Captives (20 page)

    'You interrupted my dream, Mr Swain,' said Porter, hauling himself out of bed. 'I was just getting a blow job from Michelle Pfeiffer.'

    'The only blow job you're likely to get is a bike pump up your arse. Now move yourselves, both of yousnapped the uniformed man.

    Robinson and Porter both retrieved the small plastic buckets from one corner of the cell and wandered out onto the landing. Robinson smiled as he lifted the plastic cover from the slop bucket to reveal a lump of excrement. He shoved it at the uniformed man's face, watching with pleasure as he recoiled from the stench.

    'I think mine is a little bit underdone. Perhaps you ought to have a word with the kitchen staff,' he said, smiling.

    In front of him, Porter grinned. The uniformed officer didn't appreciate the joke and pushed Robinson out onto the landing where, already, a steady file of men were spilling from their cells, joining the long line on either side of the landing as they made their way to the toilets.

    Whitely Prison was coming to life.

    On landings above and below them the same routine was in practice. They had followed it every morning and would continue to follow it until their sentences were up. Man shuffled along over the cold floors, some dressed in grey prison-issue pyjamas, others bare-chested or in boxer shorts. Each of them held a small bucket. Most were filled with excrement. Slopping out was as much a part of prison life as exercise, work and, for the fortunate ones, visits. Robinson and Porter knew it well enough. They'd been sharing a cell for the last two years. Robinson was in for ten years for armed robbery, while his companion was half-way through a twelve-year stretch for a similar crime. His extra two years had come about because he'd shot a security guard in the leg with a twelve-bore.

    Both men were in their mid-thirties, and both had spent most of their lives in and out of institutions. Porter had been raised in a children's home from the time he was two years old. He'd run away repeatedly as he'd got older, never with anywhere to go but just anxious to be free of the confining walls and restrictive atmosphere. As the years had progressed a series of petty crimes had seen him in remand homes, borstals and finally prison. It was usually robbery.

    Robinson had experienced a more stable upbringing. He was married with a couple of kids. Stealing had come more as a necessity than anything else. His wife had expensive tastes and the kids always wanted new clothes or bikes or games. Both men had come to Whitely from other prisons, Robinson from Strangeways, Porter from Wandsworth.

    A large proportion of Whitely's inmates had also come via other gaols throughout the country; prisons where they couldn't be handled adequately. In many cases Whitely was a last resort. Or a dumping ground, whichever way you chose to look at it. It was like a drain where the dregs and filth exuded from all the other prisons in the land had been gathered together; the human refuse brushed aside and locked up in an institution that was a dustbin for the unwanted and unmanageable.

    Located in the heart of the Derbyshire countryside, surrounded on four sides by hills, it was a monument to the backwardness of penal reform. A massive, grey stone Victorian building, it housed over 1600 inmates, twice its allotted amount. Remand and convicted prisoners lived side by side.

    Robinson nudged the man in front of him and nodded a greeting as the man turned.

    The uniformed man noticed the movement and stepped close to Robinson.

    'No talking,' he said.

    Robinson shrugged and smiled innocently.

    'Cunt,' he whispered, stifling the word with a yawn.

    Across the landing an identical procession was filing towards their own latrine. Men who had emptied their slop buckets were returning to their cells. There were the odd murmurings, the sounds echoing throughout the large building, but they were quickly quelled by warders anxious to maintain silence.

    Porter peered over the landing rail, through the steel netting that was strung from one side to the other, and noticed that, on the landing below, prisoners who had finished slopping out had not in fact returned to their cells but were standing outside, their attempts at entry barred by warders. He frowned, wondering what was going on. His musings were interrupted as he reached the latrine. He and Robinson emptied their slop buckets into the waste chutes provided, rinsed them with boiling water and then made their way back to their cell.

    The door was closed, the entrance blocked by another warder, Raymond Douglas. He was a red-faced man with a pitted complexion who always looked exhausted, as if he'd just completed a marathon.

    'Stay there,' he said, toying with his key chain, holding up his free hand to add weight to his instructions.

    Further down the landing, other prisoners also stood outside their cells. Irritated mutterings grew louder.

    '… What's going on?…'

    '… Why are we being kept outside?…'

    'What's the deal, Mr Douglas?' Porter asked.

    'You'll find out,' said the warder. 'For now, just shut it.'

    Porter eyed the uniformed man malevolently, then exchanged puzzled glances with his cell-mate.

    'Cell search?' Robinson murmured. 'Someone been smoking whacky baccy again?'

    'I said shut it,' Douglas snapped.

    'Just curious,' said Robinson, gazing around him.

    On all the landings men now stood outside their cells, increasingly frustrated and increasingly cold. It wasn't exactly warm inside Whitely and many of them were dressed only in shorts. The babble of discontent grew more insistent, to the point where even the warders couldn't quell it.

    'What the hell is going on?' Porter wanted to know.

    'SHUT UP.'

    The voice boomed around the inside of the building, bouncing off the walls with its ferocity and power.

    All heads turned in one direction, peering upwards to find its source.

    'Shut up and listen,' the voice continued, and now the inmates could see where the thunderous exhortation came from.

    On the uppermost landing, flanked by warders, stood a tall, powerfully-built figure in a dark blue suit, his greying hair slicked back so severely it appeared that he was bald. He gripped the landing rail with hands as large as ham-hocks. He regarded the men beneath him impassively, his eyes flicking back and forth as they looked up at him.

    Peter Nicholson, the Governor of Whitely Prison, began to speak.

    

    

    You could have been forgiven for imagining, that Peter Nicholson had undergone surgery to replace his vocal chords with a megaphone. His words boomed out, spoken with clarity and in a tone that suggested that he was keeping his words simple for the less intelligent inmates of the prison. On either side of him the warders looked down onto the other landings, watching for any signs of unrest amongst those below. Warders on each of the individual landings also ensured that silence prevailed as he spoke.

