Belinda Bauer - Blacklands

Ellis was certainly new to the Vulnerable Prisoners Unit. Avery wondered idly what he had done which required that he be protected but he also knew that information would seep out eventually—however hard a nonce or a snitch tried to keep it to themselves.

“Smoke?” offered Avery.

“Nah, don’t smoke. Thanks.”

Avery appraised Ellis quickly. He was a tall, powerfully built man with the squashed nose of a gangster but careful brown eyes with incongruously lush lashes. Avery did not know or care that they were the last eyes two bank tellers had ever looked into. He only knew that his first attempt for several years to speak to a fellow con as an equal had started rather well.

“Dirty habit.” He shrugged. “Only keep them to be sociable.” It was the truth. Three days after seeing SL’s photograph, Avery had bought half a pack of Bensons from Andy Ralph, just in case he needed a way into the kind of conversation he was now embarking on with Sean Ellis.

Ellis nodded, then turned his idle attention back to the game of Ping-Pong clattering on three floors below them, watched through a crisscross of safety netting designed to thwart the long drop of murder or suicide.

Under normal circumstances, Avery would have been happy to end the interaction right there. He didn’t crave company or conversation. But now he had a purpose, he knew he needed to make more effort.

And suddenly it was an effort. For what seemed like forever, Avery scoured his brain for an opening gambit that would not seem forced. Or suspicious. Or queer. Finally Arnold Avery—serial killer, outsider, freak of nature, observer of no rules but his own—turned his face to the dirty skylights that let grudging daylight into the wing and observed like a commuter: “Fucking awful weather.”

Ellis cocked an eyebrow at him and then glanced upwards, bemused by the observation. “To be out in,” quipped Avery, breaking into a smile.

Ellis got it, thank god, and snorted a small laugh. “Lucky we’re in here, then,” he said, and Avery grinned some more to let Ellis take ownership of the joke. The great ox.

Ellis was new on the block. He might know what to do with the impression of a key made in soap. He might not . But he might.

“Arnold,” he offered, extending his right hand like a lawyer at a conference.

“Sean,” said Ellis, his big, rough hand squeezing Avery’s smaller one. Avery didn’t like that—being made to feel small and weak—but he smiled through it.

“Food here is shite,” said Ellis, giving Avery free information. That information was that Ellis hadn’t been here long (which explained why Ellis was speaking to him in the first place) and that Ellis hadn’t been anywhere for too long, because prison food was shite wherever you were and that was just a fact. Arnold Avery had stopped mentally whining about prison food so long ago that it was a surprise to him that anyone didn’t have this knowledge knitted into the very fiber of their being like the autopilot of breathing, or of their own sexual preference.

“Shit on tin,” he agreed sociably, happy that Ellis was now leading the conversation. “You got money for the shop?”

The shop sold biscuits and chocolate and fruit at inflated prices that meant a day’s work might yield an overripe banana if you were very lucky.

“Yeah,” said Ellis, “my wife sends me cash.” He reached into his back pocket for a fold of clear plastic laminate which held a photo. He held it out proudly, openly inviting and plainly expecting compliments on his choice of mate.

Avery took the photo from him and studied Mrs. Ellis looking up from an ugly but expensive-looking flock couch. Doe eyed, pale skin. Early thirties. She would have been stunning twenty-five years ago.

He heard Finlay approaching. Those flat feet, those careless keys.

“What have we got here?” said Finlay with mock camaraderie.

“Photo of Sean’s wife, Mr. Finlay.”

“Let’s have a look, then.” Finlay took the photo from Avery’s hand without waiting for permission and squinted at the woman who now starred in his most lurid fantasies.

“Very nice, Ellis,” he said carefully.

“Breathtaking,” added Avery, trying but failing to keep a touch of irony from his voice.

“Yeah, she is,” said Ellis.

Finlay handed the photo back to Ellis and Avery watched the big man’s dark brown eyes soften with a chimplike quality as he stroked a callused thumb across his wife’s face before putting it in his pocket.

“Later, mate,” said Ellis as he turned away and wandered off down the walkway with a slump to his broad shoulders.

“Later,” said Avery, although he despised the ungrammatical.

He didn’t know love but he had a hound’s nose for vulnerability, and he added that to the small but growing collection of information that he’d started hoarding like trinkets.

Finlay winked at Avery. “Wonder who’s nailing her now…”

Avery shrugged and Finlay changed tack—regarding him through what he fondly imagined were cunning eyes.

“Not like you to socialize, Arnold.”

“Just fancied a change, Mr. Finlay.”

“Your shrink’ll be pleased.” Finlay laughed at his own joke, and Avery raised his eyebrows in apparent appreciation. “You ever give your mate that old computer?” The oaf twirled his keys, unaware of how tenuous his grip on personal safety really was.

“Not yet, Mr. Finlay.” Avery gave a very small smile. “But when someone keeps asking for something, you know that eventually you’re going to have to give it to them.”

“That’s very true, Arnold.”

The keys clanked to the floor and he drew in a deep breath as if preparing to dive to a reef to retrieve them.

Avery moved swiftly to scoop them up. He saw a flicker of panic in Finlay’s eyes in the moment before he casually handed them back and turned to gaze down through the safety netting, as if the action had barely registered on him. Beside him he heard Finlay clip his keys to his belt. It didn’t worry him; Finlay was a lazy bastard and the caution wouldn’t last.

“Thank you, Avery.”

“My pleasure, Mr. Finlay.”

MIRACULOUSLY, IT TOOK STEVEN AND UNCLE JUDE ONLY HOURS to clear years of vegetation and rubbish from the back garden.

Both were stripped to the waist and sweating—Steven wiry and pale, Uncle Jude broad and nut brown.

Steven blew his cheeks out in satisfaction, sweat dribbling into his eyes; he wiped it away, happily aware that he’d left dirt in its place.

Lewis was unimpressed. “What about snipers?” he whined. “There’s nowhere to hide now!”

True to form, Lewis had come round at ten to help clear the back garden, and had proceeded to direct operations through mouth-fuls of Lettie’s cold leftover spaghetti Bolognese which he spooned straight from the Pyrex dish.

Uncle Jude winked at Steven and Steven grinned. Lewis clattered the spoon back into the empty dish.

“I don’t know why you don’t just buy some fucking carrots.”

Steven said nothing. Buying carrots did seem like the more sensible option. He felt stupid but also angry with Lewis, so he just kept on digging.

Lewis slid off the low wall. “See you later,” he said coldly.

“Aren’t you going to help dig?” said Steven appeasingly.

“Nah,” said Lewis, “you’re doing it all wrong anyway.”

He disappeared through the back door and Steven frowned after him.

“Don’t mind him,” said Uncle Jude.

So Steven didn’t.

He and Uncle Jude drank from the hose and laughed about stupid things, and when his nan refused to let them in for tea so grubby, they stripped down and marched into the kitchen in bare feet and underpants, making Davey and Lettie laugh. Nan turned away but Steven knew she wasn’t angry—or even mildly annoyed—by the way she didn’t purse her lips or bang the spoon as she dished out the stringy grey stew.