The Sinner Page 2

  The police were winning. It was an uneven fight. They found positions, attempted to pick off anyone who came at them. Foley’s men were reckless and young, brought up on a diet of video games and self-aggrandisement. They believed they were the indestructible heroes of their own stories. The officers, guns used sparingly, clinically, were proving them wrong. Foley’s men were the cannon fodder.

  Some of them ran back to their cars, tried to get away. They wouldn’t get far. The police had stationed cars at all the exits to the estate. Armed response officers alongside.

  As the fighting died down, Mick and Foley reached the BMW. Mick opened the hatchback boot and lugged a protesting, kicking, swearing Foley inside where the duffle bag had previously been.

  ‘You put me in here where you’d put a fucking dog? Would you?’

  Mick ignored him.

  Foley stopped shouting. He calmed slightly, panting from the exertion. Started asking questions.

  ‘So you’re law, are you, Mick? Fucking law? Since when?’

  ‘Since always,’ said Mick, getting behind the wheel and shutting the door.

  ‘What the fuck?’ Foley still had difficulty comprehending what he was hearing. ‘You’re my right-hand man, Mick. We did all this together. You’ve been with me fucking ages. How can you be law?’

  ‘Because that was my job. I played the long game, Dean.’

  Foley fell silent. When he spoke his voice was more reflective. ‘Was it worth it? All the shit you’ve done? That we’ve done together? Brothers in fucking arms, was it worth it?’

  Mick didn’t answer.

  Foley’s voice took on a plaintive tone. ‘I trusted you, Mick. I trusted you . . .’

  Mick couldn’t reply, couldn’t listen to any more. It sounded, if Mick concentrated hard enough, as though the man was almost crying.

  He locked the car, walked towards the lorry, pulled a red bandana out of his jacket pocket, the previously agreed sign to mark him as police.

  Bodies everywhere. Mainly Foley’s men, but a couple of police officers had been wounded beyond the reach of their body armour.

  He found the duffel bag. It was where it had been left along with the block of cocaine. He stood beside it. It was clear to see who had won.

  ‘He’s in the BMW,’ he said to an armed uniformed officer striding over to him. ‘What’s the damage?’

  ‘Couple of them badly injured, couple of fatalities. The rest have either run or given themselves up.’

  Mick nodded. ‘Good night’s work.’ Then remembered something. ‘There was a girl in one of the cars. Where’s she?’

  Sadness always looked worse on the face of a professional. ‘Driver tried to get away, sir. Looks like she was in the line of fire. Got hit running, apparently.’

  ‘Who by? Who hit her?’

  ‘Don’t know, sir. Stray bullet, probably.’

  ‘What’s happened to her?’

  ‘Sorry sir, did you know her?’

  Mick’s heart skipped a beat. Then another. His legs became water. He didn’t answer. ‘Get an ambulance, get her seen to . . .’

  He tried to run over to where she had been. The officer tried to push him back.

  ‘You don’t want to see, sir. Believe me. It’s a mess.’

  Others joined the officer, kept Mick away from the girl’s body. He fought them all the way but they were too many for him. Eventually the adrenaline rush subsided. His shoulders slumped. He felt defeated.

  ‘Was she important to you, sir?’ said the first officer.

  ‘My niece. And she shouldn’t have been here. She wasn’t supposed to be here.’

  ‘I’m very sorry sir.’ The officer looked around. He was being called. ‘Excuse me sir. I’m needed over there.’

  Mick didn’t know whether he had replied to him or not. He just stood there, staring at the carnage. Ambulances were arriving now, their flashing lights adding to the chaos all around. He walked away, back to where he’d left the duffle bag. Stood beside it once more. Looked down at it.

  He felt so, so tired.

  Of everything.

  1

  Now

  He was on the wrong side of the door. And he hated it.