    'As you may have heard,' the Governor said, smoothing his hair back with one hand, 'Whitely has been in the news lately. The media are obviously hard up for stories because they seem interested in what they refer to as our overcrowding problems here. Also, the local MP has taken it upon himself to look personally into what goes on in this prison.'

    Robinson looked at Porter and raised his eyebrows quizzically.

    'To that end,' Nicholson continued, 'a Home Office delegation will be visiting this prison tomorrow to see how it runs and to see how well you're all cared for.' He smiled sardonically.

    A murmur rose that was quickly silenced.

    Nicholson paused for a moment theatrically.

    'The members of this delegation will be speaking to a number of prisoners. Asking about conditions, etcetera.' He looked around the upturned faces. 'You may speak to them if you wish. Help them with their questions. You may have some questions for them. If you have any problems or grievances, you're quite free to tell them.'

    'Yeah,' murmured Porter. 'And get our fucking heads busted by the screws when they've gone.'

    Swain took a step towards him, shooting him a warning glance.

    'If any of you have any problems, at any time, you know you are free to speak to the officers in charge of your landing or to me personally,' Nicholson continued.

    There was another babble of chatter, and this time it took longer to quieten.

    Nicholson looked around once more. His green eyes, like chips of emerald, caught the light and reflected it coldly. He brushed a speck of dust from his sleeve as he waited for the silence he required. Finally satisfied, he continued.

    'I want this prison running perfectly for these visitors,' he said. 'I want co-operation between you and the officers. I want the cells spotless. I want them to be impressed by what they see. I don't like people meddling in the way I run-this prison and that's what they're doing. Meddling. I want them to leave here, knowing that this prison is well run and that its inmates are being adequately dealt with. I don't expect them to leave here with a catalogue of stories about what a terrible place Whitely is. As I said, you may speak to them if you wish. That is your prerogative. But bear in mind that if they hear too many bad reports, they'll disrupt the way I run this prison. And I don't like disruptions. I hope that's understood.' He looked around him, then smoothed his hair back once more. 'That's all.'

    Nicholson and his officers turned and moved away from the landing rail, out of sight of the other prisoners.

    On all the landings the inmates were allowed back inside their cells.

    'Breakfast in twenty minutes, get a move on,' said Warder Swain, slamming the door shut behind Robinson and Porter.

    'Suck this,' rasped Porter, holding his penis in one fist. 'Fucking cunt.'

    Both men started to dress, taking it in turns to wash as best they could in the small sink perched on the cell wall.

    'I wonder if anyone will be stupid enough to tell this bunch of do-gooders the truth?' Robinson mused, drying his face.

    'Are you joking?' Porter muttered, fastening his grey overall. 'Even the screws wouldn't tell them anything. They're more frightened of Nicholson than most of the cons in here.'

    Robinson nodded in agreement.

    'A tour of the prison, eh?' he said, smiling. 'I wonder what they'll make of our humble little home.'

    'Probably want to move in with us,' Porter quipped. He crossed to his locker and took out a comb, running it through his short black hair. The inside of the locker was a mosaic of photos: naked women, a team picture of Liverpool FC and a couple of postcards all vied for attention. He blew a kiss to one of the women, then closed the locker again.

    Robinson was sitting on the edge of the upper bunk. 'I'll tell you one thing, Rod,' he said, 'and I'll bet money on it. There's at least one part of this nick they won't see. Nicholson will make sure of that.'

    

    

    The office was large, functional rather than welcoming. Efficiency was the keyword. It was a place of work, after all, thought Peter Nicholson, and it had been his place of work for the last sixteen years. He'd seen many changes in the penal system as a whole and Whitely in particular during his days as Governor at the prison. The changes since he first began working in the service had been radical, to say the least. He'd begun back in the fifties as a prison officer. He'd served his early years in Wandsworth. In fact, he'd been one of two warders who had escorted Derek Bentley from the condemned cell to the hangman on January 28 1953. Bentley had been sentenced to hang because his accomplice, Christopher Craig, despite having fired the shot that killed a policeman, had been too young for the rope.

    After Wandsworth Nicholson had moved around from prison to prison, serving his time as surely as any of the inmates in those institutions. The difference was that he could go home at the end of every shift. He had an increasingly long key chain to show for his years of service.

    His enthusiasm for his work and his intelligence had led to him being appointed Assistant Governor at Wormwood Scrubs. From there it had been only a matter of time until he was given his own prison.

    Whitely was all he knew and had known for the last sixteen years.

    The penal system he worked in was not the only thing that had changed during Nicholson's time. His own attitude had hardened, too. He'd originally joined the service after his mother had been attacked and beaten almost to death in 1950. He felt that he was acting, by proxy, for her and all victims of crime like her in his role as gaoler. And that was exactly how he viewed his job. He didn't see his task as correcting the ways of men who had strayed into crime and needed help; he and his warders existed to protect society from the kind of human garbage locked within the walls of Whitely.

    He stood up, glancing across at the photograph of his wife on the desk. The image smiled back at him as he straightened the frame. He moved over to the window of his office and looked out.

    He could see into the empty exercise yard. Beyond it, protected by a high stone wall, was a small chapel in the grounds of which were a number of graves, each one marked by a simple marble marker; some were actually decorated by headstones or crosses. They bore the names of prisoners who had died at Whitely. Men who, with no family on the outside, had nowhere else to rest. Even in death they were confined within the walls of the prison.

    A couple of inmates were picking up leaves from around the graves, sweeping them into a large black sack. The skeletal trees that grew close to the chapel rattled their branches in the wind, which whipped across the open ground.