One Dead Witness (15 page)

Trent nodded. He could scarcely breathe.

Yes, he had known that one day Blake would want to have him
too. But it would not be from a loving desire, it would be from
hatred.

‘
I want to give it to you, Trent,’ Blake said. ‘Everything I’ve
got - and I want to make you suffer just as much as you made them
little girls suffer. . . and after that I’m gonna make you suffer
ten times more so they’ll never ever properly repair
you.’

‘
You’ve already done that.’ It was a hoarse, strained whisper
that grated out from Trent’s dry throat.

‘
I haven’t even started.’ Blake pushed himself upright and took
a menacing stride into the cell. Trent almost screamed, though it
was more of a whimper. He recoiled, stepped backwards, caught the
back of his knee on the toilet, causing the joint to fold. He
grabbed thin air in an attempt to prevent himself from falling
backwards, failed, and next thing he knew he was sitting on the
lavatory, looking meekly upwards at the towering menace of
Blake.

The big man burst into laughter.

‘
You pathetic twat.’ He reached for Trent’s throat with his
right hand. The fingers curled around his windpipe, digging in,
hoisting him to his feet. Blake pivoted and slammed Trent against
the cell wall. ‘You haven’t got an ounce of fight in you, have you?
I’m going to really enjoy raping you, so you’d better prepare
yourself, ‘cos I won’t be long. Maybe today, maybe tomorrow, you
little piece of shite.’ His face was only inches away from Trent’s.
He reeked of smoke and body odour. His breath made Trent gag. ‘Who
knows?’ he snarled. ‘But it’ll be soon and you won’t know what’s
hit you - because I intend inserting more than just myself up your
backside. So let yer imagination run riot.’

He opened his fingers, releasing Trent, who, choking,
slithered down the wall, tears streaming out of his eyes. ‘See ya.’
Blake gave a friendly wave and spun out of the cell. Trent could
hear him laughing all the way down the walkway.

Trent quickly removed his trousers and underpants and dashed
to the toilet, plonking himself down only just in time. The
terrifying encounter had taken its toll on his bowels. They opened
up immediately.

With his head in his hands, he realised he would probably have
to act sooner than later.

Talking to Henry had proved to be a nice release for Danny.
She left his office feeling better having dumped such a heavy
burden from her shoulders. It helped her greatly with the mental
side - a trouble shared, and all that - but the physical side was
another matter altogether.

Danny would be the first to admit she had allowed her fitness
to deteriorate over the last ten years, but it had happened in such
slow stages that she had been unaware of just how unfit she had
become because it had been masked by her sedentary
lifestyle.

It had taken the exertions and batterings of the last
forty-eight hours to demonstrate what a blob she had
become.

Firstly, chasing Claire Lilton and rescuing her; then being
assaulted by Jack, coupled with the early-morning incidents at her
house. Everything had accumulated in such a short space of time so
that when she sat down at her desk she felt so creaky she should
have had her pension book in her bag.

Yet she knew that if she had been only slightly fitter, she
would not have felt half as bad.

She leaned back in her chair and took a quick evaluation of
her body, from feet upwards.

Actually her toes did not feel too bad.

Everything else above and beyond was in pretty poor condition
though.

The ankle she’d twisted throbbed meanly away underneath the
tubi-grip bandage and was swollen like a football. She rotated her
foot carefully and winced.

Her long legs were stiffening up. Running after Claire - all
of what, 200 metres? - had made her use muscles which had lain
dormant for ten years, despite the most robust lovemaking, and
there had been plenty of that. They ached all the way up to the
cheeks of her bum.

During the buffeting on the sea-front, she only now discovered
she must have taken a few knocks which went unheeded at the time,
probably due to adrenaline. Her chest was painful around the ribs,
and the outer point of her right elbow felt like it might have
been, smashed against the ground.

The base of her spine was still damned sore, making every
other movement of her body a chore. The back of her head was
agonisingly tender and her face smarted from the blow Jack had
delivered to her. And, of course, there was the cut on her left
cheek, stitched with such precision by the same drop-dead gorgeous
doctor who’d tubi-gripped her.

Sod Jack, the bastard, she thought bitterly. She wondered
whether or not to make an official complaint of assault, as
suggested by Henry, who had voiced the opinion that if Jack had the
capacity to
do that to
someone he allegedly loved, he deserved to
face the consequences. Danny shook her head.
No
.

That was the last thing she wanted. Muck-raking, grievances,
courts, ruining reputations, marriages, professional relationships.
She simply wanted it all sorted out as amicably as
possible.

Danny’s fingertips touched her cheek, gently moving across
the
two
stitches
inserted at Casualty earlier that morning.

Two stitches. A serious assault by any standards.

And yet she did not want Jack to
get
away without facing any consequences - especially if he had smashed
her window and damaged her car in a fit of pique. He should be
forced to
admit it, pay restitution - then
get out of her life.

She moved in the chair to
ease the
pain in her back.

She knew she could at least make one decision about her life
there and then. That would be to drag herself, unwillingly, to
fitness classes a couple of times a week. Then, she reasoned, if
she was feeling physically better it would make it easier to
get to
grips with other
more nebulous aspects of her life.

Such as cutting out smoking - although as she thought about
that one, a deep longing for a cigarette pervaded her body like an
insistent spirit. Maybe that would have to wait.

The phone on her desk rang. It was the public enquiry
assistant (PEA), down at the front desk.

Claire Lilton wanted to
see her. Could
Danny come down, please?

