he is horrified when, with the media baying for blood, he is accused of murder. How can a police officer survive in prison when he suddenly finds himself on the wrong side of the law? And how can his wife Cath and ex Anna come to terms with what has happened? From the author of THE TWILIGHT TIME, AFTER THE FIRE is a chilling glimpse of the flipside of life as a law enforcer, written in ''stiletto-sharp prose'' (The Herald) by one of the most exciting new voices in crime fiction. Praise for Karen Campbell ''Gritty as all hell, shot through with black humour and with enough pace and atmosphere to give the likes of Denise Mina a run for their money. All this and the chutzpah to create a seedy and unpleasant superintendent named Rankin!'' font size="+1">Mark Billingham ''The plot is wonderful, the characterisation of a family in crisis is both sharp and sympathetic, and the author does not shy away from examining the less palatable aspects of relations between the police and the public'' Guardian ''I loved it . . . Anna is a great, original character and Karen Campbell has a great way with images'' Kate Atkinson ''Karen Campbell deserves to be admitted to membership of what''s becoming a very large club - Scottish crime writers of excellence . . . As to be expected from a former police officer, Campbell portrays her milieu with harsh authenticity, and Anna Cameron is wholly believable in her unheroic role. Glasgow and its citizens are described with vivid passion'' The Times
Release date:
September 15, 2011
Publisher:
Hodder & Stoughton
Print pages:
480
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Noises of voices. A woman crying. He was taken downstairs and put in a holding cell. If they spoke to him, he wasn’t aware. Not until the door clanged shut and he realised this wasn’t the waiting room. Beneath the street, beneath contempt. No longer in the light.
Jamie was surprised that he cared. Cath had yelled out in the courtroom and he wanted to get to her. See that she was okay she was his wife for God’s sake he had to check on her and he was taken down here, encased in metal, ensconced in stone. Panting like a rabid dog. The bench was clammy; no that was his fingers. The bench was cold and it filtered through his good suit trousers like the onset of death, yet, strangely, the coldness calmed him. He wasn’t going to lose it, not here, in Glasgow High, where he’d only given evidence the once, at that murder trial for that old Polish boy, when he knew there were cells down here, of course he knew that, where else would they keep the scum, but had never seen them. Up so close, and getting closer all the time. Blow away the badness. In through the nose, out through the mouth. Stare straight ahead, but don’t look.
He couldn’t help it. Graffiti etched the walls, stiff angry letters carved by keys and buckles and he thought of tally marks in Robinson Crusoe, marking off days, then weeks, then months and, as his lungs constricted, he thought of a girl who had no more days and his shoulders slumped as it poured on him again, and he became glad to be there. Faraway noises played like waves in the distance. He closed his eyes and drifted.
An echo of steel, more bangs, another key-turn, very near. Jamie jumped up, like to attention, in case they were coming for him. It was the macer. He stood at the door, but didn’t enter.
‘Mr Worth. His Lordship has sent me down to see you.’ The macer lowered his voice slightly. ‘He wants to apologise for your conviction, and to advise you and your QC to appeal.’
Jamie nodded. ‘Okay. Thanks.’ Trite words, but they were all he could think of. Did this usually happen, that a judge sent a special envoy to the cells?
‘The evidence that was presented has not been disproved,’ the macer continued. ‘He wants you to think carefully about that. Do you understand?’
Did he understand what? That there was evidence, that this was a trial? That he was guilty? Jamie screwed up his eyes, trying to think, to hear above the crashing in his head.
‘Yes.’ A reflex response, a politeness that was expected.
The macer nodded. ‘Good luck, son.’
Oh, Jesus Christ, Mother Mary and all the saints. Jamie swallowed as the door shut. Don’t anyone start being nice. Please God, I can’t take niceness.
Footsteps. Brisker. The courts inspector. ‘We’re taking you to Barlinnie. Quickly, before the snappers get down here.’
This was it. It was really happening. Rage flared, fused with terror. Rage was good. His heart frenzied on his ribs, but he wouldn’t lose control. He was trained to work under pressure – Jesus, these pat phrases – what was wrong with him? Was this how soldiers hyped themselves up before they went to war?
No photographers outside. No crowds throwing eggs and insults. No people at all. He travelled alone, a single cop in the van beside him, another behind the wheel. Not for him the usual civilian security guys. He was special. Was that it then, his final polis sendoff? No white gloves or saluting. The cop beside him was silent. Just a young boy. Was he embarrassed; disdainful; sorry? Would he regale his mates at piece break with tales of the green-white murderer, who looked like he would hurl every time they swung a corner? Was he averting his eyes from the corpse, thanking God it wasn’t him? Would he go home that night and hold his girlfriend; her perfume tasting like incense? Fucksake. Hold her, man.
