Nine Elms (Kate Marshall #1)(35)

“The best I can with a crappy blade,” said Peter. He scraped the last of the foam off his chin. He rinsed the razor in the sink. When he turned on the tap, Winston appeared again, and Peter handed him the razor, handle first.

“Thank you, Peter.”

Winston was powerfully built with big muscles, and for the first time, Peter compared himself and saw how he could be easily overpowered by Winston, even if he didn’t have his Mace, baton, and Taser.

As Peter pulled on his clothes, he dared to think, to dream about leaving, and he wondered exactly how he would be broken out, or if it was possible. He might need to run, or climb, and what a tragedy if his flabby, weak body gave out on him and that was how the plan failed. He felt frustrated that he hadn’t heard any more from his mother. She hadn’t answered the phone the night before, which was unusual. He thought back to their last meeting. Did he say something wrong to make her angry? He shook the thought away. Prison gave you acres of time to obsess about what was going on outside the gates. Paranoia crept up on you very easily. He would give anything to have an email account. The joy of instant communication with the world. He had listened to the news reports several times about the dead girl, Kaisha, but they were frustratingly scant on details. There would be more on the internet, so much more.

He slipped the spit hood over his head and did up the buckles, then backed up to the hatch in the grille. Winston reached through and cuffed his hands together. Peter pushed his washbag through the grille, and only after Winston searched it and was satisfied did he then open the grille. They stepped out of the bathroom and briefly into the kitchenette opposite while another inmate was taken past them to the bathroom.

They carried on along the hallway, where a row of windows looked out over the exercise yard. A lanky, pale man with thinning brown hair was pacing up and down, agitated and beating his chest. Peter didn’t know his real name—everyone called him Bluey. He was a schizophrenic and prone to paranoia.

“I’m not coming in. I’m not!” he was shouting, pacing the tiny yard. His T-shirt was torn.

They turned the corner into Peter’s corridor and saw that a group of eight orderlies was waiting at the door leading to the exercise yard: six big, strong men and two strong women.

“You need to come inside. You’ve had your fifteen minutes,” one of them was saying through a hatch in the door.

“Fuck you!” shrieked Bluey, his voice ragged. “No! No! No!” He carried on walking in a circle, beating at his chest and screaming. Peter’s room was past the door to the exercise yard, at the other end of the corridor. Winston’s radio beeped. He put out his hand in front of Peter.

“Okay to hang back there with Peter, Win?” crackled a voice through the radio.

Winston took it off his belt. “Of course. Peter, please can you stop there for a minute.”

Peter nodded, watching as Bluey paced round and round, slapping himself in the head and pulling at his hair.

He tried to remember having that energy, that feeling of rage, and he dug deep inside his chest, but it was as if he were stuffed with cotton wool. There was nothing. The tiny exercise yard was surrounded by ten-foot walls and razor wire, and it had netting above it. There was a dead pigeon caught up in the netting, its wings and feet tangled. Despite the chill, a couple of flies crawled over its eyes.

“How long has that pigeon been there?” asked Peter.

“Two days. They have to get rid of it today or it’s a health hazard,” said Winston, looking between Peter and the other orderlies, keeping an eye on them both. Bluey was now screaming, and he threw up. He charged at the door, smashing his head into the reinforced glass.

The orderlies moved into formation outside the door, in two rows of three plus one at each end. The door opened as Bluey charged at them. They moved swiftly, caught him, and flipped him over onto his back. Three held him on each side, gripping his legs, arms, and torso. One cradled his head, keeping it locked into position, and the other held on to his feet. They carried him away screaming.

They would now take Bluey to his room and lay him on the bed, all eight of them crammed in and holding him down. A nurse might administer some sedative, and then one by one they would exit, in smooth, fluid formation. The person holding his head would run out last, and the door would be slammed shut. It had happened to Peter on several occasions, back before they got his meds right. He admired Bluey’s fight, even after all these years. When the hallway was clear, the radio beeped and they moved off again.

“How often do you exercise?” asked Peter.

“Two, three times a week,” said Winston.

“Weights?”

“No, resistance, just using the body.”

“Do you think you could help me, give me some exercises?”

They reached the door of Peter’s cell.

“Patients aren’t allowed to exercise in their cells.”

“I’m banned from the gym. That exercise yard is a health hazard with dead pigeons and Bluey’s puke. Just some tips on exercises . . .” Peter looked up at Winston. He had huge brown eyes. The eyes of an old soul.

“I can get you a printout, but you need to keep it on the d-lo, Peter. You didn’t get it from me.”

“Sure. Thank you.”

The nurse appeared with Peter’s medication on a trolley that was covered in rows of small plastic cups. Written in marker pen on each were the names.