The Good Provider (45 page)

SEVEN

The Valley of the Shadow

The cell block might have been new but the system of hard labour in use in Barlinnie Prison was as old as punishment itself. Reforms were in the government pipeline but Daniel Malone knew nothing of them and would not have cared if he had. He ground through each stage of the so-called Progressive System by which a convict’s will was broken, lived only for that day when, having been ‘a good lad’, he would earn the privilege of exercise in the open yard and would be able to see not only the sky but the wall and the lie of the land beneath it.

In first term Malone sweated for six hours each day on the crank, cawing a long iron handle which rotated a blade sealed inside a box full of heavy gravel. One thousand revolutions was the daily requirement. He was supervised by warders to ensure that he did not slouch or slacken his pace; nor did he, not even when his palms cracked and bled and his fingers swelled up like Pollock’s sausages. After stint on the crank he was obliged to sit cross-legged on a canvas mat and, without tool or implement, to pick apart twists of old rope, oakum, with what was left of his fingernails. Three pounds weight of coarse hair-like matter had to be produced per shift. Festering sores developed on his hands. They were treated by the prison surgeon who painted them with saline solution and permitted him to wear bandages for seven days. At night he slept on a plank board. He was fed on bread, gruel, tea and broth, potatoes and, every fourth day, a flake of meat. At first he craved meat, hungered for alcohol and most of all for tobacco but those appetites died in due course. To his surprise, he missed connection with women not at all. He earned no money, of course. He received no letters, no visitors and was cut off from communication with other prisoners.

Daniel Malone was too old for such a harsh regime. Dealings with ‘toffs’ and indulgences that his profits had bought had made him soft. From Billy and other unfortunates he had heard of the horrors of imprisonment. But he had not been able to predict the tortures of solitude and grinding monotony, had not supposed that he would be stripped of every vestige of power, that within Barlinnie’s walls he would have no reputation, no edge of authority, no identity at all.

A shaven head and coarse serge seemed fitting for a man known only as No. 679, who was addressed only by number during the first interminable weeks of incarceration. How long each term was slated to last was a question to which Malone received no answer save a smirk and a shake of the head. How many ‘good marks’ he had accumulated was also a mystery. The first indication that he was ‘getting somewhere’ came on his seventh Sunday in Barlinnie.

Sunday was the worst day for a convict on hard labour. Sunday was a day of infinite monotony, passed without occupation. When the body was rested the mind churned with self-pity. By the time the leaden hours of morning had passed the prisoner longed for the crank or the oakum basket, for something, anything to do to still his thoughts.

Warder Caine unlocked the door. Malone stopped pacing the eight steps that measured the length of his cell and looked up guiltily. Was pacing a ‘crime’ too? Would he be docked ‘good marks’ just for putting one foot before another?

Warder Caine said, ‘Do you want a pastor, six-seven-nine?’

‘What?’

‘Read my lips, you idiot. Do – you – want – a – cleric?’

‘Yes,’ Malone declared.

‘What are you?’

‘Number six-seven—’

‘Religious bloody persuasion, you idiot.’

‘Protestant.’

‘You can have a visit of ten minutes,’ said Warder Caine.

‘Is . . . am I . . . have I . . . earned it?’

‘You also get a mattress, two nights a week.’

Questions gushed into Malone’s mouth. How soon would he earn the next privilege? How long before he could have a visitor? Receive a letter? Be let out into the yard? He squeezed his lips tight; he had learned to say as little as possible in case he gave offence.

The chaplain was a retired minister of the Free Church who believed in punishment and in the expiation of guilt by servitude. It was not his business to convert the pagan or offer solace to souls in torment. God alone could do that. Nonetheless as a servant of God he would not deny a man, even a convicted felon, the right to raise up his spirit and seek union with Christ Jesus, mediator and saviour of all sinners. Reverend Grimmond found Malone, in tears, on his knees.

‘Are you
praying
?’

