Osama (22 page)

He was on the floor, his head in his wet hands . . .

‘Looks like our new celebrity’s feeling sorry for himself.’

Joe looked up sharply. There was a screw standing over him, no older than thirty but with a thick head of white hair and almost as broad-shouldered as he was. He looked at Joe’s dripping hand. ‘Shower block’s the place for that.’

Joe breathed deeply to calm himself. There was no point making an enemy of yet another screw. He stood up. ‘Where is it?’

The white-haired screw shook his head. ‘Too late. Breakfast.’

‘I’m not hungry.’

‘Word of advice. You might be on remand but this isn’t the fucking Ritz and you don’t get to choose what you do or when you do it. Now get to the dining hall before I stick you in the fucking Seg Wing.’

Joe stood up. He wiped his wet hands on his prison clothes. The remaining blood smeared over them, but at least his right hand was relatively clean now. He said nothing, but followed the screw out of his cell.

The dining hall was in the adjacent block. Joe could smell it from the exercise yard – the cabbagy odour of mass-produced food that reminded him of the cookhouse at barracks in Catterick in his Recruit Company days. The hall itself was filled with row upon row of trestle tables and benches – Joe noticed immediately that they were fixed to the floor – with a four-metre-wide gangway up the middle. The room was brightly lit by glaring strip lights hanging from the high ceiling, and it was crowded – he estimated that there were close on seven hundred men in there. At the far end was a serving area where a line of hotplates were manned by six inmates. Joe assumed the door behind the hotplates led to a kitchen, and he stored that information away. Kitchens, he knew, were good sources of hardware. Provisions and waste moved in and out of them. The remnants of a queue – maybe fifteen or twenty people – snaked down the gangway, and Joe counted fifteen screws standing with their backs to the wall at regular intervals around the edge of the hall.

‘All yours,’ said the white-haired screw, before leaving the dining hall.

Joe felt eyes on him as he walked up the gangway, and it was only then that he twigged what the screw had called him back in the cell: ‘our new celebrity’. Had word of what had happened really leaked out so fast? Joe’s definite impression was that it had. As he walked towards the serving hatch, he found himself picking out sets of eyes staring at him as he went: a thickset, shaven-headed man with inked-up forearms; a skinny, weaselly-looking guy with round glasses and a weak chin; a young Asian lad, his face covered with wisps of bumfluff; Hunter, sitting on his own at a table well apart from the others, a dedicated screw standing over him as he chewed slowly and watched Joe with bright eyes. There was an immense, echoing hubbub in the dining hall. Maybe it was just Joe’s imagination, but the conversation seemed to lull at the tables he passed.

He joined the end of the queue. It had gone down to ten people now. The final three had their backs to the serving area and were watching him approach. They were bulky men, all with jet-black hair and green eyes. They looked like they might be brothers. There was a pause of thirty seconds before one of them spoke. His hair was Brylcreemed back, and he had a pasty, unhealthy face. He stank of cigarettes.

‘You our new army boy?’ he asked. He had a thick Ulster accent. When Joe didn’t reply, he continued: ‘Always a pleasure to welcome a brave lad like you.’ He didn’t sound like Joe’s presence gave him any pleasure at all. His two companions gave Joe a menacing stare.

Two years in the Province meant Joe could spot a crew of PIRA hoods from a mile off. Even back in the day, the majority of these lads were more interested in Republicanism as a front for their criminal activities – drugs, long firms, contraband booze and smokes, you name it – than anything else. Their criminality hadn’t disappeared with the Troubles, so it was hardly surprising to run into their type in a place like this. And though the politicians liked to pretend that the days of antagonism were at an end, Joe knew that was bullshit: the British Army were the bad guys in vast swathes of Northern Ireland, the SAS even more so. If these lads found out he was Regiment, they’d be almost duty bound to have a crack at him.

‘Not looking for any trouble, fellas,’ Joe said quietly.

‘You hear that, boys?’ the other guy sneered. ‘He’s not looking for any trouble.’

His mates laughed, and the queue shuffled up a couple of places.

