Going Rogue, page 5
part #2 of Tom Novak Series
‘Dare I ask what you did over there?’ Charlie raised his eyebrows.
‘They say I stabbed and paralysed a man. My lawyer is trying to get the warrant overturned. Do you ask everyone what crime they did?’
‘We all ask, David. Not everyone tells the truth and you’ll find that no-one is guilty, and everyone was fitted up. That’s prison: it’s full of innocent men.’ The man’s voice was light and almost feminine.
Tom snorted in amusement. ‘Are you an innocent man, Charlie?’
‘Not me, David. I’m guilty as sin. I accepted it a long time ago and I know I’m here for a long time.’
Tom faced Charlie. ‘Dare I ask what you did?’ he mimicked Charlie’s question.
‘I killed my wife,’ he said without a trace of emotion.
‘Why did you kill her?’
‘Because she got on my nerves, David. I’m a listener and most people consider me a nice man. However, it’s generally not a good idea to get on my nerves, as a few people have learnt in the last few years. It’s okay though: I haven’t hurt anyone for ages. I’m sure we’ll get along just fine and dandy.’
7
Charlie had been a successful banker working at a major investment firm when he had one day snapped, which had led to both his wife’s murder and his current incarceration. He was actually very good company; he was well-read and had many interests. He treated the prison regime with something approaching humour mixed with a little disdain. He showed no remorse whatsoever and clearly enjoyed helping fellow inmates who may have been struggling with their incarceration. He was a man of contradictions. Beneath his calm and apparently benevolent exterior, Tom could detect a core of steel and a ruthless edge that was reassuring and unsettling in equal amounts.
He offered Tom little advice on surviving prison other than, ‘Keep your head down but never back down, or the predators will never leave you alone.’
After chatting for an hour about everything and nothing Charlie pointed to a small bookshelf filled with books. ‘Do you have any reading material, David?’ he asked.
Tom shook his head.
Charlie ran his finger along the shelf of books before selecting one and looking at the cover. ‘Try this. Reading is the greatest escape from the madness.’ He gently handed the book across to him: a well-thumbed copy of Beau Geste. ‘It’s a wonderful boy’s own adventure that you, as an ex-soldier, should appreciate. Immerse yourself in that. Written in 1924 by Wren. It’s far better than the dreadful daytime TV most of my cell-mates rot their brains with.’
‘Thanks. Although I generally only read books that have an exploding helicopter on the cover,’ Tom smiled. ‘I’ll give this a try, though.’
Charlie settled on his bed with a voluminous and worn-looking doorstep of a book: Beyond Good and Evil by Friedrich Nietzsche. Tom had heard of the philosopher mainly because of a quote that an eccentric instructor used to bawl at them during commando training, “That which does not kill us makes us stronger.” It struck Tom once again that there was clearly more to Charlie than met the eye.
Turning Beau Geste over in his hands, he lay back on his bed and began to read.
Tom found himself absorbed in the story and was surprised to find the time passing with some speed. He was experienced enough in undercover operations to realise that, despite the urgency of the case, he couldn’t rush. He was locked in a cell until he could at least get a look at Lenny Smith.
He only had to wait for an hour before the general noise on the spur began to change and the crash and bangs of the cell doors being unlocked took over from the music and shouting.
‘Sounds like it’s mealtime and association, David. I wonder what concoctions chef has rustled up for us this evening?’ Charlie said with an ironic smile.
‘I don’t care. I’m hungry,’ Tom replied.
‘You may change your opinion once you see what’s on offer, old chap.’
‘I was in the Slovenian army; it won’t be that much of a shock.’
Charlie chuckled at this, then jumped to his feet with a surprising amount of athleticism. As Tom stood, he noted that the older man was quite short, no more than five foot five, but he carried himself with a lithe confidence that belied his age. He was dressed in maroon tracksuit bottoms, battered Nike trainers and a grey hoody and all of a sudden, he looked much younger.
‘Come on David. Let’s see what delights await us. Perhaps Chef has rustled up something gourmet this evening.’