‘I – I canna pray, sir. I canna make the Lord hear me. Oh, Christ in Heaven, I need help to make my prayers rise through my unworthiness.’

‘No man is irredeemable.’

‘It’s not a man, sir; it’s a woman.’

Reverned Grimmond prided himself on being able to spot a charlatan at a thousand paces. But he was taken in by Daniel Malone, by the fact that he did not howl in mock contrition or try to wheedle favours out of him. Malone, it seemed, was gnawed by concern for his sister, a widow sick with ‘tubercoles’. Malone did not know if she was dead or alive. Reverend Grimmond sat on the bed, ordered Malone to kneel before him, put a hand on his bristle and prayed for him. He prayed for the Lord’s mercy and intervention, prayed for the Lord to lift the burden of guilt that tormented the soul of No. 679. Malone clung to him and – without overdoing it – thanked him profusely when the prayer was done.

The following Sunday Reverned Grimmond was again taken in and, one week later, he brought permission for No. 679 to write a letter – one page – under supervision and have it despatched to his sister’s address.

‘What’s her name?’

Warder Caine peered suspiciously over No. 679’s shoulder, admired the swiftness of his fist and the speed with which the pen capered over the coarse brown paper.

‘It’s Gusset.’

‘Gussie?’

‘Gusset, sir.’

‘Heh, like in drawers?’

‘She’s my sister, sir.’

‘Does she no’ wear drawers, then?’

‘She’s my sister,’ said Malone again.

‘Why are ye no’ writin’ to your wife?’

‘It’s my sister that’s sick, sir. It’s her I’m worried about.’

‘Got a chill in her whatnot, eh, no’ wearin’ drawers?’

Malone completed the letter. It was literate, properly spelled, and contained not one word that would damage the credibility of his story.

In due course a letter from Mrs Noreen Gusset was received at the prison office and examined before being taken down to No. 679’s cell and read aloud to the prisoner.

Malone knew that Noreen had not written the letter. In spite of her obvious attributes Noreen had never learned to read or write. He had, however, counted on her being smart enough to show the letter to somebody who would ‘get the message’ and was delighted to hear that the subterfuge had been sustained. Poor Noreen, said the missive, was on her last legs and might soon be summoned to meet her Maker.

Malone wept convincingly.

On a cold January day four weeks later, No. 679 was granted a fifteen-minute visit from his beloved sister.

He was escorted from his cell to the long hall where such meetings took place and had his first real chance to study the landscape of the prison.

The long table had two chairs at it. They were separated not only by the table’s width but by a fence of heavy wrought-iron which reared up from the oak surface to a height of four or five feet. A warder, stranger to Malone, was already stationed at one of the hall’s two doors. His arms were folded, his gaze steady and attentive. Warder Caine brought Malone to the chair, leered at Noreen, then retired to a chair by the entrance door where he sat with his sabre scabbard across his knees.

Noreen was wrapped in a ragged shawl. Apparently she was nursing a head cold. Her eyes were pink and her nose was running. She looked convincingly unwell and coughed raucously, like somebody in the last throes. As he seated himself Malone wondered what he had ever found attractive in the girl. He felt not the least regret at his enforced celibacy.

Softly, and without preamble, he said, ‘Who wrote the letter?’

‘Jamie.’

‘Jamie Dobbs?’

‘Aye.’

‘Where is he then, Noreen?’

‘Who? Jamie?’

‘You know who I mean.’

‘He joined the polis.’

‘Is he still in the Greenfield?’

‘Aye, at Ottawa Street.’

‘House?’

‘Canada Road, top end.’

‘Cough.’

‘What?’

‘Cough, damn it. You’re supposed to be dyin’.’

Noreen did her bit. On the first spasm the act became reality so that she choked and barked until the echoes of her distress filled the great bleak hall. She rocked back and forth, hands clutched to her breast. It was a full two minutes before she recovered.

Malone waited patiently until she regained her breath.

