KENT WAS IN a foul mood. Punishment for going AWOL during lunch was usually swift – a few days on the block was the norm – but in Fearon’s case it hadn’t been as harsh as it ought to have been.
No, siree.
Having put the fear of God into Emily McCann on her second day back at work, the fucker had escaped the long walk to the Governor’s office. And that was down to her. When security had rushed into the wing, batons drawn, the silly cow had insisted she didn’t want to make an issue out of it.
‘He’s been through a lot lately,’ she said.
With the day shift standing around gawping, waiting to see what action he’d take, Senior Officer Ash Walker had no choice but to disagree. It wasn’t something he could let go, he told her, not without imposing some form of penalty, else they’d all be at it. But after a long discussion in his office – a closed-door job – he’d acquiesced and the psychologist got her way. Kent was furious. It was nepotism, plain and simple: the SO clearly had the hots for her.
Half an hour later, Kent was summoned to Walker’s office and consigned to the great outdoors to supervise a group of offenders on litter-picking duty outside C-wing, Fearon included. It was no more than a slap on the wrist for misbehaving. The nutter would be laughing his cock off.
Well, he’d see about that.
Kent was standing at the gable end of C-wing, shoulders hunched, his breath clearly visible in the icy air. Debris was being blown across the prison grounds. His skin was red raw, his nose dripping like a tap. Blowing on his hands, he stamped his feet, his temper boiling over. He couldn’t feel his extremities.
Just who was being punished here?
Resentment bubbled up inside Kent. He watched like a hawk as Fearon edged his way along the wall. Unaware that he was under scrutiny, he was shoving litter into a black plastic bag he could hardly hang on to in the gusty wind. Somehow he’d managed to wheedle his way into Harrison’s favours. Although the Principal Officer normally left the selection of offenders’ duties to lesser mortals, he’d personally intervened to select Fearon’s employment within the establishment.
Unheard of.
Wing fucking cleaner, no less!
A warm and cushy number he didn’t deserve. God knows how the bastard had swung it. Wouldn’t surprise Kent if the nonce was doing a little trading, giving the PO a regular blowjob in return for such a big-ass favour. Whatever the sketch, it meant the fuckwit was in Kent’s face all day and every day. No one argued with Harrison’s little arrangement. The PO had justified his decision on security grounds, telling wing staff it was the best way to keep a close eye on Fearon. Keep your friends close . . .
Bollocks!
There had to be more to it than that – not that Kent would ever find out. Right now, he didn’t care. He was too busy freezing his fucking ass off guarding this working party. The only upside: Fearon was as cold and miserable as he was.
Kent had a shovelful of muck in his eyes but didn’t dare turn his back for fear of losing control of the cons under his supervision. If that happened, he’d be the one for the high jump.
Already on a final warning, he couldn’t afford that.
No sooner had he filed that worrying thought away than an argument broke out between Jones and Singh. Just a bit of pushing and shoving at first. Then Jones waded in. Fists flew, feet too as he put the boot in good and proper. His language was choice. Singh, who was about the same height but less powerfully built, went down hard and curled up in a foetus-like ball in order to protect his head. Knowing that Jones was a racist pig who wouldn’t stop unless forced to, Kent moved in to break it up.
The moment his back was turned, Fearon made a run for it. Within seconds, he was round the side of the building and out of sight. Moments later, a siren sounded and HMP Northumberland was plunged into a full lockdown.