Lynda La Plante - Civvies

Dillon refused his evening meal. He remained in his cell and it took all his will power to uncoil his stiffened body and lie flat, rigid, eyes staring at the ceiling.

Harry Travers also lay on his back, his head resting on his hands, staring at the ceiling. He had no visitors, he only had his sister in Manchester, and she hadn't the money to come down, not that he had even told her where he was. Apart from her he had nobody. He'd written to Susie, told her to give his microwave to Shirley, for safe keeping, as he didn't want the Pakki landlord nicking it whilst he was inside. There were only a few other things he'd mentioned to Susie to keep safe for him, he had nothing else. He was going to write to Trudie, but didn't bother. He wasn't foolish enough to think she cared what happened to him – he was a fifty-five-quid full job, nothing more. Well, he had been given a few freebies, but mostly he paid up, paid for his loving, always had. In the darkness of his cell he began to remember all the tarts, in all the countries, he'd had some beautiful women, and some dogs, but he'd never had any long-term relationship, never had felt the need. He'd almost been snared once, a long, long time ago. The girl had lived next door to his auntie, a skinny little thing with a funny lop-sided smile. He had been her first and she had believed he would marry her, maybe he had even promised, he could no longer remember that far back, but he'd seen a lot of her just before he joined up. On his first leave he had called round, but she was going steady with a bloke from the local factory, he shoved over a few trinkets he'd bought for her, told her he hoped she'd be happy and got legless with a mate who'd arrived home to find his wife in bed with his best friend. Women were like that, couldn't trust them, and Harry reckoned he'd lost nothing, not missed out. He gave a few moments over to Jummy, wondered how he was getting on, and decided that when he got out, he'd sign up, do a mercenary stint. He wasn't cut out for civvies, not enough action, the action made up for the loneliness. He seemed to see the word printed in front of his eyes, and for the first time in his life he knew he was a lonely man. He turned over and buried his face in the pillow, suddenly wanting to have someone, even that funny, skinny little girl who had lived next door to his auntie's.

Cliff had been knocked around in the exercise yard, his lip was swollen, and he felt exhausted. Seeing Shirley had really upset him. The baby was showing now, and he knew her Dad had gone apeshit, and all the wedding plans had been cancelled. Well, there would be one person who was pleased, Shirley's Dad, he'd never liked Cliff, now he must be rubbing his hands together, saying to poor Shirley, 'I told you so, what did I tell you…'

Cliff wrote copious letters, every spare moment he had, he wrote to Shirley, explaining over and over that it was all a terrible mistake, that he would be out and they could still get married, she would have the baby and they would be okay. He would get a decent job, he would provide, he would make it, and Shirley had promised to stay with him, no matter what her father said. She knew he would be out in time for the baby, and even joked in her letters that poor Norma would then have to take her wedding dress in, as she would be back in shape.

Cliff wrote to his mother and father, his brothers and sisters, he wrote to everyone he could think of, desperate for everyone to know that it was all a terrible mistake. Hunched on his bunk, hardly able to see the page in the darkness, he started another letter, one he had begun over and over. It was to Frank Dillon, an attempt to make him understand why he had to tell the law about Newman, that he knew he should have kept his mouth shut, knew that Dillon was sorting everything out, but he had just been unable to keep quiet. The letter was written, rewritten and torn up time after time. He had sent round a note to Harry, and it had really hurt him when it had been returned. Dillon had not looked at him, or spoken to him, and that had hurt, he had always believed Frank Dillon was his friend, his best friend, and he tried one more time to put into words what he felt.

'Dear Frank, Please don't think any the worse of me, I only did what I felt was the best for all of us. I know we'll get out, and I reckon we can still make the business work. We are innocent, the case against us will be thrown out. Good luck, I guess I'll see you in court. Your Friend Cliff.'

The truth was, Cliff was the only true innocent, and because of Dillon he had lost his job, because of Dillon he had pooled his money from Scotland into the security firm, and because of Dillon he was banged up in a prison cell, but the latter Cliff would never admit was in anyway Dillon's fault. He loved Dillon and admired him, and he was ashamed he had not kept quiet, ashamed he had bleated out about Barry Newman. It seemed to obsess him even more than the cancellation of his wedding, and Shirley's pregnancy. Mr. Crook had said to him that he had better look out for himself, not worry about Frank Dillon, but Cliff did worry, he cried himself to sleep, because he knew he had let Dillon down.

'Stand up the three of you.'

The judge pushed his gold-rimmed bi-focals more firmly onto his nose, eyes downcast on the papers before him. He looked up at the men in the dock. The court waited. The stenographer settled herself, hands poised over the keys. From outside, the faint hum of traffic from Camberwell New Road. Somebody coughed, and the judge waited a moment longer. Then he began.

'You have all been convicted after a long and difficult trial of a serious conspiracy to steal. You are also convicted of possession of a firearm for use in connection with the commission of that offence, and in your case, Dillon, that charge is made out because you supplied the firearm to Travers and Morgan. We have listened to the evidence in this case and I am appalled at the deliberate premeditated planning and execution of these offences, offences committed with military precision. You three men planned to steal money entrusted to you in breach of the substantial confidence placed in you, and to dress up your offences so as to incriminate others.'

The judge glanced at the papers and leaned forward on his elbows, fingers laced together.

'You, Dillon, until recently a sergeant in Her Majesty's Army, brought all your military training to bear in the preparation and planning of these offences. You procured equipment and drilled your men, Travers and Morgan, going so far as to require them to inflict violence upon each other and to discharge a firearm in a public place so as to mislead the police.'

From the tiered bank of seats to the judge's left, behind the two rows reserved for the press, Susie's eyes were fixed, dry and unblinking, on her husband's face. Beside her sat Helen, recently blue-rinsed and wearing a new chiffon scarf. Shirley sat two seats along, her head bowed, rocking slightly, a handkerchief pressed to her mouth. Marway and his wife were in the row behind, he in his turban, she with a silk shawl draped over her head. In the back row, an empty seat either side of him, Barry Newman sat with one gloved fingertip stroking the tip of his chin.

'Despite your absence from the scene at the time of the commission of these offences,' the judge continued, addressing Dillon directly, 'I take the view that you are the ringleader in this case, and that the most severe penalty must be reserved for you.' His gaze shifted to include the others. 'I have taken into account your exemplary military records, having heard from the many character witnesses that you have called. I'm sadly aware that all three of you have fought bravely for your country and have been decorated. I am also aware that none of you has appeared either before a court martial, or since your discharge from the Forces before a civilian court.'