Guilty (16 page)

When it was looked at like that, she had little going for her apart from a huge stamp on her forehead “Psycho”.

Philippa Foot , a utilitarian philosopher, and Judith Jarvis Thomson, both well referred to by A level students, had developed a conundrum involving a runaway railway trolley. The psychologist had been unable to disguise his glee when Sadie’s answer had fitted so neatly into his psycho box. Words weren’t needed, his face had “told you so,” written all over it.

The personal moral dilemma involved in this little conundrum had seemed obvious to Sadie. Without batting an eye she had chosen to chuck the guy over the side in order to save five others. Basically the runaway trolley would kill all unless you were prepared to push this huge guy over the side, from the bridge. His huge mass would block the track, saving the other five.

Apparently “normal” people would not have been able to do that but they would have been able to do the action offered in the alternative scenario. In that there was the possibility to press a switch which controlled a lever. The trolley would be directed down a track so one person died, rather than five.

Apparently, the psychologist explained in court, there were distinctions between hot and cold empathy, the kind of empathy we experience when observing others and the icy emotional calculus that allows us to assess what others might be thinking. He claimed psychopaths were lacking the first type of empathy but the type that is understanding rather than feeling is found in psychopaths. After all, that is what they build on to become the great persuaders they are, the genius manipulators. He used this in his theory that Sadie was your classic patient.

What did it matter what label she’d been given? She wasn’t supposed to care what others thought of her, likewise she wasn’t supposed to exhibit fear or anxiety.

Well, here was one psycho with sky-high anxiety levels right now, anxiety that she would never see her precious mother again.

21.

“The prison service admits that a riot, involving dozens of prisoners, is taking place . . .” Fran had just pressed the off switch on the radio-alarm, next to their four-poster.

“What was that?” Oliver asked, as he popped out of the wet room.

“Sorry love, did you want it leaving on?”

“Well, hope it’s not Sadie’s prison.”

Fran fluffed up the pillow next to him. “Come on, darling, you’ve got to have some mental release. You can’t breathe her problems all the time. Just how many prisons are there in England? Come on, lie down here and I will massage your back as you relax. Let’s take a day out, visit the coast. We need time away from all the family issues. You’ll come back refreshed, batteries charged, ready to help Caroline further.”

Oliver’s face lit up as Fran reached for his hand. “You’re right, as always, Fran, my man!”

Two hours later, Oliver’s car left the drive for Scarborough as officers from special prison riot units, from across the country, arrived to deal with the incident at Sadie’s prison in a system known as Operation Target. Specially trained negotiators had been summoned to try to contain the disturbance.

“Queen’s greatest hits” blazed from Oliver’s CD.

“Don’t stop me now!” They sang along heartedly. Fran had been so right to suggest a day away from it all, just the two of them.

“Don’t stop me now,” screamed Sonia, obese thighs chaffing along as she instigated other inmates to smash up the East wing.

“Fuck off, you bastard,” as she thwacked one of the prison officers across the face with a steel leg she had prised off a wobbly chair in the dining room. He staggered, cupping the warm, red liquid oozing from the cut above his eyebrow.

Seizing the opportunity, relishing in her thuggish, adrenalin-fuelled run, she booted him in the stomach. Sadistically enjoying the power, all sixteen stone of her jumped on his back, wrestling him to the floor. She wanted to witness first-hand the pain in his eyes so she kicked him over. Two massive strikes and he lay flat, desperately trying to shield his face, not knowing where the beast would lunge next. In her reckless excitement she jumped. Wow, her own personalised trampoline. Thin layers of fat did their best to protect his vital organs as her bulk landed and took off from him time and again.

“Another one bites the dust!” She proudly wiped her hands together, leaving him gasping his last breaths, a strange gurgling sound slipping from his mouth as a mixture of blood and a clear fluid dripped from the broken jaw. Loathingly she crunched down on his nose, the shattering of the bones inciting her on to pastures new.

“And another one gone, and another one gone” Fran took the lead.

Fire engines and riot vans blocked the view for Sky news. Other journalists sat cursing in their cars, all the deployed vehicles blocking their route to a spectacular story.

The perpetrators were like magnets; no prisoner seemed able to resist their pull. The recent flu epidemic had resulted in severe staff shortages.

Prisoner 666 was the brains behind the uprising .Pride had swelled in her gut each time the guards fell for her ruse – another convert.

