Shaun Hutson - Captives

Scott looked impassively at him, a slight grin on his face.

'You trying to say I'm queer?' he said quietly.

'No, I'm just telling you that if you are then you're going to have a long love affair with your right hand because I'm straight and so is Rod. But there's plenty in here who aren't. If you want to find them, good hunting.'

'Who's Rod?'

'Rod Porter. The other bloke in this cell. He's on work detail at the moment.' Robinson swung himself up onto his bunk and pulled a magazine from beneath his pillow.

Scott regarded him impassively for a moment.

'You know enough about me,' he said. 'Who are you?'

'Mike Robinson.'

Scott extended his hand in greeting.

Robinson regarded it cautiously for a moment, then shook it, feeling the power in the other man's grip. Scott squeezed more tightly, the muscles in his forearm standing out like chords. When he finally released his grip, Robinson's hand felt numb but he managed to hide the discomfort.

'You got life, didn't you?' he said.

Scott nodded.

Jesus, even the words made him shiver.

Life.

'What else do you know about me?' he asked.

'In the real world you worked for Ray Plummer,' Robinson told him. 'And just a word of warning on that score. There are a couple of Ralph Connelly's boys in here who weren't too happy when they heard you'd blown away three of their mates.'

'I didn't kill them,' Scott snapped.

'Sorry, I forgot. You're innocent,' Robinson said. 'Whatever the case, watch your back with Connelly's boys. I'll point them out to you when I get the chance.'

Scott nodded.

'You done time before?' Robinson asked.

Scott shook his head.

'What about you?' he wanted to know.

Robinson smiled.

'I've been in and out since I was ten,' he said with something bordering on pride. 'Remand homes, detention centres, borstals and nicks. They're all much the same. It's usually just the screws who are different. The ones here are okay, as far as screws go. It's the Governor who's the real cunt.' He described Nicholson briefly, and mentioned particularly his words before the visit of the prison delegation. Scott sat on the edge of his own bed listening intently, hands clasped on his knees.

Robinson was still giving him the low-down on life in Whitely when the key rattled in the door again and it opened to admit Rod Porter. He was wearing a white overall on top of his grey prison issue clothes and he pulled the overall off as soon as he was inside.

Scott noticed there were bloodstains on it.

'Hard day at the office, dear?' chuckled Robinson as Porter crossed to the sink and began splashing his face with water.

He finally turned and looked at Scott.

'Well,' he said. 'I suppose a murderer is better company than a ponce.' He extended his right hand. A token of greeting.

Scott shook it.

Brief introductions were made and Porter explained about their last cell-mate, just as he had to the prison delegation.

'There's just one thing, Rod,' Robinson said, still smiling. 'Old Jim here is innocent. He didn't kill those three blokes. He was framed.'

Porter smiled.

'How many fucking times do I have to tell you?' snarled Scott. 'It wasn't me who killed them.' There was fury in his eyes.

'The cheque's in the post, I love you and I promise not to come in your mouth,' Porter added. 'They're the three most common lies, mate. Except inside and you just added the fourth. We're all fucking innocent. I don't know why they don't just open the gates and let us all out now.'

'Fuck you,' Scott rasped.

'You don't have to,' said Porter. 'A jury already did that. They fucked me, Mike and you and everyone else in this shithole. There's no virgins in here. The law fucked everybody.'

Robinson chuckled.

'Very philosophical,' he said.

Porter stretched out on his bunk, hands clasped behind his head.

'So what do you think of the hotel?' he said.

Scott shrugged. He felt cold, as if all the warmth had been sucked from his body. He sat down on his own bed, exhaling deeply.

Life.

He nodded in the direction of the balled-up overall Porter had been wearing.

'What's that for?' he wanted to know.

'Work detail,' Porter explained. 'Laundry. I collect it and deliver it. It's better than sitting in here every day. Apart from the hospital wing.' He grunted. 'That's where the blood came from. Blood, shit and Christ knows what else. It used to be used as a punishment: they'd make inmates clean up the hospital wing, that sort of thing. Even make them change sheets and empty fucking bedpans.'

'What did anybody do to get that punishment?' Scott wanted to know.

'It was usually if somebody tried to escape,' Porter said.

Escape.

'Has anyone ever managed it?' Scott wanted to know.

'Not since I've been here,' Porter told him. 'A couple of blokes tried to go over the wall about a year ago. Before that, some prat even managed to hide in the boot of one of the warders' cars.' The other two men laughed.

'Somebody did it a while back,' Robinson said. 'Actually got out. They didn't get far, of course, but they managed to get out of the prison itself…'

'How?' Scott demanded, cutting him short.

'This place is very old, as you know. Supposedly there's a network of sewer tunnels running under it,' Robinson explained. 'Most of them have probably caved in by now. But one old boy over in B Wing was telling me that it's like a fucking maze down there. Some geezer got down into the tunnels and found his way out.'

'Rather him than me,' Porter muttered. 'That was probably how they found him. Just followed the smell of shit.'

Robinson laughed.

Scott didn't.

He sat back on his bed, looking around at the confines of the cell.

Life.

He sucked in a deep breath, closing his eyes momentarily.

A vision of Carol filled his mind.

Then Plummer.

He gritted his teeth.

'You all right?' Porter asked.

Scott nodded slowly, opening his eyes.

When he spoke his words were almost inaudible. 'I was just thinking.'

LIFE.

The word screamed inside his brain.

No. There had to be a way.

SEVENTY-EIGHT

The raindrops against the window sounded like a handful of gravel being hurled at the glass by the strong wind. Rivulets of water coursed down the panes, puddling on the sill.

Governor Peter Nicholson watched the rain, hands clasped behind his back, his office lit only by the desk lamp at one corner.

He was looking out over the prison courtyard, watching the sheets of rain falling, the brightness of the observation lights along the prison walls reflecting in his eyes.

The wall clock ticked somnolently in the silence, each movement of the minute hand magnified by the stillness in the office.

It was 10.56 P.M.

'As far as I can see, it's a perfect choice.'

The voice cut through the stillness like sunlight through night.

Nicholson didn't turn, hardly seemed to acknowledge the other voice. He merely shifted position slightly, knotted his fingers more tightly together and continued gazing out of the window.

'No living relatives. There's no family anywhere, as far as I can tell,' said the other voice. 'There's a history of violence, at least that's what the psychological profile says. More recent events would appear to substantiate that supposition.'

Nicholson remained silent.

'I need to be one hundred per cent sure, though,' the voice added.

At last Nicholson turned to face the other occupant of the room.

Doctor Robert Dexter ran a hand through his hair and nodded slowly, as if answering his own unasked question.

'How soon do you want to start?' Nicholson asked.

'I think we should leave it a week,' the doctor told him. 'I need to observe. As I said, I have to be one hundred per cent sure.' He exhaled deeply, in fact, perhaps we ought to wait longer than that.' He looked questioningly at the Governor. 'You said that policeman had been here.'