A Prisoner of Birth by Jeffrey Archer
As Liam was speaking, a klaxon sounded. Brown plastic buckets were placed in front of each prisoner by inmates with yellow armbands. Danny’s bucket was full of teabags. He glanced across at Liam’s, which contained sachets of butter. The plastic bags made their slow progress along the table from prisoner to prisoner, and a packet of Rice Krispies, a sachet of butter, a teabag, and tiny containers of salt, pepper and jam were dropped into each one. When they reached the end of the table, another prisoner stacked them on to a tray and carried them into an adjoining room.
‘They’ll be sent off to another prison,’ Liam explained, ‘and end up as some con’s breakfast about this time next week.’
Danny was bored within a few minutes, and would have been suicidal by the end of the morning if Liam hadn’t provided an endless commentary on everything from how to get yourself enhanced to how to end up in solitary, which kept all those within earshot in fits of laughter.
‘Have I told you about the time the screws found a bottle of Guinness in my cell?’ he asked.
‘No,’ replied Danny dutifully.
‘Of course I was put on report, but in the end they couldn’t charge me.’
‘Why not?’ asked Danny, and although everyone else at the table had heard the tale many times, they still paid rapt attention.
‘I told the guv’nor a screw planted the bottle in my cell because he had it in for me.’
‘Because you’re Irish?’ suggested Danny.
‘No, I’d tried that line once too often, so I had to come up with something a little more original.’
‘Like what?’ said Danny.
‘I said the screw had it in for me because I knew that he was gay and he fancied me, but I’d always turned him down.’
‘And was he gay?’ asked Danny. Several prisoners burst out laughing.
‘Of course not, you muppet,’ said Liam. ‘But the last thing a guv’nor needs is a full investigation into the sexual orientation of one of his screws. It only means mountains of paperwork, while the screw’s suspended on full pay. It’s all spelt out in prison regulations.’
‘So what happened?’ asked Danny, dropping another teabag into another plastic bag.
‘The number-one guv’nor dismissed the charge and that screw hasn’t been seen on my block since.’
Danny laughed for the first time since he had been in prison.
‘Don’t look up,’ whispered Liam as a fresh bucket of teabags was placed in front of Danny. Liam waited until the prisoner wearing a yellow armband had removed their empty buckets before he added, ‘If you ever come across that bastard, make yourself scarce.’
‘Why?’ asked Danny, glancing across to see a thin-faced man with a shaven head and arms covered in tattoos leave the room carrying a stack of empty buckets.
‘His name’s Kevin Leach. Avoid him at all costs,’ said Liam. ‘He’s trouble – big trouble.’
‘What kind of trouble?’ asked Danny as Leach returned to the far end of the table and started stacking again.
‘He came home early from work one afternoon and caught his wife in bed with his best mate. After he’d knocked ’em both out, he tied ’em to the bed posts and waited for ’em to come round, then he stabbed ’em with a kitchen knife – once every ten minutes. He started at their ankles, and moved slowly up the body till he reached the ’eart. They reckon it must have been six or seven hours before they died. He told the judge he was only tryin’ to make the bitch realize how much he loved ’er.’ Danny felt sick. ‘The judge gave him life, with the recommendation that he should never be released. He won’t see the outside of this place until they carry ’im out feet first.’ Liam paused. ‘I’m ashamed to say he’s Irish. So be careful. They can’t add another day to ’is sentence, so he doesn’t care who he cuts up.’
Spencer Craig was not a man who suffered from self-doubt or who panicked under pressure, but the same could not be said of Lawrence Davenport or Toby Mortimer.
Craig was aware of the rumours circulating around the corridors of the Old Bailey concerning the evidence he had given during the Cartwright trial; they were only whispers at the moment, but he could not afford for those whispers to become legend.
He was confident that Davenport wouldn’t cause any trouble as long as he was playing Dr Beresford in The Prescription. After all, he adored being adored by millions of fans who watched him every Saturday evening at nine o’clock, not to mention an income that allowed him a lifestyle that neither of his parents, a car-park attendant and a lollipop lady from Grimsby, had ever experienced. The fact that the alternative could well be a spell in jail for perjury concentrated the mind somewhat. If it didn’t, Craig wouldn’t hesitate to remind him what he could look forward to once his fellow cons discovered he was gay.