‘Tell Jamie I want him done,’ he said.

Wiping her eyes on the shawl, Noreen darted a scared glance at Warder Caine then inched the chair back from the table.

She licked her lips. ‘Jamie says – Jamie says he’ll no’ nobble a copper.’

‘He’ll get paid double.’

‘Jamie says it’s too bloody risky at any price.’

‘Tell him I said to do it.’

‘How’ll he get paid, but? Twelve year is a long time, Danny.’

‘
What?
’

Fist on the hilt of his sabre, Warder Caine stiffened and his colleague by the exit door unfolded his arms.

‘Vincent’ll no’ do it either,’ said Noreen. ‘Vincent says there’s been enough trouble wi’ the bloody blue boys.’

‘Billy’s brother?’ Malone hissed through clenched teeth.

Noreen shook her head. ‘Naw.’

‘Christ, after all I done for them.’

‘Vincent says you’ll just have t’ wait. Nobody’ll do it, Danny.’

Malone’s fist closed on the wrought-iron staves. Warder Caine’s voice rang out: ‘
Hands off.
’

Malone let go the iron and drew his hand back, closed the fingers into a fist in mid-air. Cowering, Noreen coughed again.

In a soft, soft voice Malone said, ‘They’ve wrote me off – am I right?’

‘Aye.’

‘All o’ them?’

‘Aye.’

‘Are you livin’ with Jamie?’

‘Aye.’

‘So they think I’m finished, do they?’

‘Aye, Danny.’

‘Well, I’m not.’

‘Danny, it’s—’

‘I’m bloody not.’

‘Danny—’

‘You tell them, Noreen. You tell them I’m no’ finished.’

‘Jamie says I’ve no’ to come here again.’

‘I don’t need the likes o’ them. An’ I don’t need you either.’

‘God, Danny! Can ye not—’

‘I’ll do it myself.’

‘Do what?’

‘Make certain he gets what’s comin’ to him, what he deserves.’

‘Danny, it’ll be twelve year—’

‘The devil it will. Stuff them. Stuff them all. I’ll be out o’ here soon, you mark my words.’

‘But how, Danny? How?’ cried Noreen.

Abruptly Malone got to his feet. He wrapped his arms over his face. Shoulders heaved with emotion. He made no attempt to touch his ‘sister’ on the other side of the fence. Even so, Warder Caine came clattering down the stone-flagged hall with his sabre out of its scabbard.

‘Oh, God! God!’ howled Daniel Malone. ‘Noreen, my Noreen!’

Still weeping in great grating paroxysms he was led away while the girl, dry-eyed and terrified, stared after until the door slammed.

Eleven days later No. 679 received another little concession – a straw-filled bolster – which indicated that he had progressed again. Within the month he was even favoured with a half hour’s exercise in the high-walled yard.

Walking round and round and round the cinder path, head hung and eyes alert, Daniel Malone searched for things that would help him to find an answer to Noreen’s final question, anything that would aid the planning of his inevitable escape.

‘It’s the time of year as much as anything,’ said Doctor Godwin.

‘Dampness and lack of ventilation account for so many conditions; and, of course, a general absence of cheerfulness.’

‘I’m cheerful enough, Doctor.’

‘I’m sure you are. Are you getting enough nourishment, Mrs Nicholson?’

‘I – I think so.’

‘Whole milk?’

‘I buy two pints every day.’

‘Not from Thom’s cart, I trust?’

‘From the Greenfield Dairy.’

‘Oh, that’s all right.’ Doctor Godwin rolled up the rubber sleeve that he had wrapped about her arm and inflated with a bulb. ‘I cannot find anything to suggest a problem. You’re certainly quite large in the cavity.’

Kirsty wished that he would keep his voice down. Only a wooden door separated the closet-like consulting-room from the crowded waiting-room. Men as well as women huddled miserably on the wooden benches out there and the thought of strangers sharing the details of her intimate condition made her cringe with embarrassment.