Hard Landing (8 page)

‘Labour. That’s what they call work in here. Dinner at twelve. More labour. Tea at five. Association, gym and stuff at six. Back in the cells at eight. That’s the routine during the week. Varies at weekends. Proper breakfast, for a start.’

There was a rattle of a key chain outside the cell. Lee pulled a face and continued to eat his cornflakes.

First Macdonald caught a glimpse of a male prison officer, then a big man in a blue sweatshirt and baggy linen trousers appeared, a plastic bag in one hand. He was in his fifties with receding hair that he’d grown long and tied back in a ponytail. ‘All right if I come in, lads?’ he asked.

‘Aye,’ said Lee. ‘You’re here to see the new boy, yeah?’

The man stuck out his hand for Macdonald to shake. ‘Ed Harris, I’m one of the wing’s Listeners.’

Macdonald took the hand. Harris had a strong grip and he looked into Macdonald’s eyes with a measured gaze. Macdonald knew he was being assessed. Harris handed him the carrier-bag. ‘They said you needed a wash pack,’ he said. ‘Courtesy of the management.’

Macdonald looked inside it. There was a yellow Bic razor, a bar of shaving soap, a shaving brush, a toothbrush and a small tube of toothpaste. ‘Thanks,’ he said. ‘I could do with a towel.’

‘I’ll get you one,’ promised Harris. He gestured at Macdonald’s forensic suit. ‘Is that all the clothes you’ve got?’

‘Lloyd-Davies said she’d get me something else today.’

‘I’ll remind her,’ said Harris. He leaned against the wall by the door and folded his arms across his chest. ‘Did they tell you about the Listeners?’

‘Like the Samaritans, they said.’

Harris nodded. ‘We’re trained by them, but we’re not just for people who want to top themselves. We’re here if you need someone to talk to. There’s four of us on the wing, and you can always find us because we’ve got orange cards on our cell doors. You need to talk to us any time, day or night, just ask one of the officers.’ He gave Macdonald a sheet of paper on which were printed several paragraphs under the heading
The Listeners – Who Are They? How Do I Contact Them? How Do I Know I Can Trust Them?
‘This explains what we do.’

‘Thanks,’ said Macdonald, though he doubted that he’d ever want to confide his innermost thoughts to a balding man with a ponytail.

‘I’m told you’re not saying who you are.’

Macdonald didn’t respond.

‘I know you’re angry at being here,’ said Harris. ‘No one comes into a place like this of their own volition. But there’s no point in fighting the system.’

‘I’m not fighting anyone, Ed.’

‘Call it passive resistance, then. Call it what you want. But you’re here and you have to accept that. This place runs on co-operation. If you co-operate, your time in here goes smoothly. If you make waves, you’re the one who’ll get wet.’

‘I’ve already had the pep talk from the screws.’

‘Armed robbery, right?’

Macdonald shrugged carelessly.

‘You could get twelve,’ said Harris. ‘Play by their rules and you could be out in six. Play by yours and you’ll do the full twelve. Is it worth an extra six years inside to prove a point?’

‘What happened to innocent until proved guilty?’ asked Macdonald. ‘I’m on remand.’

‘The prison is full of innocent men,’ said Harris. ‘Nine times out of ten the guys I speak to swear on their mothers’ graves that they’ve been fitted up.’

‘Some of us were,’ said Lee.

‘Jason, you were caught with a knife in your hands and a Pakistani shopkeeper bleeding at your feet.’

‘I was provoked,’ said Lee.

Harris raised an eyebrow incredulously, then turned his attention back to Macdonald. ‘The point I’m making is that we all choose our own paths in here. Guilty or innocent, you’re inside until the system has finished with you. All I’m saying is that you have to think about what you’re doing.’

‘I know what I’m doing, Ed.’

Harris pushed himself off the wall. ‘I’ll drop by again in a couple of days, see how you’re settling in. Has Jason here explained the whys and wherefores?’

‘Pretty much.’

‘You couldn’t have a better guide. He’s been a guest at half a dozen establishments like this. Take it easy, yeah?’

Harris left, and the prison officer locked the door.

‘What’s his story?’ asked Macdonald.

Lee finished his cornflakes and washed his plastic bowl in the small stainless-steel sink by the toilet. ‘Murder, suspicion of,’ he said. ‘His trial’s in a couple of months. Topped his missus.’