Toby Mortimer presented a different sort of problem. He’d reached the point where he would do almost anything to get his next fix. Craig was in no doubt that when Toby’s inheritance finally dried up, he would be the first person his fellow Musketeer would turn to.
Only Gerald Payne remained resolute. After all, he still hoped to become a Member of Parliament. But the truth was it would be a long time before the Musketeers had the same relationship they had enjoyed before Gerald’s thirtieth birthday.
Beth waited on the pavement until she was certain there was no one left on the premises. She looked up and down the street before she slipped into the shop. Beth was surprised at how dark the little room was, and it took her a few moments before she recognized a familiar figure seated behind the grille.
‘What a pleasant surprise,’ said Mr Isaacs as Beth walked up to the counter. ‘What can I do for you?’
‘I need to pawn something, but I want to be sure that I can buy it back.’
‘I’m not allowed to sell any item for at least six months,’ said Mr Isaacs, ‘and if you needed a little more time, that wouldn’t be a problem.’
Beth hesitated for a moment, before she slipped the ring off her finger and pushed it under the grille.
‘Are you sure about this?’ asked the pawnbroker.
‘I don’t have much choice,’ said Beth. ‘Danny’s appeal is coming up and I need—’
‘I could always advance you—’
‘No,’ said Beth, ‘that wouldn’t be right.’
Mr Isaacs sighed. He picked up an eyeglass and studied the ring for some time before he offered an opinion. ‘It’s a fine piece,’ he said, ‘but how much were you expecting to borrow against it?’
‘Five thousand pounds,’ said Beth hopefully.
Mr Isaacs continued to make a pretence of studying the stone carefully, although he had sold the ring to Danny for four thousand pounds less than a year ago.
‘Yes,’ said Mr Isaacs after further consideration, ‘that seems to me to be a fair price.’ He placed the ring under the counter and took out his chequebook.
‘Can I ask a favour, Mr Isaacs, before you sign the cheque?’
‘Yes, of course,’ said the pawnbroker.
‘Will you allow me to borrow the ring on the first Sunday of every month?’
‘That bad?’ said Nick.
‘Worse. If it hadn’t been for Liam the tealeaf, I would have fallen asleep and ended up on report.’
‘Interesting case, Liam,’ said Big Al, stirring slightly but not bothering to turn round. ‘His whole family are tealeaves. He’s got six brothers and three sisters, an’ wance, five o’ the brothers and two o’ the sisters wur aw inside at the same time. His fucking family must already have cost the taxpayer over a million quid.’
Danny laughed, then asked Big Al, ‘What do you know about Kevin Leach?’
Big Al sat bolt upright. ‘Don’t ever mention that name ootside o’ this cell. He’s a nutter. He’d cut yur throat fur a Mars Bar, and if ye ever cross him . . .’ He hesitated. ‘They hud tae shift him oot of Garside nick just because another con gave him a V sign.’
‘Sounds a bit extreme,’ said Nick, writing down Big Al’s every word.
‘That’s what the French did to the English longbowmen at the battle of Agincourt,’ said Nick, looking up.
‘How interesting,’ said Big Al.
The klaxon sounded, and the cell doors were opened to allow them to go down and fetch their supper. As Nick closed his diary and pushed his chair back, Danny noticed for the first time that he was wearing a silver chain round his neck.
There’s a rumour circulating the corridors of the Old Bailey,’ said Mr Justice Redmayne, ‘that Spencer Craig might not have been entirely forthcoming when he gave evidence in the Cartwright case. I hope it’s not you who’s fanning that particular flame.’
‘I don’t have to,’ Alex replied. ‘That man has more than enough enemies willing to pump the bellows.’
‘Nevertheless, as you are still involved in the case, it would be unwise for you to let your views be known among our colleagues at the Bar.’