It was a small van, one-way windows, and Jamie could see out the back as they rumbled along. See grey houses, grey sky. See the big gates shutting as they passed through the prison walls. Every time he’d been there before, to drop off a prisoner or pick up a colleague, he’d known they were opening again. Not this time.
The driver banged the door. ‘Right boys, that’s us.’ Jamie got out first, and the young cop followed. Automatically, he took Jamie by the arm. The driver shook his head. ‘Just leave it Norrie, eh?’ Single file, they passed through a narrow door and entered a tight passageway. At the end of the passage, a counter. The driver handed a plastic folder of paperwork to the warder behind the desk. ‘James Worth, Glasgow High. Convicted of murder.’
The warder flicked through the folder. ‘Thanks guys. We’ll take it from here.’
One light touch on his shoulder, and the two cops passed back into the world, leaving him in this one. Wordlessly, the warder took Jamie through a gate and straight down into hell. Bodies growling, glowering, spitting. Circling the holding area like buzzards wheeling over roadkill. An immense wall of sound and hatred, all whipping at him.
‘Aye, Worth. Nae luck,’ said the warder. ‘Think they smell pig – jungle drums have been beating.’
Prisoners, walking around, sniffing at his flesh. They could smell his flesh above the all-pervading stench of pish. The entire holding area reeked of human waste and filth. The odours stuck, smarting in his craw, coating his gullet with slimy vapours. Dante’s Inferno, towering in babbling Bedlam. Welcome to the Bar-L. Along one wall, a row of wooden cubicles, like the toilets at his primary school. Our Lady of the Annunciation. Pray for our souls. Each cubicle had a blackboard on the outside of the door. Names chalked, white on grey. Mulligan, Forsythe. Hamilton, Gillespie. Pray for our souls. Worth.
‘Name?’ Another desk, another warder. Jamie was sure he recognised him.
‘Tsk, tsk Worth. Killing wee girls. Now, that’s just no very public spirited is it?’
Did they know? Surely they didn’t realise he was a cop?
The warder shook his head. ‘And you an officer of the law too. What is society coming to, eh?’
An illusory hope fled his body like a soul.
‘Right, in the dog box, Worth.’
‘What?’
‘In.’
The warder shoved him forward. Another level, the seventh circle, reserved for murderers. When the wooden door snibbed shut, a new blackness descended. Invisible, thick air dirtying his skin. His eyes gradually measured his new, smudged surroundings. The cubicle was about a metre by a metre square, a single plank serving as a bench. He sat in the middle, trying not to brush his good suit against the walls, which were crusted with shite and nose pickings, smeared with phlegm and misspelled obscenities. An archaeology of those who had come before him, their animal leavings pasted all around.
They left him there for about fifteen minutes, long enough for the dog boxes on either side to fill up. It began quietly, a kind of low hissing, a tapping that became a hammering. Beating fists in stereo surround, wild voices promising: ‘We’ll have you. See the night, Fuckcop. You’re dead. You’re fucking dead.’ The prison officers must have heard too, for he could make out their voices above the din. Name. Wilson, sir. The occasional Quieten it down now.
Was the girl somewhere like this; crouched in a filmy netherworld where shades jeered and cackled? Her face was relaxed above the bloody breast. He remembered that. From her neck up, she could have been staring at the stars, joining dots in constellations. It had been a very clear night. Summer-crisp like apples, smells of bonfire from his gun.
Cath couldn’t see the difference between Purgatory and Hell. Proddies just had up or down, no middle ground of limblessness, full of unchristened babes and unfinished business. When he’d tried to explain, he’d started to believe it again, fighting his corner the more Cath scoffed. Arguing right through dinner and two bottles of wine and that was what he loved about her. She could twist his brain and stretch his intellect, then twine it back with a who-cares smile. Less and less now, when wet-arse wails and sticky fingers interrupted, and tired words became a precious commodity, but from time to time it sparked, that challenge of why he loved her. Would she remember to put the alarm on? Take the key out the back door? Maybe someone would stay with her tonight. Cath would hate that.
When the door opened, his eyes snapped back from blurry. The room had become surreal, he’d drawn his mind up inside himself, listened like it was all on telly, and now the channel had changed.
