Osama (24 page)

She closed the newspaper and pushed the cold coffee away from her, before leaning her head against the back of the banquette and closing her eyes. She felt sick. Maybe it was because she was tired. Or maybe it was because she didn’t know what the hell to do.

Two minutes later she was walking east up Victoria Street. Hundreds of workers from the surrounding area had emerged from their offices in search of an early sandwich. Eva battled against the tide, growing more and more anxious the closer she got to the Yard. By the time she had turned into Broadway and could see the revolving logo fifty metres away, she was out of breath.

Eva worked out of an office on the third floor which she shared with four other colleagues. To her relief it was empty – she hadn’t even thought up an excuse for returning after her shift was over. They shared a single terminal of the Police National Computer, and it was to this terminal that she headed. Her fingers hovered above the keyboard as she sat down, but something stopped her from using her personal login. Every piece of activity on the PNC was logged, and searching for information not directly linked to an ongoing investigation was a sacking offence. But Eva had a workaround. One of her colleagues, a sleazy fat bastard by the name of Daniels, had been hitting on her a few months back. She’d found herself trapped in his office while he sang his own praises, clearly thinking that was how to worm his way into her underwear. He hadn’t realized he’d left his login details in full view on his desk, or that Eva’s memory was far better than his feeble pulling techniques. She’d stashed the login on her phone, never knowing when it would come in useful. Now was the time. She gained access to the database and in less than a minute she had the information she required.

Barfield. That was where they were holding him.

‘Fuck me, Eva. Bit keen, isn’t it?’

Eva immediately shut down the screen she was looking at and spun round in the chair. A young, friendly DI called Frank was walking over to his desk and removing the leather jacket he always wore to motorcycle into work. She and Frank had gone out a couple of times about a year back, once to a film, once for a meal. He’d taken her home on the bike after the second date and hinted that he might come in for coffee. When Eva had said no, he’d taken it fine. No hard feelings. She hadn’t let on that it was the closest she’d ever got to a relationship, and Frank had never mentioned it again. As colleagues, they rubbed along together just fine.

‘Just finished now,’ said Eva, feeling her cheeks flushing. She stood up. ‘I’ll, er . . . I’ll see you, yeah?’

Frank slung his biker’s jacket over the back of his chair, raised one palm in farewell, and Eva hurried out.

Her heart was thumping as she walked the corridors to the exit, avoiding the eyes of all the Yard employees she passed in the hope that nobody would stop and talk to her. Nobody did. And as she sat on the Tube from Victoria to Green Park, then headed west on the Piccadilly Line, she was almost glad that she couldn’t get a seat. She felt too anxious, too restless to sit.

Eva was sufficiently clued-up on prison regulations to know that a remand prisoner could receive visitors. Normally it was enough just to phone twenty-four hours in advance and she could get away without showing her face in the office, she reckoned. But as she locked herself into her cramped third-floor flat, all IKEA furniture and framed photos of her mum and dad, she found herself doubting the wisdom of making such a call. She knew Joe would be a high-profile, high-risk prisoner. Maybe the rules were different for him. Maybe she’d be causing him more harm than good if she tried to arrange a visit.

All these thoughts spun around in her head as she sat on her futon sofa staring at her phone. It was with a head full of confused misgivings that she finally called directories and requested a number in a quavering voice: ‘HMP Barfield,’ she said. ‘London.’

‘HMP Barfield – that’s the prison?’ asked the operator.

‘Yeah. The prison.’

Eleven

During the night the agony of Caitlin’s death kept coming to Joe in vividly accurate flashbacks. Fear too. It was a dark shadow on the edge of his mind. He was trapped. Set up. And if anyone wanted to have another go at him, it would be easy.

As it grew light, he realized he would soon have to go back to the dining hall. When the door was unlocked at seven-thirty, he decided to head straight there without saying a word to Hunter. But his path was blocked. Sowden, the screw who had received him when he first arrived, was standing in the doorway. ‘All right, Mansfield,’ he said. ‘Hands flat against the wall. You too, Hunter.’