  Movement buffeted him from side to side. He tried to stay still. The room was small, less than one metre all round, and he could easily touch the walls if he wanted to. He didn’t. Previous occupants had left their mark in several ways: mucus smeared on all surfaces, graffiti, hardened phlegm on the plexiglass door. Other, darker smears and trails. And the smells: sweat – yes obviously, that’s where the name of the vehicle, the sweatbox, came from – shit, piss. Like the worst broken down lift in the worst tower block in the world. He thought of all the diseases the room might harbour. Then tried to forget it. Couldn’t.

  There was a gap under the door where a drink could be slid in if he was thirsty. Or a box if he needed to urinate. Beyond that, he was on his own.

  But not alone. Another man either side of him, another three men opposite them. Each in his own little room. Unable to talk to each other, almost unable to think, the driver having pushed Kiss FM up to near earbleed levels. A small act of sadism or something to keep the driver awake? He didn’t know. But he could guess.

  The sweatbox, a miniature jail on wheels, moved through the night.

  He knew where he was going. That didn’t make the journey any more endurable. His destination was just as bad. Worse, even. Not for the first time he wished he was home. Or the place he was learning to call home. Building his new life, working on his future. And he could go back to doing that. As long as he did this one thing. And it worked out. Simple.

  He shook his head. Yeah. Simple.

  The sweatbox juddered, shook, turned to the left. He tried to look out of the window, twisting his body nearly ninety degrees to do so. No use. Couldn’t make anything out. The glass, or the night, too dark. But he had a feeling they would be arriving soon. He sat back, tried to think about anything other than where he was, where he was going. And more importantly, tried not to touch anything.

  It didn’t take long to reach his destination. He may have nodded off, although given the circumstances he didn’t know how. He jolted forwards as the sweatbox came to a standstill. Then remained still, trying to listen for anything above the blare of the radio.

  Nothing.

  The sweatbox pulled forwards again, came to its final resting place. The radio was silenced. The ringing in his ears was deafening. He waited. It wouldn’t be long now.

  He was wrong. He sat there for nearly an hour before anyone came for him. He heard voices, the other men in their cells, trying to talk to one another, size each other up, glean information, explore camaraderie, even. With varying degrees of success. He listened, but didn’t join in.

  Then his door was opened. A prison officer stood there, big and doughy, stretching his uniform, the seedy yellow light in the van making him look like a rancid marshmallow.

  ‘Come on, then. Haven’t got all night.’

  He picked up the four big plastic bags, made his way out of the cell. Followed the officer along the van’s narrow corridor and down the steps to the outside world. The air hit him. So cold it woke him immediately. He looked around, tried to make out his surroundings. Saw only dark grey stone against grey sky. Floodlights lit the way towards a door.

  ‘You’ll have plenty of time to admire the view,’ the officer said, pushing him forwards.

  He gave no resistance, went where he was instructed.

  He was marched through to a holding cell. Inside was a row of plastic chairs. Five men sat on them, trying not to touch each other. The others from the sweatbox, he assumed. He sat down on the nearest chair, dropped his bags in front of him. The door clanged shut as the officer left, the key turning in the lock. He hoped he wouldn’t have to get used to that sound. He sat back, head against the wall. Processing. He knew the procedure. Make as little fuss as possible, try to get a cell to himself.

  He didn’t know
how long he was kept there. Time moved at a different rate inside prison. The artificial light told him nothing. Could have been morning by now. Or even afternoon.

  The man next to him kept looking at him, attempting eye contact, wanting to talk. He ignored him. The man persisted.

  ‘Nice reception committee, innit?

  ‘I mean I’ve had worse,’ the man continued, oblivious to his silence. ‘First time in this nick?’

  He gave only the slightest of nods.

  The other man took that as encouragement. ‘Not that bad, really. Not as bad as it used to be, anyway. Jesus, should have been here then . . .’

  He looked at the talking man. Small, grey-haired, features like carved, well-oiled leather. Eyes that weighed odds, made calculations, did deals while he spoke. The speaking, he now saw, just a cover for thinking.

  The man looked at him. ‘Clive,’ he said.

  He didn’t answer. Clive smiled.

  ‘Right, I get it. One of those silent types. Fine by me, mate. We all have our own way of coping.’ He kept looking at him. Kept smiling. ‘Mind you, with that hair and that beard, they should call you Thor.’

