The cold cut through Tom as he made his way along the tarmacked path. He pulled his sweatshirt around him, turned up the collar on his cheap denim jacket. Mist had settled all around. He could barely see as far as the razor-wire-topped high fences, certainly no further. The prison looked foreboding and abandoned. A sprawling old mansion ripe for a haunting.
He was amongst a group of prisoners being escorted to the education block, ready for the day’s lessons. Two officers hurried along with them, clearly wanting to be done as soon as possible, to get back on the wing with a hot cup of tea inside them. The weather stopped much conversation. Tom liked it that way.
Most of the men he had seen and spoken to the night before were there. He seemed to have been accepted by them, or was at least on friendly nodding terms. Good. He didn’t need any unnecessary complications.
The dreadlocked guy, Darren, walked alongside him.
‘Moaning Myrtle keep you awake?’ he asked, displaying his random teeth.
‘You could say that.’
Darren laughed. ‘Say the word, mate, and he’s taken care of.’ He tapped the side of his nose. ‘For a price, mind.’
Tom tried to smile. ‘I don’t think it’s come to that. Yet.’
Darren shrugged. ‘Whatever. You’ll get a good night’s sleep, ’s’all I’m saying. Important thing in here.’
Tom smiled. ‘I’ll bear that in mind.’
They walked on.
Cunningham had woken up before Tom, although Tom hadn’t had much sleep. A combination of Cunningham’s night terrors and Tom’s claustrophobia had seen to that. It seemed like he had only started to drift off as the thin morning light began creeping through the barred windows. And the cell was so hot. He had thought he would be cold initially, seeing how sparse the bedding was, but he had figured without the heating. He knew it wasn’t done out of concern for the inmates’ welfare, it was at that level to keep them pliant and docile. Same with breakfast: Tom had never eaten such poor quality, carb laden food in his life. Even in the army.
‘Sleep alright?’ Tom had asked Cunningham, hearing again in his head those screams, expecting what the answer would be.
Cunningham merely grunted.
Tom persisted. ‘Not a morning person?’
Another grunt. Cunningham swung his legs off the bunk, farted, made his way to the toilet. Tom turned away towards the window to give him some privacy, and also because the smell was atrocious.
‘Where d’you go during the day?’ asked Tom. ‘Education?’
‘Business Studies. Accounting. I’m good with numbers. On Sundays I go to church. I sing in the choir.’
‘Right.’
Cunningham finished his ablutions, flushed the toilet. Didn’t wash his hands, Tom noted.
Tom was also aware that Cunningham was avoiding looking at him directly. His night terrors, thought Tom. He knows I heard it and he’s waiting to see if I’m going to mention it, make something of it. Tom had already decided that if Cunningham introduced the subject Tom would talk about it, but he wouldn’t bring it up himself. Cunningham was making every effort to avoid it.
And now, thanks to weaselly Clive, here he was on the way to his first day as an art student.
The education block was a brick building of indeterminate age but certainly well into the last century. As they approached the officers looked at one another, smiled, then one of them turned to address the group.
‘Lot of new faces here, who’s just arrived?’
A few grunts, small hand gestures in response.
‘Let’s go this way, then. Quick detour, bit of history.’
Instead of letting them into the main entrance, the officers led them over to a door on the left that looked as though it led into another building. A couple of the inmates raised their eyebrows, knowing what was coming next.
They were taken through a heavy wooden door which was then locked behind them. Tom felt relieved to be out of the cold. The relief was short lived.
‘This way.’
They were led through another door into a circular room with a tall vaulted ceiling with wooden beams and supports. Stacking chairs and flat tables were piled against the walls, showing that it was a storeroom. It had once been white but it seemed no effort had been given to its upkeep. It felt colder than – or just as cold as – the outside. The wind sang a mournful, plaintive song through gaps in the walls and roof. The officers kept the lights off.
‘Think yourself lucky,’ the first officer said, ‘that you were never here earlier. Because this is where you’d have ended up, probably.’
Tom immediately knew where he was. Something more than cold chilled him.
Some of the other inmates weren’t as quick as him. They looked confused.
The other officer spoke. ‘This is where, until fairly recently, certainly in my lifetime, the executions were carried out. Hangings.’
‘The topping shed, we call it.’ The first officer took over, unable to keep the relish from his voice. ‘The gallows stood here,’ he said, pointing to the centre of the room, ‘took up most of the space. The condemned man would be marched along, through the door you all came through, into here where he’d stand in front of it, looking at it. Just him and the chaplain, if he wanted him. On his own if he didn’t.’
‘And the executioner,’ continued the second officer, ‘would stand at the side here, ready to throw his lever when his victim was in place. He’d walk up to the middle there . . .’ He pointed, his gestures becoming as expansive as a tour guide’s. ‘. . . have his hood put on him, and then . . . bang.’
‘The trapdoor would open and he’d be gone. Neck broken.’
‘If he was lucky.’
‘Yeah. If he was lucky. If the executioner had worked out his weight correctly and the height of the drop, otherwise he’d just hang there, slowly strangling and choking to death.’
From their tone it was clear which method the officers preferred.
‘Anyway,’ the first one said after a pause, ‘count yourselves lucky we don’t do that anymore.’
‘Even though it mightn’t be a bad idea.’
‘Very true.’ They both laughed. ‘But we can’t stand here reminiscing about the good old days. These gentlemen have to get to their classes.’ The final word a sneer.
There was silence all the way to the education block.
*
The art room was surprisingly large. The walls were covered with artwork of variable quality, but most of it was better than Tom had expected. Their teacher, Mike, a small, middle-aged man wearing grey overalls, greeted them all and guided them to their workstations.
‘Got some new faces, that’s nice.’ His voice was soft, non-threatening. ‘Brushes are over there, pencils there, paper there. Let’s stick the radio on, enjoy yourselves while you work. I’m here if you need to ask anything.’
The regular inmates made their way to a block of files at the back of the room, took out their work to continue. Mike came over, stood next to Tom.
‘New here?’
‘Yeah,’ said Tom.
‘What you interested in, then?’
Tom looked around. There was another delivery of men from a different wing. Just a couple this time. Tom studied their faces then looked around for Clive. Annoyed that he had made him come here. He couldn’t see him.
‘I don’t know. I’ve never done this before.’
Mike smiled. Began to explain the mediums he could work in, the styles he might like to try, the subjects that might inspire him. ‘We get a lot of lads want to draw landscapes, the outside world. Then take them back to their cells, give them something pretty to look at. That’s popular. Or if you want to bring in a photo of a relative or loved one, a son or daughter, perhaps, do a portrait of them. Anything like that. Have a think.’
Tom said he would. He thought of the photo of Lila, wondered if he should do a portrait of her. It didn’t feel right, somehow.
He was thinking about it as the door opened and another lot of inmates were let in.
‘Busy today,’ said Mike.
Tom watched them enter, looking once again for Clive.
But Clive wasn’t there. Instead Tom saw someone who he had believed he would never see again. Hoped he would never see again. Not living, anyway. Someone who hated Tom and had vowed to kill him if their paths ever crossed again. And Tom didn’t doubt him. Someone who had forced him to move to a different part of the country, get a different name, lead a different life.
Dean Foley.