‘Even if he’s guilty?’
‘Even if he’s the devil incarnate.’
Beth wrote her first letter to Danny at the end of his first week, hoping he’d be able to find someone to read it to him. She slipped in a ten-pound note before sealing the envelope. She planned to write once a week, as well as visiting him on the first Sunday of every month. Mr Redmayne had explained that lifers can only have one visit a month during their first ten years.
The following morning she dropped the envelope in the post box at the end of Bacon Road before catching the number 25 into the City. Danny’s name was never mentioned in the Wilson household, because it only caused her dad to fly off the handle. Beth touched her stomach, and wondered what future a child could possibly hope for who only came into contact with its father once a month while he was in prison. She prayed that it would be a girl.
‘You need a haircut,’ said Big Al.
‘What do you expect me to do about it?’ said Danny. ‘Ask Mr Pascoe if I can take next Saturday morning off so I can drop into Sammy’s on Mile End Road and have my usual?’
‘No necessary,’ said Big Al. ‘Jist book yersel in wi’ Louis.’
‘And who’s Louis?’ asked Danny.
‘Prison barber,’ said Big Al. ‘He usually gets through about five cons in forty minutes during Association, but he’s so popular ye might huv tae wait for a month before he cin dae ye. As yer no going anywhere fur the next twenty-two years, that shouldnae be a problem. But if ye want tae jump the queue, he charges three fags for a bullet hied, five for a short back and sides. And the squire here,’ he said, pointing to Nick who was propped up against a pillow on his bunk reading a book, ‘has tae hand over ten fags on account of the fact that he still wishes tae look like an officer and a gentleman.’
‘A short back and sides will suit me just fine,’ said Danny. ‘But what does he use? I don’t fancy having my hair cut with a plastic knife and fork.’
Nick put down his book. ‘Louis has all the usual equipment – scissors, clippers, even a razor.’
‘How does he get away with that?’ asked Danny.
‘He disnae,’ said Big Al. ‘A screw hands over the stuff at the beginning of Association then collects it before we go back tae oor cells. An before ye ask, if anything went missing, Louis would lose his job and every cell wid be searched till the screws found it.’
‘Is he any good?’ asked Danny.
‘Before he ended up in here,’ said Big Al, ‘he used tae work in Mayfair, charging the likes of the squire here fifty quid a hied.’
‘So how does someone like that end up in the nick?’ asked Danny.
‘Burglary,’ said Nick.
‘Burglary, my arse,’ said Big Al. ‘Buggery mer like it. Caught wi’ his troosers doon on Hampstead Heath, and he wasnae pishin’ when the polis turned up.’
‘But if the cons know he’s gay,’ said Danny, ‘how does he survive in a place like this?’
‘Good question,’ said Big Al. ‘In maist nicks, when a queer takes a shower the cons take turns to bugger um, then tear um apart limb fae fucking limb.’
‘So what stops them?’ asked Danny.
‘Good barbers aren’t that easy to come by,’ said Nick.
‘The squire’s right,’ said Big Al. ‘Oor last barber was in fur grievous, and the cons couldnae afford tae relax while he hud a razor in his hand. In fact, one or two of um ended up wi’ very long hair.’
20
‘TWO LETTERS FOR YOU, Cartwright,’ Mr Pascoe, the wing officer, said as he passed a couple of envelopes across to Danny. ‘By the way,’ he continued, ‘we found a ten-pound note attached to one of the letters. The money’s been paid into your canteen account, but tell your girlfriend that in future she should send a postal order to the governor’s office and they’ll put the money straight into your account.’
The heavy door slammed shut.
‘They’ve opened my letters,’ said Danny, looking at the torn envelopes.
‘They always do,’ said Big Al. ‘They also listen in on your phone conversations.’
‘Why?’ asked Danny.
‘Hoping to catch anyone involved in a drugs drop. And last week they caught some stupid bastard planning a robbery for the day after he was due to be released.’
