Denise Mina - Slip of the Knife

They’d shout good-bye to him as he passed, the men behind the chipped green doors. Hughie, C3, had raped a girl, a really young girl, but seemed nice enough when you met him. Tam in C2 had killed his wife, which wouldn’t put him on protection normally because the main block was full of guys who’d done that, but she was just about to have a baby and it had been in the papers. And the last cell, C1, a quiet man who wanked all night, groaning animal noises but never speaking when the window warriors shouted at him to shut the fuck up. He wouldn’t say good-bye. Mr. Wallace said he wasn’t well and shouldn’t be here. C1 might be James for all Callum knew. James with a different name. They’d been keeping them apart throughout their nine-year sentence, but maybe it didn’t matter now, if James was mental. There weren’t that many places to keep the two of them.

The papers’ll find you, in your new house. Tell everyone.

Past the cell doors. Eleven steps. Through the big door that opened inwards, out to the corridor where the officers on watch sat and read the paper. Smells from the kitchens came through the wall, smells so strong you could lick them from the air. The softness of sponge, sulfurous egg, the warmth of mince, onions. They ended last year’s riot with onions. The officers got the guys down from the roof by frying onions at the bottom of the stairs and fanning the smell up to them. Sometimes the corridor smelled of burning.

Cunt.

Everything smelled the same when it was burning.

You baby-murdering cunt.

Twenty-six steps, along the kitchen-smelling corridor to the big gray metal outside door and out into the yard, the bright gray sky above him. He could feel his irises ache at the sharp slap of light as the door opened. He would have that sky above him all the time soon, his eyes straining to cope with the painful brightness of it.

Ogilvy? They’re already looking for ye, they’ll find ye, take pictures, print them.

The bright sky above the yard and the wind coming off the sea. Even with the thirty-foot wall around the prison the salty wind managed to sneak in, skirling around the corners of the yard, sweeping leaves into tidy little heaps against the wall. The sea was just over the wall and the air had a bitter, salty tang that stung chapped lips. As he stood at the door to the yard the wind was only at head height, blustering the top of his head but not touching the face, an unseen hand ruffling his hair.

Ogilvy. Ogilvy. They’re offering big money.

More than anything else, he had missed being touched. Sometimes he hesitated by his cell door after exercise to make them reach for him, the press of a hand on the back, on the arm, a soft cuff across the back of the head. Some prisoners were beaten by screws for doing things wrong but Callum was a sheep, followed gently wherever they led him, and they knew what to expect. He never had the guts to give them cause, but he understood the urge to defy them, to get beaten, just for the touch.

Your pal James, he lost an eye last year.

Lies. Haversham lied all the time.

In the infirmary up in the Big House. Came out of isolation for a bad leg and some cunt got him with a pencil.

James. Callum saw his eyes smoldering in the dark, the cold night wind cutting between them and the baby in the grass. The story had been told so many times, to him, by him, with him, by police when they questioned him, by the social workers, by the psychiatrists who came and went, by the papers. So many tellings, he couldn’t remember which was true anymore.

James was my only friend. The man took us there in the van, with the baby. We battered him with stones and strangled him until he died and then we stuck sticks up his bum because I’m a pervert, eh? I’m a fucking filthy pervert. I probably think about it when I’m alone, masturbate and think about it.

James was my only friend. In the van, I was glad we were picking on the baby because we weren’t picking on me. James strangled him and the baby messed himself. I ran up the hill and James did things to him. We hit him with stones before he died. Hitting is nothing. Hitting means nothing. Prisoners hit you, parents hit you, screws hit you. What’s wrong is for me to hit you. I don’t think about it when I masturbate. I see women, bits of women, tits and cunts, disjointed pictures from magazines. It doesn’t take much. I was scared before the night, sometimes, but since the night I’ve never stopped being scared.

I thought James was my friend but he wasn’t. I take full responsibility for what happened. The baby was crying and James held his throat to make him stop. We fiddled about with the body to make it look like someone else. I am sorry for the family, for the baby’s mother and family. I am sorry for what I have done. I will try to live a good life in the future. My dream is to work in a factory and live within a loving family structure.

Everyone liked the last version best but ten years later all the different versions of the night had become as true as each other.

When he remembered it, when he was alone, all he recalled were James’s black eyes smoldering as they stood over the tiny body crumpled in the wet grass, of the cold wind on his face as he stood on the verge looking back at the van, and behind him James making noises, sniggering, pulling things around to suit himself.

When he remembered it now, Callum stood on the blustery verge and looked at the grass in front of him. It was trampled deep into the mud from the feet of all the people who had been there, the psychiatrists, the social workers, the guards who asked questions kindly and then sold the story to the newspapers, other prisoners who’d ask about it, sly, interested in details they shouldn’t be asking about.

Cunt.

Haversham was getting tired of Callum’s back. He tapped the door again, making his point, and shuffled off to taunt Hughie.

Callum carried on his walk. From the door he stepped into the yard, straight across the yard to the guard block, around the concrete path at the side, staying off the grass. That would take thirty steps, maybe thirty-something. He had never been that way before. Along the grass to the door out. They would have to wait at the door until it buzzed open. The guards wouldn’t have keys for that door in case they were taken hostage. Security zones. Inside the door it would be warm, they’d have the heating on high for the guards. There would be a waiting room probably. Plastic chairs probably. Posters maybe. And beyond that an unknowable number of steps to the main doors. Through one. Locked behind him. Next door and out, out to the eye-aching brightness and the unbridled wind salting him. Out, out into a world full of Havershams.

No one would come with him through the final door. He would be unsupervised for the first time since he was ten. He didn’t know what he would do.

He looked back at the messages on the gray wall.

Supergass.

Callum’s own message was finished. Took him months. He curved all four s’s, gave curvy tails to the g’s and y, spelled it right. It was finished now. He could leave now. Callum’s own message:

Everything smells the same when it’s burning.

With his soft Dublin accent, fine, long face and green eyes, Father Andrew was an Irish mother’s dream. He was fresh from seminary when he came to St. Columbkille’s. Eager to make the Good News accessible to young people, he made everyone use his first name, introduced guitars to mass, made self-conscious teenagers mutter inaudible bidding prayers. The parish was elderly and didn’t like the unfamiliar. They revolted, complaining to the Monsignor, and soon Father Andrew’s radical reforms were curtailed to occasional mentions of already-out-of-date pop stars in his sermons and wearing a cassock with a rainbow embroidered on the back. Paddy saw defeat in him nowadays. She’d have felt for him more if he gave fewer sermons about the evils of unmarried, working mothers, homosexuality and sex before marriage.