Hard Landing Read online

  Digger stood in front of Macdonald, hands on hips, jaw up so that he was looking at Macdonald down his broad nose. 'And your name would be . . .?'

  Macdonald pulled a face. 'I'm not telling anyone,' he said.

  Digger chuckled. 'Raging against the machine, huh?'

  'Something like that.'

  Digger held out a massive fist. Macdonald clenched his own right hand and tapped his fist against Digger's. The black man's was almost twice the size of his own. Digger was well muscled and had the confident swagger of a man who'd never lost a fight. 'Don't forget to wash behind your ears, yeah?' He chuckled.

  Digger and Needles dried themselves off. They changed into their clothes - pale blue Nike sweatshirts and Versace jeans - and left Macdonald alone in the shower room. Digger flashed him a clenched fist as he left. Macdonald just hoped they weren't related to the two guys he'd kicked the shit out of. He stretched out his arms, leaned against the wall, and hung his head so that the water cascaded down his face. The rushing water blocked out the noise from the wing and he could have been anywhere. A health club. His own bathroom next to his bedroom, where his son was curled up in bed next to his wife. Standing in the shower with his eyes closed, it was easy to imagine he was only feet from his family. The water cut out and he thumped the button with his fist.

  'Shower room's closing,' said a voice.

  Macdonald opened his eyes. An officer was standing at the entrance. He was in his late twenties with a shirt collar several sizes too big for his neck and a small patch of red skin over his right eyebrow. His Adam's apple bobbed up and down as he swallowed.

  'Just finishing up,' said Macdonald.

  'You're the new guy, yeah?' asked the officer. 'The one who won't give his name?'

  Macdonald nodded.

  'You know we have to identify ourselves? Prisoners have the right to know who their guards are. We're in the wrong if we don't say who we are.'

  'I guess you have to follow the rules,' said Macdonald, reaching for his towel.

  'So I'm Mr Hamilton.'

  'Pleased to meet you, Mr Hamilton.'

  'Are you taking the piss?'

  Macdonald shook his head, then turned his back on the officer and towelled himself dry.

  'Had a guy like you on the wing a few years back,' said Hamilton. 'Thought he was hard. Thought he was the bee's bloody knees.'

  Macdonald finished drying himself and put on his prison-issue clothes. 'Is it okay if I leave that here?' he asked, pointing at his white paper suit as he slipped on his grubby trainers.

  'No, it bloody isn't,' said the officer. 'Take it back to your cell and put it out with your rubbish.'

  'Right,' said Macdonald, taking the suit off the hook.

  Hamilton stood as if he was glued to the ground, forcing Macdonald to walk round him. 'You can't fight the system,' he said. 'It's broken better men than you.'

  Macdonald said nothing. On the way back to his cell, he met Barnes leaning on the rail and looking down at the ground floor. 'See they gave you some gear,' he said.

  'Yeah, I'm trying not to think about who wore it before me.'

  'Get some sent in,' said Barnes. 'My missus'll be dropping me some stuff off tomorrow.' He took a pack of Marlboro from his pocket and offered it to Macdonald.

  'Don't smoke, thanks.'

  'Name's Bill,' said Barnes. Macdonald was about to explain his situation but Barnes cut him short. 'I know, I know. Everyone on the wing knows you're playing the strong, silent type.'

  'News travels fast.'

  'There's not much else to do in here but gossip. They say it's your first time inside.'

  'Never been caught before.'

  Barnes grinned. 'If you need any tips, let me know.' He nodded at the ground floor. 'I'm on the ones. Bloody triple, but the other two guys are okay.'

  'I'm there,' said Macdonald, pointing towards his cell.

  'I know. You're in with Jason Lee. He's okay, is Jason. Chelsea fan, but what can you do? Are you sorted for your meals tomorrow?'

  'What?'

  'Your meals. Dinner and tea. You have to make your choices today for tomorrow. We're given the vegetarian option today unless you've got some pull on the hotplate.'

  'You've lost me, Bill. Sorry.'

  'You really are a virgin, aren't you?' He put his arm round Macdonald's shoulder. 'Come with me, old son, let me show you a few ropes.'

  Barnes took Macdonald down the metal-mesh stairs to the ground floor and over to a large noticeboard. There were several notices that warned of the dangers of drugs and a copy of the Listeners sheet that Ed Harris had given him. At the top of the board was a typewritten menu with a week's meals. There were three choices for each, labelled A, B and C, except for Saturday when there were only two alternatives.

  Barnes tapped the sheet. 'You make your choice from this,' he said. To the right of each meal description was a code, and at the bottom of the menu they were explained: ORD was ordinary; MUS was Muslim; V was Vegan; H was the healthy option; VG was Vegetarian. Choice A was always marked ALL DIETS, which Macdonald presumed meant that it was vegetarian, healthy and suitable for Muslims.