Tom stood and followed the older man out of the cell and onto the landing. They descended to the ground floor, Charlie leading the way with other prisoners down the wrought-iron staircase to the ground floor and into the full-width landing, which housed a couple of pool tables as well as a number of chairs and small tables. The area was windowless and this, together with the thickly painted walls, chipped bars and gleamingly polished floor, seemed to reflect the permanent sense of claustrophobia back into the room.
‘This is where everyone on the spur gets together for association after food, if you’re interested in that. We will probably only get forty-five minutes today,’ Charlie said as they walked towards the dining hall.
A female officer opened the barred door that led into the dining hall and the prisoners all filed through. There was a general hubbub of conversation and laughter amongst the racially diverse group of inmates. Tom noted that, in the main, the black prisoners stood with the other black prisoners, and the white with the white, as they all joined the queue for food. The smells coming from the kitchen were surprisingly pleasant and Tom’s stomach rumbled, but when he got to the front of the queue, he quickly realised that his hopes of a tasty meal would be dashed. He presented his tray, which comprised recessed compartments for food, to the prisoner on the other side of the counter serving the food. A ladle of a grey, unidentifiable stew was deposited in one hollow followed by a dollop of wet-looking mashed potato and a slice of bread. As he moved along a spoonful of something resembling crumble and congealing custard was slopped into the remaining spot on the tray. Like all the other men he picked up a plastic bag that contained a breakfast pack containing cereal, apple and milk, to be consumed in the cell in the morning. He took a plastic mug and poured himself some tea from an urn at the end of the servery then followed Charlie to a table that was almost full.
They sat opposite each other and Tom noticed that the far end of the table was occupied by three black males, including the one he had spoken to at reception. All three were dressed in prison tracksuits, but two of them wore kufi caps. The biggest of the three, the one that Tom had spoken to earlier, looked across at Tom and Charlie and said something inaudible to his comrades. All three burst out laughing at the shared joke. Tom ignored them but could feel the trio’s eyes on him as he ate the bland, gristly stew.
‘I take it you know that the Muslim Brotherhood are staring at you, David. You’re not making enemies already, are you?’ asked Charlie.
‘Not that I know of. I had a mild exchange with the big one in the cap in reception.’
‘That’s Masood, also known as “Mad Max”,’ said Charlie. ‘Fancies himself as some kind of a jihadi. It’s eating him up that he’s not in the High Security Unit with the real extremists, but they are full to the brim with people far worse than him. He’s a bit of a bully, but he leaves me alone. He’s not long back on the spur from segregation for beating up some poor unfortunate sod. I think it’s only because he was at court today that they’ve let him back in here.’
‘Best I keep my distance, then. I don’t always see eye-to-eye with Muslims and I don’t need the hassle of being in seg,’ Tom replied, flatly.
‘What’s your problem with Islam?’
‘I have my reasons, Charlie. It’s because of a Muslim that I am in this situation now.’ Tom was careful how he spoke but judged that now was the time to start showing his hand just a little. He needed to display a little of his anti-Muslim legend, even if it meant some confrontation in the short term.
‘I’d be careful you’re not heard talking like that. There are a few Muslims on the spur. Live and let live is my watchword, and you’d do well to follow that yourself.’
Tom shrugged and continued eating his tasteless mash. Moving on to the crumble, he discovered that it was all crumble and no fruit. He still ploughed on and consumed everything on his tray, aware of the fact that he would need the calories.
As he sipped his tea, he spotted Lenny Smith at the back of the queue, tray in hand. An officer stood nearby, watching him closely. Lenny was average height, thin—almost emaciated—and with cropped blond hair. He was about thirty years old and he looked ill. He had sunken cheeks and waxy skin with dark circles around his eyes. His sweatshirt sleeves were pushed up over his elbows displaying a full-sleeve tattoo.
The “Muslim Brotherhood” spotted Smith at the same time and all stared unflinchingly at him and began hissing insults under their breath. All Tom could make out was ‘Kuffar Pig’ from the muttering.
