Hard Landing (7 page)

Macdonald shook his head.

‘Are you on any medication?’ Before Macdonald could answer, the doctor leaned forward. ‘How did that happen?’ he asked.

‘It’s nothing,’ said Macdonald.

The doctor stood up and bent over him, examining the old bullet wound just below his right shoulder. ‘Stand up, please.’

‘It’s nothing,’ repeated Macdonald. He stood up and stared at the clock on the wall as the doctor prodded the scar tissue.

‘What did this?’

‘A bullet.’ Macdonald was being sarcastic but the doctor was so intent on examining the wound that he didn’t appear to notice.

‘What calibre?’

‘I don’t know.’ That was a lie. Macdonald knew exactly what it was. He still had it somewhere, a souvenir of the night he’d nearly died. It was a 5.45mm round from a Kalashnikov AK-
74
. Macdonald didn’t usually go into details because when he said it was an AK-
74
most people assumed he meant AK-
47
, the Russian weapon beloved of terrorists and freedom-fighters around the world. Macdonald had got tired of explaining that the AK-
74
was a small-calibre version of the AK-
47
, initially developed for parachute troops but eventually the standard Soviet infantry rifle. But the weapon that had shot Macdonald hadn’t been in the hands of a Russian soldier.

The doctor walked round him and studied his back. ‘There’s no exit wound,’ he mused.

‘They dug it out from the front,’ said Macdonald.

‘Unusual.’

‘It hit the bone and went downwards. Missed the artery by half an inch.’

‘You were lucky.’

‘Yeah, well, if I’d really been lucky I wouldn’t have stopped a bullet in the first place.’

The doctor studied Macdonald’s chest again. ‘Who did the operation?’

‘I forget the guy’s name.’ Another lie. He would never forget the man who’d saved his life, digging out the bullet and patching up the wound before he could be helicoptered to hospital.

‘It’s . . . messy,’ said the doctor, running his finger along the ridges of scar tissue.

‘Yeah, well, that’s what you get on the NHS,’ said Macdonald.

‘It’s not a hospital scar,’ the doctor said. ‘This wasn’t done in an operating theatre.’

When the doctor saw that Macdonald wasn’t going to explain the origin of the wound, he pulled out a stethoscope and listened to his breathing. He examined his throat, then had him sit down while he checked his reflexes with a small metal hammer. The brief physical examination over, he asked Macdonald a dozen or so medical questions, ticking off boxes on a chart on the clipboard. Macdonald answered all in the negative: he was in perfect health.

‘Drugs?’ asked the doctor.

‘No, thanks.’

The doctor smiled thinly. It was obviously a joke he’d heard a thousand times. ‘Do you have a drugs problem?’ he said.

‘No,’ said Macdonald.

‘Alcohol?’

‘The odd pint.’

‘Ever been treated for depression? Anxiety?’

‘I find a five-mile run usually gets me sorted.’

The doctor stood up. ‘That’s the lot,’ he said. ‘You can get dressed now.’ He pulled back the curtain and walked away. A prison officer Macdonald hadn’t seen before was standing by the cubicle holding an armful of bedding.

As soon as Macdonald had pulled on his forensic overall, the officer thrust the bundle at him. ‘These are yours, then,’ he said, in a lilting Welsh accent. ‘I’ll take you to the remand block.’ He was a small, balding man with a kindly face.

Macdonald looked down at his bedding. There was a thin pillow, a pale green pillowcase, a green sheet and a brown blanket.

‘Don’t hang about,’ said the officer. He already had his key in his hand and unlocked a barred door with the minimum of effort. He stood to the side to let Macdonald through, then followed him and relocked the door. Macdonald glimpsed the key. It was like no other he’d seen before, no rough edges, just small discs set into the metal strip, which he guessed were magnets, impossible to copy.

The officer walked him through another barred door that led on to a corridor covered by CCTV cameras. It stretched for several hundred yards and was deserted. Their footsteps echoed off the cream-painted walls as they walked towards a door at the far end. The officer unlocked another barred door and took Macdonald up a flight of metal stairs to the first floor. There, two guards were standing in a glass-sided cubicle. One was tapping at a computer terminal; the other was drinking a can of Coke.

The Welshman pointed for Macdonald to stand where he was, then walked into the cubicle. ‘Got a mystery man for you,’ he said, handing over the file to the guard with the Coke, a tall, broad-shouldered man with bulging forearms.

