‘Killgannon. Get your things together. You’re moving.’
Tom had barely slept so the words didn’t wake him. As soon as he lay down on the narrow, uncomfortable bed the room seemed to get even smaller, the walls closing in. Fears ran round his head, fears he hadn’t expected to experience.
The door is locked. What if there’s a fire? Or some kind of catastrophe and I’m locked in here for ever? What if they don’t let me out? Or I’m rumbled and they decide to teach me a lesson?
On and on, his doubts spiralling and deepening, until he stuffed the thin, lumpy pillow into his mouth and stifled a scream.
Everyone has a fear, a defining phobia. Heights, snakes, spiders, illness, whatever. For Tom it was confined spaces. Closed, locked spaces. He’d been claustrophobic ever since he was a small boy. When his sister had taken him on shopping expeditions into Manchester city centre he had hated getting into department store lifts. Expecting them to break down and become suspended tombs as the air ran out and no one came to save them. Crowding on to buses, trams or tube trains had been an ordeal, closing his eyes and holding his breath, blocking his ears and pretending to be anywhere but there. Even taking dares from other kids, to explore old, abandoned pipes and factories, in the wasteland beside the estate where he grew up. He’d always avoided it. But he didn’t want anyone else to know, to see it as weakness, so he hit the first person to question his bravery, ensuring that no one else would.
Although he had tried to conquer his fear as he got older, his commando training brought it all back to him. On exercise with a full pack, trying to pull himself through caves and tunnels that he was barely able to squeeze inside without the pack. He tried to channel that fear, use it to motivate him, and hide from the others how terrified he was. Be a leader. And it had worked. This had taught him a valuable life lesson: no one knows what they’re doing. Everyone just hides their fear and keeps going.
But now, after one night, those fears had returned. He wished he had never agreed to do this job. No matter the consequences.
It was too late for that now. As the prison officer stood at the door waiting for him, Tom struggled off the bed, his muscles aching from the prone calisthenic workout he had given his body instead of sleep.
‘Get your stuff.’
‘Where am I going? I only just got here.’
‘This is the induction wing. You stay here till you’ve been properly allocated. Come on.’ Sighing as he spoke. Just one more thing on his to do list.
Tom complied, gathered up his meagre belongings into bin bags once more, followed the officer out. Relieved to be stretching his legs, if only temporarily.
On the wing, the rest of the inmates were already up. Clad in regulation blue tracksuits, they were being herded to the kitchen to queue up for what smelled like the poor relation of hospital food and looked like slabs of beige stodge designed to keep them full, placid and pliant. Or that was the theory. Once served their meal they would take their trays back to their cells to eat. And wait to see whether they would be allowed out for the morning jobs or education.
Tom looked at the queueing men but didn’t make eye contact with any of them. He didn’t want to be seen as issuing a challenge. The men came in all shapes and sizes, mostly with short hair, some with arms and faces full of spidery, home-made tattoos. Drug-sunken features, always-alert eyes, fear hiding behind the threat of violence in every movement.
Tom was led off the wing and through the prison, pausing at every gate, facing the wall and waiting while the officer unlocked and then re-locked as they went. He walked along corridors in silence, the officer’s attitude discouraging him from questions or small talk. He used the time to process as much about his surroundings as possible. Orient himself.
His training kicked in: mentally checking for angles where he could be attacked, hallways where he wouldn’t be safe, vantage points where he could defend himself if he had to. Committing the layout to his memory, or as much as he could manage.
As they walked the prison became older, like travelling back in time. Walls turned from painted plaster to old brickwork. Light fittings and power points looked less integral to the architecture, more like later additions. The caging and gates they walked through looked over-painted, layered up to disguise and discourage any rust. Cell doors were heavily riveted, reinforced, immovable.
The officer led him up some metal stairs. Tom looked down to the level below. Netting partially obscured the view but he could see one or two tracksuited prisoners carrying buckets and mops, pretending not to be interested in this new arrival.
‘Here we go.’
The officer stopped before a cell door, took out his keys. Tom glanced at the cell’s whiteboard telling the name and number of the occupant.
‘Cunningham.’
Really? Was it that simple?
The officer opened the door. ‘Stand up, move away from your bed. Got some company for you.’
Tom was ushered into the cell.
‘Your new home,’ announced the officer.
Cunningham was on his feet. ‘I said I didn’t want to share. Want to be on my own.’
‘And I want Beyoncé waiting for me when I get home. Can’t always get what you want.’
Anger blazed in Cunningham’s eyes. ‘But I said—’
‘Take it up with the Governor.’ He walked back through the door, closed it behind him. The sound reverberated away to nothing.
Tom tamped down the rising fear inside him. Locked up again. He turned to Cunningham who was still staring at him.
‘Who the fuck are you?’