Night again, and the walls of Blackmoor prison seemed to absorb darkness, store it up, let it seep out through the crevices in the brick, the gaps in the metal, expel itself from the locks and under doors. The only thing keeping it at bay was the overhead strip lighting. Harsh, burning and unforgiving, those fluorescent tubes lit corridors and wings, spurs and classrooms, workshops and walkways, like artificial suns whose illumination couldn’t be escaped. But there were always ways. And means. The brightest lights cast the darkest shadows. And if there was one thing inmates knew how to do, it was move in the shadows.
The hospital wing was never busy. Extreme cases were taken to the local hospital, handcuffed to their beds with a guard attached. But that was expensive and a drain on man hours and overtime. So everything was either dealt with as quickly as possible with the injured inmate back on their wing or, in rare cases, left to recuperate on the hospital wing. There was only one patient there now. And he had a visitor.
The officer on the door looked quizzically at this visitor. ‘What d’you want?’
‘Have a word with a patient. Visiting time, innit?’ He leaned forwards. ‘You know who I am.’
The words had the desired effect. The officer looked scared. Didn’t want to disobey orders, but knew where the real authority lay. He looked quickly round, checked no one else was there. ‘Go on, then. Inside. Quick.’
He unlocked the door, locked it behind him. Stayed where he was.
One patient in the whole wing. Raised leg in plaster, arm in a plastic cast slung across his chest. Head popping out of a neck brace.
Clive.
He sat on the edge of the bed, startling Clive to wakefulness.
‘Well, you’ve been in the wars, haven’t you? Look at the state of you.’
Clive quickly oriented himself. Fear immediately took hold. He tried to shrink away from him. ‘What d’you want? Haven’t you done enough? I’m in here, aren’t I? I haven’t said anything.’
‘Clive, Clive . . .’ He smiled. At least he intended it to be a smile. ‘Just came to see how you are, that’s all. Pay my respects.’
Clive stared at him, wary. Said nothing.
‘We go back a long way, Clive, don’t we? All the way back to Manchester. Those were the days, eh?’
Clive again said nothing. Watching, waiting.
‘They were good times. You, me, Mick.’ He sighed. ‘Ah, Mick . . .’ He shook his head. ‘What a cunt he turned out to be.’
‘He didn’t recognise me,’ Clive said at last. ‘We both came in together. And he didn’t recognise me.’
‘Well to be fair, Clive, the years haven’t been kind to you. Smack and booze’ll do that.’
‘I’m clean now.’ A quivering pride, a strength in his voice.
‘And well done you. No, I’m not here to talk about that. I’m here to reminisce about the good old days. And they were good, weren’t they, Clive? Before that bastard took us all down.’
‘Yeah,’ said Clive, placated but still on guard. ‘They were.’
‘We lived like kings. We were kings.’
Clive tried to nod. Winced from the pain.
‘All in the past now. All in the past. We lost everything that night, didn’t we? I mean, some more than others. I mean, you ran, didn’t you? Thought you’d get away. No money, nothing. No way of making a living. All gone. So what did you do? Hit the bottle. Big time. And heroin.’ He sucked air in through his teeth. ‘Bad stuff, Clive. Very bad stuff. Never get high on your own supply. You should know that. It’s all right for the punters but we don’t touch it.’
‘Yeah well, like I said. I’m clean now.’
‘I know, Clive. I know. And you tried to get back into the good books. Well done.’
Clive tried to nod once more. Gave up. Just listened. Too tired to talk.
‘But you weren’t the only one to lose something that night. I lost plenty. I lost everything.’
‘I . . . I know . . .’
‘But mentioning Tom Killgannon’s niece . . .’ a headshake. ‘That was out of order, Clive.’
‘I . . . I know. And I’m sorry.’ He tried to move his encased arm. ‘But I’ve paid for that.’
‘Well yes. And no. Because you’ve started him thinking. You’ve tipped him off. And when you get well again he’s going to come looking for you wanting another chat. And you with your blabbermouth, Clive, you’re going to tell him more. Aren’t you? Who killed her? How she died?’
‘I’m not . . . I promise . . . I won’t . . .’
‘Well, you say that Clive, but we both know that’s not true. So I’m sorry Clive, it has to be this way.’
Clive started to cry.
He eased the pillow from behind Clive’s head, cradled it and placed it tenderly on the mattress. He placed the pillow over Clive’s tear-wet face. Clive tried to cry out.
‘Shh. Come on, Clive. Be Brave. You know it has to be done.’
Eventually Clive stopped crying and his body went limp. He kept the pillow on until he was sure that Clive wasn’t pretending, that he actually was dead, then removed it, looked down at him. Shook his head sadly.
He let the pillow drop onto the bed, turned and left the ward.
The officer was on the door.
‘I was never here.’
The officer stared at him. Then looked nervously at the ward. Then back to the visitor.
‘Never. Understand?’
The officer was too terrified to disagree.
He walked slowly back to his wing.