‘What’s the story there, Charlie?’ Tom asked nodding towards Smith and the three black men.
‘That’s Lenny. He’s the mosque bomber from a short while ago. He has a PO with him most of the time as he’s a marked man. He refused to go rule forty-three with the nonces and they can’t put him on the HSU as he’d get slaughtered by the real jihadis up there. He’s no threat: as you can see, he’s weak and dying of cancer. I think he’s only just got back from the hospital wing. I would steer clear of him, if I were you. He’s an evil son-of-a-bitch, who killed dozens and injured more.’
Most of the eyes in the room seemed to be fixed on Smith with a mix of admiration, loathing and indifferent curiosity. To Tom, he looked quite a pathetic character. He was pale, skinny and looked sick and defeated.
He shuffled along the serving line then walked off with his tray out of the dining room with the officer in close proximity.
‘He always eats in his cell and he doesn’t have a pad-mate at the moment. They’re worried he’ll get ripped to shreds and they want him tried and convicted before the cancer gets him. I think it’s going to be a close race looking at the state of him.’ Charlie spoke without emotion.
‘Does he ever get out of his cell at association or into the yard?’ Tom asked.
‘Sometimes. He makes the odd phone call and I think I saw him play pool with one of the far-right crowd a while ago. But he mostly stays in his cell.’
Tom didn’t reply; there was no benefit in trying to make contact at that moment. Rushing would be counter-productive and would certainly be suspicious, so Tom decided that he’d just have to bide his time.
‘How do I get to make a phone call?’ Tom asked.
‘You’ll need to get a PIN which they’ll probably sort you out with tomorrow during induction. You’ll have to give them a list of numbers that they can clear you for calls. It may take a few days.’
‘How about canteen?’
‘Depends. Did you have any money with you when you got booked in?’
‘About forty pounds.’
‘They will credit that to your account so you will be able to buy phone minutes and canteen then.’
Tom thought this through. It definitely looked like he would be totally isolated until he could get a PIN number or one of the team came to visit him posing as a lawyer for a “legal visit”. He’d just have to be patient.
He stood up. ‘I’m heading back up to the cell. I’m tired.’
‘No association?’ Charlie asked, raising his eyebrows.
‘Not today. I’ll think about it tomorrow; see you in a bit.’ He walked off and out of the dining room and past the pool tables where “Mad Max” and his cronies were playing a game. He felt all three sets of eyes on him as he walked past, their sniggers following him across the room. Tom almost sauntered, displaying no fear and no intimidation; he felt neither as he walked back to his cell.
8
The following couple of days were extremely tedious and boring. The prison officers seemed to be permanently short-staffed, so Tom and the other prisoners seemed to be locked up for most of the day, only getting out for a short stretch in the caged yard or for two of the day’s meals. Tom spent most of his time reading various tomes lent to him by Charlie, who was also happily absorbed in books.
Tom found the noise hard to come to terms with. It was an unrelenting cacophony of rap music and shouting between cells, particularly as there had been little association time between inmates. There was also a permanent acrid odour in the air; Tom guessed it was Spice, the synthetic cannabis that was ripping the heart out of prisons. He had seen the pasty-faced, trembling “Spice-heads” always searching for their next fix, moving from cell to cell in search of the weed-like substance. Most of the dealing seemed to be organised by “Mad Max,” the large muscular prisoner that Charlie had warned him about. Tom wondered, sardonically, where the dealing of the drug sat with his Islamic faith and learnt a little more from Charlie about the prison drug trade.
‘They’ve got a captive market in here. They are making far more here than they could on the outside and it’s turning the unfortunate addicts into zombies. I’m told that it’s more addictive than heroin. The irony is that most of the addicts took it to avoid giving positive urine tests from smoking weed. This place would have been better for letting them get stoned on weed than smoking Spice and rotting their brains.’
Tom and Charlie were both lying on their beds reading when there was the rattle of a key in the cell door and a general change in the level of buzz on the spur.