‘Out.’
An unknown thumb jabbed upwards. He stood, felt his leg cramp, and followed this new warder.
‘Okay, Worth. While you’re here, you’ll be treated as a remand prisoner. You’ll be kept in the hospital wing for your own protection, and you’ll not be required to work.’
They were walking down another corridor now, each few paces punctuated by a sliding bolt or a clanking chain. ‘First thing is to get you showered and changed. And the good news is, you get the whole place to yourself. Don’t want someone taking a razor to your bits, do we?’
The toilet block was primitive. Gristle-white, brick-shaped tiles, four or five urinals, the same number of toilet cubicles and just three showers. An even stronger stink of urine, which made him want to vomit. Yellow scum frothed around the central drainage holes on the swimming floor. This couldn’t be where he was meant to wash.
‘Take off your clothes.’
There was nowhere to hang his suit. The warder watched him looking. Jamie took off his jacket, then his shirt and tie, folding the garments over his right forearm. When he reached to untie his shoelace, the silk tie slipped and landed in a viscous puddle.
‘Here,’ said the warder. ‘Gie them to me.’
Jamie passed him the clothes, then the shoes and socks. They all went in a black bin bag. Next, would be his trousers, then his. Then his. He clung on to his trousers. God, he played rugby, he wasn’t some daft laddie worried his dick was too wee. But neither was he a specimen in a bell jar, or a baboon flashing his proud pink arse to the gawkers at the zoo. He turned sideways, so only his haunch was on show, slipped out of his pants and trousers in a oner.
‘Right, in you get.’
The warder pressed a silver button and the shower spurted reluctant, tepid water. He gave Jamie a cube of carbolic soap. Another school smell.
‘Gie yourself a good scrub, cos the doctor’ll want to examine you.’
Jamie’s buttocks tensed. ‘How d’you mean?’
‘How d’you think I mean? Now, hurry it up in there. There’s a whole team outside waiting for a wash. We don’t all get the luxury of a private bathroom you know.’
Of course, he’d showered that morning. In his own house, with Imperial Leather and Daniel’s sponge and Eilidh’s Barbies dripping damp hair down the sides of the bath. And slippers waiting by the radiator. As he washed what felt like pumice grit into his body, he stood on stained, cracked tiles, absorbing the filth by osmosis. The water stopped before he’d finished rinsing.
‘Right, out and dry yourself.’
A square of grey cloth was hanging over the partition. No bigger than a dish towel and absorbent as tinfoil. Still, he rubbed and patted, stalling in his stall.
‘The doctor will see you now.’
Was this a wind-up?
‘What will I put on?’
The warder nodded at his rag. ‘Your towel.’
Jamie tried to wrap the towel around his waist. Far too small, and he was forced to pin it with his fingers either side of his groin, like some ridiculous apron. Aware his arse was mincing open to the world, he splashed after the warder and into the medical room. No introductions, just some rough instructions and even rougher hands. ‘Open your mouth.’ ‘Let me see your ears.’ ‘You take drugs?’
‘No. No, I don’t.’
‘Not yet, eh?’
‘Not ever.’
‘Any STDs?’
‘Pardon?’
‘Clap, crabs—’
‘No. No way.’
‘Not yet, eh?’
The warder sniggered.
‘Bend over.’
‘Doctor – I’m a . . .’
The doctor paused, sheathed index finger half extended. ‘Yes?’
‘I mean, I don’t have anything . . .’
‘That’s what they all say, Mr Worth. Bend over please.’
The warder moved forward. ‘Arse up, Worth. C’mon, we’ve seen it all before.’
Once, Jamie had searched a middle-aged man. He’d been done for shoplifting, and the arresting officer was convinced he’d put some tins down his trousers. Jamie had been bar officer that afternoon, and they’d taken him into the detention room. Asked him to unzip his trousers, and he’d started crying.
‘Wider, Worth.’
First his buttocks, stretched apart. A moment of utter, open shame. Then a finger rammed up his anus, forcing the stink of prison deep inside, removing him of dignity so thoroughly it was almost pure. His splayed legs began to tremble and he knew he would fall.
‘Right, that’s you. Clean as a whistle.’
The doctor snapped off his glove and turned away. Before the warder could reach him, just one long lunge, his dick swinging free, and Jamie could seize the baldy bastard round the throat, send his skull cascading on the basin, smashing to the soft-boiled inside to see how clean it was.
Or he could bow his head and wait.
