Daisy in Chains(37)

They obey him. It wouldn’t occur to them not to. The door closes.

‘And if I’m unlucky?’

No point not giving it to him straight.

‘The symptoms you described to me just now can be indicative of bowel cancer.’

Wolfe gives him a second or two. No one wants to hear that word. And if word gets around that Sahid is seriously ill, his position as head of the Muslim Boys, the most powerful gang in Parkhurst, will be undermined. And there is always another gang just waiting for the opportunity to strike.

‘This is not a diagnosis, mind you. You need to see Dr Evans, have him carry out tests. If he refuses to refer you, remind him that under the Prison Act you have the right to prompt medical attention.’

‘Is there anything I can do in the meantime?’

The man is scared. There really is no leveller like cancer. ‘Assume it’s haemorrhoids. Tell everyone it’s haemorrhoids. Increase the fibre in your diet, if at all possible, and drink plenty of fluids, especially water. Avoid painkillers that contain codeine, it can make constipation worse.’

Sahid gets to his feet. ‘Thank you, Doctor.’ He glances back, at the supplies that, of course, Wolfe isn’t allowed to have, but that are tolerated because these informal daily surgeries help to keep the peace in the block. And go some way towards repairing the damage when peace doesn’t hold out.

‘I’m sorry about what happened this morning,’ Sahid says. ‘In the lavatories, I mean. I hope you know it was nothing to do with my people.’

‘No harm done,’ says Wolfe, even though he’s still sweating when he thinks about it.

‘Anything you need?’

Sahid and his contacts are among Wolfe’s main suppliers. When drugs, money and phones are smuggled into prison, a packet of aspirin or a roll of medical plaster often slips its way in too.

Wolfe and Phil have already been through the stock. ‘We’re getting low on paracetamol, as always. Ibuprofen would be good too. Bandages and plasters always needed. Any donations gratefully received. Ideally not smuggled in up someone’s arse.’

‘I’ll make enquiries if Superdrug can deliver.’

‘And that map I asked you about?’

‘That’s in hand.’ The other man nods as he gets to his feet.

The door opens. There is a blast of noise and stale disinfectant from the corridor. Something is kicking off somewhere close. In the next cell, music begins, full volume. Sahid’s Muslim Boys have largely put a stop to non-Islamic music on the wing, but when disguising the sound of a fight, it’s tolerated.

Wolfe turns to the window. He shouldn’t, it never ends well, but sometimes the temptation to look at the outside world, even a tiny square of it, is irresistible. The smell of tobacco and stale feet tells him that Phil is back.

‘Who’s next?’

‘Stan from H. Wanker’s been cutting himself again. I told him you wouldn’t see him unless he hands over his tool.’

Wolfe clenches his eyes shut and tells himself that this is a normal day, he’s had a hard morning at the Bristol General, spent several hours in surgery. This afternoon will be bad too, consultations and meetings, a late finish, but then he can drive home and take his dog for a run in the forest.

He looks up at the green canopy, watches the light dance through. He can hear twigs breaking beneath his feet, the dry leaves scratching in tree hollows. Behind him is the soft padding of his dog’s paws.

And Daisy. He tries not to think of Daisy during the daytime, but sometimes she creeps in, is upon him before he can steel himself to keep her out. The glint in her eyes, the cold curve of her smile. Daisy, after all this time, the woman who will never leave him.

He takes a deep breath. And another. The panic is fading. He can go on. One more day. He nods at Phil, who is used to him by now. ‘Show him in.’





Chapter 28




PROPERTY OF AVON AND SOMERSET POLICE. Ref: 544/45.2 Hamish Wolfe.





Chapter 29




PROPERTY OF AVON AND SOMERSET POLICE. Ref: 544/45.2 Hamish Wolfe. Letter found in Wolfe’s cell at HMP Parkhurst. (NB: Of hundreds of letters received by Wolfe during his time at Parkhurst, this was one of fewer than a dozen that he kept. Most of that number were from the same anonymous author.)





Chapter 30


THIS IS THE third lockdown this month. Everyone is on edge, like dogs kept in a kennel that is too small. The slightest grievance, real or otherwise, gets blown out of all proportion. This one kicked off in the showers, as they often do, when they don’t start in the dining room, or the games room, or the exercise yard, or even chapel. Someone with a score to settle. A fist shooting out. A well-aimed boot kick. Two bodies thud together and crash to the ground. A second later, pandemonium.

Wolfe sits on his bunk, folding and refolding a small, thin rectangle of paper.

‘Like Santa’s frigging grotto in ’ere.’ Sedge, a Scot in his early twenties, has been dragged into the cell by Phil because if you spend too long on the corridor during a lockdown, you’re likely to find yourself swept up with the reprisals. Participant or bystander, it makes little difference when the batons start swinging. He looks over at Wolfe. ‘Fuck’s he doing?’

‘Ornithology.’ Phil can never remember the term origami, and Wolfe has given up reminding him. Ornithology isn’t way off beam. Often he makes bird shapes. Not today, though. Nor is he making yet another Christmas bauble. There are more than enough of those hanging from the ceiling.