Slammer (2 page)

Up the stairs, past the ginger-bearded Officer McDee who was too busy chatting to one of the few female guards, Officer Ross, to notice Glass. Then past a group of cons. Nods, grunts, shuffling of feet. Glass wondered if Darko was with Mafia, wondered what the hell they'd been up to. Glass might have found out from Fox, but the expression on his face wasn't one to inspire conversation. Fox didn't like any of the other officers paying too much attention to Officer Ross.

Glass wasn't in a hurry. He'd get told soon enough.

Fox rattled his keys in time to the music filtering through the cell door. He shoved his key in the lock and twisted it, all in one movement, and walked inside. The radio was blasting out the chorus of a pop tune even Glass recognised: 'Ebeneezer Goode', a song the cons loved cause it was full of drug references.

Mafia was sitting on his bunk, the lower one, Darko patting his face with a cloth.

The stink crept up on Glass like it always did when he walked into one of the cells. Damn, he should use the slang. The
peters.
Fags, sweat, a faint whiff of shit. And an industrial chemical that pervaded the whole place.

Made him shake. Made him wonder what he was doing here.

'What you been up to now, you blind fuck?' Fox said to Mafia, snapping off the radio and creating the kind of sudden silence that got him the attention he was so desperate for.

The reason Mafia got his nickname: he wore dark glasses. Reason he wore dark glasses: eye problems. He had a medical condition that meant he couldn't see further than a couple of inches in front of his nose.

Mafia was one of the few cons Glass could speak to. Most of them didn't want to be seen talking to the officers. Mafia didn't care what anyone thought, though. They'd struck up a rapport right away, Glass and Mafia. Glass had been wary, having been warned that certain prisoners would try to take advantage if he got too close to them, revealed too much of himself. But Mafia wasn't playing a game. They just liked each other. Glass couldn't see Mafia as a double murderer. Not that Mafia would talk about it, but that in itself was unusual and a sign that he might be innocent. Glass hoped so. On the outside, they'd be drinking buddies. Or at least that's what Glass liked to think.

He didn't know, though, since he didn't have any drinking buddies.

Anyhow, Fox was right: Mafia was virtually blind. Claimed he'd been run over nine times crossing the road on account of his terrible eyesight, worst injury being a broken hip. Glass wasn't sure if that made him lucky or unlucky.

Mind you, everybody lied in prison. Glass believed him, though. It was too imaginative a story to be anything but the truth.

Glass nodded towards him.

Mafia tilted his head in response. 'Who's that? McDee? Agnew? Not that fucker, Sutherland. Is it the lovely Officer Ross?'

'It's me,' Glass said.

'Don't answer him, Crystal. He's a rude fuck.' Fox stepped closer, pushed Darko out of the way. It wasn't hard. Darko was only just over five foot tall and rail-thin. Caitlin could probably knock him over with a shove of her little hand.

'Hey,' Darko said.

'Hey, what?' Fox stuck his chest out, looked like he was trying to poke Darko's eyes out with his nipples. 'Eh? Want to join your cellie in the Digger?'

Darko said nothing.

'Good boy. Now fuck off or I'll have you deported back to Yugo-fucking-slavia.'

'The Digger?' Mafia said. 'You're joking.'

'Nope.' Fox turned his attention back to Mafia. 'Although it is pretty funny, now you mention it.'

'You can't put me in there.'

'Orders,' Fox said.

'Who from?'

'Your granny.' Fox stabbed a finger at him. 'Now get on your feet and start moving. And try not to fall down the stairs this time.'

Mafia didn't budge.

'You want to do this the hard way?'

Mafia sighed. Stood. And Glass got a good look at his face. His cheek was puffed up, lip swollen.

'I'll lead the way,' Glass said.

'Thanks,' Mafia replied.

'You pair should just be done with it and shag each other,' Fox said. 'Spare us all the bloody foreplay.'

*

A bare cell. No windows. At night, they'd toss in a mattress, maybe a blanket. No need to ask why they used to be called punishment cells. Glass found it hard to believe he was used to it now.

Mafia was naked, hands cupped over his groin. He looked even more naked without his shades.

Fox had taken them away along with Mafia's clothes. Not normal practice, just Fox being a bastard.

Glass had tried to persuade him not to. Got the response he'd expected.

'Don't you want to see your boyfriend's tackle out, then?' Fox's double chin was like an extra smile.

'At least leave him his shades,' Glass said. 'He can't see without them.'

'Can't bloody see
with
them. And why the tinted lenses anyway?' He looked at Mafia, who didn't respond. 'Huh?' He swatted Mafia with his arm.

'It's complicated,' Mafia said. 'Just leave me the glasses, eh?'

Fox folded them, popped them in his breast pocket. 'No chance.'

'What's the point of taking them?' Glass asked.

