‘Need to talk,’ Will said, passing with a trolley of crockery steaming hot from the dishwasher.
‘Now what?’
‘Plans.’
Simon shrugged and poured a second lot of potatoes down the funnel into the peeler. It was the hottest day of the year and the temperature inside the pod was well beyond reasonable levels. Jokes went round about trade unions and health and safety demanding a walkout. The cooler fans made no impression, merely swirled the hot air about.
He wiped his brow with his sleeve. The cotton cap he had to wear was soaking wet round the band. He glanced up. Will Fernley was hauling out a second load of crockery. It was surprising. Everyone worked well in here, it was as professional as any other institutional kitchen, the grumbling was cheerful enough, the banter and jokes flew. If people walked in from the outside world now and were asked to guess what these men had in common, not one would get it right. Prepping veg, cracking eggs, boiling water, cutting meat, opening huge cans, swabbing down, loading and unloading machines – and every one a man who had abused children, raped, committed murder, in here to try and master their urges.
It occurred to him that they were courageous. That maybe it was easier to stay in mainstream prison, keep your head down and the lid clamped on your inner imaginings and memories, get on with it day to day. The relative freedom they had here was more than balanced by the pain of digging down into their own souls and bringing up appalling thoughts and fantasies, by the shame of recounting in every detail the crimes they had committed, and of then putting themselves into the hearts and minds and bodies of their victims.
He was play-acting, and, at moments, ashamed of the fact. He was deceiving men who were trying to be honest, whatever the horrendous nature of their crimes, and it felt dirty. Living in close proximity to them was making him search his own conscience, though in a very different way.
They finished serving the evening meal, cleaned up, ate their own. Tomorrow, a different pod crew would take over and he would not be back in here for a week. He would be on grounds duty – mowing and rolling and sweeping up. He would also have three sessions in the library. He tried to get Will to open up without appearing to do so. Will, tight as a clam, rarely obliged. He had mentioned one name only.
Andrew Morson, QC.
He got a plastic cup of cold water and took it outside. The grass on the bank was yellowing and sparse. No one was playing football. Everyone sat or lay about, exhausted by the heat, shirts off.
There was a low whistle. Will was sitting some yards away from the rest, close to the perimeter wire of the pitch. After a minute, Simon went to join him, in no hurry, wandering in the other direction before doubling back. Nobody took any notice. It was half past seven and still stifling, a haze filming over the sky.
Will said nothing except ‘Ice-cold lager’.
Simon groaned.
‘I’m serious.’
‘Ice-cold beer? Why torture yourself?’
‘I might get it.’
‘Shouldn’t think even the governor has a stash.’
‘Outside.’
Simon looked at him. Said nothing.
‘Told you, Johnno. I’ve had it. Doesn’t work, doesn’t help, I can’t see the point.’
‘Sun’s got to you.’
‘No.’
‘Don’t follow you.’
‘Come on, yes you do.’
Serrailler thought fast while lying back down and closing his eyes. ‘Don’t be stupid. If you made a move they’d have you in solitary, you’d have all your paroles cancelled for good, you’d be serving your full time –’
‘Assuming I was caught. But I wouldn’t be.’
‘Right.’
‘You think I’m joking,’ Will said.
‘No. Actually, no, I don’t. Just wondering if you’ve thought this all the way through. I mean, how often do guys even make the attempt? And how many of them get near succeeding?’
‘Ocean’s Eleven.’
‘Oh, it’s been tried, it’s been tried …’ Serrailler quoted the film.
‘One guy actually tasted fresh oxygen …’ They laughed.
‘Forget it, Will.’
‘Doesn’t involve breaking through the security of three casino banks either.’
‘Go on then, make me laugh.’
‘You kidding? Why would I tell you?’
‘Thought you couldn’t wait.’
Will chewed a grass blade.
Simon thought quickly. If Will was serious about trying to get out of Stitchford, his chances of succeeding were almost zero. It was the ‘almost’ that was a worry. One thing was for sure – he had to deal with this on his own. He couldn’t ask for advice, and getting a message to the governor would mean, everything else apart, an end to his chances of finding out more information from Fernley about others in his ring. Diversion, then, for the moment.
‘What was that about that QC – what was his name, Anthony Morson?’
‘Andrew. You said you didn’t know him.’
‘Why now?’
Simon shrugged. ‘Came to mind for some reason. Forget it. Think I’m going in. Test match highlights.’
He got up. Will got up. The others were still idle in the last of the evening sun. They walked back slowly, amiable, relaxed. And yet, this is where we are, Simon thought, as they went inside.
At his door, Will said, ‘I’m not joking.’
Simon waited.
‘It’s all worked out.’
‘Listen, Will –’
‘Not in the corridor …’
They went into his room. Some of the men had tried to make theirs homely. Will’s was as bare as when he had arrived. He had a small shelf of books but nothing else, not a family photograph or a calendar. He was meticulously tidy. The books were arranged spine exactly to spine and size-coordinated along the row.
Simon said, ‘Listen, I still reckon you’re taking the piss, but if you’re not, think hard about this – how many men have ever escaped from any prison and stayed out for longer than a day. You can count them on one hand. What are you trying to prove?’
‘Nothing at all. Just trying to get out of here. The first thing is –’
Simon held up his hand. ‘I don’t want to know. Then I can’t tell anyone else, can I?’
‘And would you?’
‘Might have to if I was questioned hard enough.’
‘The only reason I was going to tell you …’
‘What?’
‘In case you felt like coming with me.’