Heaven's Light (16 page)

Minutes later, Flora emerged from a long low building
set apart from the main prison compound. This morning she was wearing a dark knee-length skirt, severely cut, with a tailored jacket to match. Her hair hung down her back in a French braid, secured at the top by a twist of scarlet ribbon. Barnaby watched her walk towards the car. In Manhattan, he thought, she’d have been a bond dealer or an advertising executive, someone with a big desk, a hectic sex life and wonderful prospects. Here, she preached the gospel of hard work, family values and incessant self-improvement.

She bent to the car, offering Barnaby a tight smile through the tinted glass. He opened the door, feeling the first prickles of heat even as his feet touched the tarmac. Flora was hoping he’d slept well. She had much to show him.

Barnaby followed her into the welcome chill of the building she’d just left. At the end of a corridor, she led him into a small office. From the wall across the desk, an enormous pair of eyes stared at newcomers. Across the top of the poster, above a line of Chinese characters, the message read
ALERT! TOGETHER WE CAN STOP CRIME!
. Barnaby stepped closer, trying to decipher a much smaller line of type at the bottom. ‘Crime Watch’, it went. ‘Special Issue for the Festive Season.’

Barnaby smiled, aware that Flora was waiting for his reaction. She had a small leather zip-up briefcase tucked beneath one arm. In her other hand, she held a thick sheaf of papers. She gave them to him.

‘This is Mr Zhu’s idea,’ she said at once. ‘He thinks you should see the bad side, too.’

‘Bad side?’

‘This is a prison. We’re not perfect, Mr Barnaby.’

She shepherded him towards the door. Changi, she said, was one of two prisons on Singapore Island. The regime was
tough and widely publicized. That, in itself, served as a deterrent to crime but there were also big fines and, for serious offences, the certainty of the death penalty.

They were walking down another corridor. Right and left, through squares of wired glass inset in steel doors, Barnaby could see rows of iron-framed beds. The dormitories appeared to be empty.

‘You hang lots of people?’

‘Last year,’ she glanced over her shoulder, ‘seventy-six.’

‘And does it work?’

‘They die, sure.’

‘I know, but…’

They were at the end of a long hall. To the right, through another door, Barnaby could hear movement, an occasional voice, the shuffle of footsteps. Flora was looking at her watch and frowning. For once, she seemed hesitant.

Barnaby glanced down at the briefing papers. According to the Minister of Trade and Industry, Singapore manufactured more than half the world’s supply of computer disk-drives. He looked up again. Flora had half opened the door. Inside, Barnaby could see what looked like a gymnasium. There were climbing bars on the walls and thick ropes hanging from iron rings in the ceiling.

He heard a sharp hissing noise, then a fleshy smack and a deep-pitched grunt, semi-human. Puzzled, he stepped round the door. On the far side of the gym stood perhaps a dozen men. They were all naked. One was spreadeagled over an upright wooden frame, similar to an artist’s easel. His hands and his ankles were strapped, and Barnaby could see what looked like a handkerchief twisted between his teeth. Several metres behind him, at the end of a length of coconut matting, stood a short, squat man in a sky blue Adidas tracksuit. He was carrying a long thin cane and, as
Barnaby watched, he flexed it in his hands then swept it left and right, producing the hissing noise again. Finally, he turned round. With a curious skipping motion, he came sideways down the coconut matting, slashing at the man’s back, putting all his strength into the blow. The man jerked with the impact, shaking his head, and Barnaby saw his eyes widen and then shut tight as the footsteps came dancing down the mat again and the cane descended for a third time. Each blow raised a long, scarlet welt across the pale skin and Barnaby realized that the grunting noise came not from the man lashed to the easel but from the daunting figure in the tracksuit.

The flogging went on, five lashes, six, and some of the other men had turned away, not wanting to watch. At last the man in the tracksuit tossed the cane to one side, mopped his face with his bare hand then gestured towards two attendants, clad in spotless white tunics. They ran to the easel, released the straps and helped the wounded youth towards a long trestle table, keeping him at arm’s length to avoid soiling their clothes. There was a bowl of something yellow on the table and they began to sponge away the blood on his back, telling a couple of the other men to hold him up as they did so. Barnaby watched them at their work, sickened by how slick and familiar this operation had obviously become. The next luckless target was already being tied to the easel, his legs spread wide, the muscles of his back visibly tensing.