Confession, rosary beads, requests for extra visits from the priest, Bible study, and log on to Bible Gateway audio. She relished her fame when she overheard guards refer to her as, “the Bible basher”.

The irony was that the officers believed the place was safer with all these religious do-gooders! They relaxed more around the believers. Prisoner 666 was a brilliant evangelist; she was reforming them all, saving them effort!

Head bowed, praying, she sneered behind her prayer book at the simpletons. Acceptance of such a religious revival, their naïvety stunned her. Temptation to mock them, to push her luck was overpowering. Such self-control needed to be exerted. She had to maintain the façade and all her sheep followed her pretence, regularly leaving evidence of their Bible notes splayed out on their bunks, requests for artefacts, offers of prayer for sick guards. The howls they had inventing minor miracles, faking their insistence that they had religious experiences.

The Bible study and prayer sessions covered their planning, their plans which had taken action early this morning.

First they had taken control of the prison chapel. It almost felt sacrilege; their acting had been so professional. 666 actually felt guilty using the stone statue of Christ to block the door.

The prisoners had been escorted as usual to the chapel. The visiting woman preacher stared in amazement at the glut of worshippers. This would be an interesting observation to report back to the deanery. A religious revival at last. She hoped her sermon would do them justice. As she stood to step up to the lectern, Sonia had stood too. Unperturbed, she thought maybe this was an expression of free worship.

“Hell,” Sonia screamed.

“Maybe a bit Pentecostal, no, maybe a bit Lutheran, hell and damnation,” the preacher was amazed how many thoughts could run through her head, in a fraction of a second.

“Go to hell,” Sonia increased her volume.

“Dramatic, but an interesting way of calling for repentance from the fires of the abyss. Maybe this aggressive evangelism worked in this place of hardened hearts, must be effective – so many converts” the preacher analysed.

White, tense, angry faces. Where was the love of the Holy Spirit in these countenances? The preacher was perturbed – maybe large numbers of converts, but the atmosphere wasn’t holy, wasn’t sacred. She must talk about this with the regular chaplain.

Reality struck. This was a falsehood, a heresy; these were children of the devil, not of the loving God. They had duped everybody. This was pure evil in action.

Confirmation of this truth hit her as Sonia’s beefy fist sent her dentures flying.

“Fuck you religious hypocrites,” she stormed.

“Fuck you,” the crowd echoed.

“The fruit of the spirit is love, joy . . .” filtered into the preacher’s mind as another monster grabbed the microphone.

“Our prayers of resentment, anger and bitterness about our conditions have gone unheeded. There is none of your God’s love in our hearts. We have hatred there. Hatred has brewed since our convictions. Nobody listens to our pleas for a second chance in this hellhole. Where is the forgiveness you preach? Once we have been in here, we are branded for life. Stuff your reform programmes, your patronising courses. We are treated like dirt here.”

“How could we have all been so naïve?” all the officers seemed to telepathically think together. They were well down in the ratio of staff to prisoners which they were supposed to maintain.

Suddenly, from goodness knows where, every member of the congregation seemed to be brandishing some sort of weapon. Masks appeared, adding to the threatening atmosphere.

Shock had paralysed some of the less experienced guards and they were like pussycats as their keys were ripped from them.

Fire extinguishers, fire buckets, exit signs so easily ripped down, all artillery helping them to win the land in the blink of an eye. All exits were barricaded with the pews which were so easy to move.

The stained-glass windows containing their images of peace were desecrated. They had known they would take some breaking. They were so well prepared by 666. They had smuggled in the tools to cut bars and glass in fake Bibles. Some made it onto the rooftop, others including Sonia had plans for certain wings.

Complaints about conditions had been the blueprint. They were incensed. Mob rule had overtaken.

They had planned it for weeks. They had managed to work out how to gain access to other wings. The unprotected office ceilings allowed them to cut holes.

Someone had pressed the evacuation order and the keys were used to free other prisoners locked in their cells.

Sadie was scared. She had not mixed with the others. Depression had robbed her of any desire to do so. She had no inkling of their plans. For once she was innocent, guilty of ignorance!

Roof tiles were crashing down, hurled at prison officers. The smell of smoke. The senseless mob was starting fires!

