Night fell early in prison, at any time of year. The thick, brick walls and tiny barred windows on Tom’s wing made daylight’s attempts to penetrate feeble so its absence wasn’t greeted with much fanfare. If it hadn’t been for a certain shift in the attitudes of the inmates, the passing of time would have gone unnoticed. Even in the short while Tom had been inside he had noticed it. The same shift animals feel at the zoo after the visitors have stopped staring and left. A collective stillness, not calming or tranquil but tense, coiled. A tightening of muscles, a hardening of features. Eyes looking beyond what could be seen. The inevitable realisation that, assuming you’d been allowed out of your cell that day, your tiny bit of freedom was about to be taken away. The cell doors would once again be locked, and you would be back on the wrong side. And when the lights went out, the talking stopped, the cries and shouts died down, you would lie there, locked in the even deeper prison of your own head, alone with only your thoughts, emotions and fears for company.
Tom understood why there were such high rates of mental illness amongst prison inmates.
He looked out of his cell window. Blackmoor stretched out onto the horizon, uninviting and bleak. The perfect place to build a prison. Just looking outside was an escape deterrent. A challenge: think prison’s tough? Get out and come and meet me. A direct counterpoint to his claustrophobic cell. But no less frightening.
He turned away. Cunningham lay on his bunk. The cell door was open and out on the wing other inmates were having their evening association time. Tom had decided not to join in.
*
The day had been all about his induction. Tom, as part of a group of new inmates, had sat through lectures and presentations about prison rules, behavioural guidelines, visiting information and the courses that were on offer. Cleaning, cooking, business accounting, none of these appealed to him. He filled in a questionnaire for the education department listing his qualifications and what he might want to study while he was there.
The irritating inmate from the sweatbox, Clive, had been in Tom’s group. He had tried to attract Tom’s attention, nodding and waving. Tom had replied with a stoic nod, but Clive persisted. He contrived to sit next to him through it all.
‘Thought that was you, Thor. How you settling in?’
‘Fine.’
‘What wing you on?’
‘Not sure yet.’ Something about the man made Tom not want to trust him.
‘I’m on Heath.’ He shrugged. ‘Not bad. Least it’s one of the newer ones.’
Tom said nothing. Clive, trying to break the silence again, looked down at the questionnaire Tom was filling in.
‘Know what you want to do, mate?’
‘What?’ Tom hoped his irritation was showing.
‘Put down art. That’s a good one in here. Lot of privileges attached to that. Trust me, it’s worth it.’
Tom just stared at him.
‘It’s good, mate, makes the days go quicker. Very therapeutic. And there’s competitions. National ones. You can win things. Get out for the day. Get some decent food.’
Tom ignored him. Put down astronomy instead, looked at Clive, a challenge in his eyes.
Clive couldn’t look directly back at him. His eyes dropped away. Tom relaxed, placed his pen on the table. Clive quickly picked it up and, too fast for Tom to stop him, ticked the box for art on Tom’s questionnaire. Tom stared at him.
Clive gave a simpering smile. ‘Trust me, you . . . you’ll want to do it.’ Nodding, desperate to be believed.
Tom didn’t know what Clive’s game was but didn’t have time to do anything about it. The questionnaires were collected. Clive slunk away back to his own seat.
‘See you later,’ he said.
Tom stared at him, wondering what had just happened.
Rounding the day off was a visit to the prison chaplaincy where a vicar talked to them. He had short grey hair and a wide smile on his weathered, suntanned face. His shirt fastened at the cuffs but didn’t hide his tattoos or his well-muscled frame. Ex-army or ex-biker, was Tom’s guess. He explained about religion in prison, how all the major ones were catered for. Tom knew that. Also knew how inmates had miraculous conversions if it meant extra time out of their cells on Sundays.
After that Tom was returned to the wing. With Cunningham away doing whatever it was he did during the day, Tom went back to his cell. He tried to make use of the time, so he went through Cunningham’s belongings. There wasn’t much there. Toiletries, clothing, underwear. All prison issue. A couple of well-worn tabloids left on his bunk, crosswords attempted with letters heavily gone over and altered. No books or magazines. No notebooks, diaries, letters. Nothing. Tom had more stuff with him.