Danny extracted the letter from the smaller of the two envelopes. As it was handwritten, he assumed it had to be from Beth. The second letter was typed, but this time he couldn’t be sure who had sent it. He lay silently on his bunk considering the problem for some time before he finally gave in.
‘Nick, can you read my letters to me?’ he asked quietly.
‘I can and I will,’ replied Nick.
Danny passed across the two letters. Nick put down his pen, unfolded the handwritten letter first, and checked the signature on the bottom of the page. ‘This one’s from Beth,’ he said. Danny nodded.
‘Dear Danny,’ Nick read, ‘it’s only been a week, but I already miss you so much. How could the jury have made such a terrible mistake? Why didn’t they believe me? I’ve filled in the necessary forms and will come and visit you next Sunday afternoon, which will be the last chance I have to see you before our baby is born. I spoke to a woman officer on the phone yesterday and she couldn’t have been more helpful. Your mum and dad are both well and send their love, and so does my mother. I’m sure Dad will come round given time, especially after you win the appeal. I miss you so much. I love you, I love you, I love you. See you on Sunday, Beth xxx.’
Nick glanced up to see Danny staring at the ceiling. ‘Would you like me to read it again?’
‘No.’
Nick unfolded the second letter. ‘It’s from Alex Redmayne,’ he said. ‘Most unusual.’
‘What do you mean?’ asked Danny, sitting up.
‘Barristers don’t usually write direct to their clients. They leave it to the instructing solicitors. It’s marked private and confidential. Are you sure you want me to know the contents of this letter?’
‘Read it,’ said Danny.
‘Dear Danny, just a line to bring you up to date on your appeal. I have completed all the necessary applications and today received a letter from the Lord Chancellor’s office confirming that your name has been entered on the list. However, there is no way of knowing how long the process will take, and I must warn you that it could be anything up to two years. I am still following up all leads in the hope that they might produce some fresh evidence, and will write again when I have something more tangible to report. Yours sincerely, Alex Redmayne.’
Nick put the two letters back in their envelopes and returned them to Danny. He picked up his pen and said, ‘Would you like me to reply to either of them?’
‘No,’ said Danny firmly. ‘I’d like you to teach me to read and write.’
Spencer Craig was beginning to think it had been unwise to choose the Dunlop Arms for the Musketeers’ monthly get-together. He had persuaded his fellow members that it would show they had nothing to hide. He was already regretting his decision.
&
Craig wasn’t surprised that Toby Mortimer hadn’t shown up – he was probably lying in a gutter somewhere with a needle sticking out of his arm.
At least Gerald Payne made an appearance, even if he had turned up late. If there had been an agenda for this meeting, disbanding the Musketeers would probably have been item number one.
Craig emptied the remainder of the first bottle of Chablis into Payne’s glass and ordered another one. ‘Cheers,’ he said, raising his glass. Payne nodded, less than enthusiastically. Neither spoke for some time.
‘Do you have any idea when Cartwright’s appeal is coming up?’ said Payne eventually.
‘No,’ replied Craig. ‘I keep an eye on the lists, but I can’t risk calling the Criminal Appeal Office, for obvious reasons. The moment I hear anything, you’ll be the first to know.’
‘Are you worried about Toby?’ asked Payne.
‘No, he’s the least of our problems. Whenever the appeal does come up, you can be sure he’ll be in no state to give evidence. Our only problem is Larry. He gets flakier by the day. But the prospect of a spell in jail should keep him in line.’
‘But what about his sister?’ said Payne.
‘Sarah?’ said Craig. ‘What’s she got to do with it?’
‘Nothing, but if she ever found out what actually happened that night, she might try to persuade Larry that it was his duty to give evidence at the appeal telling them what really took place. She is a solicitor, after all.’ Payne took a sip of his wine. ‘Didn’t you two have a fling at Cambridge?’
‘I wouldn’t call it a fling,’ said Craig. ‘She’s not really my type – too uptight.’
‘That’s not what I heard,’ said Payne, trying to make light of it.
‘What did you hear?’ asked Craig defensively.
‘That she gave you up because you had some rather strange habits in the bedroom.’