Broken Places (14 page)

He had soon lost all sense of direction, as they crossed several other bleak and chilly yards and proceeded through a further series of doors. Progress was necessarily slow, since Sam had to unlock each door, then lock it again behind them. Finally, they found themselves inside, although the harsh, colourless surroundings of the prison proved little less daunting than the intimidating yards, with their razor-wire and lowering walls.

Then he came upon the cells and froze; the row upon row of small locked doors evoking another flood of memories.
He
had been incarcerated when he’d run away from Grove End; hauled back after just two hours and condemned to ‘solitary’. Never to this day, had he forgotten the sheer terror of not knowing if he would ever be released; his mounting claustrophobia as he paced his own small ‘cell’; the sense of utter powerlessness as his panic-stricken cries echoed through empty space and he began to fear that the other kids had all been evacuated, and he was the sole prisoner in the huge, hostile torture-house.

Sam was chatting to him affably as they continued along the corridor, although he scarcely heard a word. By opening up to Mandy, he’d
crash-landed
back into childhood and seemed unable to escape its dark, entangling coils. Swapping denial for disclosure had plunged him into turmoil, undermined his defences, left him disturbingly out of control.

Indeed, everything he witnessed here seemed another grim reminder of Grove End. The group of prisoners, queuing for their evening meal of stodgy stew and dumplings, jolted him straight back to the dining-room the first day he arrived. He could hardly believe the uproar: aggressive kids engaged in fisticuffs, and even chucking food across the room. Then, more
commotion as the staff weighed in with shouts and threats, only to be defied by one recalcitrant little tyke. He’d sat cowed and silent, as a much older lad, Hussein, kept viciously kicking his legs throughout the meal. And, even when he was used to the chaos, it had been difficult to eat much, because the bigger boys would either nick his food or bait him for being small and shy. In fact, throughout his childhood, he’d felt continually ravenous, although even if he had munched non-stop, no amount of food would have ever filled the hole. Once, he had even sneaked to the local shop and bought himself three large, crusty loaves; gobbled the lot in one famished feeding-frenzy, yet still felt empty inside.

‘There are five wings in all,’ Sam was explaining, ‘each with four
landings
and all built to the same plan. The Vulnerable Prisoners’ Unit is separate, with its own library and its own prisoner orderly, and it also has a book club, very similar to ours. But I’m afraid I won’t have a chance to take you there, as we’re already pressed for time.’

‘That’s OK,’ said Eric, again frantically attempting to haul himself back to the present. But the mention of the Vulnerable Prisoners’ Unit set off new disquiet. That unit housed mainly sex-offenders and, as a kid growing up in care, he’d come in for his share of sexual molestation, not only by the older boys but by ancient Uncle Frank. Christ, he thought, Uncle Frank might actually be
here
; arrested, at long last, and serving his sentence a matter of mere yards away! Not that he’d ever shopped the bloke – indeed, never admitted to a single soul what had transpired between the pair of them. He’d felt far too guilty, too embarrassed; feared people might imagine he’d liked the things he did with Frank, when in truth he had detested every minute.

It wasn’t easy to say no, however, because the weird old guy was kind, not cruel; gave him sweets and even money, and took him for long rides in his big, black, fancy car. And he always kept his promises, whether it was taking him to a football match, or buying him new books for Christmas. He never turned up late, as other grown-ups did, or forgot to
buy
the presents, like his foster-mum and dad. He wasn’t a real uncle, of course; just someone who had once waylaid him when he was walking back from school. None the less, he was the only person in the world who actually listened to his every word; gave him undivided attention, so that he would almost feel like a kid who mattered – at least before the dirty stuff began.

Sometimes, though, he’d felt so ashamed of that dirty stuff, he had longed to confess to Alison, or even to his social worker, and get Uncle
Frank sent packing. Then the creepy man wouldn’t lie in wait for him and coax him into his car. But they were bound to say he was lying, if only to protect themselves from blame.
They
had all the power, and often used to twist his words to mean something else entirely, such as ‘trouble’ or ‘
attention-seeking
’. Besides, if the other kids should ever get to hear, he would be called a poof and a pervert and bullied even more.