It was a brisk but thorough search. Sowden patted down his arms, his legs, his torso, back and crotch. ‘Go,’ he said shortly when he was satisfied Joe was clean. ‘Your turn, Hunter.’

Joe left them to it and made his way to breakfast.

His senses were heightened, tuned in to any possible sign of danger, like he was in the field. Maybe the eyes that he felt burning into him
weren’t
really following his progress towards the serving area. Maybe Finch, still surrounded by his crew at a table halfway along on the left-hand side,
wasn’t
staring at him as he passed.

Or maybe they all were.

Joe ate everything he was given, shovelling Alpen and rubbery eggs down his throat like he was filling a magazine with rounds, and gulping down a cup of hot, sweet tea. All around him he heard cons complaining about the food. Try a cold MRE after three days in the snow, he thought to himself. It took him no more than three minutes to get his breakfast down him, after which he headed straight back to his cell, intending to stay there till the next mealtime.

No such luck.

It was 10 a.m. when he heard the sound of truncheons banging against the doors of the corridor. ‘Exercise,’ Hunter said from the top bunk.

‘Fuck that,’ Joe replied.

‘Won’t let you, fella. Everyone’s got to go outside. Half an hour. It’s the rules.’

Hunter was right. When Joe refused to leave his cell, three screws arrived to persuade him otherwise. He quickly decided it wasn’t a battle worth fighting. A minute later he was outside in the yard.

It was a warm spring day. A third of the yard was in shadow as the sun had not fully risen over the prison buildings. Joe scanned the inmates. There were two men walking on their own. They looked anxiously at the other cliques and groups who had congregated in different areas. Were they nervous that they might be targets? If so, they were doing the wrong thing keeping close to the walls. If anyone decided to close in on them, they’d have nowhere to run.

Finch and his crew – Joe counted seven of them now – were standing ten metres away. In the opposite corner four Middle Eastern-looking guys were talking, and there were several groups of black prisoners. And as always, the screws – five of them this time – patrolling the yard, but keeping their distance from any of the prisoners.

Joe started walking, bisecting the yard, which meant passing within three metres of Finch. The crew from Northern Ireland fell silent as he approached. He had cleared them by two metres when he sensed them closing in to follow him. He was practically in the centre of the yard now. Twenty-five metres to the nearest walls, fifteen to the nearest screw, who had obviously seen what was happening but was keeping his distance.

Joe stopped and turned. Finch was standing two metres away, at the head of his crew, who were holding back slightly, looking menacing but in a disorganized, ragtag formation.

‘Enjoying the sunshine?’ Finch gave him a crooked smile.

‘If you’ve got something to say, Finch, say it. Otherwise take your goons and fuck off.’

Finch raised a sarcastic eyebrow as he looked round at his mates. ‘You hear that, lads? Goons, you are.’ The goons didn’t look very amused. ‘You thought about what I said?’

‘Not really.’

Finch’s face remained expressionless. ‘Here’s the deal. You do something for me, I do something for you: protection. It’s worth more than money in this place, but you’ve got to earn it.’

From the corner of his eyes, Joe could see Hunter. He had circled round the perimeter of the yard and was now at Joe’s two o’clock, staring at them.

‘You want to do Hunter, you do him yourself,’ Joe replied. ‘I don’t provide muscle for the nutting squads.’

A look of suspicion crossed Finch’s face. ‘And where did
you
learn so much about nutting squads, army boy?’ He shrugged. ‘No, you can be sure one of
us
will look after the paedo. I’ll take a knife to him myself if I can. I got someone else in mind.’ Finch looked to his right. ‘See the Pakis?’

Joe followed Finch’s gaze. The four Middle Eastern-looking guys he had already noticed were now sitting cross-legged on the ground. They were deep in conversation, seemingly oblivious to anybody else around them. To Joe’s eye, they didn’t look Pakistani. Lebanese, maybe, or Syrian.

