Brian Freemantle: The Blind Run

‘Maybe not all,’ said Harkness, who was given to caution. ‘But some; I’m sure they will have monitored some. Be astonishing if they hadn’t.’

‘Dangerous then?’

Harkness frowned at the question. He was a neat, proper man, pink-faced and tightly barbered: the suits were always dark and waistcoated and unobtrusive, the shirts hard-collared, the ties bland. People never remembered Richard Harkness: he didn’t want them to. ‘It was dangerous, from the beginning,’ he said.

Still looking out over London, Wilson said, ‘Sometimes I think how safe and protected we are here. Not like the poor buggers out there in the streets.’

Harkness, who was accustomed to his superior’s occasional philosophising, said nothing.

Wilson bent, massaging his rigidly stiff knee. ‘We’re going to need a lot of luck,’ he said. ‘A hell of a lot of luck.’

‘Somebody is,’ said Harkness.

It took three days for the purchase to be made and Charlie was cheated. It wasn’t Hargrave, he knew: the poor old sod was as much a victim as he was, bullied by Prudell into taking or leaving what he was offered. For half a pound of tobacco Charlie got a flat medicine bottle of whisky, less than half what it should have been. As soon as he tasted it, Charlie knew it had been watered, too: he hoped it really had been water. Weakened or not, it was still marvellous. Bloody marvellous, in fact, the warmth of the booze feeling out through his chest and then deep into his gut, the welcome return of an old friend. Charlie knew it would be weeks before he could save up another sufficient quantity of tobacco and so he rationed himself, one sip in the morning, another in the afternoon, holding it in his mouth until it began to burn and then slowly releasing it, savouring its journey. Marvellous.

The library racks were metal, pre-drilled along the edge for any sort of adjustment or construction, to fit the room in which they were erected. They had a lip, about half an inch deep and by selecting small sized books he was able to create a secure hiding place for his bottle beneath them while at the same time maintaining the height to match that of the volumes on either side.

The rumour that the Russian spy currently on trial would be committed to Wormwood Scrubs spread throughout the prison, increasing the pressure on Charlie. On the way back from the sluices one morning he was nudged – he never discovered by whom – at the landing stairway and if he hadn’t been tensed against something happening and grabbed a guard rail he would have plunged down at least one set of metal stairs, towards the level below. There was never a seat for him in the recreation room, where there were fixed times to watch television and if he stood other prisoners grouped in a mob in such a way that he couldn’t see the set. Once, sufficiently alert again, he just managed to get his hand out of the way of the release of scalding steam from the tea urn and on two occasions he found a fly and a spider in his food.

Hargrave didn’t sit with him any more. Charlie didn’t blame the man. Their only contact was in the library and even then surreptitious because there was a screw on duty.

‘Seen it happen before,’ said Hargrave. They were shelf stocking and Hargrave was in the line beyond, blocked from view by the intervening books so Charlie could only hear his whispered voice.

‘How long does it last?’

‘No telling.’

‘I’m pissed off with it.’

‘You’re supposed to be.’

‘What can I do?’

‘Nothing.’

‘I’m going to get hurt.’

There was a pause from the unseen man. ‘It might stop, if you were.’

‘You mean I’ve got to let it happen! Don’t be bloody stupid!’

When the silence stretched out, Charlie said, ‘I’m sorry.’

At last Hargrave said, ‘I’t’s your attitude, Charlie – fuck everyone. You treat the officers like idiots and you haven’t aligned yourself with any group, here in prison. No one likes that: you’re supposed to conform.’

‘I don’t conform.’

‘You’re going to get hurt,’ confirmed Hargrave. ‘You’ve been inside long enough to know that. So far you’ve been lucky. Or clever. Or whatever. But it can’t last. You can be smart-assed outside, because at the end of the day you can always go home, safe by yourself. But there’s nowhere to go in jail. You’re here. Always.’

Completely concealed against any observation, Charlie grimaced. Why hadn’t the bastards kept their promise! Where was the sodding deal! He looked along the rack, to the carefully regimented set of books hiding his precious booze. There wasn’t much left: less than a third. He needed more.

‘Take a beating, Charlie.’

‘Bollocks.’

‘Until you’ve been taught a lesson that all the landings in this block recognise, then Hickley’s a cunt. You can’t make prison officers look cunts, Charlie: not even if they are.’

That night Charlie took the bottle back to his cell. He was careful, confident that he was unobserved, removing it from its concealment under the pretext of replacing some returned books and easing it down the waistline of his trousers, against the skin at the back, so the elastic of his under-pants kept it in place; the trousers were sufficiently ill fitting to prevent any bulge and his tunic jacket was low, as well.

There was sticky tape in the library, for basic repairs to torn books and Charlie took some of that with him to the cell. The bottom of the lavatory pot was recessed, creating a small cavity and into it he wedged the bottle, securing it with the tape.

Charlie sat alone, ostracised, during the evening meal and at recreation didn’t bother to go to the television room where he would have been an object of more amusement than whatever was showing on the screen. Instead he stayed in the cell, waiting for lock-up. He squatted on his bunk, back against the wall, feet on the bed edge, so that his knees were tight against his chest. The pot was the object of his concentration. He was trapped, just like Hargrave had said he was: there wasn’t any comparison to anything he’d known outside, no matter how expert he had been. Tough spots, certainly: apparently disastrous on several occasions. But there’d always been room to move, to manoeuvre: somewhere, if winning was impossible, where he could run. He’d never cared that the odds were against him, because always he’d been able to think himself out. Which was an apt word. He wasn’t out, not any more. And wouldn’t be, not for another twelve years and eight months and one week and one day. He was in, caged and trapped like an animal in a circus and like an animal in a circus confronted by men in uniforms, goading him with prods and sticks to snarl and fight. Except that in circuses the goads weren’t supposed to hurt.

How much longer for Christ’s sake before the doors were closed and he could get to the bottle! The landings and balconies outside murmured with activity, an ant-hill of humans. Or should it be sub-humans?

Charlie was conscious of people passing outside his cell and of their gazing in. He didn’t respond. It came at first, like it always did, by sound and not the sound of the final bell; a metal against metal noise, impossible initially to identify as doors being closed and secured and then more recognisable, the solid clang and then the scrape of ratchets engaging cogs as the keys were turned. Charlie stayed gazing at the concealment pot. He swallowed, dry-throated and ran his tongue tentatively over his lips. Not long now. Not sufficient to get pissed on: to forget even. Just the only direction in which to run. The sound was very near now, solid and positive, like corks being driven tightly into bottles. Charlie moved at last, putting his feet against the floor and sitting upright, looking expectantly towards the door.