‘Lunch time, ladies. Then you’ve got an hour and a half’s association. Don’t say we don’t look after you,’ bellowed a prison officer called Mr Ashraf, a burly Asian man with a huge stomach and a bristling, walrus-like moustache. Tom hadn’t seen too much of him around the spur, other than one occasion when he had noticed him chatting conspiratorially with “Mad Max” and his cohorts.
As Tom filed along the gangway, he reflected that being incarcerated for about twenty hours a day had stopped him finding a way to get closer to Smith. He was fast coming to the conclusion that, unless there was more association time, his plan was not going to work.
It turned out that he was wrong.
The inmates filed through to the dining hall to queue at the servery. There was a generally good-natured babble of conversation amongst the inmates, all clearly glad to be out of their cells.
Tom felt a subtle shift in the atmosphere as Mad Max and his two cronies entered the dining hall, sullen expressions on their faces. Something was up: Tom could feel it in the air. The Marines in Afghanistan referred to it as a “combat indicator”, others called it a “sixth sense”, but Tom knew it was a feeling generally rooted in perceived facts. Mad Max and his cronies carried themselves with their usual arrogant nonchalance, bumping fists with a few selected inmates, but there was something different in how they carried themselves. Their usual braggadocio was present, but it was also emboldened by a detectable sense of purpose. They were looking for trouble, that was for sure.
The atmosphere shifted once more as Lenny Smith shuffled into the room and over to the line, escorted by Mr Ashraf. Mad Max and his cohorts fired looks of hatred at Smith. Nobody made a move, however; the presence of Ashraf gave Smith a degree of protection. Smith stared, blank-eyed, straight ahead, not giving anyone any eye contact as he edged forward with the other prisoners in the queue. He looked thin, frail and sick.
Tom collected his tray of food and sat at the nearest table with Charlie to eat the unappetising fare. A chewy, unidentifiable meat of some sort combined with boiled potatoes and peas that were hard as bullets. A cup of tea and a fruit yoghurt completed the meal.
He looked across the hall and noted that Smith had not gone back to his cell to eat but had instead been guided by Ashraf to the end of one of the long tables. Tom watched as Smith shovelled the food slowly into his mouth whilst staring straight ahead, giving no eye contact to anyone, the officer standing close by.
Rather than sit down to eat, Mad Max and his crew just grabbed a piece of fruit and a hot drink each and then filed back towards the pool tables and association area, no longer paying any attention to Smith.
Tom stood and said to Charlie, ‘I’m going to see if my phone PIN works before everyone else goes for the phones after lunch.’ In reality, he wanted to keep a close eye on Max and his crew. With Ashraf guarding Smith he saw no threat in the dining hall, but he had an inkling that something could still be about to go down.
‘Enjoy, old boy,’ said Charlie, cheerfully.
Tom had received his phone PIN number the previous day once his funds had cleared into his prisoner account. He had been required to give notice of his intended numbers; a formality for all prisoners as the authorities did not want prisoners to be able to call victims and witnesses from prison. He only had one number on his list, a seemingly innocuous London landline number that would connect him to Buster, his sole point of contact in the outside world. He left the dining hall and walked to the association area on the ground floor where a line of three phones was attached to the wall adjacent to the pool table. Max and his cronies were racking up the balls on the pool table in preparation for a game, and they eyed Tom with disdain as he walked past them. Tom paid them no attention beyond keeping a peripheral check on their location.
Each phone had a large grey plastic hood hanging over it to afford some degree of privacy to callers. Tom lifted the receiver, entered his PIN number, and then dialled. He knew from experience that when the call was answered the recipient would hear an automated message announcing that they were being called from Belmarsh and asking them whether they wished to answer. After a short while the phone clicked in his ear and he recognised Buster’s chirpy cockney voice. ‘Can I help you?’
‘Buster,’ said Tom. As he was alone at the phones and couldn’t be overheard, he knew he could speak freely. Despite what many of the public tend to think, prison phone calls were not routinely intercepted unless authorised by a very senior police officer who still had to provide a very good reason for the invasion of the privacy of the prisoner and whoever he was calling.