  Barnes ran his finger down the list. 'So, for dinner we get spicy vegetable bake,' he said. 'Yummy. And for tea we get curried beans.' He chuckled. 'Jason's going to love you,' he said.

  There was a table under the noticeboard and a plastic tray containing small forms with spaces for name, prison number, date and meal request. A black Biro hung from a chain, and a cardboard box, with a slot in the top marked 'Meal Slips', stood beside it.

  'Make your choice and drop it in there,' Barnes said. 'If you don't show a preference, you get A, and most of the time A is just whatever veg they've got fried, boiled or curried. A word to the wise, don't argue with the guys on the hotplate. They can make your life a bloody misery. Just smile and nod and say thank you. Giving them a bit of puff now and then keeps them sweet.'

  Macdonald thanked Barnes. It was just one of a thousand things about the system that he didn't know, and none of the officers seemed keen to inform him of the way things worked. Pretty much all the useful information he'd been given so far had come from fellow prisoners.

  'Get yourself a copy of the Prison Rules, too. Tells you everything you're entitled to.' Barnes clapped him on the back and went to his landing.

  Macdonald chose a cornish pasty for the next day's dinner and the mixed grill for the evening meal and dropped his form into the box. Prison officers walked down the landing shouting, 'Finish off,' and the inmates headed back to their cells. Macdonald hurried up the landing with his paper suit. Lee was already sitting at the desk, reading a book. There was a metal waste-bin under the sink and Macdonald shoved the paper suit into it. 'What happens now?' he asked, sitting on his bunk.

  'Work starts at nine. Back here at noon for dinner. Banged up for roll-call, then back to work at one forty-five. Here at five for tea.'

  'When do we get some fresh air?'

  'After dinner. We get an hour in the exercise yard unless it's raining. Sometimes they let us out during association. Depends how they're staffed.'

  Macdonald lay down on his bunk. He had nothing to read, nothing to do, and no idea of what was going to happen to him. 'What sort of work do you do, Jason?'

  'I'm assembling electric heaters. Putting the plugs on. Mindless, it is, but you get to talk to the lads. The good jobs are on the hotplate or the cleaning crew, but you need contacts to get them. Or serious money.'

  'You mean bribe the officers?'

  Lee laughed. 'The screws? Bloody hell, no! They don't run the block. The prisoners do.' He put down his book and jerked a thumb at the door. 'How many screws did you see out there?'

  Macdonald rolled over on his bunk. 'Three or four.'

  'Right. Two in the bubble. Two on the ones. One on each landing. Maybe one or two floating around if they're fully staffed. Now, how many cons on the spur?'

  Macdonald thought about it. A spur was three landings, maybe fifteen or twenty pri
soners on each. 'Fifty or sixty.'

  'Give the man a goldfish,' said Lee. 'So you've got a maximum of eight screws in charge of fifty cons. No guns, a whole set of rules and regulations they have to follow. Where do you think the power lies?'

  'You mean it's anarchy in here?'

  Lee grinned. 'More like a bloody dictatorship,' he said. 'Have you met Digger yet? Big black guy?'

  'Yeah, he was in the showers. Wanted to sell me some gear.'

  'Digger runs the show. Anything goes down on the spur, Digger takes a piece. Nothing happens here without his say-so. If you want to work on the hotplate, you talk to Digger. Cleaning job, he's your man. If you want a single cell, you talk to Digger.'

  Macdonald sat up. 'Are you telling me that the prison officers have handed control to him?'

  'What do they want?' asked Lee. The question was clearly rhetorical because he continued his argument without giving Macdonald a chance to answer. 'They want what we all want. A nice house, a wife they can shag without putting a paper bag over her head, a flash car, couple of weeks in Spain, good school for the kids. They don't give a toss about rehabilitation - they don't care who does what in here, so long as no one makes any waves. They want an easy life, and that's what they get if they let Digger run the spur.'

  'He said I could pay him on the outside. Is that how it works?'

  'Has to be that way,' said Lee. 'There's no money on the spur. It's all held on account. Way back when, phone cards were used as currency but the PIN system put paid to that. There's burn and there's gear, but drugs'll get you on a charge and there's a limit to how much tobacco you can hoard, so you either trade stuff on the inside or pay him on the out.'

  They heard a noise at the door and looked up. It was Hamilton. 'Come on, Lee, labour.' Lee hurried out of the door. Hamilton reached to pull it shut.

  'Mr Hamilton?' said Macdonald. 'How do I get to go to the gym?'

  'Gym's a privilege, and prisoners who refuse to cooperate aren't entitled to privileges,' said the prison officer.

  'But I'm entitled to a copy of the Prison Rules, right?'

  Hamilton's eyes narrowed. 'What would you want with that?'

  'I'm entitled, so I'd like a copy,' said Macdonald.

  Hamilton shut the door.

  Macdonald lay back on his bunk and closed his eyes.

