Civvies (32 page)

Twenty-seven. Twenty-eight. Twenty-nine. Thirty. Thirty-one. Thirty-two. Thirty-three… Sweat dripping off his nose, Dillon pushed himself up from the cell floor. Susie had brought in some of his gear, and he wore a singlet, track-suit bottoms, and his faithful old Pumas. If he shut his mind to everything, it was like doing Basic again. He was back at The Depot. Forty-three. Forty-four. Forty-five. Forty-six… Do eighty of the bastards and he’d be ready for a pint with the lads in the
NAAFI
. Have a sing-song, good old Taff booming out in his big Welsh voice, the prat. Get Steve up on a table, doing his Tom Jones with a baton down his inside leg. Jimmy fiddling the one-armed bandit. Harry remembering that long day’s tab up to Wireless Ridge, when Wally’s frostbitten toes dropped off. A bell rang out and the caged wall light went out, plunging the cell into darkness. Fifty-eight. Fifty-nine. Sixty. Sixty-one. Sixty-two…

Susie moved silently into the boys’ room, careful not to disturb them. She left the door slightly ajar so that she could see by the landing light. There were one or two gaps on the walls where Dillon had taken down the photographs. And what Dillon had started, Susie now finished, dropping them one by one in the cardboard box. His face looked out from nearly all of them. Sometimes clean and shiny, sometimes streaked with brown camouflage cream and dirt. Mostly unsmiling, but in a couple there was that rare Frank Dillon grin. It was there, broader than usual, in a photograph of him and his lads, grouped round a table in a bar, brimming pints of Guinness and Murphy’s in front of them. Six young Toms, just kids, sitting at the table, with Dillon standing behind, flanked by Jimmy Hammond, Taffy Davies, Steve Harris, Harry Travers. They looked to be having a great time, and probably were. The very best of times. Susie took it down and looked at it. Then she dropped it in the box with all the rest and shut the lid. She went to the door and paused, gazing round. The little room seemed empty and desolate, the walls naked. Just pale rectangles and pin-holes to indicate where the gallery of memories had once been. The boys would miss them, no doubt, but it was time to move on, to grow up. You couldn’t live in the past for ever. Susie went out, closed the door on it.

It was called the Visitors’ Room but it was more like a public meeting hall or a large works canteen. Not dissimilar to a canteen, with tables spaced equidistant on the squeaky composition floor, except the tables were quite small, with plain grey plastic tops, room enough for just one remand prisoner, one visitor. The kids had to stand or play on the floor. Four uniformed wardens patrolled the perimeter, constantly on the move, eyes alert for any communication between prisoners — strictly forbidden. Two senior wardens sat like tennis umpires on high chairs, keeping a general watch on the proceedings. The prisoners were rotated in batches of twenty, over a hundred in the hall at any one time. Once seated, their visitors were allowed in, while the previous batch of visitors streamed out, so there was continuous noise and bustle and movement, the scampering and crying of children, the muffled weeping of women, the rumbling hum of a hundred conversations. Shirley was in the first batch. She came in with other wives, girlfriends and mothers, heads craning for their loved ones. There were a number of black prisoners, but she spotted Cliff at once, his hand slightly raised, a shy, almost painful smile on his face. Like all the others he was dressed in a blue shirt, dark trousers without a belt, black slip-on shoes with soft soles. ‘How you keeping?’ asked Cliff, eyes very large and suspiciously bright, fixed on her as she sat down. Shirley placed a paper bag on the table. She slipped off her shoulder bag and put down the styrofoam cup of coffee she’d only taken a couple of sips of before the name Morgan came up over the PA. ‘There’s chocolate, crisps and cigarettes.’ She pushed the bag towards him. ‘I don’t smoke,’ Cliff said. ‘Susie said to bring them in, you can trade with them. She takes in some for…’ Shirley glanced around the crowded room. ‘Have you seen him yet?’ Cliff shook his head. ‘They keep us segregated. I got a message to Harry, but he…’ Cliff gulped, and the tears that were there, waiting to be shed, suddenly filled his eyes. ‘… he sent it back. I just had to tell them what went down, Shirley, this is all a mistake, we didn’t do it.’ Out it poured in a frantic gabble: ‘You see I saw the van, the furniture van that was used in the robbery, and I saw the guy drivin’ it, it was me that told Frank, that Newman’s put us all in the frame. I had to tell them, but they twist it, they twist it around. I know they found the gear at our place, but we’d come from Newman’s, we were gonna hand it in. I think Frank’s scared that Newman’ll do somethin’, he reckoned we’d get bail you see, an’ —’ ‘Cliff — Cliff, you’ve told me all this, you tell it to me every time, but why won’t they give you bail?’ Shirley searched his face. ‘None of this makes sense to me. Why are they askin’ about other robberies unless…’ She leaned over until their faces were nearly touching. ‘Cliff, don’t protect them, will you?’ Cliff’s mouth was quivering. Tears had made wet pathways down either side of his nose. He was looking at Shirley but he wasn’t seeing her. The inside of his head was spinning like a merry-go-round, the same endless, obsessional whirl of facts, events, places, names blurring in front of his eyes. She tried to stop him, to stem the flow, but he was unstoppable. ‘… I said to Frank we should go straight to the cops, but we had to clean ourselves up an’ then there was the car, windscreen was wrecked… now the gun, Harry took it off the blokes, I mean I nearly got myself killed. I explained all this. I told them all this. I recognised one of the guys, I said to Harry, I said…’ He blinked, tears splashing down. ‘I dunno why he kept it, we should have handed that gun back. It’ll be sorted. It’ll all be sorted, we’ll be out of here…’ Cliff wept openly. ‘Shit, why didn’t we hand over that bloody shooter…?’ Shirley could hardly hear him for all the racket going on around them. Not that it mattered. She’d heard it ten times before. She simply sat and gazed at him, at the merry-go-round spinning madly out of control. A bell rang, signalling a changeover of batches. Twenty in, twenty out. There was a clicking and crackling from the PA, and a voice announced in a monotonous drone: ‘Allen, Alcott, Allerton, Anthony, Daneman, Dillon, Dupres, Hoyle, Knight, Morris, Mayfield, Mayell, Netherton, Normans, Orchard, O’Rourke, O’Neill…’

Dillon was brought in and directed to a table on the far side of the room from Cliff. He sat down and looked expectantly towards the door as the visitors filed in, eager for his first glimpse of Susie. The clamour was tremendous, women moving along the aisles, many with toddlers in tow, some carrying babies. Around the human arena the wardens kept up their steady pacing and relentless steely-eyed scrutiny. At last he saw her, moving through the tables, and something strange happened. He thought he was strong, that he could face anything, had built up his resolve to get him through each minute of every day as a prisoner on remand. But the moment he saw her his strength and resolve just crumbled away. His insides seemed to shrink, and he had to turn away because his face was too naked and vulnerable. Tough guy Dillon who could throw himself out of a Here at 800 feet, and yet this particular ordeal nearly did for him. He understood now how a man’s reason could snap, as easily and suddenly and fatally as a brittle pencil point. ‘They made me wait almost two hours.’ Susie gave him a quick smile, sounding out of breath. She had a paper bag with her, and from her handbag produced a manila envelope. ‘I brought all your letters from the C.O. You’ll give them to the lawyer?’ Dillon nodded. He couldn’t trust himself to speak. He took the envelope to give his hands something to do. His mouth was dry as dust and his palms were cold and damp. ‘Is there anything else you need?’ ‘No,’ Dillon croaked. He cleared his throat. ‘I got everything.’ ‘He said the trial will be in ten — ten to twelve weeks.’ ‘Yeah. That’s right.’ ‘He said you’d moved cells. You’re sharing now. All right, is it?’ Susie raised her eyebrows. It was stupid small talk, but what else was there? You couldn’t talk about the weather to a man inside. ‘Guy’s a nutter, but I’ll make out,’ Dillon said, making an effort. He found the strength to look into her eyes, and that gave him hope. He said, ‘We been set up, it’ll just be a question of gettin’ the facts right, that Newman’s got to be palmin’ somebody. He denies we were in the warehouse, he’s a liar, he’s got them in his pay. I sussed that out.’ His voice hardened as his confidence grew. ‘Cliff saw the furniture van, he saw it, that’s why we knew he was involved, right? That’s why we went to his place, that’s where we got the wages, they were still in the packets.’ Faster now, gathering pace, urgent. ‘I mean, if we’d been gonna rob somebody, we had every opportunity. He had the stolen gems, diamonds. If we’d been gonna pull a robbery we’d have, we’d have…’ His voice faltered, tailed away. Susie waited a moment. Then she said, as gently as she could with all the racket going on, ‘Frank, you said this last time I was here… it’s me, and I believe you. You don’t have to prove anything to me, you know that. I believe you.’ Dillon nodded. He glanced away, as if embarrassed. ‘Sorry, it’s just that’s all I keep thinking about. I’m sorry.’ He looked at the envelope, rolled into a tight tube in his hands, and then up at her. ‘They not mentioned anythin’ else to you, have they? The cops?’ Dillon looked relieved when she shook her head, though Susie had no idea why. It was something he kept harping on, every time she visited, and she was too scared to ask the reason. What else could there be? ‘We’ll be out,’ Dillon said, and this time his confidence seemed real, as if he actually believed it himself. ‘They can’t keep us in here. Me and Harry’ll get the firm back on its feet in no time.’ He even found the old Dillon grin. ‘I can keep Harry in line — I told him he should’ve handed over that ruddy gun, but… but…’ His head dropped, eyes shut tight. ‘Sorry, I’m sorry.’ Susie looked away. Her face had gone bright red. She bit her lip and stared at a toddler on his mother’s lap. She opened her hand and discovered a wadded-up tissue, but didn’t dare use it. ‘Do you want to see the boys?’ Susie glanced again at the toddler and back at him. ‘Frank?’ ‘No. Not here. I don’t want them to see me in here. Besides, I’ll be out soon, lawyer’s very confident, well as confident as a twat can be. Did you bring all my papers, letters from the C.O.?’ He then remembered he was holding them. ‘Oh yes, yes, thanks… cigarettes?’ Susie pushed the bag towards him. Dillon stared at it, eyes glazed, nodding like a mechanical doll. There was a silence between them, a dreadful chasm of silence too wide to shout across. Susie’s fingers crept forward, nearly touching his, then curled up, like a plant withering in the frost. Dillon was dumb, no words left in him, no sounds at all, except screams. Susie burst out brightly, ‘I’ve got a job — restaurant. Pay’s not bad, and Mum’s been… I’ll look round for something better. Mr. Marway’s sorting things out with the bank, his family have rallied round. I don’t think he’ll lose his business. I passed on any accounts we still had left. Not much, but…’ Huge glistening tears rolled down her cheeks, dripped off her chin. ‘… the Chinese an’…’ Susie gulped but kept right on. ‘Shirley and me came here together, she’s really showing now. I see her when I can, an’ — oh Harry, he gave her his microwave an’ I gave her the Hoover from the office. Mum was uptight, said she could’ve done with it.’ Susie used the tissue to wipe her face, blotchy red and swollen. ‘I’m sorry. I’m sorry.’ The bell rang. Two minutes to changeover. Twenty in, twenty out. Dillon came back to life. He took a deep breath and said breezily, ‘Well, that’s it. Thanks for coming all this way. Give the boys my love. You tell them I joined up, gone abroad. Maybe tell ‘em I’m with Jimmy in Colombia. I can get the lads to send cards, put my name on for me…’ ‘I won’t lie to them, Frank.’ Susie’s eyes were moist but she wasn’t crying any more. ‘There’s been enough of that. I’ll see you in two weeks’ time. You sure there’s nothing you want…?’ The bell rang again. Final warning. ‘… they said I can send in paperbacks.’ ‘No.’ Dillon was deathly pale. ‘I’m fine.’ Susie pushed herself up, the wet tissue tight in her fist. She came round the table and bent to kiss him. Dillon averted his face, and she kissed his cheek. A warden passed by, making sure nothing was exchanged except this brief, formal token of affection, and carried on pacing, eyes on the next couple. Women were moving along the aisles towards the main door. Some of the children were crying. Susie followed the woman and the toddler from the next table. She turned back, raising her voice above the shuffle and squeak of feet on the composition floor. ‘I forgot to tell you — I passed my driving test!’ Sitting with his hands clasped on the table in front of him, Dillon slowly turned his head. He nodded, and with a supreme effort, forced a frozen smile. Susie looked at him across the unbridgeable chasm of perhaps ten feet that separated them. She took a pace towards him. Her hand came up, pressed flat against her chest, fingers splayed. She turned and followed the woman and toddler out. Dillon looked straight ahead, no expression on his face, no movement in his body, arms and shoulders locked solid, his spine an iron bar, holding onto himself with a rigid, unbearable tension, so that the single thin strangulated sound that escaped from him seemed to come from nowhere, from the ether, or a part of him that has no name in human anatomy. A silent cry from his heart, as if it were slowly being torn apart, his sense of loss consumed him, remaining locked tightly inside as he was led back to his cell. There the loss remained, as if held in by steel straps. He was sitting on his bunk, dead-eyed, unaware of where he was or of the man lying prone on the next bunk. Held inside him, as if bound by mental steel straps, was the mounting fury, like a fever. He had no one and no place to let it free. He knew he had brought this on himself, it was his fault, no one else’s. Dillon refused his evening meal. He remained in his cell and it took all his will power to uncoil his stiffened body and lie flat, rigid, eyes staring at the ceiling.

Harry Travers also lay on his back, his head resting on his hands, staring at the ceiling. He had no visitors, he only had his sister in Manchester, and she hadn’t the money to come down, not that he had even told her where he was. Apart from her he had nobody. He’d written to Susie, told her to give his microwave to Shirley, for safe keeping, as he didn’t want the Pakki landlord nicking it whilst he was inside. There were only a few other things he’d mentioned to Susie to keep safe for him, he had nothing else. He was going to write to Trudie, but didn’t bother. He wasn’t foolish enough to think she cared what happened to him — he was a fifty-five-quid full job, nothing more. Well, he had been given a few freebies, but mostly he paid up, paid for his loving, always had. In the darkness of his cell he began to remember all the tarts, in all the countries, he’d had some beautiful women, and some dogs, but he’d never had any long-term relationship, never had felt the need. He’d almost been snared once, a long, long time ago. The girl had lived next door to his auntie, a skinny little thing with a funny lop-sided smile. He had been her first and she had believed he would marry her, maybe he had even promised, he could no longer remember that far back, but he’d seen a lot of her just before he joined up. On his first leave he had called round, but she was going steady with a bloke from the local factory, he shoved over a few trinkets he’d bought for her, told her he hoped she’d be happy and got legless with a mate who’d arrived home to find his wife in bed with his best friend. Women were like that, couldn’t trust them, and Harry reckoned he’d lost nothing, not missed out. He gave a few moments over to Jummy, wondered how he was getting on, and decided that when he got out, he’d sign up, do a mercenary stint. He wasn’t cut out for civvies, not enough action, the action made up for the loneliness. He seemed to see the word printed in front of his eyes, and for the first time in his life he knew he was a lonely man. He turned over and buried his face in the pillow, suddenly wanting to have someone, even that funny, skinny little girl who had lived next door to his auntie’s.