‘Got a thing about the Pakis. I don’t think too much of the niggers, neither, but they’re busy enough doing our work for us and fucking each other up. Now the
Pakis –
?they need
proper
cutting up, maybe more. Reckon you’re the man for the job. It’s what you army boys like to do, isn’t it? Fuck with the towelheads . . .’

Fuck with the towelheads.

He was back in Abbottabad, firing rounds into Romeo and Juliet . . .

Snap out of it
, he told himself.
Fucking snap out of it . . .

‘Do your own dirty work,’ he said. ‘And you can shove your protection up your fat Irish arse.’

There was a silence. Joe was aware of a pigeon flapping down and settling on the ground three metres to his right.

‘Bad call,’ Finch whispered. ‘
Bad
call.’ He turned round to his cronies. ‘Looks like Rambo here’s going the way of the nonces,’ he announced.

Finch backed away, and was immediately surrounded by his lads. The movement caused the pigeon to flap noisily up into the air and settle again between the bars of a second-floor cell window.

‘Be seeing you, army boy,’ Finch said, then turned and walked off. His crew joined him one by one, leaving Joe standing alone in the middle of the yard.

Joe stepped away. His hatred of the PIRA was deeply ingrained. He turned his attention instead to his surroundings. It was second nature to him to look for an exit strategy, but nothing presented itself here. The walls were nearly ten metres high and topped with barbed wire, every window was barred, every door bolted. There was a reason why prison escapes were so rare: they were almost impossible. He paced the exercise yard. He circled it twice. Then he saw, fifteen metres ahead, a man blocking his way.

He wasn’t tall – perhaps five-eight – but he was stocky with slicked-back grey hair and a neatly trimmed beard. He had a lit cigarette in his right hand, and an old-fashioned wooden crutch under his left.

Joe stuck out his chin. The two of them shared an unfriendly look for a full ten seconds before he sidestepped the lame man and prepared to continue his circuit of the exercise yard.

But there was another obstacle awaiting him.

He could see in an instant what was happening. On the far side of the yard, five metres from the door through which the inmates had entered it, Finch was talking to two of the screws. At Joe’s nine o’clock, two of his crew had started arguing, one pushing the other in the chest and attracting the attention of the remaining three screws. It was a clumsy diversion, but it was working: two more of the guys from Northern Ireland were striding in the direction of the lame man, violence in their eyes.

They were three metres from the inmate . . . Joe could see something shining in one of their fists. He acted almost without thinking. With a couple of strides he was between the lame man and the newcomer. The two from Northern Ireland continued to bear down on him, but they soon regretted it: Joe grabbed the fist with the weapon in it and, with a single move, twisted it as he brought his knee up into the pit of the man’s stomach. He went down.

Joe turned his attention to the second guy. There was no need. The man with the crutch was not so lame as he appeared. He had lifted it into the air and swiped it solidly round the second assailant’s head. The lad fell to the ground. So did the lame man, but not by accident. He knelt down and stabbed his lit cigarette into his attacker’s left eye. The lad screamed. Suddenly, screws were all around. It was the lame guy they surrounded, confiscating his crutch, grabbing him under his arm. ‘All right, Hennessey,’ one of them shouted. ‘Back to the fucking Seg Wing . . .’

‘We didn’t bother to change the sheets, hope you don’t mind . . .’ said a second screw.

Before Joe knew what was going on, Hennessey was being marched across the courtyard. It didn’t seem to bother the guy. He had a fiery glint in his eyes, and it was directed at Joe. He gave a nod of acknowledgement before he disappeared. Joe stepped away from the trouble as a medic rushed in. The whole exercise yard was suddenly awash with conversation as the other inmates started discussing loudly what had happened. All of them except Finch, who stood by the door with his back against the wall, looking at Joe with poisonous hatred.

Eva was used to prisons. She was used to the smell of them, and the noise. She was used to the way the inmates stared at her as she passed.