‘Okay Worth. Let’s get you togged up.’ Flat, firm, no hint of apology. Jamie was nothing to this man, or the one before, or the one before that. He was nothing.
The warder still held his towel. Naked, Jamie followed him to the next dim-lit room, where piles of clothing lay shelved and on the floor. Prisoners were doling out shirts and shoes to other prisoners.
‘See the trusties for your gear.’
‘Sorry?’
‘The trustees – trusted prisoners, know? Once you’ve proved to us you can be a good boy, we let you do special jobs around the place,’ he smirked. ‘Like give out scants and that. Now, shift your arse. We’ve no got all day.’ He nodded to another warder, who shouted ‘Clear!’ Those prisoners that hadn’t yet got all their clothes were ushered into a side room, one guard standing in front of the door.
The warder nudged Jamie. ‘See the service you’re getting here Worth? Like when the Queen goes to Harrods. Now, get your gear and get a bloody move-on. This personal treatment crap is throwing my schedule tae pot.’
The first table was covered in trousers. ‘Size?’ asked the trustee.
‘Thirty-four inch waist.’
‘Here you go, pal.’ The trustee lifted a folded pair and passed them over. Scratchy, brownish-grey wool, they irritated the moment he slung them over his arm. Another table, a heap of red polo shirts. Without speaking, a second trustee reached down to the floor and pulled a dirty shirt from the pile.
Jamie folded his arms. ‘I want a clean one.’
The trustee winked at Jamie’s dick and grinned. ‘Big man, eh?’ Then he lowered his voice, so only Jamie could hear. ‘Aye, we’ll see who the big man is when I take your wife up the arse. D’you know I’m getting out next week?’
Jamie tried to block out the words. He’d heard worse from neds at the football, it meant nothing, but the shaking was uncontrollable, rising from belly to back of the throat. A low creaking, thick out of his mouth. ‘Not if I fucking kill you, you’re no.’
The trustee laughed. ‘You and whose army? You’re no a fucking polis now.’ Then he leaned forward and hissed, ‘Fuck off and die, pigshit.’
Jamie looked towards the nearest warder, who stared fixedly ahead. Hands trembling, he took the shirt and moved on. Shoes, socks, then underpants. Again, the pants were from the dirty pile. Stained and slittered in yellow and brown.
‘I’m no taking them.’
‘Tough shit,’ sniffed the last trustee.
‘Excuse me,’ Jamie called to the warder. Again, he was ignored.
‘Ho, excuse me.’
At once, the warder was in his face, one fist against Jamie’s chin. ‘Don’t you ever “Ho!” me again, you cocky bastard.’
‘Look, I’m sorry, but I canny wear these.’ Jamie pointed at the filthy underpants.
‘Then you’ll wear fuck all.’
It was as quick as they could get the prisoners through; they didn’t care. Prison officers stood by and did nothing as Jamie pulled the trousers past his naked thighs and watched them fall back down to his ankles. They were at least four or five sizes too big – chosen especially for him, he realised, as the sniggers swelled around the room. A great joke to dress the prize pig. He tried tying the waistband of the trousers in a knot, but the material and his fingers, like his audience, were all too thick. Instead, he dressed his top half, put on his too-tight shoes, then lifted the trousers over his bare arse and held them up with his hands. Once the trousers were fully on, he saw these too were soiled. Shuffle through to the next room, where he was given two folded blankets.
A uniform pushed him forward.
‘Where am I going now?’
Same warder who’d taken him to the showers. ‘You’re being taken up to a holding cell. Up near the hospital ward.’
They walked across an open courtyard, where sky and walls merged in greasy bands of grey. Through a gate, another door and up a flight of tinny stairs. Unlike the dog box, this cell was a decent size. The door grated shut, and he was alone again. Maybe this was where he would spend the night.
Jamie opened the blankets out, and immediately retched. Nothing inside them but wet, fresh shit. He laid the blankets on the floor, as far away as he could. At work, he’d been in plenty of filthy houses; some where your feet would stick to the carpet as you came in; some with no carpet at all, the weans running around wearing vests and a dummy they shared with the dog. So you’d do your business, warn, arrest, report, whatever. And then you could come home, slough off the slime and fall into a clean white bed. The stench of these blankets crept through the cell, and he found his breath catching in his throat, like the air was thickening and crawling away and he was moving down a narrow tunnel, then the tunnel was a throat, his throat, and it was swallowing him. Each gulp pressing further, closer, acid laps of bile.
Someone rattled the door. ‘You decent?’
