Seven Daze (37 page)

She mouthed two words. They were either, “Sorry, mate,” or “I’ll wait.” He wondered if he’d find out what they were.

The hospital visit was soon over. The X-ray was the only time the copper left his side. Jim didn’t mind him so much. The bloke was only doing his job. He’d chosen a crap job, but it was still just a job.

Bruising was the full diagnosis, and with that a squad car rushed him to a central London station. Booked in and fingerprinted he was led to the cell. As the door slammed shut, he looked around. Eight by six cell, brick-lined walls, no windows. Home, or the nearest he seemed to have to one.

Sitting on the hard bunk, he sighed. He’d had it all two hours ago. Ten grand and a good woman. He’d had a future. Now, he’d lost it all. And why? Some little thieving scally on the rob. He shook his head and wondered if the little shit would ever get caught. Wondered how far his little eyes would pop from his head when he opened the briefcase and saw the wad of notes.

And Charlotte. He wondered what the hell this would do to her. Would she have to go to ground, call the scam off, or would she see it out on her own. He reckoned she’d probably see it out. She’d have to be careful though. They’d been seen together. CCTV would probably have hours of footage of the pair walking around or sharing a drink. If she was smart he reckoned she could get away with something. He hoped she could.

He lay on the bunk. They’d leave him to sweat for a few hours before the interview. That was the way it worked. Some people after just a few hours would sing like canaries. Jim knew he wouldn’t. He’d been here too many times.

The only good thing he could think of was at least he hadn’t shot Geoffrey. At least he wasn’t a murderer.

They made him wait four hours before the interview. He declined a lawyer; didn’t need one. He’d just keep quiet or deny everything. He was hardly going to confess and plead leniency. Anyway, what good was a lawyer when you knew what to do? They were just a waste of everyone’s time.

The CCTV pictures they showed him in the interview were unreal in quality. Hard to believe they’d been taken in packed bars in the evening rush. A few showed him taking wallets, the mobile and the Blackberry off the women outside a cafe.

And Raif.

Stills of him talking to Raif, spilling his drink then rifling through his plane ticket and copying the address into his phone.

“Doesn’t prove anything,” said Jim. “Whatever might have happened at his house, it’s nothing to do with me.”

The detective across the table, some seventies throwback that refused to be pensioned off, smiled. He pulled another set of photos from the buff file and threw them across the table. CCTV footage from the cheque-cashing shop where he’d cashed Raif’s cheque.

 “We got some DNA at the flat too. I don’t think we have yours on file.” He turned to the officer next to him, a young and wide-eyed woman. “Maybe we should take some. What do you think?”

She looked at him, nodded, and then looked at Jim. “Of course, we think the break-in couldn’t have been just one person. Maybe with DNA, we might find who else was there, unless ...” She left the sentence hanging as they’d probably been practicing for two hours.

Jim looked down at his unshoed feet. Tim by Four and Mick the Prick. Decent, hardworking, dodgy geezers. He couldn’t drop them in it. Tim had just got out, on licence. He’d be straight back in. Would they have his DNA on file? He couldn’t remember the exact date of his offence. Chances are they would.

Another thing was bugging him. Once they started digging, who knows where they’d stop. Charlotte would be next. They were bound to have pictures of them together. If they started digging and asking her questions it didn’t bear thinking of. No, he couldn’t do it, not to the lads. Charlotte though, she hadn’t exactly rushed to his aid had she? She’d just stood there, watching them lead him away. Did he owe her anything?

“What you thinking about, Jim?” said the man.

Britwell was what Jim thought his name was. Some dinosaur still lurking round the ranks getting his full thirty years service for the maximum pension. He’d have seen the dark old days of beatings and forged confessions. Probably a few skeletons in his own closet. If there was a deal to be done, he was the sort to do it. Jim sighed. He was going down, that wasn’t in doubt. Breaking parole and the pictures made sure of that. The only thing that was in doubt was who was joining him.

He looked up at the old-timer and shrugged his shoulders. “Okay. Maybe I will have that lawyer.”