Of course, when he’d left the home, he could have gone public and sought recompense, reprisals, but he had never once considered it. The word ‘abuse’ labelled you a victim; kept you chained for ever to the past. And it was much the same with therapy. Why rehearse such shaming incidents, dig them up again, pick off the healing scabs that, mercifully, had begun to form? Wiser far to block the whole thing out; pretend it hadn’t happened and get on with life as best he could. And that strategy had succeeded, more or less, until just three days ago, so now he cursed himself for departing from his lifelong habit of drawing a prudent veil across the past.

‘When they first arrive, the men are sent to E-wing, for assessment. And that gives them a chance to find their feet before they’re moved to another wing.’

Sam’s words were both a rebuke and a reminder: a rebuke because he was miles away – once more – and a salutary reminder that he was here for the sake of the prisoners; not to obsess about himself. Indeed, he was well aware how many of these inmates shouldn’t have been banged up in the first place: psychotics, schizophrenics, drug addicts, ex-servicemen – maybe even sex-offenders, in some cases. He knew as well as anyone that a quarter of the prison population had been in care as kids, and nearly half of the under-twenty-ones. Didn’t that speak volumes in itself? – one injustice added to another. And the systems had things in common: a lack of cash, overworked or uncaring staff, a whole raft of often irrational rules and a culture of abuse. Children’s homes and prisons were both closed and secret worlds, full of misery, frustration and thwarted, wasted lives. He burned to reform both systems, yet how the hell would one puny individual ever have the power?

As they passed the last straggle of prisoners collecting trays of food, he was uncomfortably aware that he and Sam were the object of close scrutiny. Several of the men were casting them distrustful glances; a mixture of
resentment
and hostility. And was it any wonder? They must always feel a sense of envy, if not bitterness, towards those lucky sods who could control their own existences and come and go as they pleased. He’d felt much the same
towards the kids at school who weren’t shut up in institutions where every aspect of their lives was strictly regulated, and escape was near-impossible.

A couple of prison officers were standing by the servery and only now did he notice how prominent their keys were; a constant reminder to the inmates that, given one false move, they could be locked up even longer than usual. Again, he was struck by the absence of colour: the men mostly wearing drab or muted clothes; the staff in sober black and white; the walls a dingy cream; the floor a nondescript beige. He now regretted having worn his yellow sweater, which seemed crassly bright in so sombre an environment.

‘Of course, many of the men come to Wandsworth just to be
categorized
,’ Sam was explaining now, as they continued along the corridor. ‘Then they’re sent off to a different gaol. Very few stay longer than six months – which makes it hard to run the book club.’

Before Eric could reply, he was startled by the sound of thrashing wings. A pigeon had been trapped in the confining space and was flying frantically from wall to wall in its effort to get out. However, it was simply banging into things and becoming still more disoriented.
He
had been the same, he thought, when he’d tried to run away again – this time from a second home, called, ironically, The Haven – only to be punished with even more
restrictions
.

Sam ignored the bird completely, as if used to desperate creatures pitting themselves against implacable odds. Besides, they had now reached the library, at last – a true oasis, compared with what they’d seen so far: well lit and brightly painted, with the consoling presence of books on every side.

‘Where shall I put this?’ Eric asked, indicating the crate.

‘Oh, just here on this desk. And thanks a lot for bringing the books.’

‘Well, these are just some extras for the group. I’ve sorted out a selection of stock for the library, which will be coming by van, as usual – a good sixty or so, I’d guess. And I chose things that Abi suggested: crime novels, of course, but also poetry collections and books on chess, and arts and crafts, and travel books and …’ It had struck him as poignant that these caged and corralled men should travel in their minds to far-flung lands.

‘Sounds great! So many books go missing, new supplies are more than welcome. We must lose up to fifty every week. I suspect most of them are just lying around in the cells, but no one’s got the time to do a search. Besides, a good few of the officers regard books as an unnecessary privilege, so they’re hardly likely to waste precious manpower trying to track them down.’

