Simon Darcy slowed as he approached the turn. The sign at the entrance left no doubt where you were, or what to expect: Government Property – Entry Forbidden. Visitors and Authorised Vehicles Only Beyond This Point
Simon looked outwardly calm, but inside his nerves were jangling.
He drove carefully, taking his time over everything. Finding an empty space at the far end of the car park, he reversed in. He couldn’t help but smile – it was almost as if he was planning a quick getaway.
The building loomed overhead, an uninspiring edifice of granite, but the tall red-brick tower and the razor wire surrounding the perimeter betrayed its real purpose. This building was built to contain, incarcerate.
Carrying his briefcase, Simon slowly approached the main door of Mountjoy Prison.
He passed through the first doors, the security barrier ahead. His briefcase went through the scanner, and was subjected to a cursory search. Simon himself went through, and was checked over with a hand scanner.
The guard was tall, middle-aged, a weary expression on his thin face. He recognized Simon. ‘Who you seeing today, then?’
‘Ricky Webb.’
The guard grunted. ‘Good luck with that one – he’s a right little shit.’
Simon nodded. ‘Thanks for the warning.’
‘I can’t believe he’s getting out,’ the guard continued, scowling. ‘If I had my way, a little prick like that would never see the light of day again.’
Simon looked sympathetic. ‘Oh, well, we’ll just have to trust that they all get their just deserts in the end.’
The guard sat back on his metal folding chair, looking at Simon from under the brim of his cap. ‘I wouldn’t hold my breath on that one.’
The reception desk was behind a thick glass window. Simon stared at his reflection while he waited for the officer to finish talking on the phone. He ran his hand through his thinning fair hair, and slid his passport under the glass. His heart was pounding, his palms clammy.
The guard finished up on the phone, glanced at Simon’s ID, then down at his face. ‘Officer Carey’s gone to fetch Webb – interview room two.’
Simon felt as though a serpent had wrapped its coil around his gut. ‘Thank you.’
‘You know where it is?’
Simon nodded. ‘I’ve been on that block before – end of the hall, turn left?’
The guard smiled. ‘That’s it. Second door on your left. Need any help?’
‘I’m fine, thanks.’
The other man slid a visitor’s badge under the glass. ‘You know the drill – keep this on you at all times.’
Breathe deeply, stay calm ... ‘Thank you.’ Simon took the badge, clipped it to his gray sweater, and turned and headed down the hall.
The hallway was long, lined with CCTV cameras. Simon tried to relax, tried to act normal, but he was sure that every camera was watching him, that sooner or later he would hear the loud angry buzz of the alarm, the pounding of polished black shoes on the linoleum, that a group of guards would come thundering round the corner, seize him, and drag him off to a cell.
He couldn’t help himself; as he reached the end of the corridor he glanced up at the camera, the red light blinking insolently at him, the all-seeing, never-resting eye. Just as quickly he looked away. Relax, try to stay calm, keep going ...
Simon stopped in front of the second door on the left. Interview room two. This was it. He gripped his briefcase tight – everything he needed to do the job was inside. Take a deep breath.
Simon reached out, felt the cheap metal door handle, cold and slick against his sweating hand. He turned the handle, and went inside.
Ricky Webb lounged back in an orange Formica chair. He had a thick head of soft, dark hair swept back from his forehead. Even in his prison clothes – dark blue trousers, a white T-shirt, black trainers – he was cocky, had a presence about him. He looked up with interest as Simon entered the room, and stared him up and down, studying him.
‘All right?’
Simon nodded to the guard standing against the wall, hands behind his back, then carefully approached the table, and sat directly across from Webb.
He set his briefcase down by the side of his chair, and looked up at Webb for the first time. ‘Hello.’
The prisoner gave him a grin. ‘So you’re the artist bloke?’
Simon nodded. Keep control. Everything is going according to plan. This was what you wanted it. He breathed deeply, forced a smile to his face. ‘Yes, the artist bloke.’
Webb looked up at the guard, gave him a wink, then turned back to Simon. ‘So what’s this all about then?’
Simon carefully folded his hands on the table in front of him, held them tight to each other to avoid them shaking. He needed steady hands for what he was about to do. Just talk to him, get comfortable around him, forget what you know about him, and gradually relax, then you’ll be ready to get the job done.
‘I’m here to draw you,’ replied Simon.
Webb smiled. ‘Can’t blame you – I’m a bit of a picture, aren’t I, Carey?’ He looked to the guard for support, but was met with an indifferent stare. He turned his charm back on Simon.
‘So apart from my lovely looks, how come you’re drawing me?’
Simon slowly reached down, and slid his briefcase into his lap. ‘I’m doing a series of drawings of offenders – some when they have first been incarcerated, others when they are about to be released.’
Webb gave a big grin. ‘I’m out next weekend.’ He stretched his arms wide, as if embracing the whole world. ‘Women of the world, look out, Ricky Boy is on his way.’
Simon’s blood went cold, but he knew he couldn’t allow his personal feelings to influence what he was about to do. It was essential that he didn’t do that. He opened his briefcase, pulled out a large sketch pad, and a set of artist’s pencils.