‘What?’ Jamie rubbed his eyes.
A cheery, red-faced officer unlocked the door. ‘Didny want you squatting on the chanty, pal.’ He passed Jamie a list of names. ‘You the cop eh?’
‘I was a cop.’
‘Here, take a look at these arseholes and tell me if you’ve had any dealings with any of them.’
Jamie ran his finger down the list. ‘Wheeler. Aye I’ve jailed him, and . . . naw . . . aye, and him. Oh.’ His finger rested beside Meek, Michael. So this was where poor Michelle ended up.
‘Him. I know him from a doss on my old beat.’
The prison officer took back the list. ‘Well, in that case, you’ll no be able to associate with any of them. You’ll need to be kept in a cell on your own, so you will. No great loss anyway, pal. Shower of shite up here, so they are.’ He smiled. ‘C’mon and I’ll take you through. Pick up your blankets. You’ve missed dinner, but I’ll see if I can get something sorted for you.’
‘I don’t want anything.’
Jamie hesitated beside the blankets. He didn’t want to touch them again, but maybe if he showed this man . . . maybe this man was alright. He followed the warder down another corridor, each step taking him further into the labyrinth, further from his life. All the vertical, stabbing stripes of bars and gates and doors narrowing his vision, leaving no option but to plod in the gaps that remained.
‘Well, I’ll see what there is anyway. Right, number twelve – far enough away from the real heidbangers.’ The officer unlocked the cell door. ‘In you go. Dinner’s at three, by the way. I know, daft time, eh? And you’ll need to take your meals in here. Breakfast 6.30 a.m., lunch is 11, and after your dinner, you’ll maybe get a cup of tea around seven, but that’s it. Lights out at 10 p.m., so if I were you, I’d go to the crapper first. Either that, or you shite in the dark.’
Jamie laid his blankets on the floor.
‘Excuse me. Is there any chance I can change these?’
‘Sorry pal, it’s only me and another guy on the day. It’ll have to wait. I’ll away and get someone to bring you your dinner though.’
‘Christ, would you just listen? I don’t want your fucking dinner. I don’t want to eat food the colour of shite in a cell full of shite in a prison full of shite.’
‘Well, fuck you then, buddy.’
The door slammed shut. A grey door, with a grille and no handle. An oblong slice forged to block his exit. Somewhere else, men worked in great heat to bond sheets of metal taken from ore in rock. They shaped the metal into solid doors, then went home for their tea. And this door would be his window, all the time he was here. His picture frame, his TV set, his thing to look at. For there was nothing else. Glazed brick walls. A high-up window, arched like a bread oven. Grey bed-frame. Solid, no bits on which to cut or hang or gouge. Locker, a wooden table thing and the toilet bowl. It would have been white at one time. Now it was stained brown, inside and out, a constant belch of urine pumping like pot-pourri.
He sat on the edge of the bed and watched his hands tremble.
‘Mr Worth?’
He looked up. A red mouth at the open hatch. ‘Mr Worth? Hi. I’m Moira Agnew. Can I come in?’ A key scraped, and a woman opened his door. Middle-aged-portly, in navy slacks. One plump hand extended. ‘As I said, Moira. Pleased to meet you, Mr Worth.’
‘Hi.’
‘I’m a prison welfare officer.’
Her face was pink and round, topped by bouncy brown hair. A healthy, happy do-gooder in sensible black brogues. ‘I’m just here to check that everything’s okay for you. Got everything you need, understand the regulations, that sort of thing.’
‘And check I’m not going to top myself?’
‘And, are you?’
‘No.’
She sat on the bed beside him. ‘I know how hard this must be, Mr Worth. I understand your, um position.’
‘That I’m a murderer?’
‘That you’re a police officer. This must be an unbelievable reversal for you, and we’re here to support you through that.’
If she patted his knee, he’d break her fingers.
‘There’s a whole team here that can help you. You can get access to the prison social workers, we have a psychologist available if required, help for your family—’
‘You leave my family alone.’ After what that trustee had said, he couldn’t bear it . . . he couldn’t bear them even breathing this foul air.
‘You’ve a wife, don’t you? And little ones? You know that, as you’re on remand, you’re allowed a visit every day, Monday to Friday?’
‘No. I don’t want my kids coming here.’
She clucked her teeth. ‘No, no, that’s fine. But, if you did want a visit, you’ll have to book it in advance, okay?’
‘I don’t want a bloody visit.’