  He almost smiled at that. It was true he had let his hair and beard grow, and that the sun had lightened it a little. But Thor? That was a stretch. The key turned in the lock. The door opened.

  ‘You’re up.’ Clive nodded as the officer beckoned.

  He picked up his plastic bags, followed. The door clanged shut behind him. He was escorted to a reception desk. He stood, bags in hand, before the desk, waiting to be spoken to.

  The officer behind the desk looked like she had never smiled in her life. Or had used up her supply long before she’d met him. Hair scraped back from her face, uniform rendering her neither masculine not feminine. She stared at him, her gaze stern.

  ‘Name?’ A question that sounded like a statement.

  ‘Tom Killgannon.’

  She looked up at him once more. ‘Welcome to HMP Blackmoor, Killgannon.’

  2

  ‘We don’t like doing this either, if that’s any consolation.’

  It wasn’t. Tom had been taken to yet another room, told to strip naked by the prison officer, and searched. His bags had been gone through thoroughly, his personal items examined in minute detail. The officers had stopped at the photos, scrutinised the images, scrutinised him in turn. Guessing relationships, keeping judgements to themselves for now. Mentally filing the images away as potential leverage at a later date. It was intrusive, having his life dismantled and put on show, but nothing compared with what was to come.

  ‘Take a seat,’ the officer said, pointing to the BOSS chair. The Body Orifice Scanner.

  Tom had heard about this and had dreaded experiencing it for himself. Grey and functional looking, it was a full body scanner that checked every cavity for contraband. Humiliating in the extreme, but he had no choice but to submit.

  ‘I’ve got nothing to hide,’ said Tom.

  ‘Then you’ve nothing to worry about.’

  The chair was switched on. It was something Tom hoped he would never have to endure again.

  The experience over, he was told to get dressed and take a seat. He was tired, ready for whatever sleep he could get, but no one seemed in any particular hurry. He sat. The officer opposite him picked up a file from his desk, opened it. He was tall, grey-haired. Thin, with large glasses and a mournful expression. He looked more like a funeral director or an unsuccessful dentist than a prison officer. There was no cruelty about him, no harshness. Just a tired professionalism. Then the questions started.

  ‘Where’ve you come from?’

  He had decided to answer questions as monosyllabically as possible. Inmates tried different things when they first arrived. Some played hard, set themselves up as a challenge, tried to intimidate. Others went for cocky, unbreakable. Some, especially the older hands, tried to be chummy with the officers at first, make themselves seem likeable, get privileges in the bank. Tom gave little of himself away. Let them come to him if they wanted something.

  ‘Where’ve you come from?’

  ‘HMP Long Lartin.’

  ‘How long you in for?’

  ‘Two years.’

  ‘How long you got left?’

  ‘Eighteen months.’

  ‘What level were you on?’

  ‘Enhanced. Yeah. I worked for my privileges. Don’t intend to lose them.’

  The officer read the rest of the file in front of him. Tom waited silently. Eventually the officer looked up. ‘You’ll do all right here, probably. Keep your head down, your nose clean. All of that.’

  Tom inclined his head to demonstrate he’d heard and understood.

  The officer closed the file, studied Tom. ‘How did you get on in your last prison?’

  ‘Should be all there in the report.’

  ‘It is, but I want your opinion.’

  ‘Fine,’ said Tom, talking as if words were difficult, precious things to extract from him.

  ‘No problems with other inmates? Officers?’

  ‘Don’t think so. Unless someone’s said anything I don’t know about.’

  ‘No.’ The officer opened the file once more. ‘Model prisoner. Says here you’re well-educated but you didn’t want to go to education classes.’

  ‘Couldn’t see the need. I’ve done all that stuff. Didn’t want to do art either. Not good at drawing. Or creative writing . . . I don’t like making up stories.’ The irony, thought Tom.

  ‘So you ended up working in the laundry. Why was that?’

  ‘I like wearing clean clothes.’

