Tom heard the key turn, the sudden noise resonating round the empty cell. Even though an opened door usually signified the beginning of something, that deep, heavy metal sound seemed more suited to an ending. Maybe it was time for him to leave solitary, Tom thought. Or knowing this place, maybe it was just lunchtime.
Tom sat up on the rudimentary bed, regarded his visitor. A young woman, quite well dressed, looked back at him. She smiled. The gesture seemed more about showing she was no threat than any kind of kindness. Prison wasn’t a place where kindness flourished. Or if it did, it was swiftly punished.
‘Hi,’ she said, dismissing the officer who had opened the door for her.
‘Have to stay with you,’ the officer said, unmoving. ‘Hostage risk.’
She turned towards Tom. ‘You’re not going to take me hostage, are you?’
Tom frowned. ‘Why would I do that?’
She turned to the officer. ‘I don’t think there’s anything to worry about.’
The officer clearly didn’t want to move. ‘Will you state you’re taking full responsibility for your own safety, then?’
‘I will.’
The officer reluctantly left, but not before saying he’d just be down the corridor.
‘Hi,’ she said again. ‘I’m Dr Bradshaw. Louisa.’
He nodded. ‘Tom Killgannon.’
‘I know.’ She looked round. The only piece of furniture in the room was the bed. ‘May I sit down?’
‘Be my guest. Didn’t know I was getting visitors. I’d have run the vacuum round.’
She laughed. It sounded genuine. She sat down at the far end of the bed, away from Tom. He didn’t move. The only other seat was the toilet in the corner. ‘How’ve you been?’
The question invited a full answer, one Tom was unprepared to share. He had been dragged off the wing as soon as he assaulted Clive. The officers were on him straight away, hitting the alarms for backup and using the kind of restraining techniques he had used in his previous life. Some of them had got in body shots while he was restrained, the clever, sadistic kind that left little or no mark but instantly debilitated him and hurt like hell for ages afterwards.
He was dragged straight off to the CSC, the Close Supervision Centre or Seg Block as the inmates called it. The place was a prison within a prison, no natural light in the corridors, no way to tell day from night. Once the key was turned and he was left alone, he could have been deep underground for all he knew.
He’d paced the tiny floor until the adrenaline rush wore off then lay on the bed as the pain the officers had inflicted replaced it. And there he had remained. His claustrophobia, already bad in his usual cell, went into overdrive. It was like a cheap public toilet in some brutalist car park, tiled walls, disinfected floor, stainless steel pan and washbasin. A bed that provided the barest minimum of comfort. A small window of reinforced glass in the cell door so wing staff could observe him, shattermarked and blood smeared by the force of a thousand fists and headbutts. If his injuries hadn’t been so debilitating he would have screamed himself hoarse. Instead he just lay on the bed, trying to hold himself together, eyes closed.
Sometime later that night – he thought it was still night – an officer brought him a tray of food. His first instinct was not to touch it. Foley had people all over the prison – why not the kitchens too? Could it be poisoned? Or worse, could someone in the kitchens have tampered with it just because he was in solitary and they assumed he was a paedophile or a rapist? He knew from urban legend the kinds of things that were put into prison food. Everything from excrement to broken glass.
He had no appetite. Left the tray by the door.
Later, after a fitful spell of sleep, he was awakened by the key in the door and an officer telling him it was time for exercise. He was led out to a small cage, still inside the prison within the prison, and told to walk round it for half an hour. If he wanted a shower now was the time to do so. He did so.
There were other inmates in the exercise cage, some walking, others just standing, staring. All kept apart from each other by the officers. They ranged in looks from the damaged to the dangerous but all seemed to have one thing in common: something missing behind their eyes. Either as the result of their segregation or the reason for it, Tom didn’t know. But he avoided eye contact with all of them.
He took his shower, alone, then it was time to go back to his cell. Another tray replaced the untouched one from the night before and he looked at the unappetising food in its compartments. Some cheap white sliced bread. Something which could have been porridge or wallpaper paste. Two overcooked, shrivelled sausages. At least he assumed they were sausages. A plastic cup of milk. He ate the bread, one of the sausages. Left the rest.
And that became his routine. He thought he had been on the Seg Block for at least three days, judging by the number of times the lights had gone out and the number of times he had been allowed out to exercise in the cage. Other inmates came and went, making as much noise and trouble as possible: banging on cell doors, shouting threats, making promises. Like once powerful jungle animals having their agency forcibly removed, reacting the only way they knew how. Their bravado failing to disguise their fear.
Tom had managed to keep his claustrophobia under control by congratulating himself on escaping Foley’s attentions. Hoping Sheridan would manage to get him released. But the silence dragged on, the loneliness crept up on him. And with it paranoia. Justified paranoia, he felt.
He wasn’t safe here. The door could be opened at any time and anyone could enter and he had no way of stopping them. They could take him somewhere, even beat him up in the cell. Or worse. Alone, Tom imagined it all.