The Control and Restraint units had arrived to attempt to secure some of the wings, prepared to fight with some of the rioting prisoners. As they tried to enter, scaffolding poles and missiles were fired down at them. How on earth had 350 prisoners got up onto the roof, their mockery extended by the fact some were wearing prison officers’ hats and uniforms. Banners were unfurled, churlish attempts to preach to the gathering press, their futile efforts to announce their rights lost due to the faintness of the marker pen.

One of them had contacted the local press. The brave, pale reporter was admitted where nobody else was permitted to go, hoping this high risk would pay off in the long run for his career.

They were hoping for some sort of saviour as they hurled their demands at him. 666 had planned the riot to the minutest detail, thriving on the violence of it all, but the efforts to assimilate well thought-out requests had been lost in the thuggery.

“We demand they stop the mental and physical brutality,” they started. Trying to get a good report he dared to enquire, “Why?” Such a simple question but a red rag to these bulls.

“Bugger off,” one retorted.

“Don’t say you’re on their side. Why? Why do you bloody think? Because we’re human too, you arsehole.”

“Wrong choice of word,” he tried to sound macho, “slipped out wrong. Can you give examples so the rest of the country can see what you gals have to put up with?”, trying to butter them up, hoping to live to publish this story!

They weren’t interested in the reasoned approach.

“Rotten food.”

“Unacceptable conditions.”

“We need longer exercise periods.”

Demand after demand, childlike like a wish list to Santa.

Sadie covered her ears. The prison officers were trying to weaken the resolves of these monsters. Riot shields were being banged non-stop, loud music to stop them communicating with each other, tactics to deny any sleep so that this riot would not develop into a few days. Police sirens joined in.

Sadie lay curled in the foetal position by the open door of her cell.

“What would Caroline do?” she wondered. How was it that she had no mind of her own? Despite her own strong will Sadie always secretly knew how Caroline would act.

She would go and find out what was going on. Inspired by that direction, she stumbled up and started down the corridor to where she could see a crowd of prisoners.

There was a roar. A door had been forced open, the rush of air feeding oxygen to the smouldering fires. Flames leapt up, trying to bite the rioters. They ran en masse. One person fell. The orange tongues sought their chance to engulf the victim’s blonde tresses.

Spluttering, coughing, panicked screams, silenced immediately by gasps for air. An abandoned body sprawled in the corridor. Sadie recalled from the distant past some form of fire safety training, maybe from her time in the Brownies even? She whisked off her top and began to beat the consuming dragon. Miraculous strength came to her as she dragged the now unconscious woman down the alleyway.

The guards who had barged the door down came to her assistance. She turned to see there had been another woman left behind too. Only just recognisable, the thick smoke trying its best to camouflage its prey.

The guards tried to restrain her. Neither they nor she were wearing suitable protective clothing. Her intrinsic goodness could not stand by and let death devour this stranger. She escaped their clutches and dived towards the burning bundle. The pain seared through her, acid-like, biting into her flesh. Those blue eyes were never going to set eyes on her sweet mother again. The eyelashes singed. She had to rely on her sense of touch, desperately holding her breath as she somehow, yet again, found superhuman strength to drag the motionless heap back towards the statue-like guards. Heaving, her lungs bursting from the fumes, she deposited the bulk at their feet.

Caroline’s smile was in her mind’s eye as she collapsed. Bri’s laughter suddenly found its way into her ears. Oliver’s patience provided her with a sense of peace as she accepted her fate. Faint memories of Simon’s hugs, from way back in her childhood comforted her. She was ready for peace, to be set free from a lifetime of mental torture.

“I love you all and thank you,” words sang and danced around her head. “I’m sorry”, but somehow she understood that there was no need to beg forgiveness, somehow it had been bestowed upon her, and somehow she was getting a second chance.

*

“Bri’s eyes opened,” Caroline screamed.

Steve turned to look. “I don’t think so . . .”

But suddenly they did again.

“Quick, get the nurse.”

“That was quick,” but she was already on her way to them bearing the news.

A police officer had arrived and wished to speak to them.

“Please let him come in here,” Caroline begged. “I don’t want to leave Bri – he’s coming out of his coma, he’s opened his eyes.”

Surprisingly, calmly, obedient, trance-like, the nurse turned on her heels.

They hardly noticed as they bent over Bri.

“Bri, darling, can you hear me? Bri, Bri, can you speak?”