Shaun Hutson - Captives

Fairham swallowed hard as he saw another portion of the carcass cut away by a powerful blow.

'As a matter of fact the man with the cleaver is one of the warders here. He was a master butcher before he joined the service,' Nicholson explained.

Fairham visibly relaxed.

The procession moved through the kitchen, through clouds of steam from several large metal vats of food.

Clinton inspected the contents of one of the vats, smiling amiably at the man who was stirring the mass of baked beans. The man looked at Clinton indifferently and peered down into the vat. The MP moved on, rejoining his colleagues.

The procession moved through the prison at a leisurely pace, Nicholson answering the visitors' questions with the minimum of elaboration, constantly struggling to hide his contempt for some of the more idiotic queries they presented him with.

What did he think the effects of overcrowding were?

How many men took advantage of the educational courses?

How were prisoner and warder relationships? Nicholson remained slightly ahead of his group so that they could never quite see the expression of disdain of his face. He led them along corridors and walkways until they came to a double set of metal-barred gates.

The warder on the other side, at a signal from the Governor, pressed a button and the doors slid open with a faint electronic burr.

Nicholson led them through to another solid steel gate. This one was unlocked by a warder with a key. As he pushed it open a powerful gust of wind swept in from outside. Led by the Governor, they stepped out into the exercise yard. It stretched around them in all four directions, empty, enclosed by high wire mesh fences.

'How much exercise do the prisoners get?' Clinton wanted to know.

'An hour a day,' Nicholson said, leading them across the yard.

'It isn't long enough,' Fairham observed, looking round the empty expanse of concrete.

Anne Hopper noticed the chapel.

She pointed towards the graveyard beside it and the markers on the handful of graves.

Nicholson explained what they were. How the men buried there had no families, no other place to lie.

'It's a wonder there aren't more of them,' Fairham said.

'It's a pity there aren't more of them,' Nicholson rasped under his breath.

'Mr Nicholson,' Paul Merrick said, brushing loose strands of whispy hair from his face, 'you said you were going to show us some kind of answer to the problems of overcrowding. May I ask when?'

Nicholson glared at him.

'Now, Mr Merrick,' he said, the knot of muscles at the side of his jaw throbbing angrily.

The hospital block was ahead of them.

Nicholson looked up at the grey stone building. It was as dull as the overcast sky. The gaunt edifice appeared to have dropped from the heavens, a lump of the bleak sky fallen to earth inside the prison grounds.

'What's that?' asked Fairham, pointing at a rusted grille set in the concrete close by the wall of the hospital wing. The grille was about a foot square.

'It's one of the vents over the sewer shaft,' Nicholson explained.

'Hardly hygienic, is it?' Fairham noted. 'So close to the hospital.'

'This prison, as you know, is very old,' the Governor explained. 'The whole place is dotted with vents like that. A network of sewer tunnels runs under the prison. It isn't used now and most of it is blocked off. There's no danger to health from the outlets.'

As they neared the entrance to the wing, Nicholson slowed his pace imperceptibly. He looked up one last time at the grey edifice, licking dry lips.

Those inside had been given their instructions. He just hoped to God they had followed them.

FIFTY

It was smaller than a man's thumb nail and Nicholson held it between the thumb and finger of his right hand with surprising delicacy.

The microchip was square and the entire complex structure was encased in smooth plastic. Nicholson laid it on a piece of black velvet that lay on the work top, allowing his visitors to get a better look at the tiny object.

'Is this some kind of joke?' Fairham asked.

'Why should it be?' the Governor asked irritably.

'You promised to show us a way of relieving overcrowding. Is this meant to be it?'

'The idea was first perfected in America. A number of states are already using it,' Nicholson declared.

'But that didn't work,' said Fairham.

'Ours is a different system. The microchip is inserted into the gastrocnemius muscle of the prisoner's leg.' He looked at Fairham with scorn. 'The calf muscle, to keep it simple.' He held the other's gaze for a moment then continued. 'The operation takes less than fifteen minutes. It's carried out under local anaesthetic, there is no pain to the prisoner. No side effects.'

'What does it do?' Clinton asked, his eyes fixed on the tiny square.

'Once inside the prisoner's leg it gives off something called a Synch-pulse,' Nicholson said. 'A tiny electrical charge which in turn produces a signal that can be picked up by monitoring equipment here at the prison. It's like a tracking device.'

'What range has it got?' Merrick asked.

'Fifteen miles at the moment,' the Governor told him. 'The modifications that are being made to it will probably increase that range by anything up to thirty miles.'

'And what is the object exactly, Mr Nicholson?' Anne Hopper enquired, looking at the Governor.

'An end to overcrowding, Miss Hopper,' he said. 'The thing you all seem so concerned about.'

'How the hell can that,' Fairham jabbed a finger towards the microchip, 'help with overcrowding?'

'The device is placed in the leg of certain remand prisoners,' Nicholson explained. 'They can then be released from Whitely and monitored on our electronic equipment here. We know where they are twenty-four hours a day.'

'And what if they move outside the range of the tracking device?' Clinton murmured, his eyes still fixed on the device.

'We don't allow that to happen,' Nicholson said. 'The prisoners are picked for the operation according to the severity of their crime. Everything is explained to them, including the fact that if they do travel beyond the range of the device they'll be re-arrested and prosecuted for attempted escape. They usually co-operate. It's in their own interests to do so. Many of them prefer this to being stuck inside for twenty-three hours a day. Some are even working while they're on the outside waiting for their trials.'

'Do I detect a note of compassion in your attitude, Mr Nicholson?' said Fairham, contemptuously. 'You actually sound as if you care about what happens to the men who undergo this operation.'

'It gets them out of my hair, Mr Fairham,' the Governor said, 'it means that my officers have fewer prisoners to deal with.'

'How many men has this been tried on so far?' Clinton enquired.

'Ten,' Nicholson said. 'And all of them have been successful.'

'And what is your definition of success, Mr Nicholson?' Anne Hopper wanted to know.

He looked at her impassively.

'Not one of them tried to escape,' he said. 'They all reported to the police station they'd been assigned to and they all went on to stand trial.'

'When is the device removed?' Clinton asked.

'As soon as the trial is over.'

Clinton stood back and nodded, looking at the microchip then at Nicholson.

'Well, I must say I'm impressed, Mr Nicholson,' said the MP.

'Me too,' Merrick echoed, 'it seems a great step forward.'

Fairham merely prodded the device with one index finger.

'Who does the operations?' he wanted to know.

'There are a number of doctors involved,' Nicholson told him. 'None resident at the prison.'

'That's a pity,' Anne Hopper intoned. 'It would have been interesting to meet them.'

'The work is still in its infancy, Miss Hopper. They're not too anxious to be put in the limelight just yet,' Nicholson told her.