‘And he’s offering advice to me?’

‘He’s a thief. A good one. Did a three-stretch in the Scrubs and when he came out his wife said she was gonna leave him and take the kids. He snapped. Picked up a bread-knife and damn near severed her head. Provocation, if you ask me. I mean, wives are supposed to stand by their men, right?’

Macdonald lay down on his bunk. ‘That’s what they say, Jason.’ He sighed. He read the information sheet that Harris had given him. ‘“You can talk to a Listener about anything in complete confidence, just as you would a Samaritan,”’ he read aloud. ‘“Everything you say is treated with confidentiality.”’ He looked over at Lee. ‘Is that right?’

‘Supposed to be,’ said Lee.

Macdonald stared up at the ceiling. There was only one person he could trust, and that was himself. Everyone else was a potential threat, and that included his cellmate.

It had been light outside for a couple of hours when the cell door was unlocked again. Lee was standing at the ready, jiggling from foot to foot. As soon as it opened he rushed out and hared along the landing. Macdonald heard the pounding of feet as other prisoners rushed to the showers. He felt dirty but without a towel and clean clothes to change into, he didn’t see the point of showering.

He climbed down from the top bunk and stared at his reflection in the mirror tiles above the sink. There were dark patches under his eyes and his hair was lank and greasy. He bared his teeth. He looked as if he’d been sleeping rough for a week.

He took the shaving soap and brush, lathered his face, then shaved with the small plastic razor. He cleaned his teeth with the foul-tasting toothpaste. Plastic bristles came off the brush and he spat them out.

As he was rinsing his mouth, the cell door opened. It was Harris, carrying a dark blue towel and a plum-coloured prison-issue tracksuit. ‘Lloyd-Davies isn’t here until this afternoon but I scrounged these for you,’ said Harris. ‘Bit worn but they’re clean.’

Macdonald thanked him, tossed the clothes on to his bunk and wiped his face with the towel.

‘You know you can have clothes sent in from the outside?’ asked Harris.

‘There’s no one I can call,’ said Macdonald.

‘You can get a change of clothes here once a week, but it’ll be the same as you’ve got there,’ said Harris. ‘I couldn’t get you underwear or socks but I’m on the case. I had a word with the screws and you can use the showers this morning.’ He grinned. ‘Told them Jason was complaining about the smell.’

He reached into the back pocket of his trousers and handed Macdonald two printed sheets of paper. ‘I got you a canteen list, too,’ he said.

Macdonald studied the printed pages. It was like a shopping list, starting with half a dozen brands of cigarettes, tobacco and cigarette papers. The bare essentials of prison life, but Macdonald had never smoked. Next on the list were seven different types of battery, stationery, postage stamps, sweets and chocolate, toiletries and groceries.

‘You tick off what you want and it’ll be delivered tomorrow,’ said Harris. ‘Providing there’s enough money in your account you can spend up to five quid a week as a basic prisoner. If you toe the line they make you an enhanced prisoner and you can spend thirty. Standard is fifteen quid.’ He looked pained. ‘The bad news is that withholding your details puts you straight on the basic list. That fiver’s all you’ll have for extra food and telephone calls. It’s just one of the ways they can make your life a misery.’

Macdonald tossed the list on to his bunk. ‘Nothing there I need,’ he said.

A smile flickered across Harris’s face. ‘Say that after a couple of weeks of prison food,’ he said. ‘And tobacco gets things done here.’ He jerked a thumb at the fresh clothing. ‘Better gear, for a start.’

‘Thanks, Ed,’ said Macdonald, who had realised that Harris was doing what he could to make him feel at home. He wondered if the man really had killed his wife with his bare hands, but decided it would be bad manners to broach the subject.

‘You can get money sent in, but it has to come from people on an approved list.’

‘I won’t be giving anyone a list,’ said Macdonald.

‘You can bring your own money in, but that’ll mean identifying yourself.’

‘I figured that much.’

‘There’s jobs here, and that’ll earn you some. If you’re available for work but they can’t find you a job then you get two pounds fifty a week unemployment rate. Refuse to work and you get nothing.’

‘Like I said, Ed, there’s nothing on that list I need. And I won’t be making any phone calls.’

‘And like
I
said, see how you feel after a few weeks. You’ve got another ten minutes to use the showers.’

