Jeffrey Archer - The Sins of the Father

‘What next?’ asked Harry.

‘Work allocation,’ said Quinn. ‘I’ll be joining Siddell in the kitchen, but we’ve still got to make sure they put you in the library. And that’ll depend on which officer is on duty. Trouble is, I’m running out of cash.’ Quinn had hardly got the words out of his mouth before the door was pulled open again and Hessler was silhouetted in the doorway, the truncheon thumping into his gloved hand.

‘Quinn,’ he said, ‘report to the kitchen immediately. Bradshaw, go to station nine and join the other wing cleaners.’

‘I was hoping to work in the library, Mr-’

‘I don’t give a fuck what you were hoping, Bradshaw,’ said Hessler. ‘As wing officer, I make the rules around here. You can go to the library on Tuesdays, Thursdays and Sundays between six and seven, like any other inmate. Is that clear enough for you?’ Harry nodded. ‘You’re not an officer any longer, Bradshaw, just a con, like everyone else in this place. And don’t waste your time thinking you can bribe me,’ he added, before marching off to the next cell.

‘Hessler’s one of the few officers you can’t bribe,’ whispered Quinn. ‘Your only hope now is Mr Swanson, the prison warden. Just remember that he considers himself a bit of an intellectual, which probably means he can manage joined-up writing. He’s also a Fundamental Baptist. Hallelujah!’

‘When will I get the chance to see him?’ asked Harry.

‘Could be any time. Just be sure to let him know you want to work in the library, because each new prisoner only gets five minutes of his time.’

Harry slumped down on the wooden chair and placed his head in his hands. If it wasn’t for the $10,000 Jelks had promised to send to his mother, he’d use his five minutes to tell the warden the truth about how he’d ended up in Lavenham.

‘Meantime, I’ll do what I can to get you into the kitchen,’ added Quinn. ‘It may not be what you hoped for, but it’s sure better than being a wing cleaner.’

‘Thanks,’ said Harry. Quinn scurried off to the kitchens, not needing directions. Harry took the stairs back down to the ground floor and went in search of station nine.

Twelve men, all first-timers, stood in a huddle and waited for instructions. Initiative was frowned on in Lavenham – it smacked of rebellion, or the suggestion that a prisoner just might be cleverer than an officer.

‘Pick up a bucket, fill it with water, and get yourself a mop,’ said Hessler. He smiled at Harry as he ticked off his name on yet another clipboard. ‘As you were last down, Bradshaw, you’ll be working in the shit house for the next month.’

‘But I wasn’t the last down,’ protested Harry.

‘I think you were,’ said Hessler, the smile not leaving his face.

Harry filled his bucket with cold water and grabbed a mop. He didn’t need to be told in which direction to go, he could smell the latrines from a dozen paces. He began retching before he’d even entered the large square room with thirty holes in the ground. He held his nose, but he had to continually leave the room to gasp for air. Hessler stood some way off, laughing.

‘You’ll get used to it, Bradshaw,’ he said, ‘in time.’

Harry regretted having eaten such a large breakfast, which he brought up within minutes. It must have been about an hour later that he heard another officer bellowing his name. ‘Bradshaw!’

Harry staggered out of the latrines, white as a sheet. ‘That’s me,’ he said.

‘The warden wants to see you, so let’s get movin’.’

Harry was able to breathe more deeply with each step he took, and by the time he’d reached the warden’s office, he felt almost human.

‘Wait there until you’re called for,’ said the officer.

Harry took a spare seat between two other prisoners, who quickly turned away. He couldn’t blame them. He tried to gather his thoughts as each new prisoner went in and out of the warden’s office. Quinn was right, the interviews lasted for about five minutes, some even less. Harry couldn’t afford to waste one second of his allotted time.

‘Bradshaw,’ said the officer, and opened the door. He stood aside as Harry entered the warden’s office. Harry decided not to get too close to Mr Swanson, and remained several paces from his large leather-topped desk. Although the warden was seated, Harry could see that he was unable to do up the middle button of his sports jacket. His hair had been dyed black in an attempt to make him look younger, but it only made him look slightly ridiculous. What did Brutus say of Caesar’s vanity? Offer him garlands, and praise him as if he were a god, and that will be his downfall.

Swanson opened Bradshaw’s file and studied it for a few moments before looking up at Harry.

‘I see you were sentenced to six years for desertion. Haven’t come across that one before,’ he admitted.

‘Yes, sir,’ said Harry, not wanting to waste any of his precious time.

‘Don’t bother telling me you’re innocent,’ Swanson continued, ‘because only one in a thousand is, so the odds are stacked against you.’ Harry had to smile. ‘But if you keep your nose clean’ – Harry thought about the latrines – ‘and don’t cause any trouble, I can’t see why you would have to serve the full six years.’

‘Thank you, sir.’

‘Do you have any special interests?’ Swanson asked, looking as if he wasn’t at all interested if Harry did.

‘Reading, art appreciation and choral singing, sir.’

The warden gave Harry a disbelieving look, not sure if he was trying to get a rise out of him. He pointed to a sign hanging on the wall behind his desk and asked, ‘Can you tell me the next line, Bradshaw?’

Harry studied the embroidered sampler: I will lift up mine eyes unto the hills . He gave silent thanks to Miss Eleanor E. Monday, and the hours he’d spent at her choir practices. ‘From whence cometh my help, sayeth the Lord. Psalm one hundred and twenty-one.’

The warden smiled. ‘Tell me, Bradshaw, who are your favourite authors?’

‘Shakespeare, Dickens, Austen, Trollope and Thomas Hardy.’

‘None of our own countrymen good enough?’

Harry wanted to curse out loud, having made such an obvious blunder. He glanced across at the warden’s half-filled bookshelf. ‘Of course,’ he said. ‘I consider F. Scott Fitzgerald, Hemingway and O. Henry to be anyone’s equal, and I believe Steinbeck is America’s finest modern writer.’ He hoped he’d pronounced the name correctly. He’d make sure he had read Of Mice and Men before he came across the warden again.

The smile returned to Swanson’s lips. ‘What job has Mr Hessler allocated to you?’ he asked.

‘Wing cleaner, although I’d like to work in the library, sir.’

‘Would you indeed?’ said the warden. ‘Then I’ll have to see if there’s a vacancy.’ He made a note on the pad in front of him.

‘Thank you, sir.’

‘If there is, you’ll be informed later today,’ said the warden as he closed the file.

‘Thank you, sir,’ repeated Harry. He left quickly, aware that he’d taken longer than his allotted five minutes.

Once he was out in the corridor, the duty officer escorted him back to the wing. Harry was thankful that Hessler was nowhere to be seen, and that the cleaners had moved on to the second floor by the time he rejoined them.

Long before the siren sounded for lunch, Harry was exhausted. He joined the line for the hotplate, and found Quinn already ensconced behind the counter, serving his fellow inmates. Large portions of potato and over-cooked meat were dropped on to Harry’s plate. He sat alone at the long table and picked at his food. He feared that if Hessler were to reappear that afternoon, he would be dispatched back to the latrines, and so would his lunch.