He scanned the file. ‘Okay, thanks, Taff,’ he said. He dropped it next to the computer. ‘I’ll take it from here.’

The Welshman walked away, whistling softly.

Macdonald gazed into the glass cubicle, the administration centre for the block. Along one wall there were half a dozen CCTV monitors. The guard put down his Coke and came out of the cubicle. ‘My name’s Tony Stafford, and I’m in charge of the block,’ he said. ‘You’ve been told how the prison is laid out?’

Macdonald shook his head.

‘There are four blocks. This is block B, the remand block. It’s made up of three wings, and each wing has three floors. You’ll spend all of your time on your wing, unless you’re going to the gym, the hospital or the education unit. An exercise yard is attached to the block, your meals are taken on your wing. Any problems, you talk first to the officers on your wing. Any problems they can’t handle, they’ll bring to me. I talk to the governor. That’s the system and you work within it, right?’

Macdonald nodded.

‘This your first time inside?’

‘Yes.’

‘You call me Mr Stafford. Or sir. Or boss. Some of the older lags call the officers “guv” but we’d rather you didn’t. Causes confusion. I presume it’s been explained what will happen if you continue to refuse to identify yourself ?’

‘Several times,’ said Macdonald. ‘Mr Stafford,’ he added.

‘Right, then, I’ll show you to your cell. Come on.’ Stafford walked towards a barred door, his rubber-soled shoes squeaking on the polished floor. Macdonald followed.

Stafford unlocked the door, let Macdonald through followed him and relocked it. A second barred door led on to the wing. Stafford went up a flight of metal stairs. A female guard was walking down them, swinging her key chain. She had blonde hair, tied back in a ponytail, and a trim figure.

Macdonald could hear music. An Eagles song, ‘Hotel California’. The pounding beat of rap. Jazz. Then the muffled commentary on a football game.

They reached the first-floor landing. There were twenty metal doors around the landing, all closed. A chest-high railing ran round the hole in the middle. A wire-mesh net had been spread across it, presumably to deter anyone wanting to jump. Macdonald looked up: there was a similar net below the second landing.

Stafford took Macdonald along the landing, unlocked a cell door and pushed it open. ‘We’ll have a Listener for you tomorrow.’

‘A Listener?’

‘They’re like the Samaritans. You can talk through any problems with them.’

‘The only problem I’ve got is being here,’ said Macdonald. ‘I don’t need to talk to anyone.’

‘It’s prison policy,’ said Stafford.

Macdonald walked in. The cell was about four paces long and three wide, with pale green walls. A bunk bed was pressed against one wall and a small metal desk stood under a barred window. There was a small portable colour television on the desk. It was switched on, a travel show, but the sound was muted. The wall by the desk was plastered with photographs of semi-naked women torn from magazines and newspapers. The door closed behind him with a dull thud. To his right was a small toilet with a white plastic seat.

‘Fuck me, I knew it was too good to be true,’ said a voice from the lower bunk. A man sat up. He was squat with a shaved head and a swastika tattooed on his neck. He could have been the twin of the man in the holding cell, Barnes, except Macdonald hadn’t seen any tattoos on Barnes. ‘I told ’em I wanted a cell on my own.’

He stood up and put his hands on his hips. A small vein pulsed in his forehead as he glared at Macdonald. ‘I’m as thrilled as you are,’ said Macdonald. He nodded at the photographs on the wall. ‘Any of those the wife?’

The man’s eyes narrowed, then he grinned. ‘In my dreams,’ he said. ‘I suppose I should be glad they didn’t put a nig-nog in with me. You’re not a smoker, are you?’

Macdonald shook his head.

‘That’s something. I’m Jason. Jason Lee. What’s your name, then?’

Macdonald threw his bedding on to the vacant bunk. ‘Bit of a problem there,’ he said. ‘I’m not telling them who I am.’

‘That’ll only piss ’em off.’

‘Yeah, well, I can live with that. Okay if I take the top bunk?’

‘You’re not a bed-wetter, are you?’

‘I fart a bit after a few lagers and a curry but I don’t expect that’s a problem in here.’

Lee slapped Macdonald on the back. ‘You’re a laugh, you are,’ he said. ‘Look, what do I call you? I can’t keep saying, “Hey, you”, can I? Not polite.’

‘Thing is, Jason, if I tell you, you might tell someone else . . .’

Lee shot to his feet and took a step towards the bunk. ‘You saying I’m a grass?’