  The officer sat back, studied Tom once more. Took in his hair, beard. The tattoos poking out from his rolled up sweatshirt sleeves. The way Tom held his body, still but not relaxed, like an engine at rest.

  ‘If I may say so,’ said the officer, voice dropping, ‘you don’t seem like many of the men we get in here. I’m not saying you don’t belong because clearly you do, otherwise you wouldn’t be here.’

  The statement seemed to invite a response so Tom gave a small shrug.

  ‘It says in your file that you committed assault.’

  ‘That’s what it says.’

  ‘A troublesome customer in the pub where you worked.’

  ‘You know all this. Why are you asking?’

  The officer looked up from his notes. Smiled. Tom’s first question. A breakthrough.

  ‘I just want your opinion on what happened, that’s all.’

  Tom shrugged once more. ‘Lairy customer got a bit too handsy with the boss. Needed putting in place, that was all.’

  ‘And that’s the way you see it, is it?’

  ‘What other way is there?’

  ‘Well according to the trial notes, this lairy customer, as you describe him . . .’ He verbally placed quotation marks around the words ‘. . . was attempting to rape your boss. He had followed her outside to the back of the pub, pinned her up against the wall and was attempting to sexually assault her when you happened upon them.’

  ‘Yeah. That’s right.’

  The officer regarded Tom over the tops of his glasses. Like peering out from behind a shield. ‘Should have got a medal, really.’

  Tom shrugged. ‘He needed to be taught a lesson.’

  ‘Which is where, it says here, it stepped over the line to assault.’ The officer nodded. His tone became warmer, conciliatory. ‘Thin line, that. Very thin. Better barrister, different judge in a different mood on another day . . . there but for the grace of God, isn’t it?’

  Tom said nothing.

  ‘Anyway, you’re here now. My advice? Make the best of it.’

  Tom nodded.

  ‘Just another couple of questions before I send you along to the medical department. Have you had any suicidal thoughts since you’ve been in prison?’

  ‘No.’

  ‘Dark thoughts? Depression?’

  ‘I’m on anti-depressants. Long term.’

  ‘Ar
e they working?’

  Tom shrugged. ‘Still here, aren’t I?’

  ‘Mental health’s a big problem inside. If you feel you can’t cope or you need someone to talk to, speak to your personal officer. He’ll introduce himself on the wing tomorrow.’

  Tom gave a small nod.

  ‘Anything else?’

  ‘I want a cell to myself.’

  The officer smiled. ‘Don’t hold your breath.’

  Tom nodded.

  The officer wrote something in the file, closed it. ‘Right, that’s you done. Off you go to medical. Best of luck.’

  *

  He sat in his cell, on the bed, staring at the wall. It was painted a shade of yellow that looked like a dying, sick sun. The door, huge and riveted, took up most of one wall. On the opposite wall was a barred window, the plexiglass strips, pitted and melted from cigarette burns, gave only the barest of openings to stop inmates from stringing a line from cell to cell in order to pass contraband or reaching through to take whatever had been brought in by drone. The bed was against one wall, opposite that was a cheap table with a small, greasy-screened TV, a plastic chair, a metal, seat-free toilet and matching metal basin. His bags sat on the floor, unopened.

  Whoever had lived in the place before him hadn’t been one for cleaning. The floors were dirty, the walls smeared. It stank. That would be one task he would have to undertake immediately.

  Medical had presented no problems. He had been passed fit and healthy, ready for work or education. After that he was given his non-smokers welcome pack – a small carton of orange squash and a few cheap biscuits – and directed to his cell. But not before his allocated phone call.

  One call, a duration of two minutes, then cut off whether he had finished or not. Made from the wing phone with everyone else around, not knowing who was listening, both in the vicinity and beyond. Knowing someone could use your words against you if they wanted to. Choose carefully who you want to talk to, what you want to say, he had been advised. Make every second count. He should call Lila. Tell her he was OK. Not to worry. Or Pearl, even. But both of those calls would have to be longer than two minutes. Infinitely longer. And full of things he couldn’t say. Instead he dialled another number, one he had learned by heart.