Barnaby felt the touch of Flora’s hand on his arm. She was wondering about coffee? Did he take milk? Sugar? Barnaby shook his head. He was looking at the man in the tracksuit. Occasionally, when he caught someone’s eye, he’d smile.

‘What have these guys done?’ he asked. ‘Why the punishment?’

Flora looked confused, then began to apologize. ‘I’m sorry,’ she said. ‘I thought Mr Zhu had told you.’

‘Told me what?’

‘This is our drugs rehabilitation unit.’ She gestured at the man spreadeagled at the end of the coconut matting. ‘There’s a note on the success rate in your briefing. Mr Zhu thought you might be interested.’

Jessie was sitting in her usual position next to the door when the group turned on Lola. The session had started at two o’clock, half an hour earlier than normal, and so far Jessie had managed to deflect the odd asides that, on a different day, might have developed into something ugly.

There were nine in the group including the staff member they called the moderator. The moderator’s name was Alan, a thin, cadaverous ex-junkie from Camberwell who’d survived a year-long rehab course in a similar set-up near Oxford and then become a founder member of the Merrist House community. Jessie had leaned hard on him during the five weeks of her assessment module but now knew that she could expect little help if the groups got rough.

A languid black twenty-six-year-old called Chester was currently under attack. The three-hour session was designed to develop emotional honesty and openness and two of the younger residents felt that Chester had no interest in either. So far, he’d got no further than mumbling something about not wanting any of this shit. In group terms this was the verbal equivalent of turning his back and Jessie winced, knowing that this kind of reaction was bound to unleash the real pit bulls in the room.

One was called Brent, a small, thick-set, aggressive youth from Reading. His face and upper body were cratered with acne and he’d demonstrated his indifference by adding a number of heavy-duty tattoos. Jessie and Lola knew about the tattoos because recently Brent had developed a habit of appearing semi-naked on the corridor outside their room up on the first floor. On the street, Brent’s problem had been alcohol, not hard drugs, and Lola had twice had to fend off his attentions, warning Jessie he was close to psychopathic. Brent had been referred to Merrist House as a condition of discharge after an ABH conviction. Out of his head on vodka, he’d crushed a glass in a student’s face.

Now, cleverly, he was carrying the attack to Lola. In what passed for group dynamics, Jessie had come to recognize this as one of the subtler tactics. If Chester wouldn’t be goaded by frontal attack, enlist him in someone else’s war until he opens up enough to present a worthwhile target of his own.

The group sat in a wide circle. Brent was bent forward on his chair, directly opposite Lola. ‘You’ve been on the phone again,’ he said. ‘Fucking squawking. Squawk. Squawk. Look at me. Squawk. Squawk.’ Lola turned her head away. Brent might have been a bad smell. ‘Well?’ he yelled at her. ‘Haven’t you?’

Lola nodded. Normally her voice was low. Often, in their room, Jessie had to strain to catch what she was saying. Now she looked Brent in the eye.

‘What if I fucking have? What’s it to you?’

‘It’s everything to fucking me. Everything.’

‘Why?’

‘Because you’re telling me something. You’re telling me what a tragic little cunt you are. Crying your fucking eyes out all the time. Me, me, me. That’s what you’re saying.
Me, me, me, and that squitty little daughter of yours. Candelle? What kind of fucking name’s that?’

Jessie could see the colour draining from Lola’s face. Brent was so pleased with the reaction he seemed to have abandoned Chester altogether.

‘Well, cunt?’ he screamed. ‘Are you telling me I’m fucking wrong or what?’

Lola was looking towards Alan. Her hands were shaking. She wanted help.

‘You’re out of order, Brent,’ Jessie heard herself saying. ‘You don’t have the first fucking idea.’

Brent turned on Jessie. The veins were cording on the sides of his neck and his face was scarlet. ‘Was I asking you? Little Miss Tight Arse?’

‘No, but I’m telling you just the same. One day you might have a daughter, God help her, and then maybe you’ll understand.’

‘Understand, understand.’ Brent mimicked Jessie’s accent. Before Merrist House, Jessie had never given a thought to the way she spoke but the last six weeks she’d been crucified for her manners and her pronunciation. Getting through an entire sentence without an obscenity, she’d quickly discovered, was the very worst form of verbal insult.

Brent had stopped to draw breath. Chester appeared to have gone to sleep. Lola, her head down again, was fighting to control herself.