He lay back on his own bunk, thought of home. Of Lila and Pearl. Hoped they were looking after each other. Tried not to miss them too much, told himself it wouldn’t be long before they saw him again.
Tried to make himself believe it.
*
Tom turned away from the window. Cunningham still lay on his bunk, eyes staring at his wall of angels, lips moving with words only he could hear, reciting prayers or hymns to them. He looked again at the open cell door, went out on to the wing.
It was what he had expected it to be. Victorian, he guessed. All worn red brick and heavy metal pipes. Small barred windows looked out onto darkness. The top level that he was on was separated by a metal walkway and landing. A net strung between it and the ground floor.
Men milled about in grey or maroon joggers and sweats, chatting with others. Broken features, wounded eyes hardened with cataracts of fear and violence. All sizing Tom up, giving him a provisional place in the wing hierarchy.
Someone nodded at him. He nodded back. Another couple looked up from the game of cards they were playing as he passed. One bald and covered in tattoos crafted by an artist more enthusiastic than talented, the other tall with greying blonde dreadlocks.
‘Just got in?’ the tattooed one asked him.
Tom nodded. ‘Overnight yesterday.’
The dreadlocked guy looked towards the cell Tom had just left. ‘Put you in with him, have they? Moaning Myrtle?’
‘What d’you mean?’
They smiled between them. The dreadlocked one’s teeth seemed to have been assembled from other people’s cast-offs. ‘You’ll see. Well, you’ll hear.’ Another look round then as if by secret, tacit agreement, Tom was asked if he wanted to join the game.
‘Yeah.’ He pulled up a chair, sat with them. He wasn’t a natural card player, had always dismissed it in the army as a waste of time, but he knew how important it was now. Bonding, sizing each other up. Isolation on the wing could be dangerous.
They asked him questions, he stuck to his script. He asked them questions in return and received equally rehearsed replies. Life stories edited down to short stories, learned off by heart. Painful pasts minted into polished anecdotes. He didn’t learn anything of interest but it did him no harm to mix.
He watched the steady stream of inmates queuing to use the wing phone, wondered whether he should call home as well. Decided not to. Lila would be missing him. He was missing her too. And he didn’t think it would help to be reminded of the outside world. Not just yet. So he stayed with the card players.
Eventually it was time for lock-up. They all got up, and with a minimum of argument, went back to their cells. Tom did the same.
The door slammed shut. Echoed away to nothing. Tom sat down on his bunk.
‘Where’d you go?’ asked Cunningham.
‘Onto the wing for a look round.’
Cunningham grunted, turned towards the wall.
‘Didn’t want to join me?’
Cunningham grunted. ‘Nothing out there for me. Nobody I want to talk to.’
‘Because they’re scared of a murderer?’
Cunningham didn’t answer.
‘Just thought it might pass the time. Make things go quicker.’
‘Things don’t go quicker or slower,’ Cunningham told him. ‘Things are what they are.’
Tom detected a quaver in Cunningham’s voice. He dismissed it, picked up his book to read.
‘I’m going to read till the lights go off,’ said Tom. ‘Goodnight.’
Cunningham didn’t reply.
It wasn’t long before the cell was in sudden darkness. It took Tom by surprise, but Cunningham audibly gasped. His breathing became heavier, more agitated. Tom closed his eyes. Tried to go to sleep.
*
The whimpering and sobbing woke him. He had no way of knowing what time it was, how long he had been asleep. From the uncomfortable position of his neck and the heaviness of his eyes, he didn’t think it had been too long. Cunningham was thrashing about on the bunk above.
Tom had no idea if the other man was asleep or awake but he knew now why the other inmates had called him Moaning Myrtle. Tom closed his eyes, tried to ignore him. But all he could hear was Cunningham’s crying, his pleading with whoever was in the dark with him to go away, leave him alone.
Tom again tried to tune out.
As he eventually drifted off into a disturbed, uncomfortable sleep, a thought struck him: how long would he be in here before his own night terrors struck?