‘I understand. Well, is there anything I can help you with at the moment?’ She was wearing some kind of talcy perfume. Must go through gallons of the stuff every day, working in this cesspit. And still it would never be enough. He heard his voice, far off, very weedy. ‘Can you change my blankets, please?’
‘Of course. Are they too thin?’
Jamie leaned forward and opened up the blankets.
She peered down, then flung her head back as she realised what the lumps were. ‘Oh, God. That’s disgusting. Did they . . . were they like this when you got them?’
‘What do you think?’
‘And your clothes? What about your clothes?
‘Well,’ Jamie tugged at his waistband, ‘I could do with some trousers that fit me. And a clean shirt. And some underpants.’
‘They didn’t give you underwear?’
‘Well, they did, but I think it was someone else’s. Bit like the blankets.’
Moira stood up. ‘I’ll be having words with the receiving staff.’
‘Mrs Agnew. Please. Just get me clean stuff.’ He tried to smile at her. ‘I don’t want to make some issue about this. Just let me keep my head down and get on with it, okay?’
‘Yes, of course.’ She smiled back. ‘Food. What about food? You’ve missed dinner. Let me send up some food.’
‘I don’t wa—’
A hand on his arm. ‘You have to eat. I insist. Did you eat this morning?’
When was this morning? In that other world, when he’d given up on sleep and got out of bed in the dark and made Cath tea and tiptoed back upstairs, counting her breaths by the rise and fall. Lying on her breast, kneading its softness all around and wishing he was inside her. When she’d stirred and moved so her nipple was at his mouth and his sucking tongue had woken her. When they’d clung and cried and whispered and felt sick.
‘No. I don’t think so.’
‘So, you’ll take some dinner? Mr Worth? Your wife would want you to eat.’
She locked the door and left him to his silence. Only it wasn’t silent. It was never silent in this place. Bangs and clangs, clattering feet and clamouring voices. Keys, keys, fucking keys. And the buzz of the light above him. Others would decide when to flick the switch, and he would have to wait upon their whim, trying to ignore it as the droning nibbled at his eardrum, nibbled on his brain. To speak, eat and breathe. That was it, those were his only choices in here.
Another key churn, another prison officer. Another trustee, holding a plastic plate. On it, some brownish gloop and a piece of bread.
Jamie folded his arms, the way Daniel did when presented with broccoli. ‘I don’t want that.’
‘Fucksake,’ said the trustee. ‘I’ve brang it all the way up fae the kitchens.’
‘I want a fresh plate.’ Jamie nodded at the trolley behind the man. ‘From there. Let me see you dish it out.’
The trustee looked at the prison officer, who nodded.
‘Fucksake.’ He scraped the plate into the bin bag hanging from the trolley rail.
‘And a fresh plate,’ said Jamie.
‘You taking the piss?’
‘Just do it,’ said the prison officer. ‘You’ve clean ones down the bottom.’
‘Jesus Christ,’ he sighed, bending down to pull out a new plate. ‘Right sir. The day we have a choice a Irish Stew. Done it special like, for you. I arrest you – geddit? Naw? Anyway, it’s stew or macaroni cheese.’
‘Macaroni.’
The trustee dolloped on a scoop of macaroni, added some bread, and poured him a cup of tea from the urn. ‘Does sir take milk and sugar by the way?’
‘Just milk.’ Jamie took the cup and the food.
‘S’a pleasure.’ The trustee sooked some saliva around his mouth, churning it between teeth and tongue. ‘D’you like it frothy?’
‘Right Speedy, that’ll do you.’ The prison officer pushed the trustee back towards the trolley and relocked the cell door.
Saliva, urine, no doubt he’d get them all served up in time. At least they knew he knew it.
Lights out came at some point, and he’d forgotten to go to the toilet. He took off his new trousers and cleaner shirt and lay on top of the bed. So tired, drifting off, then cracking back, alert. Afraid. Repeating the sequence, each time more exhausted, more awake. Deliberately not thinking, just looking at the door. Any time his eyes grew heavy, the hatch would clang, eyes would scan him. Three times every hour. Suicide watch. They had him on suicide watch. Twenty minutes, tick the box.
He tried walking up and down. Up and down to tire him out, pace upon pace upon tiny, turny pace, outlining the size and the breadth of the cell. A single cell that would never split and multiply, that would surely contract and grate inwards, crushing him like in the James Bond films. Then he’d lie on the bed and try again. Try so hard.
The new blankets stank of piss, or maybe it was him. Maybe he’d peed himself and
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