Another youth stepped in. His street nickname was Manik and Jessie knew him from her days with Haagen, trying to score in Pompey pubs.

‘Look at you,’ Manik sneered, gesturing derisively at Lola, ‘the fucking state of you. Brent’s right. All you fucking want is sympathy. Me, me, me.’

Brent took up the chant. Lola had been flashing pictures of her daughter since the day she’d arrived at the place. She was so fucking thick, she thought they’d protect her.

‘Too fucking right.’ Manik nodded vigorously. ‘Fucking dishonest, that. Don’t touch me. Don’t be nasty to me. I’m a mother, look, proof, my little Candelle.’ He leaned towards Lola and blew hard, the way a child might blow on a birthday cake. ‘Oooops!’ he said. ‘Sorry! Just blown the little cunt away!’

Brent barked with laughter. One or two others in the group sniggered. Lola was sitting bolt upright, her knees pressed together, her hands bunched into tiny fists. Jessie wanted to reach out, touch her, comfort her, but group rules prohibited physical contact.

Very slowly, Lola got to her feet. She was wearing jeans and a sweatshirt. She unzipped the jeans and pulled them down. Underneath, she had a pair of black bikini briefs. She pulled these down too, her eyes never leaving Brent’s face.

‘OK?’ she said quietly. ‘Is that what you want?’

Brent was staring at her. Embarrassment and anger inflamed his acne. The rest of the group were looking at him. Some were grinning. Lola had come out fighting at last. Everyone knew what Brent had been after since the day he’d met Lola. He’d made it very public because that’s the way he was. He wanted to shag her and shag her and shag her and one day, he’d assure anyone who cared to listen, he would.

Now he sat back and Jessie sensed at once how dangerous the situation had become. People like Brent reckoned they could handle anything. Except humiliation.

Lola was zipping up her jeans. Then she sat down. No
one moved. No one said anything. Jessie swallowed hard. She could taste the shepherd’s pie from lunchtime.

At length, Brent sighed. ‘You wouldn’t know a dick from a fucking hole in the road,’ he said, ‘so I’d be wasting my time.’

‘Oh, yeah?’ Lola was smiling now. ‘So why all the aggro? Why all the attention? And how come I got to have a daughter?’

‘Fuck knows. Probably got it off a catalogue. Mail order. How should I fucking know?’

‘Because you’ve been trying hard enough, that’s why.’ Lola glanced at Jessie for confirmation and Jessie nodded. ‘Up and down the corridor, cock hanging out under your towel, really subtle that, real turn-on. What do you do for an encore? Stick it through the keyhole?’

‘You should know, dear.’

‘What does that mean?’

‘You should know. You told me.’

‘Told you what?’

There was another silence. Brent was studying the wreckage of his fingernails, playing a new role, the principled guy who wouldn’t dream of betraying a confidence. The eyes of the group were on him again. He seemed to have won back a little of the initiative.

Alan, the moderator, stirred in his chair. So far he, too, might have been asleep.

‘This is about openness and honesty,’ he reminded Lola. ‘It’s a direct challenge. You should answer.’

Brent was looking aggrieved now, the man betrayed. ‘You telling me you never fucking said it? Or you telling me it’s not true?’

Lola shook her head violently. Colour had flooded into her face. ‘I don’t know what you’re talking about.’

Brent had her hooked now and he knew it. He let her struggle on the line a little longer. Everyone was watching her. Everyone wanted an answer.

‘Well?’

‘Fuck off.’

‘That’s not what you said.’

‘It is. It’s what I meant.’

‘No, it’s not. What you said was …’ He made a show of reining himself in again, deeply regretful. ‘I can’t grass you up, love. Ain’t fair. Can’t do it.’

Lola was looking helplessly at Jessie. On her other side, Alan cleared his throat.

‘Are we talking house rules here? Or what?’

Brent shrugged, holding up his hands, palms out. ‘Can’t say, guv. Straight up.’

‘Lola?’

‘Fuck off.’

‘Lola?’

‘He’s winding you up. Can’t you see? It’s a game.’

‘But what does he mean? What did you tell him?’ Alan asked. ‘This is group time, you know that. Nothing’s held against you. Anything goes.’ He frowned. ‘We have a dysfunction here. It’s not working the way it should. Honesty, Lola, and openness. Take it easy. Trust us.’

Lola was mute, turning down his invitation with a tiny shake of her head. Brent was watching her every move.