‘We don’t like doing this either, if that’s any consolation.’
It wasn’t. Tom had been taken to yet another room, told to strip naked by the prison officer, and searched. His bags had been gone through thoroughly, his personal items examined in minute detail. The officers had stopped at the photos, scrutinised the images, scrutinised him in turn. Guessing relationships, keeping judgements to themselves for now. Mentally filing the images away as potential leverage at a later date. It was intrusive, having his life dismantled and put on show, but nothing compared with what was to come.
‘Take a seat,’ the officer said, pointing to the BOSS chair. The Body Orifice Scanner.
Tom had heard about this and had dreaded experiencing it for himself. Grey and functional looking, it was a full body scanner that checked every cavity for contraband. Humiliating in the extreme, but he had no choice but to submit.
‘I’ve got nothing to hide,’ said Tom.
‘Then you’ve nothing to worry about.’
The chair was switched on. It was something Tom hoped he would never have to endure again.
The experience over, he was told to get dressed and take a seat. He was tired, ready for whatever sleep he could get, but no one seemed in any particular hurry. He sat. The officer opposite him picked up a file from his desk, opened it. He was tall, grey-haired. Thin, with large glasses and a mournful expression. He looked more like a funeral director or an unsuccessful dentist than a prison officer. There was no cruelty about him, no harshness. Just a tired professionalism. Then the questions started.
‘Where’ve you come from?’
He had decided to answer questions as monosyllabically as possible. Inmates tried different things when they first arrived. Some played hard, set themselves up as a challenge, tried to intimidate. Others went for cocky, unbreakable. Some, especially the older hands, tried to be chummy with the officers at first, make themselves seem likeable, get privileges in the bank. Tom gave little of himself away. Let them come to him if they wanted something.
‘Where’ve you come from?’
‘HMP Long Lartin.’
‘How long you in for?’
‘Two years.’
‘How long you got left?’
‘Eighteen months.’
‘What level were you on?’
‘Enhanced. Yeah. I worked for my privileges. Don’t intend to lose them.’
The officer read the rest of the file in front of him. Tom waited silently. Eventually the officer looked up. ‘You’ll do all right here, probably. Keep your head down, your nose clean. All of that.’
Tom inclined his head to demonstrate he’d heard and understood.
The officer closed the file, studied Tom. ‘How did you get on in your last prison?’
‘Should be all there in the report.’
‘It is, but I want your opinion.’
‘Fine,’ said Tom, talking as if words were difficult, precious things to extract from him.
‘No problems with other inmates? Officers?’
‘Don’t think so. Unless someone’s said anything I don’t know about.’
‘No.’ The officer opened the file once more. ‘Model prisoner. Says here you’re well-educated but you didn’t want to go to education classes.’
‘Couldn’t see the need. I’ve done all that stuff. Didn’t want to do art either. Not good at drawing. Or creative writing . . . I don’t like making up stories.’ The irony, thought Tom.
‘So you ended up working in the laundry. Why was that?’
‘I like wearing clean clothes.’
The officer sat back, studied Tom once more. Took in his hair, beard. The tattoos poking out from his rolled up sweatshirt sleeves. The way Tom held his body, still but not relaxed, like an engine at rest.
‘If I may say so,’ said the officer, voice dropping, ‘you don’t seem like many of the men we get in here. I’m not saying you don’t belong because clearly you do, otherwise you wouldn’t be here.’
The statement seemed to invite a response so Tom gave a small shrug.
‘It says in your file that you committed assault.’
‘That’s what it says.’
‘A troublesome customer in the pub where you worked.’
‘You know all this. Why are you asking?’
The officer looked up from his notes. Smiled. Tom’s first question. A breakthrough.
‘I just want your opinion on what happened, that’s all.’
Tom shrugged once more. ‘Lairy customer got a bit too handsy with the boss. Needed putting in place, that was all.’
‘And that’s the way you see it, is it?’
‘What other way is there?’
‘Well according to the trial notes, this lairy customer, as you describe him . . .’ He verbally placed quotation marks around the words ‘. . . was attempting to rape your boss. He had followed her outside to the back of the pub, pinned her up against the wall and was attempting to sexually assault her when you happened upon them.’
‘Yeah. That’s right.’
The officer regarded Tom over the tops of his glasses. Like peering out from behind a shield. ‘Should have got a medal, really.’
Tom shrugged. ‘He needed to be taught a lesson.’
‘Which is where, it says here, it stepped over the line to assault.’ The officer nodded. His tone became warmer, conciliatory. ‘Thin line, that. Very thin. Better barrister, different judge in a different mood on another day . . . there but for the grace of God, isn’t it?’
Tom said nothing.
‘Anyway, you’re here now. My advice? Make the best of it.’
Tom nodded.
‘Just another couple of questions before I send you along to the medical department. Have you had any suicidal thoughts since you’ve been in prison?’
‘No.’
‘Dark thoughts? Depression?’
‘I’m on anti-depressants. Long term.’
‘Are they working?’
Tom shrugged. ‘Still here, aren’t I?’
‘Mental health’s a big problem inside. If you feel you can’t cope or you need someone to talk to, speak to your personal officer. He’ll introduce himself on the wing tomorrow.’
Tom gave a small nod.
‘Anything else?’
‘I want a cell to myself.’
The officer smiled. ‘Don’t hold your breath.’
Tom nodded.
The officer wrote something in the file, closed it. ‘Right, that’s you done. Off you go to medical. Best of luck.’
*
He sat in his cell, on the bed, staring at the wall. It was painted a shade of yellow that looked like a dying, sick sun. The door, huge and riveted, took up most of one wall. On the opposite wall was a barred window, the plexiglass strips, pitted and melted from cigarette burns, gave only the barest of openings to stop inmates from stringing a line from cell to cell in order to pass contraband or reaching through to take whatever had been brought in by drone. The bed was against one wall, opposite that was a cheap table with a small, greasy-screened TV, a plastic chair, a metal, seat-free toilet and matching metal basin. His bags sat on the floor, unopened.
Whoever had lived in the place before him hadn’t been one for cleaning. The floors were dirty, the walls smeared. It stank. That would be one task he would have to undertake immediately.
Medical had presented no problems. He had been passed fit and healthy, ready for work or education. After that he was given his non-smokers welcome pack – a small carton of orange squash and a few cheap biscuits – and directed to his cell. But not before his allocated phone call.
One call, a duration of two minutes, then cut off whether he had finished or not. Made from the wing phone with everyone else around, not knowing who was listening, both in the vicinity and beyond. Knowing someone could use your words against you if they wanted to. Choose carefully who you want to talk to, what you want to say, he had been advised. Make every second count. He should call Lila. Tell her he was OK. Not to worry. Or Pearl, even. But both of those calls would have to be longer than two minutes. Infinitely longer. And full of things he couldn’t say. Instead he dialled another number, one he had learned by heart.
‘It’s me,’ said Tom. ‘I’m in.’
‘Any problems?’
‘None.’
‘Good.Then get to work.’