Eating lunch, then mopping corridor floors, exercising round the outdoor track, eating supper, playing pool. Normal. Terrifying. How do you look those men in the eye, hearing what you heard from them, knowing what you now know and can never un-know? How do you face the way they look at you, what they think, how they judge you? And do it again and again. How do you look them in the eye knowing that what you told them is a lie?
He mopped with his head down, ran alone, ate sitting at the end of a table. But playing pool with Martin, five foot four and with a pigtail down to his waist, he had to take the sideways looks, and once, a pat on the shoulder that might have been encouragement, might have been sympathy. Comradely. He shrugged it off and let Martin beat him easily so that he could get out of the games room.
He felt dirty. A criminal, not because he believed the story he had told earlier in the group, but because he was lying and they were believing him. Deceitful. Double-crosser. The words hammered a way into his head.
He did some stretching exercises and then turned on the television, flicked about, turned it off. Picked up a John le Carré, skimmed half a dozen pages without taking them in. Put it down.
‘It won’t get easier,’ Jed had said, ‘and you’ll never be off your guard, but you will get used to it. Work your way in.’
He had never felt so ambivalent about anything he had done in his entire police career, except once, many years ago, when he had taken part in an entrapment. And what was this but entrapment in another form?
He had to lie and go over the crimes he had heard about in detail earlier, to remind himself why he was here, who he was trying to protect. It worked.
He was about to go and make a cup of tea when there was a tap on his door and Will Fernley put his head round.
‘Hey. Just going to make some tea. Want one?’
‘Read my mind.’
‘I’ll get them.’
‘White, no sugar.’
The next stage, then.
‘Not bad, these honeycombs,’ Will said, sitting on the floor with his back to the door. ‘You were where – Dartmoor?’
Simon nodded as he drank. Dartmoor because he knew it, had been inside to do interviews a few times, been shown round once, got his bearings.
‘You?’
‘Wandsworth. Strangeways. You an Oxford man? Know the prison there? Five-star hotel now.’
‘I heard. Where were you?’
‘The House.’
‘Balliol.’
‘Leftie then.’
‘It’s not compulsory.’
Fernley smiled. ‘Seriously, Johnno – how are you finding it so far?’
‘Weird. Oh, the place is OK – good facilities, food no better.’
‘Right. I meant – still, you’ve only had one session.’
‘I thought I was going to be sick. I almost gagged, waiting, then once I’d opened my mouth …’
‘Right. You didn’t say much.’
‘He didn’t ask for much.’
‘That changes.’
‘Right. Confession.’
‘You Catholic?’
‘No, just – what it feels like.’
‘Gets harder. They come at you – what do you mean by that? How did you really feel? You’re not telling us, you’re blaming someone else not yourself, you’re pretending, you’re joking about it, you’ve not really admitted it to yourself, not if you can joke – all that and a load more. They don’t let you off, they don’t miss a trick. You’ll sweat.’
‘What I’m here for.’
Will looked at him over the rim of his mug.
‘Have you been in one-to-one?’
‘Therapy? No.’
‘It’s easier.’
‘So why come here?’
‘I’m going back a few years. Probably all changed now.’
‘What do you mean?’
Will shrugged. ‘Or maybe it was who I got. Can’t all be top of their game.’
‘You’re saying there was something wrong with the psych or that it didn’t work on you?’
‘Well, obviously.’
‘Right.’
‘Pathetic.’
‘What do you want out of it?’
Will didn’t reply.
‘The thing is, Johnno,’ he said eventually, ‘I want out. I can’t believe you don’t want out as well.’
‘Doesn’t everybody?’
Will shook his head. ‘You must have heard of the guys who come out and nick a pair of trainers or something just to get back in because “in” is safe, “in” is home to them, they can’t cope anywhere else. Which is extremely sad, but it doesn’t include me – or you, I’ll bet.’
‘Sure.’
‘I want out. I want life. This is the only way I’ll ever have to get it. In here it’s a system like any other system and systems can be beaten. I met a man in Wandsworth, a lifer, armed robbery twice, and he was the safe cracker – and he said there is no safe in the world that can’t be cracked. Given time. That was his problem. Time. You don’t get it when you’ve got ten minutes before an alarm goes off or a hostage finds the panic button and manages to work it, but given time and a cool head, he reckoned there was no safe he couldn’t crack. “It’s a system,” he used to say, “and systems are there to be beaten.” Interesting chap actually. He was taking a degree in maths. Like safes, I suppose … systems to be cracked.’
‘This is a bit different.’
‘Well, it’s a comparison, that’s all.’ He drained his tea mug and stood up. ‘Another?’
‘My turn.’
‘Or ping-pong.’
‘God, the excitement.’
‘Five quid I beat you.’
‘I haven’t got five quid.’
‘You soon will have, way you were mopping that bloody floor. Eat your dinner off it. If you do a bad job too many times, they dock your pocket money.’
‘Go on about this system,’ Simon asked as they went down the stairs.
‘Another time. Walls. Ears.’
A couple of men were leaning over the upper-floor banister rail looking down. ‘La-di-da.’
‘Ignore them.’ Will didn’t turn his head. ‘No worse than school.’
‘School!’
They both smiled.