‘Well, you never know, army boy,’ the guy continued. ‘Maybe it’ll come looking for you.’ An unpleasant smile crossed his lips. ‘A filthy Brit and a beast in the same cell. It’s like Christmas came early.’ He turned his back on Joe. ‘Course, if you don’t want every Tom, Dick and Harry having a pop at you each time you leave your cell, there’s ways and means, army boy.’

‘What’re you talking about?’

‘Ah, it’s just a matter of keeping in with the right people. People with clout, who can protect you.’

Joe sneered. ‘You?’ he asked.

‘Well now, that’s
your
choice, army boy. That’s
your
choice.’

Two minutes later a member of the kitchen staff was spooning rubbery scrambled eggs into one of the compartments of a tin tray, baked beans into another. The table Joe sat at was three rows down from the serving area and populated solely by black prisoners: eight of them, four along either side. The guy closest to Joe had elaborate patterns shaved into the side of his head, but his face was a lot less pretty than his haircut. He wore a vest and the muscles in his arms were enormous and well defined. He had black tattoos on his dark skin. As Joe sat down, the man pushed his food tray away and turned to stare at him.

Joe concentrated on his food, but he felt every part of his body enter a heightened state of alertness. He could sense the potential for violence in the air, and he gripped his plastic fork more firmly than he otherwise might have done. Not much of a weapon, but all he had: if he splintered it, he could wreck an eye at the very least . . .

‘Stand up!’

Joe had barely forced down a couple of mouthfuls of his unwanted food when Sowden, the tall, thin screw from the previous night, walked up to him. ‘Follow me,’ he said.

‘Why?’

All the black prisoners were watching the exchange in silence.

‘Because I told you to.’ And then, perhaps remembering Joe’s outburst the night before, he added: ‘Your lawyer’s here.’

‘I don’t have a lawyer.’

‘You do now.’

Joe wasn’t sad to leave the dining hall. It felt like a war waiting to happen in there. Sowden led him into the courtyard for the second time that morning, towards another prison block and into a small room with nothing in it but a table and two chairs. A woman was sitting at the table. She was dressed in a two-piece business suit and had her brown hair arranged in a bun. Not a looker, and her face was pinched, unfriendly and covered in a thick layer of foundation. As the door was locked behind Joe, she nodded at the spare chair on the opposite side of the table, but she failed to catch his eye.

Joe sat. The woman pushed a copy of
The Times
across the table. ‘You’d better read that,’ she said in a slightly hostile Scottish accent, sounding as though her mind was elsewhere. ‘Page five.’

Joe wasn’t sure he wanted to, but he navigated past the front page and a picture of Princess Anne on page three. He pretty soon wished he hadn’t.

He had no idea where they’d got the pictures from. There was one of Caitlin that he recognized as being the photo her dad kept on his mantelpiece in Epsom. It was about five years old, taken at Christmas. She had a smile on her face and was wearing a scarf Joe had bought for Conor to give her. The mere sight of it made him feel hollow.

Next to the picture of Caitlin was one of him, taken the day he’d been awarded the MC for bravery in Iraq, having pulled a couple of wounded Yanks from the debris of a roadside bomb while under fire from insurgents. There was no image of Conor.

He read the caption above the pictures: ‘
Partner of Afghanistan hero found murdered
’.

He looked up at the lawyer. She was studying papers in a file on her lap, almost as if he wasn’t there.

Looking back at the paper, he continued to read. ‘
Northern Ireland-born mother of one Caitlin O’Donnell, 36, has been found brutally murdered in a remote cottage near Berwick-upon-Tweed. A police spokesman confirmed early this morning that her partner Sergeant Joseph Mansfield of 2nd Battalion the Parachute Regiment is currently assisting the police with their enquiries. Sergeant Mansfield was recently returned to the UK from Afghanistan, where it is thought he was considered unfit for active service. The Ministry of Defence has declined to comment. Statistics released by the MOD suggest that troops returning from Iraq and Afghanistan are ten times more likely to suffer the effects of post-traumatic stress disorder than those who remain at home . . .
’

Joe threw the paper to one side.

