NO MORE THAN twenty metres from Emily McCann’s office, the door to the shower block slammed shut. A single drop of blood hit the floor. Then another . . . and another . . . followed by a loud thump. A pair of steel-rimmed spectacles with one smashed lens skidded across the floor through pubic hairs and lost bars of soap. They came to rest in a pool of watery blood trickling into a nearby drain.
A few feet away, a young man lay on cracked wet tiles, his childlike face drained of all colour, blood pulsing from gashes to both wrists. Fearon’s steel-grey eyes were open and trained on the door. The last thing he saw and heard before his eyes fluttered closed was a pair of squeaky uniform boots rounding the corner as the door opened inwards.
‘Oh fuck!’
The prison officer wearing those boots slammed his fist against a red button on the wall, sounding the alarm. He took out his radio to report what he’d found, his action resulting in immediate lockdown. And suddenly all hell broke loose as officers ran towards the wing from every direction, yelling and herding the cons back to their cells, summoning medics to the shower block.
Hearing the commotion, Martin Stamp, Jo Soulsby and Emily McCann abandoned their meeting and came out to investigate. In the recreation area, inmates were arguing with jailers. Emily understood why. Following any emergency situation or security threat there was always an enquiry: questions asked, fingers pointed, blame apportioned. Prisoners could find themselves banged up in their cells for hours on end.
A giant of a young man Emily didn’t recognize was reluctant to leave. In no mood to be pushed around, he squared up to a rookie officer, shoving him hard against the wall. Within seconds, the prisoner was pinned to the deck, his arm twisted behind his back as half a dozen uniforms rushed to their colleague’s aid.
Seeing one of their peers so easily overpowered and restrained, other inmates who’d been on the verge of making a fuss thought better of it. They shuffled away to their cells, craning their necks to see what was going on, moaning about rough treatment and the untimely interruption to their daily routine.
Following the direction of their gaze, Emily rushed towards the shower block, heart kicking hard inside her chest. She pulled up short when she reached the open door.
Walter Fearon was lying on the wet tiled floor, stark naked, so still she was sure he was dead. Emily tried to speak but no words came out. She looked away, trying to focus on something other than the pool of deep red blood surrounding him. Fearon’s prison blues were folded in a neat little pile in one corner of the steamy room. A pair of worn black plimsolls placed neatly on top reminded her of the ones she had worn at school.
She looked back at the lad.
He had multiple injuries on his muscular body, the majority of them self-inflicted. In his right hand he was holding an improvised scalpel: a toothbrush with a razorblade melted into the end.
The sight of it made her shiver.
Movement . . .
Fearon’s eyes fluttered open and shut as he slipped in and out of consciousness. Instinctively, she moved towards him, kneeling down at his side as others arrived at the door . . .
‘It’s OK, Walter,’ she whispered.
‘Emily, no!’
Senior Officer Ash Walker’s tone was fierce enough to stop her dead in her tracks. Emily’s hand froze in mid-air as she reached out to touch the bleeding prisoner. Walker rushed to her side, kicking the weapon from Fearon’s fingers, at the same time pulling on a pair of rubber gloves, the significance of which she understood.
Was the risk of HIV the reason why the officer who’d found him hadn’t stayed around to offer assistance? At least tried to stem the blood? Do something.
God Almighty! Where was his compassion?
Emily backed away leaving Walker checking for a pulse. Of all the scenarios she’d imagined, this had never crossed her mind. She felt guilty now for having discussed the prisoner with Jo Soulsby and Martin Stamp, even though everything she’d said about him had been true. Fearon was a dangerous young man. But was it any wonder? From an early age he’d been systematically and brutally abused, both physically and emotionally. The transition from child victim to high profile offender was almost inevitable, sadly.
He wasn’t born that way: he’d been made like it.
He’d endured an upbringing of horror beyond imagination.
But why had he cut himself now when release was imminent?
In her darkest hour, Emily had contemplated suicide. Only Rachel had stopped her from taking such drastic action. Fearon had no one. It occurred to her that he didn’t want to get out. That the prison afforded him order: food, warmth, a roof over his head – basic requirements the rest of us took for granted. But then so would the hostel she’d arranged for him. Still, when you’d been inside for a lengthy period, change was unsettling.
She looked up as a medic was bundled into the room to revive him.
His escort, Officer Bill Kent, arrived by her side, taking in the bloody scene. For a moment, Emily mistook his silence as distress. Glancing to her left, she was taken aback by his indifference. Kent’s eyes were ice cold and unsympathetic, full of loathing, not pity. Not an ounce of concern for a young man’s life. When he spoke, his words rendered her speechless.
‘Let the nonce croak,’ he said. ‘The bastard won’t be missed.’