Nick Oldham: One Dead Witness

Trent knew they were coming long before they arrived.

He could smell it in the air — sense the unnatural quietness, the electric tension which pervaded the prison.

They were coming for him. Again.

Suddenly it was very hot.

His throat became dry and he swallowed with some difficulty. A bead of sweat scuttled down his temple like some sort of insect, leaving a glistening silvery trail in its wake. He closed his eyes and gritted his teeth, willing himself to have the courage to face up to what was about to happen.

He was laid out full-length on the lower bunk in his cell, alone, his head propped up on the iron-hard pillows. He had been reading one of his well-thumbed, tatty magazines called 13-Plus, aimed at young teenage girls. When he felt the atmosphere change, and his spine tingled in response, he closed it, tossed it to one side and let it flutter to the floor.

He lay there for several minutes, eyes staring upwards at the empty bunk above him.

Then he heard the footsteps.

Distant at first… rather like listening to a piece of music and honing in on the bass line, separating it from the rest of the instruments. The footsteps clattered more loudly as they mounted the iron steps and reached the landing on which his cell was situated.

Trent’s heart began to pound remorselessly. His breathing became shallow.

He knew there would be four of them.

Three were always the same — the swaggering trio of tough guys who ruled the whole prison between them with their violence and intimidation. Then there would be a fourth one, the one who was about to be treated, the one who was desperate, and had paid in cash or dope or tobacco, whatever the acceptable currency happened to be, to satisfy his pent-up frustrations and cravings.

So far it had been a different man every time. Trent had a fairly good idea who it would be this time.

He considered screaming the place down. Then decided not to bother. He had screamed the first few times. A waste of breath. His squeals had gone unheeded, proving that everyone was in on it, including the screws… as had been so painfully demonstrated on the last occasion, some two weeks earlier, when the fourth member of the party, the paying member, had been wearing a prison officer’s uniform.

The steps were closer now.

He also considered putting up a fight.

He’d tried that before, too. Though he was a man of reasonable stature, the three hard men had loved his resistance and risen to the occasion. After they had overpowered him and held his squirming body down to be abused by the fourth member, they had then beaten him senseless. A cold-hearted, clinical assault which put Trent into the casualty department of the local hospital overnight and then into the poorly-equipped prison hospital to recover for four days.

Trent swung his legs off the bunk and sat up.

The ominous sound of footfalls on the metallic landing grew even nearer.

He swallowed once more, this time to keep the vomit down. He attempted to regain control of his breathing and his shaking. Not a chance.

He swore between gasps.

They were now only yards away.

On jittery legs he got to his feet. He groaned pathetically.

Somewhere in the distance he could hear the laughter of men: prisoners on association, playing cards, or table tennis, reading, chatting, watching TV. All fully aware of what was about to take place in cell number one-six on landing four. And not one of them with the courage to make a stand because not one of them cared a toss.

Trent was alone. No one would help him.

By the time the four men reached the door, Trent had unfastened and unzipped his trousers. Anything to save time and get the nightmare over with more quickly.

They barged into the tiny cell, their stench and presence overpowering him, their size terrifying him.

Their leader — Trent’s main tormentor — was called Blake. His mouth was crimped into a cruel smile as he regarded Trent with contempt.

Trent glanced beyond Blake’s shoulder, past his two regular accomplices, to the fourth man. He had been correct in his guess, recalling the knowing looks the black man — a violent rapist whose MO was to break into houses owned by single females and subject them to brutal attacks — had been giving him for the last couple of days during mealtimes.

‘ What’s it gonna be, Trent?’ Blake growled. He raised his eyebrows questioningly, but his hard grey eyes glowered dangerously as he spoke. ‘Wanna give us a hard time — or are you gonna grin an’ bear it like a good child molester should?’

In reply, Trent allowed his trousers to fall to his ankles. He stepped out of them, hooked his thumbs into the waistband of his grimy-grey underpants and shuffled them down his legs.

‘ You’re learning,’ remarked Blake triumphantly.

By lights out the bleeding had stopped. A whole bloodstained toilet roll had been flushed down the inadequate loo.

Fortunately, Trent had been able to reduce some of the excruciating pain. By exchanging some loose tobacco for half a dozen aspirins with another inmate and then raiding his own secret stash of cannabis, he had taken the pills, waited for them to have some effect, then smoked a joint. It helped a little, but for some things the pain never goes away.

When darkness came, he was lying on his bunk, holding his breath so as to infuse the smoke from his lungs into his bloodstream. The hot smoke burned his throat, but he resisted the temptation to cough. That would have been a waste of a very precious substance.

The squelching from the above bunk indicated that the man there was in the throes of masturbation. Trent ignored it and concentrated on other distasteful matters that were more relevant.

Firstly there was the all-consuming hatred he harboured for the people responsible for putting him into this hell-hole. The cops, the barristers, the judges — yeah, he despised them utterly — but his worst rage was reserved for the little people he had once loved and cared for. They were the ones who had turned on him and told all those lies. Betrayed him. How could they? After all he had done for them?

And secondly, he thought about his bitter hatred for Blake and his other tormentors here in prison. Trent growled in his throat, fantasies of terrible revenge whirring around and around in his mind. One thing was for sure: they had all taken on much more than they had bargained for.

As he lay there brooding, the cannabis on its mercy dash through his system, he decided that one day in the not-too distant future he would mete out a very painful revenge on every single bastard who had either hurt him, turned against him or had in some way been responsible for his plight.

The man in the top bunk moved, rolled to the edge of the bed and with a gasp of ecstasy concluded his act of self-gratification by ejaculating onto the cell floor, narrowly missing Trent’s head.

It was obvious from the way in which she was driving that Detective Constable Danny Furness was one very pissed off woman.

She changed gear jerkily and jabbed at the accelerator, even though it was her own car, not a police car, and it was her pride and joy — one of the few major indulgences she had allowed herself in the whole of her life. The car surged out of the rear yard of Blackpool Central police station with a screech. Danny threw a right down Richardson Street, followed by another right up Chapel Street towards the traffic lights at the Promenade, which were on red.

She braked, nearly upending the car, then took a deep breath and forced herself to relax into the comfortable driver’s seat of the ten-year-old Mercedes 190. Then she lambasted herself mentally for getting so riled up about the plight and the ‘up yours’ attitude of just another of her customers.