Macdonald put up his hands. ‘It’s not a question of grassing, it’s a question of you using my name on the landing. Walls have ears, right?’

Lee’s hands had clenched into fists. Macdonald saw
HATE
tattooed on the knuckles of his left hand.

Lee’s brow furrowed. ‘Fair point,’ he said.

‘No offence,’ said Macdonald. He wasn’t intimidated by his cellmate, but he knew there was nothing to be gained by starting a fight on his first night.

Lee grinned again, showing a gold tooth at the side of his mouth. ‘None taken,’ he said. He sat down again and gestured at the TV. ‘Do you want to watch something?’

‘I’m not fussed,’ said Macdonald. He wasn’t a television fan but that might change if the cell became his home for any length of time.

‘I’ve a radio as well, so let me know if you want music or sport. They won’t give us Sky in here, bastards, so if you want the footie you have to watch the radio.’ He grimaced as he realised what he’d said. ‘You know what I mean,’ he said. ‘You want music? Or sport? Arsenal are playing tonight but I couldn’t give a shit. Chelsea man, me, through and through. You into football?’

‘Not really.’

Both men looked at the door as a key was inserted into the lock. The door was opened by a female officer carrying a small plastic tray, the blonde who’d been on the ground floor. She was in her late twenties and wore matching coral pink lipstick and nail varnish. ‘You making the new man welcome, Lee?’ she asked.

‘Yes, ma’am,’ said Lee, getting to his feet in a show of manners that took Macdonald by surprise.

The prison officer placed the tray on Macdonald’s bunk. It held a metal Thermos flask, a small packet of cornflakes, a carton of milk and a plastic spoon. There was also a plastic cup and a polythene bag, containing tea bags and sachets of coffee and sugar. She handed him a paper bag. Macdonald opened it and smiled when he saw a bacon sandwich inside. It had been his staple diet since he’d been in custody.

‘That’s all I could get at this time of the night,’ she said. ‘I’m Principal Officer Lloyd-Davies. I gather you’re not introducing yourself at the moment.’

‘I’m sorry,’ said Macdonald, and he meant it. He knew that she could have let him go hungry.

‘Don’t worry about Lee here, his bark’s worse than his bite.’

‘We’re getting on fine,’ said Macdonald.

‘Are those the only clothes you’ve got?’

‘Yes, ma’am.’

‘They didn’t give you any at Reception?’

‘Apparently I was too late.’

‘There’s not much I can do, this time of night,’ she said. ‘Are you okay sleeping in that thing?’

‘I’ve slept in worse, ma’am.’

‘I’ll get you another set tomorrow. Good night, then.’

Lloyd-Davies locked the door and Lee sat down. Macdonald took the sandwich out of the paper bag. He held it up. ‘You want half ?’

Lee shook his head.

Macdonald took a bite. The bacon was cold but he was ravenous. ‘She seems okay,’ he said.

‘Lloyd-Davies? Yeah, she’s fair.’

‘Didn’t realise they had women in men’s prisons.’

‘Equality, innit? Most of them are pig-ugly dykes, though.’

‘Not her. She’s a looker.’ Macdonald took another bite of his sandwich. He gestured at the light. ‘When does that go off ?’

Lee laughed. ‘You haven’t been inside before, have you? There’s no lights-out any more.’ He pointed to a switch by the cell door. ‘You turn it off yourself. They don’t even tell us to turn off the TV, so long as we don’t make too much noise. Not that there’s much on after midnight. When are you back in court?’

‘I’m not sure.’

‘No way you’ll get bail if you don’t tell them your name.’

‘Doubt I’ll get bail anyway,’ said Macdonald.

‘Bastards,’ said Lee.

‘Yeah,’ agreed Macdonald.

Macdonald woke to the sound of Lee crunching cornflakes. He was sitting at the metal table by the window, reading a paperback book propped up against the wall. Down the landing, Macdonald could hear rap music.

‘Rise and shine,’ said Lee, through a mouthful of cereal.

‘What time is it?’

‘Seven thirty.’

‘When do they let us out?’

‘Assuming they’re not short-staffed, we can use the showers some time between eight and eight thirty. That’s if you’ve booked it with an officer. You’ve got to run to get there first, though.’

Macdonald sat up. His neck ached from the wafer-thin pillow. He rubbed his face with his hands and felt the stubble on his chin and cheeks. ‘What happens then?’