Shaun Hutson - Captives

'No talking,' he said.

Robinson shrugged and smiled innocently.

'Cunt,' he whispered, stifling the word with a yawn.

Across the landing an identical procession was filing towards their own latrine. Men who had emptied their slop buckets were returning to their cells. There were the odd murmurings, the sounds echoing throughout the large building, but they were quickly quelled by warders anxious to maintain silence.

Porter peered over the landing rail, through the steel netting that was strung from one side to the other, and noticed that, on the landing below, prisoners who had finished slopping out had not in fact returned to their cells but were standing outside, their attempts at entry barred by warders. He frowned, wondering what was going on. His musings were interrupted as he reached the latrine. He and Robinson emptied their slop buckets into the waste chutes provided, rinsed them with boiling water and then made their way back to their cell.

The door was closed, the entrance blocked by another warder, Raymond Douglas. He was a red-faced man with a pitted complexion who always looked exhausted, as if he'd just completed a marathon.

'Stay there,' he said, toying with his key chain, holding up his free hand to add weight to his instructions.

Further down the landing, other prisoners also stood outside their cells. Irritated mutterings grew louder.

'… What's going on?…'

'… Why are we being kept outside?…'

'What's the deal, Mr Douglas?' Porter asked.

'You'll find out,' said the warder. 'For now, just shut it.'

Porter eyed the uniformed man malevolently, then exchanged puzzled glances with his cell-mate.

'Cell search?' Robinson murmured. 'Someone been smoking whacky baccy again?'

'I said shut it,' Douglas snapped.

'Just curious,' said Robinson, gazing around him.

On all the landings men now stood outside their cells, increasingly frustrated and increasingly cold. It wasn't exactly warm inside Whitely and many of them were dressed only in shorts. The babble of discontent grew more insistent, to the point where even the warders couldn't quell it.

'What the hell is going on?' Porter wanted to know.

'SHUT UP.'

The voice boomed around the inside of the building, bouncing off the walls with its ferocity and power.

All heads turned in one direction, peering upwards to find its source.

'Shut up and listen,' the voice continued, and now the inmates could see where the thunderous exhortation came from.

On the uppermost landing, flanked by warders, stood a tall, powerfully-built figure in a dark blue suit, his greying hair slicked back so severely it appeared that he was bald. He gripped the landing rail with hands as large as ham-hocks. He regarded the men beneath him impassively, his eyes flicking back and forth as they looked up at him.

Peter Nicholson, the Governor of Whitely Prison, began to speak.

FORTY-TWO

You could have been forgiven for imagining, that Peter Nicholson had undergone surgery to replace his vocal chords with a megaphone. His words boomed out, spoken with clarity and in a tone that suggested that he was keeping his words simple for the less intelligent inmates of the prison. On either side of him the warders looked down onto the other landings, watching for any signs of unrest amongst those below. Warders on each of the individual landings also ensured that silence prevailed as he spoke.

'As you may have heard,' the Governor said, smoothing his hair back with one hand, 'Whitely has been in the news lately. The media are obviously hard up for stories because they seem interested in what they refer to as our overcrowding problems here. Also, the local MP has taken it upon himself to look personally into what goes on in this prison.'

Robinson looked at Porter and raised his eyebrows quizzically.

'To that end,' Nicholson continued, 'a Home Office delegation will be visiting this prison tomorrow to see how it runs and to see how well you're all cared for.' He smiled sardonically.

A murmur rose that was quickly silenced.

Nicholson paused for a moment theatrically.

'The members of this delegation will be speaking to a number of prisoners. Asking about conditions, etcetera.' He looked around the upturned faces. 'You may speak to them if you wish. Help them with their questions. You may have some questions for them. If you have any problems or grievances, you're quite free to tell them.'

'Yeah,' murmured Porter. 'And get our fucking heads busted by the screws when they've gone.'

Swain took a step towards him, shooting him a warning glance.

'If any of you have any problems, at any time, you know you are free to speak to the officers in charge of your landing or to me personally,' Nicholson continued.

There was another babble of chatter, and this time it took longer to quieten.

Nicholson looked around once more. His green eyes, like chips of emerald, caught the light and reflected it coldly. He brushed a speck of dust from his sleeve as he waited for the silence he required. Finally satisfied, he continued.

'I want this prison running perfectly for these visitors,' he said. 'I want co-operation between you and the officers. I want the cells spotless. I want them to be impressed by what they see. I don't like people meddling in the way I run-this prison and that's what they're doing. Meddling. I want them to leave here, knowing that this prison is well run and that its inmates are being adequately dealt with. I don't expect them to leave here with a catalogue of stories about what a terrible place Whitely is. As I said, you may speak to them if you wish. That is your prerogative. But bear in mind that if they hear too many bad reports, they'll disrupt the way I run this prison. And I don't like disruptions. I hope that's understood.' He looked around him, then smoothed his hair back once more. 'That's all.'

Nicholson and his officers turned and moved away from the landing rail, out of sight of the other prisoners.

On all the landings the inmates were allowed back inside their cells.

'Breakfast in twenty minutes, get a move on,' said Warder Swain, slamming the door shut behind Robinson and Porter.

'Suck this,' rasped Porter, holding his penis in one fist. 'Fucking cunt.'

Both men started to dress, taking it in turns to wash as best they could in the small sink perched on the cell wall.

'I wonder if anyone will be stupid enough to tell this bunch of do-gooders the truth?' Robinson mused, drying his face.

'Are you joking?' Porter muttered, fastening his grey overall. 'Even the screws wouldn't tell them anything. They're more frightened of Nicholson than most of the cons in here.'

Robinson nodded in agreement.

'A tour of the prison, eh?' he said, smiling. 'I wonder what they'll make of our humble little home.'

'Probably want to move in with us,' Porter quipped. He crossed to his locker and took out a comb, running it through his short black hair. The inside of the locker was a mosaic of photos: naked women, a team picture of Liverpool FC and a couple of postcards all vied for attention. He blew a kiss to one of the women, then closed the locker again.

Robinson was sitting on the edge of the upper bunk. 'I'll tell you one thing, Rod,' he said, 'and I'll bet money on it. There's at least one part of this nick they won't see. Nicholson will make sure of that.'

FORTY-THREE

The office was large, functional rather than welcoming. Efficiency was the keyword. It was a place of work, after all, thought Peter Nicholson, and it had been his place of work for the last sixteen years. He'd seen many changes in the penal system as a whole and Whitely in particular during his days as Governor at the prison. The changes since he first began working in the service had been radical, to say the least. He'd begun back in the fifties as a prison officer. He'd served his early years in Wandsworth. In fact, he'd been one of two warders who had escorted Derek Bentley from the condemned cell to the hangman on January 28 1953. Bentley had been sentenced to hang because his accomplice, Christopher Craig, despite having fired the shot that killed a policeman, had been too young for the rope.