It is not necessarily the prison hard men who know everything
there is to know about the institutions in which they are forced
to
lead their lives. In fact, more often
than not, these are the people who know the least. They may control
things like drugs, screws, booze, cigarettes and violence, but they
were wrapped up in their own comfort zones, insulated and smug.
They know what they feel they need to know and little else. Only
when they want to escape, perhaps, or cause a riot, do they get to
know it better.

It’s usually the more harmless inmates, the trusted ones, the
pathetic ones, the listeners, the shadows, who know everything
there is to know.

They are aware of the full picture as regards the comings and
goings of the prison staff. They know the complete geography of the
buildings; all the little nooks and crannies; the hidey-holes where
they can disappear for a while if necessary. They know where
everything is kept, locked away, stored.

These people are the ones who can, seemingly, move around
unchallenged because they are not worth challenging; float around,
creeping, watching all the time.

Trent was not one of those people.

But Vic Wallwork was.

Fifteen years behind bars had made him so. Turned him into an
acquiescent, simpering inmate who said yes to everything, never let
the authorities down, yet at the same time watched, learned,
listened, explored.

This was his third prison. He knew it intimately.

Which is why he was able to lead Trent through places he never
knew existed.

He guided Trent out through the back of the kitchens, past a
series of storerooms, down a doom-laden corridor with low beams and
little light, out through a door and into the glorious open air,
somewhere - Trent could only guess - near to the. back of the
Governor’s offices.

They had to race across this space, around the corner of a
redbrick building Trent had never seen before, and into a narrow
ginnel no more than three feet wide. It twisted at right angles.
and ten yards further came to a dead end. But in the dead end was a
door with a huge rusting padlock securing it.

Wallwork produced a key from his pocket, inserted it and
forced it to turn. The lock released itself. He removed it and
pushed the door open. Beyond was a dank, dark room. Wallwork
reached around the door jamb and flicked a switch. A single naked
bulb flickered uncertainly, casting a dim light into the
room.

Trent followed Wallwork inside, closing the door behind him.
He gazed around, sniffing, trying to speculate what the room was
for.

Wallwork second-guessed the question. ‘Part of an old boiler
area ... course, it’s all gas now. Through that door is where the
main boiler is.’ He pointed a crooked finger at the far end of the
room. Trent saw a door which looked as if it hadn’t been opened for
years. Wallwork’s index finger then pointed downwards at a petrol
can on the floor.

‘
That’s what you wanted, isn’t it?’

A surge of pure pleasure beat through Trent. He knelt down by
the can and touched it lovingly. ‘Yeah, great. How much is in
it?’

‘
A gallon. Like you asked for - at great risk to me, I might
add.’

‘
Excellent.’ Trent pulled two milk bottles Coysh had given him
out of his jacket pockets and stood them up on the concrete floor.
He looked at the petrol can, head cocked, and did some
calculations, as well as visualising a spectacular future. ‘Mmm,’
he murmured thoughtfully, biting his bottom lip.

Wallwork watched him with a certain degree of puzzlement,
although having now seen the milk bottles, things were a little
clearer to him now. What was still foxing him, though, was why
Trent was also carrying a pillowcase stuffed with the Styrofoam
cups Coysh had stolen for him. Didn’t make any sense to him. Trent
placed the pillowcase on the floor.

‘
Need more bottles,’ Trent said. ‘Four more, to be on the safe
side.’ He exhaled through his nose. ‘And I need another container
of some sort, like an open can - something I can pour the petrol
into.’

Both men considered the matter for a few seconds.

‘
I know just the thing!’ Wallwork declared, raising a finger.
He went to a dark corner of the room where he rooted about amongst
some debris. He picked something up and returned. It was a lidless
metal toolbox, old and misshapen.

Trent grabbed it greedily from Vic’s grasp and inspected it
closely, holding it up to the light, carefully rotating it. All the
seals, corners and edges appeared to be intact. There was a lot of
rust, some of it flaking off, but nothing which would cause a
problem in the short term. In fact, a bit of rust would be quite
nice, Trent thought.

‘
That’s good.’ He looked at his companion. ‘That’s very, very
good.’ His eyes glazed over as he spoke; once again he was seeing
the future.

Wallwork’s blood froze for an instant. A tremor crawled all
the way down his spine like a serpent. The expression on Trent’s
face was one he knew well. He recognised it from himself, a look
which had crossed his own face just over fifteen years ago. Twice.
And each time it had resulted in the brutal slaying of a young boy.
After which - here Vic Wallwork thanked God - they caught him and
incarcerated him for the rest of his life before it happened
again.

It was the killing look.

Trent’s eyes refocused and he came back to his own brand of
normality. He squatted down by the petrol can and poured petrol
into the two milk bottles until each was about a third full. Not
being an expert, he guesstimated that would be enough.

He placed the bottles out of the way, next to the brick
wall.

‘
By the way, Vic,’ he said conversationally. ‘I bumped into
Blake again.’

‘
Oh?’ Wallwork swallowed.

‘
Soon, he told me. Soon. He’s going to get you and stick a
broom-handle right up your arse so it comes out of your mouth.
Exact words.’ And Trent continued with his task, pouring the
remaining petrol from the can into the toolbox, slowly, checking
for leaks as he did so.

Wallwork watched the activity, virtually catatonic because of
what Trent had just said. Without even seeing Wallwork’s face,
Trent realised the devastating effect he’d had on the man. He
smiled wickedly to himself.

Next he emptied the pillowcase, making a small mountain of the
Styrofoam cups next to the toolbox. He sat down on the floor and
picked up one of the cups. He tore it into little stamp-sized
pieces and began dropping them into the petrol, like confetti. Bit
by bit.