As Harris left the cell, Macdonald scooped up the tracksuit and towel and walked down the landing. Two black men in their early twenties, wearing Nike tracksuits and gleaming white Nike trainers, stared at him stonily as they leaned against the railing around the inner atrium. ‘Hiya, guys, I’m looking for the showers,’ he said.

The men stared at his forensic suit. ‘What planet are you from, then?’ asked one. He had shoulder-length dreadlocks and a scar that ran the full length of his left forearm.

‘Showers, guys, please. I’ve only got ten minutes.’

The men pushed themselves off the railing and stood in front of him, blocking his way.

‘Where’s your manners, Smurf?’ said Dreadlocks.

His companion snorted. ‘Smurf,’ he repeated. He was tall and stick-thin, his lanky arms protruding from the sleeves of his tracksuit showing half a dozen beaded bracelets.

Macdonald’s eyes hardened and he tried to push past them. Dreadlocks shoved his arm with his left hand and pulled the right back in a fist. Macdonald moved fluidly, tossing his clothes and towel at Stickman, then grabbing Dreadlocks’s arm. Macdonald twisted Dreadlocks’s arm behind his back and gripped his neck, digging into either side of his windpipe. ‘Keep struggling and I’ll rip your throat out,’ he hissed. Dreadlocks grunted and pushed back, trying to force Macdonald against the railing, but Macdonald’s foot was behind his right knee and he pushed down, forcing the man to the ground. He released his grip on Dreadlocks’s throat and kicked him in the ribs, savagely.

Stickman kicked out at Macdonald but Macdonald caught his foot andstood up, forcing him to hop backwards. He kept him off balance then kicked him hard between the legs. Stickman’s arms windmilled as he fell backwards. His head thudded against the concrete and he slumped to the floor.

Dreadlocks was curled up in the foetal position, his hands at his throat, gasping for breath. Macdonald bent down to pick up his towel and clothing. He looked up and down the landing. Three teenagers in polo shirts and black Adidas tracksuit bottoms stood at the stairs, watching with open mouths. Across the landing, two middle-aged prisoners turned away as Macdonald looked in their direction. Stafford was in the glass-walled administration cubicle, deep in conversation with another male officer. Neither were looking his way. Ahead of him, Ed Harris was standing in the doorway to a cell. ‘Winning friends and influencing people already?’ he said drily.

‘I had no choice,’ said Macdonald.

‘Watch yourself,’ whispered Harris, as he walked by. ‘Those guys have friends in here.’

‘The more the merrier,’ said Macdonald. ‘Where are the showers?’

‘Along the landing on the right,’ said Harris.

Macdonald thanked him and walked away. He could sense Harris watching him, but he didn’t look round.

The teenagers scattered, like sheep from a barking dog. ‘Nice moves,’ said one, but he averted his eyes when Macdonald looked at him.

‘Serves the black bastards right,’ whispered another.

There were three showerheads, each with a chrome push button set into the wall. Two black men were showering, their hair frothy with shampoo. Macdonald nodded when they looked at him. He took off his laceless trainers. When he turned to hang up his clothes and towel he heard them whisper, then laugh. He was looking forward to ditching the forensic suit. He unzipped it, slipped it off, then hung it on the hook next to his clothes. It was only when he stepped under the free showerhead and pressed the chrome button that he realised he didn’t have any soap.

The water kicked out, lukewarm at first but then steaming hot. Macdonald closed his eyes and let the water play over his face and down his body.

‘You okay there, man?’ one man called.

‘I’m fine,’ said Macdonald, and opened his eyes.

‘Just got in?’

‘Yes,’ said Macdonald.

The man next to him held out a tube of shower gel. Macdonald hesitated, then took it and thanked him. He squeezed a few drops into his palm, then handed it back.

‘Anything you need, I’m your man,’ said the guy with the shower gel. ‘Name’s Digger.’

Macdonald thanked him again.

‘Dope if you need it. H. Whatever burns your candle.’

‘I’m a man of simple needs, Digger. Plus I’ve got bugger-all in my account at the moment.’

‘Think of me as a credit union,’ said Digger. He was well over six feet tall with close-cropped hair and a barrel chest. He ran two shovel-sized hands over his head, then stepped out of the water and wrapped a towel round his waist. ‘You can borrow from me, arrange to have me paid back on the outside.’

Macdonald’s water cut out and he pushed the button to restart it. ‘I’ll bear that in mind,’ he said.