The frontage to HM Prison Frankland was imposing to say the least, particularly in the half-light of the early hours. Wendy had been able to obtain special dispensation to visit her brother, partially because of the ferocity of the attack he’d been on the receiving end of, and partially because she was a serving police officer connected with the case that had convicted him.
The prison was notorious for housing some of the country’s most dangerous criminals. It had been home to Charles Bronson, often referred to as the most violent prisoner in Britain. Harold Shipman, the most prolific serial killer in history in terms of proven victims, which tallied 218, had been incarcerated here too. Current inmates included Peter Chapman, the so-called ‘Facebook killer’; Peter Sutcliffe, the Yorkshire Ripper; and Ian Huntley, the convicted sex offender and murderer of two young schoolgirls, Holly Wells and Jessica Chapman.
As a category A prison, Frankland was home to Britain’s most dangerous and violent inmates. Wendy had known from the moment of Michael’s arrest that he’d likely end up in a category A prison such as this. But realising that he was living in the same space as people such as the Yorkshire Ripper was something she found difficult to come to terms with. That was why, she supposed, she’d been blocking it from her memory for so long. It was a case of having to. A coping mechanism, of sorts. Because if you let it get to you, that was the sort of thing that could break you.
On entering the prison, Wendy went through the usual routine of being searched, identified and permitted entry. It was something she’d done many times before in various prisons as part of her job, but this was different. This time she wasn’t here on work. She was here to see the brother she hadn’t laid eyes on since that day in court.
Once the formalities had been dealt with, a female prison guard led Wendy through towards the Healthcare Centre.
‘So what can you tell me?’ Wendy asked her, keen to find out exactly what had happened, what she should expect.
‘Not a whole lot, I’m afraid. I’m just your escort to the ward. I don’t know any details. You’ll have to ask the medical staff.’
Wendy clenched her teeth. She had no idea what to expect.
The Healthcare Centre contained, amongst other things, a ward consisting of four beds. Wendy estimated there were a dozen or so private rooms. It was one of these rooms that Wendy was led to, a male prison guard keeping watch at the doorway. She presumed this must be because of the nature of Michael’s injuries. If he’d been attacked by fellow inmates, it was right that he be kept isolated in a private room with some sort of protection.
She paused for a moment, looking back at the female prison officer who’d led her to this point.
‘Uh, can I go and get a glass of water or something first, please?’
The prison officer looked at her for a couple of seconds, then gave a benevolent smile. ‘Sure,’ she said. ‘Come with me.’
They walked a little further up the corridor and into a small kitchenette area. The prison officer took a glass from the over-sink cupboard and filled it from the cold tap.
‘Listen, I haven’t seen him. Michael. I don’t know what’s happened exactly, but all I can say is it might be best to prepare yourself for the worst. I spent a bit of time on the floor a couple of years back and saw one or two attacks. They’re never pretty. We’re not exactly talking petty criminals in here.’
Wendy gulped down the glass of water. ‘Thanks. I’m just... I don’t know what to expect. I haven’t seen him since he got sent down.’
The prison officer nodded. ‘He’ll be different,’ she said, trying to sound reassuring.
‘Different?’
‘Everyone’s different in here. If they’re big-time serial re-offenders like your Sutcliffes and your Bronsons, their bravado goes through the roof. Frankland’s just another badge. For your one-offs and “we never would have suspected him” types, like your Huntleys and your Chapmans, they tend to get more isolated, more withdrawn. Prison’ll change and accentuate anyone’s personality pretty sharpish. It’s what confinement does to a person.’
Wendy still wasn’t sure what the woman meant, but by now she was too afraid to ask. Just hearing Michael mentioned in the same sentence as notorious monsters like that was enough to make her desperate to change the subject.
Back on the ward, Wendy tried to ignore the guard outside Michael’s room and felt her heart skip as the prison officer opened the door. She walked in, keeping her eyes on the floor until she got towards the bed. She swallowed hard and realised she was holding her breath as her eyes drew upwards, up the bed and onto the figure that was in it.
Michael looked different, to say the least. He’d put some weight on in prison. It was weight he could afford to add compared to his former skinny frame, but Wendy could tell from the colour of his flesh that much of it was bruising and swelling. If she’d seen him in any other bed or hospital, she doubted she would have recognised him as her brother. He’d cut his hair much shorter than she’d ever seen before. There were marks and scars which were new to her, but clearly not from this most recent attack. She winced as she imagined how many scrapes he must’ve got into in here. He’d never been the violent type. Wendy knew that was a bizarre thing to say, bearing in mind his criminal history. But starting fights with inmates really didn’t seem like Michael.
She realised she was starting to feel sorry for him, the way anyone would do if they saw their little brother lying beaten in a hospital bed. She had to steel herself and remember that, regardless of blood, this was the man who’d killed her boyfriend. The man who’d murdered innocent women. But that all fell by the wayside as Michael rolled his head towards her, opened his eyes and smiled at her.
‘Hello Wend.’