Paul Gitsham - The Last Straw

Returning from the toilets, he saw that two of his friends had clearly had similar ideas and were nowhere to be seen, no doubt already trying to hail a cab outside. Suddenly, the fourth member of the party appeared at his elbow.

“You can’t leave now, mate,” he said urgently. The speaker was ‘Griffo’, Robert Griffiths, probably Warren’s closest friend on the force.

Warren stifled a yawn. “Sorry, mate, I’m running on empty here. Three early shifts in a row, I’m knackered.”

“Shit, I need you — you’re my wingman.” He jerked his head in the direction of a group of young people that Warren had seen him talking to earlier in the evening.

Warren shook his head. “I can’t. I’m falling asleep here.”

But Griffo wouldn’t be dissuaded. “Come on, Jonesy, I’m on a winner here- the blonde bird with the big tits is well up for it. Get a Red Bull down your neck. They’ve invited us to a party around the corner in their halls of residence.”

Warren sighed. The last thing he wanted was to spend the night with a group of pissed-up twenty-year-old students. It wasn’t that he hadn’t enjoyed his own time as a pissed-up twenty-year-old student — far from it, his university days were some of the best days of his life — however that time was years past now.

“Why don’t you go ahead? I’m tired. I wouldn’t want to cramp your style.”

Griffo snorted. “Don’t be such a wuss. Besides, I can’t go on me own, I’ll look like a complete ‘Johnny No Mates’.” His tone of voice turned to wheedling. “Come on, you know you’ll love it when you’re there. A couple of cans of Red Bull and you’ll be partying all night; then you’ve got the weekend to get over it.”

Warren groaned inwardly. He knew that he wouldn’t get any peace until he agreed. It would be far better, he decided, to go to the party, wait until Griffo was otherwise engaged then sneak out. Assuming the party really was around the corner, he could be back home in bed within the hour.

Reluctantly agreeing, Warren followed Griffo over to meet the group. They were a little older than he’d first assumed, he realised — postgraduate students, rather than undergraduates. After making their introductions, the group decided to leave the pub immediately and head for a local off-licence that Griffo’s new friend — Katy — insisted would serve them after hours. Warren wondered idly if Griffo had mentioned their day jobs or if their new friends assumed that they were also students.

Fifteen minutes later, Warren found himself squashed into the corner of a student common room, clutching the two bottles of beer that he’d bought from the small corner store on their way over. Griffo had immediately disappeared with the generously proportioned Katy, leaving Warren to fend for himself. Now look who’s Johnny No Mates, he thought darkly.

It was then that Warren saw her. Standing in the corner, looking similarly awkward, she was the most beautiful girl in the room: average height, with gentle curves, long, dark hair and a snub nose. Something clicked in his head when he saw her. He just had to go and introduce himself. Or at least that was how Warren would tell the story in years to come; truth be told, after a few pints of lager and not enough sleep he couldn’t remember exactly how the two of them had ended up chatting. Neither could Susan; nevertheless they had ended up shouting at each other over the music, until Warren had suggested they move somewhere a bit quieter.

Out in the corridor, Susan soon learnt that Warren was not a new postgraduate student enjoying a fresher-week bash, but rather a gate-crasher, albeit a rather reluctant one. As was often the case, Warren observed, the moment he mentioned he was a police officer to a pretty and intelligent woman the interest in her eyes waned. The old prejudice that police officers were under-educated thugs still reared its ugly head from time to time. Nevertheless, Warren was determined not to let that get in the way and contrived to mention his first-class joint-honours degree in English and History and that he was on the fast-track promotion scheme at work.

With his academic credentials firmly established, he found that Susan was a bit more responsive and pretty soon they were engaged in a friendly debate about the merits of different crime authors, with Warren ranking them in terms of both literary style — as befitted an English graduate — and their accuracy — as befitted a detective. Susan ranked them in terms of how many hours’ sleep she was prepared to sacrifice trying to reach the end.

Finally, Warren mentioned that he had just finished reading Lee Child’s latest thriller and found to his delight that Susan was also a fan of the gigantic, taciturn hero Jack ‘None’ Reacher. Even better, she hadn’t read the latest novel yet. Without even thinking, Warren had found himself promising to lend her his copy of the book, if only she would meet him for coffee the next day. To his amazement she agreed.

A few days later when he recounted the tale to Griffo — whose luck had run out after the buxom Katy’s boyfriend had appeared unexpectedly — his friend’s response had been surprisingly negative.

“Never lend a bird a Lee Child novel until you’ve had at least three dates, otherwise you’ll never see that book again. Or her, for that matter. And especially don’t lend them a hardback — that’s just asking for trouble.” And that was all he had to say on the subject.

Remembering those early days made Warren long for simpler times. One thing was certain though, his priorities had to change, he decided. Time to remember the old adage, ‘Work to live; don’t live to work’.

With that thought echoing in his mind, he finally fell into a shallow, fitful sleep.

Warren arrived at The Mount Prison on the outskirts of Bovingdon village a little after eleven-fifteen the following morning. Daniel Stock, Severino’s solicitor, was waiting in the car park for him. Warren apologised for his tardiness. “Sorry, I put the postcode into the sat nav and ended up at a bloody paintballing place down the road. Happens all the time apparently.”

Stock smiled, tightly. “I guess you must be new to the area. I’d have warned you if I’d known.”

Leaving the car park, the two men walked in silence to the gatehouse. No matter how many times Warren visited prisons, he never got used to them. The Mount was a category C prison built in the late 1980s on the site of a former RAF base. Despite its red-brick façade, which at first glance could have housed anything from a factory to an office complex, close inspection soon revealed its true purpose. Even in the warm summer sun, Warren felt a chill. He glanced over at his young companion and saw a similar look of discomfort on his face. This place housed misery; despondency hung thickly in the air.

Inside its walls seven hundred or more individuals wasted their lives, marking the passage of time in a frozen limbo whilst the world outside continued without them. Some might emerge better men, willing to seize the second — or third or fourth — chance that life had given them, but Warren knew the statistics as well as anyone. A hefty percentage would end up back here or in another, similar institution. Of those that remained outside, many would live unfulfilled lives, struggling to get a job and forever fighting against the demons that had led them down this path in the first place.

A few paces away a young mother with a hard face and blue tattoos up her skinny, bare arms dragged a scowling child in T-shirt and shorts behind her. The young boy’s face was a mirror image of his mother’s, a vicious crew cut adding to his thuggish look. Warren knew he shouldn’t judge by appearances, but he couldn’t help it. Deep in the recesses of his brain, in the part that harboured the thoughts that he could never express out loud, a little voice said, ‘She’ll be visiting him before long.’ Turning away, he buried the petty little thought as they approached the entrance.