Nine Elms (Kate Marshall #1)(18)

It had been a year since Peter’s last violent episode. He’d bitten another prisoner during group therapy, a manic-depressive called Larry. The disagreement had been over the subject of Kate Marshall. Peter carried a huge amount of emotions toward her: rage, hatred, lust, and loss. Before this particular group session, Larry had found a small article in the paper about Kate. Nothing huge or significant, but he had taunted him. Larry threw the first punch, but Peter finished it by biting off the tip of Larry’s fat little nose. He’d refused to consent to his stomach being pumped to retrieve the missing piece, and he now had to wear cuffs and the spit hood when he was outside his cell, or “room,” as the more progressive doctors liked to call it.

There had been several incidents over the years where Peter had bitten an orderly, a doctor, and two patients, and various bite guards and even a hockey mask à la Hannibal Lecter had been used on him. Biting for pleasure and self-defense were two different things in Peter’s mind. Tender female flesh had a delicate, almost perfumed quality to be savored like a fine wine. Male flesh was hairy and gamy, and he only ever bit a man in self-defense.

Peter’s solicitor had successfully appealed against the use of such restraints, citing the Human Rights Act. The spit hood was used by the police during arrests to protect them from bodily fluid exposure, but it was the only acceptable solution for Peter that was agreed to by the hospital, the courts, and his solicitor.

Peter’s cell was at the end of the long corridor. The doors were made of thick metal, with a small hatch that could be opened from the outside only. Yelling, banging, and the occasional scream seeped out, but to Peter and the orderlies on the usual morning walk to and from the shower it was background noise, like the tweeting of birds in a field. Winston and Terrell were both huge, imposing men, over six feet tall and built like brick shithouses, as Peter’s mother liked to say. Despite it seeming like a leisurely stroll back from the bathroom, they both wore heavy-duty leather belts with Mace.

Prisoners on the high-security wards were kept separate from each other, in single-occupancy cells, and they rarely had contact outside their cells. The hospital corridors were monitored by an extensive network of CCTV cameras, both for security and to choreograph the daily movements. Peter knew he needed to be back in his cell in the next few minutes to allow the next prisoner access to the shower.

He had occupied the same cell for the past six years. When they reached the door, Peter stood against the wall opposite the door, watched by Terrell, as Winston unlocked it. When the door was opened, Terrell undid the straps on the back of the spit hood, and then Peter went inside. The door was closed and locked.

“I’m going to open the hatch, Peter. I need you to back up and put your hands through,” said Winston. Peter felt the draft as it opened, and he pushed his hands through. The cuffs came off, and he pulled his arms back through. He loosened the spit hood and slipped it off his head, handing it through the hatch.

“Thanks, Peter,” said Winston, and the hatch closed.

Peter shrugged off his robe and dressed in jeans and a blue linen shirt and sweater. A small amount of luxury had been permitted to creep into his cell over the six years. He had a digital radio, and while many of the local libraries in the UK had been closed due to funding cuts, Great Barwell’s was well stocked, and a stack of books sat on his small bedside table. His only regret at having attacked Larry was his loss of a kettle. Hot-drinks privileges were hard earned, and he missed not being able to make his own cup of tea or coffee.

The longing to be free never left Peter. His latest read was a book about chaos theory, and he was captivated by this and “the butterfly effect.” There were numerous doors and razor wire fences between him and freedom, but he knew that sometime soon, a pair of wings somewhere would flap, signifying a small shift or opportunity, and he might get the chance to escape.

He heard the squeak of shoes on the corridor outside and the low rumble of a trolley. Long ago he had learned the hospital divided time into blocks of five minutes. Once, when he had gone to see the hospital doctor, there’d been an incident with another patient, and Peter had been taken back to his cell on an elaborate detour, along unfamiliar corridors. Through an open door, he had glimpsed the inside of the CCTV control room—a vast bank of television screens showing an image of every gate and corridor in Great Barwell. Despite the length of his stay, the complete layout of the hospital eluded him.

There was a knock at his door, and the small hatch opened. A long nose, almost comically long, poked through, with red, wet lips surrounded in acne.

“Peter?” croaked a voice. “I’ve got your post.”

“Morning, Ned,” he said, moving to the hatch. Ned Dukes was the longest-serving patient. He had been inside for forty years for imprisoning and raping fourteen young boys. He was tiny and wizened, and his long nose and fleshy, acne-ridden mouth sat in the middle of a large, round face. His blind, milky eyes rolled from side to side as his hands groped around on a trolley stacked with letters and packages. Ned was accompanied by an older woman, an orderly, whose lipless mouth was set in a grim line.

“On the shelf below,” she said, impatiently. He wasn’t the most efficient mailman, but he had been doing the job since before he’d lost his sight, and he became extremely agitated and distressed if he didn’t have the structure of his mail round. The last time the hospital had tried to take him off the post round, Ned had protested by pouring boiling-hot water over his genitals. He’d lost his hot-drinks privileges but got to keep his job as the unofficial mailman.