Ten a.m. the next morning, the magistrate sent him back down. Breaking his release terms, it was just a formality. The hearing itself had lasted barely ten minutes. The case would take weeks, months, to prepare, despite him admitting to gutting Raif of his worldly goods and fifteen other offences to be taken into account.

The converted transit van that took him to Brixton took its time crossing the river. Some private security van converted into mini plastic cells with a couple of security guards on board. Only one other occupant was in the van and he spent the whole journey protesting his innocence. Jim wondered how quickly the man would learn that everyone in prison is innocent. Everyone.

Booked in, Jim put on his new attire. Luckily he didn’t get the jump suit with orange flash his co-prisoner got. Those on remand were kept separate and wore distinct clothes. Jim knew that as he technically wasn’t on remand, but was awaiting another trial, he’d get shoved in with a separate lot. The inbetweeners. Both guilty and innocent until proven guilty. Porridge without the fun. Separate landings, isolation from other prisoners, slopping out and an hour a day solitary recreation. Sometimes they’d move prisoners around, but Jim knew he’d be in London until the trial. They were keeping him close to the city, close enough to be interviewed as and when needed.

Waiting to be taken to his new cell, he sighed. Fitting in was always hard. He hadn’t been to Brixton before, but had heard stories. Not many of them good. It didn’t sound as bad as the old days. The riots over the years had made it slightly more bearable.

Everything was so slow too. The whole system was designed to wear you down before you even started. With nothing to do but stare at the wall, he allowed his mind to drift off and wonder about Charlotte. Just how pissed off would she be? He’d lost her not only ten grand yesterday but also four from last week. He hadn’t added anything to the deal. The only actual work he’d done was cook for her a few times. Had he cost her more though? Had she pulled the plug? Had he cost her the lot?

He hoped not. Sure, he’d made it hard, but he reckoned she could salvage something from the pile of shit he’d left behind. He hoped she could.

The first night dragged on forever. Lights out at nine when the sun was still shining through the high, barred windows didn’t welcome sleep. Hours seemed to pass as he went through the last few days. Maybe if he’d waited just that bit longer in the bar the kid would have mugged someone else. He should have caught a bus or walked the other way.

As the hours ticked on, his mind took a different route. Was it a set up? Was Charlotte in on it? He’d never checked inside the case. How did he know there was actually ten grand? Maybe she got the kid to mug him. Why though? What was in it for her apart from getting rid of him?

He also wondered about the two lads, Mick and Tim. Maybe he shouldn’t have coughed so quickly. Chances are the coppers were bluffing about the DNA. Had they conned him? He’d have gone back down anyway for a few months, but had he messed up by protecting them?

When sleep eventually came, his mind was exhausted. Someone a few cells down seemed to be pacing his cell all night too. Jim knew it wasn’t the innocent one he’d shared a ride with. It was someone else recently re-imprisoned. Someone else remembering how shit life was inside and why had he gone back to his old ways. He knew the real problem though. When your old ways are the only ways you know you’re fucked before you even begin.

The days dragged by. A meeting with his young solicitor revealed the trial would be in about three months. The solicitor asked if he wanted to change his plea, but Jim shook his head. He was reminded he could get a much smaller sentence with more co-operation, but that wasn’t the way things worked. Everyone knew that. Apparently everyone except wet-behind-the-ears solicitors.

Prison itself wasn’t too bad. The cell larger than the previous one, the bed nearly comfortable. After a few days, sleep came naturally at nine until he woke at seven. As he was awaiting trial, he had the cell to himself. In some ways he preferred that, but twenty-three hours a day on your own brought its own troubles. The hourly exercise was the only chance to meet others. Most of them in a similar situation, it was the only thing they all looked forward to. Though they’d very little to talk about, that hour each day spent walking round in circles was all that kept him, and he knew the others, going. That and the two trips a day to the canteen where they’d pick up trays of slushy food and take them back past the other permanent guests of her majesty who were only too happy to wish them a fair trial.