‘So what are you going to do with your pictures?’ Despite the chattiness, Webb wasn’t stupid.
Simon opened the pencil case. There were forty-eight pencils, each of a different color, organized in an elegant sequence. He blinked. Actually, no, there were only forty-seven – one was missing. He frowned in confusion.
Pushing the thought from his mind, he turned back to Ricky. ‘By comparing the faces, particularly the eyes, of new prisoners with those who are about to be released, I hope to see if their incarceration has had any effect on them. I believe that the pictures will show if you have been changed, rehabilitated by your experience,’ Simon explained.
Webb gave him a challenging look. ‘But that all depends, doesn’t it?’
Simon’s eyes were still fixed on his pencil case, trying to figure out which one was missing. All were present and in order, but for one – the orange one.
‘I said that depends, doesn’t it?’ Webb repeated.
‘What?’ Simon was put off his stride, knocked off balance. His heart pounded. He was so careful, so meticulous. Where could he have lost a pencil? He tried to pay attention to Webb while casting his mind back – where had he last used them? ‘Depends on what?’
‘On whether I was guilty in the first place.’
He looked up and met Webb’s gaze. ‘That is of no concern to me.’
Simon’s pencil moved fast across the page. First he sketched the outline of Webb’s face.
‘Which way do you want me, Picasso?’ Ricky turned his head from side to side, gurning and grinning.
‘I don’t mind,’ Simon replied quickly, ‘as long as I can see your eyes, and as long as you stay still.’
Webb turned with the left side of his face slightly tilted. ‘I think that’s my best side. That do the trick for you?’
Simon nodded. ‘Yes, that’s fine.’ He drew quickly, the pencil defining Webb’s high cheekbones, his strong jaw line, dark eyebrows, the sweep of his dark hair.
‘This going to take long?’ Patience was clearly not one of Ricky’s virtues.
Simon gave a tight smile. ‘It will be over soon enough.’ He took a colored pencil from the box, began adding some shading to Webb’s clear skin. ‘So what will you do when you get out of here?’
Webb gave a smile of deep satisfaction. ‘Like you said, I’ve been thinking about it for a long time.’ He rubbed his hands together. ‘So the first stop will be The Baggott Inn to get a few pints down me, and find all my old mates – that’s where we always used to meet up on a Saturday night ...’
Simon’s hands moved quickly across the page, capturing Webb’s lustrous black hair perfectly.
‘I’m not familiar with it,’ Simon replied.
Webb cast his eye over him again, took in his gray sweater, the prescription glasses, everything ... ‘No, don’t reckon you would be,’ he said, smirking.
Simon managed a tight-lipped smile. All that was left to draw now were the eyes.
‘Eighteen months and nothing ... I’ve been saving it up – some little lady is going to be in for the night of a her life.’
Simon’s felt nauseous as he looked up over his sketchpad, and met Webb’s eyes. ‘You’re in for rape, aren’t you?’
Webb looked straight back at him, a cold, hard stare. For a moment there was silence, an almost electric pulse in the room. Simon never took his eyes from Webb, challenging him to look away first.
The guard unclasped his hands, and took a half-step forward. He knew a confrontation when he saw one, had broken up hundreds of fights in his time.
Just as suddenly, Webb looked away and grinned. ‘Ah, that’s all behind me now. Always said I was innocent, and parole board must believe me too. They’re setting me free, aren’t they?’
Simon’s pencil moved slowly across the page with infinite precision. He had looked into Webb’s eyes, got everything he needed. Everything to capture his essence perfectly – the mocking stare, the slight hint of weakness, the predatory cast.
Simon looked at his picture, and smiled. ‘Yes, I’m a great believer in justice,’ he said slowly. ‘True justice.’
Webb grinned, but his eyes were less certain than before. He shifted in his seat. ‘Right. Like the man said, I’ve done my time. Justice.’ He glanced at the guard again, but he had settled back against the wall, a slight smile playing around the edges of his mouth. Webb turned again to Simon. ‘So, are we all done here now, or what?’
Simon nodded. He carefully packed his pencils away, closed the case and slipped it back into his briefcase.
The prisoner leaned towards him, trying to get a glimpse of the portrait. ‘So is it any good?’
Simon closed the sketchpad, and put it under his arm. ‘Of course.’
Webb looked confused. ‘Go on then, show it to me.’
Simon snapped the brass locks on the case closed. ‘All in good time.’ He nodded to the guard.
Webb furrowed his brow. ‘In good time? What the fuck does that mean?’ He started to stand, but the guard took a step towards him, and fixed him with a hard glare. He sank back into his seat.
Simon turned towards the door. The guard stepped over, and unlocked it. ‘You said you’re out next weekend?’ he called back to Webb.
The prisoner nodded. ‘Right. Saturday.’
‘I’m putting on a small gallery exhibition of these pictures soon. I’ll make sure you have a personal invitation.’ He turned his back on the prisoner, and slipped out through the door.
Webb stood up and took a step forwards, but the guard stopped him with a stare. He called out after Simon,‘Wait ... how will you find me?’
Simon’s voice drifted back into the room from the corridor. ‘Don’t worry, Mr Webb – I’ll find you.’