It wasn’t just the fear that got to him. There was the enforced time spent with only his psyche for company. Time to re-examine every single event in his life that had led him to this point, every wrong or right move he had ever made. Not just re-examine, but relive. In as much detail as his memory could muster. And, with nothing else to expend its energy on, it could muster a lot. His emotions were in constant turmoil. All he relived were the wrong moves. The costly ones. And no matter what he did, he couldn’t get his mind off that track. He understood why so many people in solitary attempted suicide. His claustrophobia ramped up, made him want to throw himself at the walls, batter his way out, scream the place down. But he forced it down, kept it trapped inside him, as he was trapped in the cell. It made him shake constantly. He didn’t know how much more of this he could take. Lights out on the wing in a locked room was bad enough. But lights out inside him was a whole new level.
Then the door had actually opened. And Dr Bradshaw had entered. At first Tom was relieved to see someone who wasn’t in a uniform, someone smiling. But that meant nothing. Someone could have sent her. And that whole hostage thing might have been to lull him into a false sense of security. Or was he just being paranoid? He gave himself the benefit of the doubt.
‘So,’ she said again, ‘how are you?’
Tom shrugged, not wanting to give anything away to a stranger. Tried to keep his trembling under control.
‘Must be difficult for you in here,’ she said. ‘I’ve had a word with the officer outside, said you should at least have something to read to pass the time. Any requests?’
‘Sorry, but who are you and why are you here?’
‘My mistake. I thought you’d know. I’m the prison psychologist.’
‘And why have you come to see me?’
She smiled once more but Tom sensed nervousness in that smile. Her eyes darted away from him, down to the right. She’s about to lie, Tom thought.
‘I do this with everyone who ends up on the CSC. It can be a harsh environment. It’s my job to see you’re coping. And if you’re not, suggest ways which might help.’
‘Right.’
‘So how are you coping?’
Tom shrugged.
She said nothing, she was working out another approach. ‘Noel Cunningham. You know him, right?’
Tom nodded.
‘He’s been acting out since you’ve been in here.’
‘So?’
‘He’s a . . .’ She thought. Seemed to be deciding how much she could say to Tom. Or how much she should say. Or maybe just pretending to do that to get Tom onside. ‘He’s an interesting person. I see a lot of him. When you were brought here he wanted to see me. Said it was urgent. Said it was about you.’
Tom waited. Tried not to show any eagerness in what she had to say.
‘I think he misses you. He seemed to function better when you shared a cell with him. Said you answered his questions, talked to him. Tried to help him with his night terrors. He seems to have taken a few steps backwards since you’ve been here.’
‘What d’you want me to do? I thought anything like that was frowned upon in prison?’
She leaned forwards, sharply. ‘Anything like what?’
‘I don’t know. You said he misses me. That sounds like a red flag if you’re thinking of putting me back in with him, don’t you?’
‘Or it sounds like you were a positive influence on him. Someone who could help make his time inside more bearable.’
Tom didn’t know what to say next. He didn’t know whether to trust this woman – his instinct said not to – but she seemed to be smoothing the way for him to return to the wing and resume his place in a cell with Cunningham. Let him complete his mission, get out. That mission, however, had now taken second place to survival. Stay alive by any means necessary.
Before he could reply she spoke again. ‘His mother is very ill, you know.’
‘Cancer. I know.’
‘He wants to get out and see her.’
Tom said nothing.
‘He’s made a kind of deal with the Governor. Has he mentioned it to you?’
Tom was wary now. If she wants to know something, make her work for it. ‘Would he have?’
Dr Bradshaw sat back, regarded him again. Seemed to be making up her mind. She leaned forwards again. ‘He’s agreed to give up the whereabouts of the graves of his final two victims on Blackmoor. If he does that and it checks out, he can visit his mother.’
‘Right. And you’re telling me this why?’
‘When you’re returned to the wing I can arrange for you to be his cellmate once more.’
‘Why would you do that?’
‘As I said, you’re a positive influence on him.’
‘And you want me to get him to open up about these graves, is that it?’
She smiled. Nodded.
‘What about me? What do I get?’
She paused, seemed to study him. ‘You were in therapy for PTSD before you came in here. On anti-depressants. Yet you’ve not asked to see me or anyone else on the mental health team. Why is that?’
Tom didn’t reply. Just felt his heart hammering.
‘I think I could help you.’
‘With what?’
No smile now. Only seriousness. ‘I saw how you looked at me as I entered. I’ve observed how you’ve behaved while I’ve been in the room with you. I’ve seen those looks, those reactions before. Prison can be a harsh environment even for those who are used to it. There’s help here if you need it. And I think you’d benefit from it.’
Tom said nothing.
‘Would you like me to recommend you return to the wing? Back with Cunningham? Inmates are usually only here for a few days when they’ve done what you’ve done.’
‘And I be your spy, is that it?’
‘It would certainly help in your parole.’
Tom thought. The walls of the cell pushing in on him, suffocating.
‘OK,’ he said.
‘Good.’ She crossed to the door, knocked on it a couple of times. It was opened. She turned back to Tom.
‘Thank you for talking. I’ve enjoyed it. I hope you have too.’ She smiled. ‘And thank you for not taking me hostage.’
The door slammed shut behind her.