Eric had heard about the problem of bolshie prison officers, who might refuse to escort the men from their cells to attend the book club meetings, either from laziness or spite, or because they opposed the library on
principle
. His natural instinct was to crack down on such conduct; become more involved in general, so that he could sit in on prison-management meetings and argue the prisoners’ case, but he just didn’t have the authority, alas.

‘Coffee for you, Eric?’ Sam had moved to a small office at the back, and was bustling about filling the kettle and searching for clean mugs.

‘Thanks. Two sugars, please.’

‘Then I’m going to have to leave you for a while. I didn’t know I’d be helping out this evening, so I need to do a few things first, to get myself prepared. Is that OK with you?’

‘Yes, fine.’

He was relieved, in fact, to be alone, so that he could rehearse his little spiel. He wanted to explain to the group his hopes of raising money to fund a writer-in-residence, as well as author-visits – a crime-writer, he felt, would go down rather well. Then, he’d outline his plan (already worked out with Stella) of supplying children’s books for those men who were fathers, to send to their kids back home.

Yet, as he sipped his coffee, his mind refused to stay on books and authors, but kept straying back to Mandy. Although she had expressed her admiration for him, she might have been hiding her true feelings, out of pity or good manners. And, anyway, that initial admiration might well have changed already to disquiet or dismay. After all, even many liberal people regarded kids who grew up in care as feckless, unreliable and basically
inferior
. And foundlings were worse still; considered in past ages the lowest of the low – shameful bastards, resulting from their mother’s ‘sin’. And, even in these enlightened times, illegitimacy remained a stigma. Besides, what about her family? Might
they
not hate the thought of her consorting with a rootless man, who might be carrying ‘bad’ genes, the son of a criminal, a hooker, or a junkie?

Of course, he hadn’t breathed a word about the sordid sexual stuff, for fear Mandy might well shrink from any further contact with someone ‘tainted’ and ‘polluted’. Yet that was another problem in itself. Concealing something so significant hardly squared with his deep longing to be totally upfront with her and become her genuine soulmate. Or was that just an empty dream now? Perhaps he’d ruined his own chances of any continuing relationship by revealing even a fraction of his past. And those awful things
he’d said about being a common little brat, engaged in petty crime, seemed increasingly misguided if his aim was to impress her.

He jumped as Sam came back in, jolting him back from his obsessive thoughts for the umpteenth time this evening. He’d vowed
not
to think of Mandy, yet here he was, failing once again in his duty towards the prison and the group.

Sam, too, seemed less than happy. ‘Now Linda’s been delayed,’ he said, frowning in annoyance. ‘The men will be here in just five minutes, yet she’s stuck in traffic, would you believe? So, what I think we’d better do is
introduce
you first and have you chat to them about your plans, then move on to the book club proper, once she actually arrives. Any objections, Eric?’

‘None at all.’ He was actually glad to be put on the spot, since that might concentrate his mind, at last. He’d behaved woefully, so far; present in body only; not in mind or spirit; his normal strict professionalism scattered to the winds.

‘I’ll just prepare the coffee for the men. We’re expecting ten this evening. Some of them will know each other, but three are new to the group – Stewart, Craig and Terry – so perhaps you’d keep an eye out for them.’

‘Of course.’

Hardly had Sam returned to his back-office to fill the kettle and find more mugs, when an officer appeared, accompanying a skinny, dark-haired man, dressed soberly in jeans and a grey sweatshirt.

With a curt nod in Eric’s direction, the warder turned on his heel and disappeared, leaving the man standing stiffly at the door.

Eric went over and introduced himself. ‘Are you one of the newcomers?’ he asked, with a friendly smile.

‘No, I’ve been at least three times. Though I can’t say I’ve seen
you
before.’

The tone was wary, even hostile, but Eric was used to that. The reading groups he ran also had their share of members who needed time to thaw. Having asked the fellow’s name (Kevin), he tried to break the ice by broaching the subject of this evening’s book,
The Girl with the Dragon Tattoo
.