Tom stood in the queue, waiting patiently. Three people in front of him, one already on the phone, turned away from the rest, trying to create what privacy he could.
He was back on the wing. He had been sitting in his cell on the seg block, staring into space, doing nothing. He had tried exercises, push-ups and sit-ups, until his arms felt useless, his stomach cramped. He could smell his own sweat, soaking through his T-shirt. Sour. Just like every other inmate in the prison. I’m one of them now.
And he was. Like he was ticking off a list of things he expected inmates to do. Get into trouble and be put into segregation. Be constantly on the phone. Have tearful, depressing visits with loved ones. His disguise was complete. He had become his cover story.
Tearful, depressing visits with loved ones. That wasn’t how it had actually gone with Lila in the visiting room, but afterwards, alone in that Spartan cell designed to crush his spirit even more than the ones on the wing, he hadn’t been able to stop himself. Tears came as he thought of Lila walking away from him, being able to breathe clean air and go where she wanted to. Able to go home, sit in the living room, watch TV. Go to bed when she wanted. He had come close to losing himself then, breaking down so much that he wondered whether it would be possible to pull himself back together, get into shape and finish this job.
It would have been so easy to just give in, lie there with the walls closing in on him and let himself go, acknowledge defeat. So he tried to bring himself back, compartmentalise his emotions. He used to be so good at this. Concentrate on the task in hand. Stay alive. Get the information out of Cunningham. Gradually he had done so, pushing his feelings about seeing Lila out of his mind, but it had been a struggle. Brought the old days back again. Reminded him that this line of work wasn’t something a person could do for long, not without losing themselves to it, possibly for ever. He had started exercising then, pushing himself as hard as he could, hoping the pounding of blood round his system would drown out his thoughts. He kept going until he couldn’t move anymore, slept that night on the floor of the cell.
And then the key in the lock, an officer looking in, telling him it was time to return to the wing.
He got up, went outside. He had expected to be told to stand and face the wall once more but the officer wasn’t alone. Louise Bradshaw was there. As was a small, balding, suited man, staring at him.
‘Hello Tom,’ said Louise.
‘Doctor,’ he said, giving a formal nod.
‘We’re going to return you to the wing now,’ she told him, ‘put you back in general pop. We think you’ve served enough of a punishment for your action.’
Tom said nothing.
‘Do you agree?’
‘Obviously.’
‘But I don’t want to hear of any more incidents like this one, right?’ It was the small, bald man who had spoken.
Tom turned his attention to him. ‘Sorry, I don’t think we’ve been introduced.’
Silence froze the group. It was clear the officer, the bovine one Tom had interacted with previously, wanted to teach him a lesson in respect. Or a lesson in anything, any excuse to inflict physical pain. Even Louise looked taken aback and Tom realised that, for all her talk and her offers of help, she would never be totally on his side.
‘Governor Shelley,’ said the small man. ‘I run this place.’
‘Right. I’ve never met you and I genuinely didn’t know who you were.’
Shelley scrutinised Tom for any signs of sarcasm. Tom had been sincere. He said nothing more. Waited.
Shelley turned to Louise. ‘You think this . . .’ He searched for the right word to describe Tom. ‘. . . one is ready to return to the wing, then?’
‘Yes, I do. I’ve talked to him and believe this won’t happen again.’ As she spoke her eyes alighted on Tom’s, as if asking him to agree with her. Or at least not disagree. ‘He’s agreed to see me for sessions in how to handle his anger.’
Shelley turned back to Tom, squared up to him. ‘You going to do that?’
‘Yeah,’ said Tom. He didn’t elaborate. Didn’t feel it necessary.
Shelley appeared to be making up his mind. ‘OK, then. But if I hear of one incident involving you, just one, then you’re back down here, busted down to basic, you got it?’
‘Absolutely.’
‘I’ve got a strict no tolerance policy for people coming into my prison and taking the piss. Play by the rules and you’ll do all right. OK? Don’t and you’ll have to be dealt with.’
He’s so much smaller than me, thought Tom, I could rest my arm on his head. Stretch my arm out and hold his forehead while he tried to swing shots at me. ‘I understand.’
‘Something funny?’ Shelley was still staring at him.
‘Just pleased to be going back to the wing,’ said Tom, slightly annoyed that he must have let his feelings show.
Shelley stared once more. So did the bovine officer. They both looked like they were waiting for Tom to do something so they could keep him on the seg block. Shelley looked towards Louise, then back to Tom. And that look told Tom everything about Shelley’s attitude. He was clearly a misogynist. The way he had been looking at Louise – dismissively, disrespectfully – told him that he didn’t like psychologists, especially female ones, deciding what was best for the prisoners. His prisoners. But he knew he had to go along with it. Perhaps, thought Tom, this doctor might actually be an ally after all.
‘Doctor Bradshaw’s going to take responsibility for you,’ said Shelley, ‘But you’re also to take responsibility for your own behaviour. I don’t want to see you back here, right?’
Tom agreed.
Shelley walked off. Louise nodded to Tom, followed Shelley off the wing.
*
And now Tom queued for the phone. Only one person in front of him now. Not wanting to intrude, Tom looked away.
Some old faces had left the wing, new ones had arrived. And a different atmosphere. Towards him. He could feel all eyes on him as he was escorted back from the seg block. Like there was a sense of anticipation, waiting to see if he would kick off again. If they were hoping for that, Tom disappointed them. He did everything the officer told him, stood away from the doors, turned his face to the wall while they were being unlocked, everything. A model inmate. But he could still feel the eyes on him as he walked the length of the wing towards his old cell.
It was association time. Hard-eyed men standing and sitting, watching. Searching for an angle to everything, everyone, some leverage to be made, some advantage gained. Keeping up that level of vigilance was exhausting but necessary. No one could show weakness. No one could be seen to back down from a challenge. No one could show disrespect or accept it. It was a near silent battlefield, a war of attrition, of glances and muttered words, of body language and silences, all conducted under the eyes of the watching officers.
And now they were all watching Tom, taking the measure of him. Seeing what he would do now that he was back. Wondering whether to challenge his growing reputation as a hard man, like the Navajo warriors of old, believing if they defeated someone in combat they bested not only them but the souls of those they had in turn bested, advanced up the rankings, became a feared presence in their own right.
Or seeing him as a potential ally, someone to get onside. Barter favours with to keep them protected. Do whatever they could for Tom – contraband, sex – to get him to rid them of other predators. Tom ignored all those eyes, even Cunningham’s, who had seen him approach, expecting him to enter their cell. Tom had nodded as he walked past. Made straight for the phone queue.
The person in front put the phone down, walked away. Tom’s turn. He dialled the number by heart, waited. It was answered.
‘Sheridan?’ Tom asked.
‘Try again.’ It was a female voice.
Tom froze. So surprised by not hearing Sheridan’s voice, he couldn’t place it at first. Then he realised. Blake.
‘What’s happening, Blake?’ Careful not to use her rank, give things away.
She laughed. ‘Nothing. Nothing’s happening.’
Tom was more confused than annoyed at her words. ‘What d’you mean?’
‘Nothing, Tom Killgannon. Or should I say Mick Eccleston?’
Tom froze again.
‘This phone line is dead. Sheridan is dead. And so are you.’
She hung up. Tom was left staring at the receiver. He quickly dialled again. Nothing. And again. Nothing.
A dead line.
He stared at the receiver. Behind him, other inmates in the queue became vocal. He placed the phone back in its cradle, walked dazedly to his cell.
He was alone.