Captives

FORTY-SEVEN

'What are the nets for?'

Anne Hopper paused beside the rail of landing three and looked over, running her gaze over the wire mesh strung from one catwalk to the other.

'To prevent suicides,' Nicholson explained, standing beside her.

'Are there many attempts at suicide, Mr Nicholson?' Paul Merrick asked.

'No more than usual in a prison this size,' the Governor answered without looking at the other man.

'And how many would be usual?' Reginald Fairham wanted to know.

'There are three or four attempted suicides every week,' Nicholson said, his tone emotionless.

'And how many are successful?' Merrick wanted to know.

'Two or three. It's a good ratio for a gaol with a population this size.' Nicholson began walking again, satisfied that his visitors were following him. Behind them Warders Niles and Swain walked slowly and purposefully, occasionally stopping to peer through the observation slots in the cell doors.

The small procession moved on towards a set of metal stairs that led them down to the second landing. Their footsteps echoed on the metal catwalks.

'The nets aren't that successful, then?' Fairham said, if you have three suicides a week.'

Nicholson caught the note of sarcasm in the other man's voice but he did not turn, did not look at the visitor.

'It wouldn't matter if we welded steel sheets across the landings,' he said. 'They'd still try and kill themselves. There are plenty of other ways than throwing yourself from a walkway.'

The tone of his voice hardened slightly. 'You might be interested to know, Mr Fairham, that the last prisoner who committed suicide by jumping from a landing also took a prison officer with him.'

Fairham didn't answer.

They continued along the walkway, the members of the delegation peering towards the cells or over the rails every so often.

'How many hours a day are the men locked in?' Clinton asked.

'Twenty-two, sometimes twenty-three. It depends on the circumstances,' Nicholson said.

'One hour outside their cells every day,' snapped Fairham. 'That's hardly sufficient, is it?'

'I said it depended on the circumstances,' Nicholson repeated irritably. 'The higher risk prisoners are locked up for longer. Some of the other men are allowed to work outside in the grounds of the prison, as you will see. Others perform duties in the kitchens, the infirmary or the laundry rooms. Every man is allowed a certain amount of time in the recreation room, too.'

'How many are there in each cell?' Clinton wanted to know.

'Usually three,' Nicholson said.

'Would it be possible to have a look inside one?' asked Anne Hopper.

Nicholson stopped his slow strides and turned to look at her.

'If you wish,' he said and nodded to Swain to unlock the nearest cell.

The warder peered through the observation slot then selected a key from the long chain that dangled from his belt. He opened the door and walked in.

'On your feet,' he snapped, glancing at the two occupants. They were both lying on their bunks, one reading, one scribbling a letter on a notepad.

Mike Robinson looked down from the top bunk and saw Swain standing there.

'Mr Swain, what a pleasure,' he said. 'What can we do for you?'

'You can shut your mouth and get on your bloody feet,' snapped Swain.

'Leave them, warder,' said Anne Hopper, moving past him into the cell.

Both men eyed her approvingly as she entered.

'Sorry to disturb you,' she said, smiling.

'No bother, darling,' Robinson told her, grinning. He swung his legs around so that he was perched on the edge of the bunk. He put his pencil and pad aside. Rod Porter peered at her over the top of his book, glancing at the other visitors.

'Less of your lip, Robinson,' hissed Swain. 'Show a bit of respect.'

Robinson caught sight of Nicholson standing on the landing and his smile faded rapidly. He nodded a greeting to the other three visitors, who crowded into the cell as if they were playing some bizarre game of sardines.

There was a table and two wooden chairs at the far end by the slop buckets. Clinton sat down beside the slop bucket and smiled at the two men. Robinson smiled back. Porter merely regarded the man indifferently, his gaze straying back to the woman.

'These are the visitors you were told about yesterday,' Nicholson informed the two men.

'You said there were usually three to a cell,' Clinton observed.

'That's right,' Nicholson repeated.

'There were three of us in here,' said Porter slowly, his gaze flicking from one visitor to the other, but always returning to Anne Hopper. 'Our cell-mate had an accident.'

'Shut it, Porter,' Swain said under his breath.

'No,' said Fairham, raising a hand. 'Let him speak.' He looked at the prisoner. 'What kind of accident?'

'He forgot to test the temperature of his bath water,' Porter said cryptically.

Robinson laughed, looked at Nicholson and then fell silent again.

'I'm not with you,' said Fairham.

'Neither is he, any more,' Porter said.

'What was this man's name?' Fairham wanted to know.

'Marsden,' Nicholson said. 'He was in here for sexual crimes against children.'

'He was a fucking ponce,' Porter said venomously.

'Watch your language,' snarled Swain.

'He was. We all knew it, the screws knew it too. That's why they didn't interfere when he… hurt himself.' The vaguest hint of a smile creased Porter's lips.

'You called him a ponce,' Clinton said. 'What is that?'

Robinson chuckled again.

'You must have got a few in the Houses of Parliament,' he said, smiling.

Porter looked directly at the MP.

'A ponce. A pimp. He lived off little kids,' the prisoner said contemptuously. 'Made them sell themselves. Girls and boys. He had kids as young as twelve in his stable when they lifted him. A ponce.' He emphasised the word with disgust.

'I still don't understand what you mean about him having an accident,' Fairham said.

'I told you,' Porter said. 'He didn't test his bath water. He got a bit hot.'

'Where is this man now?' Fairham wanted to know.

'He was taken to the hospital wing, then removed to Buxton General Hospital,' Nicholson said. 'He had been scalded. We found him at least two of my officers did, in a bath full of boiling water in the shower rooms. When they got to him ninety-eight per cent of his body had been burned. There was nothing we could do for him here, so we had him transferred.'

'How did he get in that state?' Fairham asked, perplexed, his gaze shifting back and forth from Nicholson to Porter.

'He slipped on the soap,' Porter said.

Robinson laughed.

'He always was careless,' the other man added.

The realisation finally seemed to hit Fairham. The colour drained from his cheeks.

'You mean someone tried to kill him?' he said, his voice low.

'No,' Porter told him, flatly. 'He just had an accident.' He raised his book and continued reading.

The visitors turned and filed out of the room, realising that the conversation had come to an end.

Swain threw the two convicts an angry glance before slamming the door and locking it.

On the landing Nicholson was leaning on the rail.

'A man is nearly murdered in here and your officers knew about it?' snapped Fairham.

Nicholson rounded on him, his eyes blazing.

'My men knew nothing about what was going on,' he hissed.

'But that man said…'

'Are you going to take the word of a prisoner over mine?' snarled Nicholson. 'My men knew nothing about it.'

'But you don't deny that it could have been deliberate?' Anne Hopper added.

'Miss Hopper, the man who was injured ran a child prostitution ring,' Nicholson said, his tone a little calmer now. 'He set the children targets every day. If they didn't bring back the amount of money he'd told them to, he beat them with a baseball bat.' The Governor paused, for effect. 'A baseball bat studded with carpet tacks.'

'Oh God,' murmured Merrick.

'God had very little to do with it, Mr Merrick,' Nicholson added. He looked at the visitors. 'What you must understand is that even convicts have a twisted code of ethics that they live by. They have their own rules and their own hierachy. The gang members, the hit men in here are at the top of their tree. Child molesters are the lowest of the low, even to other criminals.'

'Why?' Anne Hopper asked.

Nicholson smiled thinly.

'Even scum have to have someone to look down on.'