'Man might be a danger to himself,' Fox said. 'Break them. Cut his wrists.'

'You feeling suicidal?' Glass asked Mafia.

'More murderous, I'd say.' Mafia looked at Fox, eyeballs wiggling from side to side like they were searching for a way to escape from their sockets.

'Think I'll bin them,' Fox said. 'Just to make sure they don't injure anyone.'

'Don't be a cock,' Glass said.

Fox stiffened. 'You calling me a cock?'

'Just don't,' Glass said.

Fox said, 'How much?'

Glass scratched his finger. 'What?'

'How much will you pay me for not stepping on them?'

'Why should I pay you anything?'

'You shouldn't. But I bet you will.'

Well, no, he wouldn't. He wasn't going to be bullied like this. 'Go ahead,' he said. 'Do what you want.'

Fox said to Mafia, 'Sorry, petal. Your boyfriend doesn't love you any more.'

*

Glass was glad to be rid of Fox, but he wasn't so keen on supervising the machine shop. The smell of aluminium shavings, the noise of grinding metal. Raised voices. And a sense of danger. He felt the latter all the time, throughout the Hilton. But here it was heightened. And it was soaring today.

He was standing right by the gate, leaning against the bars, trying to look relaxed. He had a key, but, still, he was locked in. Suppose something happened and he needed to get out. It would take him time to react. Maybe he wouldn't have time. He'd be stuck here with this lot.

He watched a group of inmates huddled around the big lathe. He knew they gave all the machines names, but he wasn't sure if she was
Lydia
or Linda. A head rose, looked right at him, gave a smile. Another head, another smile.

They were talking about him.

He didn't know whether to smile back or ignore them. His thoughts alternated:

Don't get too close.

Don't blank them.

Don't provoke them.

Don't let them get off with it.

Then:
Open the gate and run while you can.

Course, he didn't. He tried to look calm and in control, the bars of the gate pressing into his back. Probably just as well he was locked in. Otherwise, he might not have trusted himself to stay.

The group round the big lathe was sniggering like schoolkids. Maybe they were planning on taking him hostage.

He shivered, like he'd sucked a lemon. He had to get that crap out of his head. Ever since he'd started the job, that'd been his main worry, nagging at him constantly. His imagination took over sometimes, no question, but hostage situations were a real threat in the Hilton.

Maximum security prison. Three hostage crises in the last ten years. Four officers stabbed. One had lost an eye. One had died.

And how much training did Glass get in what to do in a hostage situation?

None. Not so much as a single word of advice.

In fact, officers had to sign a disclaimer saying that they worked here at their own risk and that no one was under any obligation to try to rescue them should they be taken hostage. Fucking great. You're on your own, pal.

If you couldn't do the time, you shouldn't be a screw. He knew that. Shitty pay, too. Scottish officers were on a much lower salary than their counterparts in
England
.

Glass would give it up right now if it weren't for the fact that Lorna's mother would see him as a quitter. He had to stick it out, prove her wrong. And, anyway, what else was he going to do? He wasn't qualified to do a damn thing. He could strum a few chords on a guitar, but who couldn't? Couldn't make a living busking, which was all he was good for. Not that he played any more, hadn't picked up a guitar in years. He was smart enough. His teachers had had high expectations, but he'd never finished his studies. Caitlin came along and changed everything. He and Lorna had barely scratched a living for five years. But he was a prison officer now, and he had to see it through. It'd get better. He'd get used to it. He just wished he could stop shaking. He did his best to disguise it, but at some point, somebody was going to notice.

And any sign of weakness, these predators would rip him apart.

*

'Jesus, Peeler, you nutter.'

Peeler was a big guy, muscled, tattoos, shaved head. A lifer, with no hope of an early liberation date. He'd killed his wife and her boyfriend. Really killed them. With an axe.

He was called Peeler because his party piece was shoving bananas up his rectum and squeezing them till they split. Apparently they came out peeled down the middle, held together only at both ends. Right now, it looked like somebody'd been feeding him, and not bananas. Peeler was out of his head. Which wouldn't have been quite so worrying if he wasn't holding a machete in his hand.

Shit, shit,
shit
. Glass should have been paying attention. Who in their right mind gave cons the means and opportunity to make their own machetes? The metalwork shop was an accident waiting to happen. This whole place was insane.

Glass's legs were vibrating. He knew he should be doing something here, but he wasn't sure what. He rubbed his palms on his trousers, hoped somebody would offer a suggestion.

'Serious mess, man,' somebody said. Sounded like Horse.

The work group had backed off, formed a distant half-circle around Peeler.

Horse was there, right enough, his huge frame shielding Caesar. Making sure Caesar didn't get hurt. Which is what he'd failed to do earlier by the looks of things. Caesar's right eye was puffy, so Mafia must have got in at least one decent shot when they'd had their scrap.