Chris Ryan - Osama

‘OK, you piece of shit,’ he hissed. ‘Time for some fucking answers.’

The back of the guy’s head was soaked with the blood oozing from his friend, but he looked neither disgusted nor frightened. He simply grinned.

‘Who put you up to it?’ Joe slammed the guy’s head against the floor. ‘Who fucking put you up to it?’

The man spat in his face. ‘I’ll die before I tell you.’

Joe thumped the fucker’s head down again, and this time there was a cracking sound. ‘How much pain can you manage, you piece of shit?’

‘Pain is nothing to me,’ the man whispered. ‘I will be welcomed into Paradise…’

The shouting all around was getting louder. A bell started ringing and Joe heard the sound of whistles being blown. Rage surged through him. Suddenly he didn’t even care about questioning this man: he just wanted to hurt the cunt. He slashed the blade across the right side of his face, ripping a deep seam in his cheek. The pain made the guy take a sharp breath in, and as a curtain of blood drew itself across the lower part of his face, Joe heard himself spitting words at him. ‘Be my fucking guest. And say hi to your bum-chum Osama while you’re at it. He’s had a few days there – he can show you the ropes…’

The man’s eyes grew brighter. ‘Sheikh al-Mujahid?’ He made a dismissive, hissing sound. ‘He’s not dead…’

Joe blinked. Again the noise all around seemed to dissolve, even though he knew the chaos was increasing. ‘What do you mean?’ he whispered. And then, when the man didn’t reply, he roared: ‘ What the fuck do you mean! ’

Joe felt hands grab him from behind as the noise of the dining hall burst into his head again. The screws had him, they were shouting, and now they were pounding him with their truncheons… a blow to his stomach winded him… a second one, and then a third to the hand gripping the razor. He dropped his only weapon and covered his head as the screws started beating his already bruised and damaged body in an orgy of unrestrained brute force.

The next few minutes were a blur. His mouth still bled profusely, sharp pain splintered through him. He felt himself being pulled up to his feet and realized his clothes were sopping with the blood of the man whose throat he’d just cut. McGuire and Sowden were on the ground next to the Middle Eastern guy, covered in his blood and attempting to give him CPR, but Joe knew they were trying to resuscitate a stiff. The crowd parted as he was pulled along the gangway, surrounded by six screws screaming at everybody to get back.

He’d just killed a man, in front of hundreds of witnesses. It wouldn’t matter that it was done in self-defence. In everyone else’s eyes he was not only a murderer, but a double murderer. He might be incarcerated in the most secure prison in the country, but it hadn’t stopped his enemy getting to him.

And there were only so many attacks he could survive.

The cell Joe had shared with Hunter had been a dump, but the Segregation Wing made it look luxurious. Joe didn’t care. One cell was the same as another, and it was better to be alone than with scum like Hunter. The moment they threw him into this tiny, stinking space, where the toilet was ten times more rancid and the single mattress covered in disgusting stains, he collapsed to the floor, his back to the wall. He felt like he was saturated in blood. His own. His enemies’. Caitlin’s. He could taste it. See it. It was everywhere.

Time passed. Joe didn’t know how long. Hours. The door opened and a screw he didn’t even look at placed a tray of food inside. Breakfast. It went untouched.

All he could think about was what the Middle Eastern guy in the dining hall had said: ‘ Sheikh al-Mujahid? He’s not dead… ’

Would some banged-up minor terror suspect really know something like that? Or was this just another mad theory? ‘ Mark my words… a double agent working for the Americans… ’

Joe shook his head. He’d seen the SEALs go in. He’d seen them remove the body bag containing their target.

While it was true that the Yanks had been in bed with the Mujahideen back in the seventies – hell, even the SAS had trained up the AQ-in-making – the idea that they were working hand in hand with the leader of their sworn enemies was ridiculous.

Wasn’t it?

And it had been Arabs who had just tried to kill him. What was it – revenge? Or had it just leaked out that he was army and they wanted to have a crack at him, like Finch and the rest of the fucking Micks?

The thoughts were so all-consuming that he barely noticed the door of his cell open for the second time. He looked up. His food tray was still there on the floor. The door was only slightly ajar. Nobody else was in the cell.

Joe scrambled to his feet, eyes screwed up, fists clenched, ready to defend himself.

The door opened a little wider.

Joe saw the narrow end of an old-fashioned wooden crutch appear in the gap, followed by a limping foot.

Hennessey stared at him. There was a silence. Long. Threatening.

‘How did you get in here?’ Joe demanded.

Hennessey didn’t immediately reply. He limped into the centre of the cell and started rolling a cigarette with a heavily tattooed hand as he leaned on his crutch.

‘I’ll be straight with you, son,’ Hennessey said. His voice was a cold, wheezy whisper, south London through and through. ‘I don’t have much time for wife-beaters. If you hadn’t done me a service in the yard, we’d be having a different chat right now.’

He lit the cigarette and inhaled.

Joe remembered Hunter’s words: ‘ You think the screws are in charge here? That’s bullshit. Hennessey’s in charge…’

And as he had just acknowledged, Hennessey owed him one.

‘I have to get out,’ he said.

Hennessey finished his cigarette with a second long drag and dropped the butt to the floor. ‘Missing Hunter, are you?’

‘Not the Seg Wing. The prison.’

‘You and every other fucker in this place,’ Hennessey said dryly.

‘I mean it.’

A humourless smile played across Hennessey’s lips. ‘Well, let’s see now,’ he said. ‘How to break our new boy out of here? Double murder, is it? Usual procedure is to make a shiv and cut your wrists. That way they take you out in a box. Leaves a little mess for the screws to clean up, but you won’t have to worry about that.’ He waved one arm about the room. ‘My advice, lad, is get used to your new home, and make sure you stay in with the right people.’

‘Not good enough, Hennessey.’

‘Is that right, son? Ah well, we all have to live with these little disappointments.’

Hennessey wasn’t giving much away. What had Hunter said about him? A clever bastard. Joe sensed he was right. But what did he, Joe, have on Hennessey? What weapons were left in his arsenal?

‘Word is you’ve got half the screws in your pocket,’ he said. ‘How d’you do it? Blackmail? Threaten their families?’

‘Ways and means, son. Ways and means.’ He sounded – and looked – wary. ‘Let’s just say I call in a favour now and then, and leave it at that.’

‘Like the tart they smuggle in to service you every month? That’s quite a favour. Someone must really like you.’

‘What is it, son?’ Hennessey’s voice was very quiet now, but with an edge that hadn’t been there before. ‘On heat, are you? She’s coming in at five tonight, you know, but I’m afraid she’ll have her hands full. If you want someone to help you lose your load, I could always have a word with Hunter—’

‘Be a shame, wouldn’t it,’ Joe cut in, keeping his voice casual, ‘if word got round that the screws cut you slack in return for you grassing up the other inmates?’