‘PTSD?’ He remembered Ricky. He tried not to think about his own behaviour, but he knew how easy it would be for the fuckers to slap that label on him.

‘Clearly they can’t say outright that you did it, for legal reasons,’ said the lawyer.

‘I didn’t do it.’

The lawyer finally looked at him. ‘You’re on remand, Sergeant Mansfield. Do you understand what that means? You’ve been arrested on suspicion of murder, which means you’re not eligible for bail until you come to trial, which could take anything up to a year. My name’s Jacqueline Thomas. I’ve been assigned to your case and I’m—’

‘Where’s Conor?’

‘I understand he’s being looked after by his paternal grandfather. Sergeant Mansfield, I’m going to recommend from the get-go that you don’t attempt to—’

‘I didn’t do it,’ Joe said, keeping his voice quiet.

There was a pause. Jacqueline Thomas’s eyes flickered towards the door, and Joe could tell she was wondering whether to call in the guard from outside. She obviously decided against it, and continued as though Joe hadn’t said anything. ‘A plea of diminished responsibility could reduce the charge to manslaughter . . .’

‘I didn’t do it.’

The lawyer laid her file on the table, removed her glasses and looked him in the eye. ‘Fine,’ she said in a neutral voice. ‘Perhaps you’d like to tell me what happened last night?’

Joe closed his eyes. The horror flashed back into his mind. The knife entering Caitlin’s body, the noose, Conor’s scream . . . When he opened his eyes five seconds later, he saw that his hand was shaking again. The lawyer made a show of noticing it too. One eyebrow shot up meaningfully. ‘Sergeant Mansfield?’ she pressed.

He stared at her. Unbidden, another image returned to him. Dom Fletcher, his OC, asking if any of them had breached SOPs. The way his gaze had lingered for a fraction of a second on Joe.

‘Who sent you?’

She blinked. ‘I told you, I’ve been assigned to your—’

Joe made an impatient tutting sound. Why the fuck should he trust this woman? Why should he trust
anyone
?

‘I want to go back to my cell,’ he said.

‘You can’t do that. You’re looking at life without parole, Sergeant Mansfield. As your designated legal counsel I’m obliged to advise you that we request a full psychiatric evaluation, and that we do it immediately . . .’

‘
Shut up!
’ Joe roared at her. ‘
Just fucking shut up!
’

He could feel himself losing it, feel his whole body shaking with anger.

He could see Ricky, looking at him across the minefield . . .
?
Caitlin’s face as the knife entered . . .

He was on his feet, banging on the door with his fists, vaguely aware that the woman behind him was shouting for help.

The guards were there . . . barking at him . . . restraining him . . .

And ten minutes later Joe was back in his cell, trembling, his breath jerky, cold sweat soaking his body.

Hunter stared at him like he was a lunatic. He was sitting cross-legged on the top bunk. The TV was on. Some fucking Noel Edmonds game show. Behind him, Joe heard the sound of a key in the cell door. He kept his back to the door, breathing deeply, trying to regain control of himself.

‘Lock-up till twelve-thirty, fella,’ Hunter said nervously. Joe stepped forward and switched off the TV. No complaint. Hunter clearly knew what was good for him. Joe lay on the bottom bunk. Perhaps emboldened by the fact that Joe hadn’t threatened violence, he spoke again. ‘I can sell you some snout,’ he said. His voice had taken on a wheedling tone. ‘Pay me back when you get—’

‘What’s that?’

A huge din had erupted outside. Shouting. Clattering. Joe jumped up and strode towards the window. He opened it – it was grimy and smeared – and looked through the bars onto the exercise yard. Approximately twenty inmates had walked out into it. Without exception they had their hands in their pockets and their heads down. None of them spoke to anyone else, and everyone ignored the din. It came, so far as Joe could tell, from the windows that overlooked the exercise yard, of which there had to be almost fifty. He could see hands emerging from the windows, grabbing the bars and rattling them. Amid the chaos of shouting, he heard two words repeated: ‘beast’ and ‘nonce’.