After a month, he got the trial date. The end of November, the start of the season of goodwill. Jim wondered if that goodwill would extend to judges but decided it probably had an adverse effect.

Though other prisoners came and went, Jim got on best with a south London small-time wide boy called “Lanky Dave”. Dave had been released a year early and promptly went straight over the Channel to France on a false passport. Returning with thirty thousand fake cigarettes, customs had him in no time. Dave’s story that he’d been doing it for his kids to give them a Christmas to remember had struck a chord with Jim. He did, however, admit he’d been stupid to get caught so quickly. Very stupid.

In the fourteen hours a day he was awake and alone, Jim read. He’d never been big on reading, besides the newspaper, but with so little else to do he did it to avoid climbing the walls. Starting with Dickens, he went through other classics. Though the prison library was limited, he was soon up to half a book a day. His other reading comfort was occasional newspapers. Usually old, he tried for the London one whenever he could. The story he was searching for never appeared. He didn’t know if that was good or bad.

His solitary visitor while on remand surprised him. His sister. Not seen or heard from for nearly eight years, he was surprised when she answered his letter to her. After a few more letters changed hands he applied for a visiting pass wondering if that would be the end of their reunion.

It hadn’t been. In that hour of embarrassed silences, talk of growing up and hearing about her life as a waitress, he wondered why he’d taken the route he had. She had the same start as him, but had never once lived outside the law. It had to be something inside you, he was sure of that. Something bad inside that you were born with.

She promised she’d still write, but with her forthcoming marriage it would be harder. The man she was marrying sounded like a good man. He knew of Jim’s incarceration and, though not said, he knew as well as she did it was nothing to boast about. When visiting time had ended he made her promise to stay on the right side of the law. She just shrugged her shoulders as if to say she wouldn’t have broken it anyway.

The days dragged as the trial approached. Put back another week at the last moment, it was even harder to stomach. His young and perky solicitor was confident of doing the best for him. They both knew he was staying inside. The length though, that was the million dollar question. The solicitor reckoned he’d get a year at the most. Time served, admission of guilt. It all added up to him being out by next Christmas. The night before his trial sleeplessness returned. He knew what the score was and how it worked. This was going to be his thirteenth appearance before a court. Not usually superstitious, that fact alone couldn’t fail but play on his mind. The solicitor assured him that wouldn’t come into it, but he knew when it came to sentencing the judge would know all the details.

The judge wasn’t lenient. Four years. Six months ago Jim wasn’t sure if he’d have known what habitual meant, but he knew now. The judge was right too. That’s exactly what he was. His only mitigating factor was the guilty plea. Jim knew with good behaviour he’d be out after three. But, three years is still a long time.

Something about those two months he’d had outside had changed him. He tried not to think too deeply about what it was, but with so much time to think it rattled round his head. He was getting too old for this. Prison gave its own cosy feel especially on long stretches. You got used to it and it seemed a better life than outside.

Things had changed. He’d seen life outside under a different cloud. A good woman, or a bad one in a good way, made the difference. He wondered why the hell anyone would feel better off inside with its lack of freedom, lack of companionship and lack of hope.

He was more than surprised when they carted off him off to Onley, a category C prison in the West Midlands. He’d been expecting Wormword Scrubs and all the delights held within. Prison overcrowding and the guilty plea had been the only reason him or his solicitor could see for the slight reprieve.

Not that the porridge wasn’t tough, but at least he didn’t have to share a cell or slop out. A few of the other lags on his floor were in similar circumstances. Lifelong repeat offenders determined they wouldn’t get caught again. Either they’d go straight or be more careful from now on.

A dicey moment came after three months when, while the screw’s backs were turned, two Londoners from a different floor appeared in his cell.

“We’ve to give you a message,” said Chocker, the larger of the two by a good foot.

While the other watched the door, Chocker grabbed Jim by the throat and smashed him into the wall. Breath unable to go down, he tried pulling at the tree trunk arms holding him but Chocker was built like the toilet Jim was next to. He tried to speak but couldn’t. It didn’t really matter if he had spoken. Chocker didn’t seem the listening sort.