  Macdonald drifted in and out of sleep. He could hear a television down the landing so he wasn't the only prisoner not working. He lost track of time. He could have switched on the television or radio for a time check, but there was no point. He wasn't going anywhere and he had no schedule to keep.

  Eventually the door was unlocked and Lee came in.

  'Had a nice day at the office, dear?' asked Macdonald.

  Lee frowned, not getting the joke. 'What?'

  'Work. Was it okay?'

  'Boring as hell. But the guys are all asking about you. They reckon you killed three cops and that SO19 have put out a contract on you.'

  Macdonald tutted. 'I didn't shoot anyone. A cop took a few pellets in the chin. And we were out at Gatwick Airport so it was Sussex police and bugger-all to do with SO19. They work for the Met.'

  'I know, but it's a better story, innit? Come on, skates on, dinner's ready.' He picked up his Thermos and pointed at Macdonald to bring his. They went down the stairs together. Lee indicated Macdonald's flask. 'Don't forget to fill it,' he said. 'The boiler's by the hotplate. Sometimes they keep us banged up after dinner if they're short-staffed so you need a brew.'

  A prison officer Macdonald hadn't seen before was standing at the bottom of the stairs. 'Settling in okay?' he asked. He had a soldier's bearing, his blond hair was cropped short and he had a scar under his chin that looked as if he'd been on the wrong end of a broken bottle.

  'Thanks.'

  'I'm Mr Rathbone. Craig, if there are no governors around.'

  Rathbone seemed more easy-going than Hamilton, so Macdonald thought he'd put in another request for the gym. Rathbone said he'd see what he could do.

  Prisoners were hurrying down to the ground floor where a large metal trolley had been wheeled into the association area. Stainless-steel trays of food were being pulled out of cupboards at the bottom of the trolley, which had been plugged into a nearby power socket. A table next to the hotplate supported a basket of bread rolls and a tray of fruit. Three inmates wielded serving utensils and Hamilton was standing to the side, watching them.

  Macdonald picked up his Thermos and went downstairs to join the queue. Lee already had his tray of food and was filling his flask at a large chrome water heater.

  Barnes was at the front of the line, helping himself to a bread roll. He reached for a second but a server slapped his hand with a spatula. Barnes swore good-naturedly.

  As Barnes took his tray to the water heater, another prisoner collected a plastic tray and walked to the front of the queue, a big guy with a shaved head, wearing a mauve Versace polo shirt and black jeans. No one protested as he shoved out his tray. Hamilton was watching, but didn't seem interested. 'Gerry wants sausages,' said the prisoner.

  The hotplate man in charge of main courses used a pair of metal tongs to select them.

  'He wants them well done,' said the prisoner.

  The hotplate man replaced them with two blackened ones. The prisoner kept staring at him. The hotplate man added two more sausages, then the prisoner moved over to the vegetables. 'Just french fries,' he said, and received an extra-large portion. Another prisoner held out his tray. Two sausages were plonked onto his plate. 'I want another,' said the prisoner.

  'Yeah, well, I want to share a cell with Pamela Anderson, now fuck off,' said the server.

  The prisoner who'd pushed in took his plate towards the stairs. As he went up he kept one hand on the rail as if he was scared he might spill something.

  The spicy vegetable bake seemed to consist of chopped carrots, potatoes, cabbage and beansprouts that had been sprinkled with cheese, then shoved under a grill. Macdonald received a large portion, with a serving of chips and a spoonful of green peas. He took a roll and an orange, then went upstairs to his landing. There, he looked up and saw the prisoner in the Versace polo shirt walking to a cell at the far end of the landing.

  Macdonald went into his. Lee wasn't there but he didn't want to sit at the desk. He had the feeling that Lee regarded it and the chair as his own personal territory. The vegetable bake was bland and unseasoned, the chips were greasy and the peas hard. He was peeling his orange when Lee returned. 'They're letting us out in the exercise yard,' he said, and sat down at the table.

  Macdonald put his orange on his pillow, took his tray to the ground floor and dropped it into a large plastic dustbin at the end of the hotplate. Prisoners were heading towards the far end of the spur where Rathbone and another officer were searching them before they went out into the yard. It was a basic pat-down. Arms, waist, legs. The officers carried out the searches on autopilot and the prisoners seemed equally bored by the procedure. Macdonald wondered why they bothered. A blade or a drugs stash could easily be concealed in trainers or underwear.

  When it was Macdonald's turn to be frisked he raised his arms and spread his legs as Rathbone patted him down.

  Two dozen or so men were already outside, mostly walking round a Tarmac rectangle about the size of a tennis court. A few were standing about, smoking and talking. The exercise area was surrounded by wire mesh three times the height of a man, thick wires criss-crossed the air above their heads, threaded every few yards with dinner-plate sized metal circles. Anti-helicopter cables.

  Macdonald walked round slowly, swinging his arms and taking deep breaths. He reached a vacant corner, dropped to the ground and did fifty brisk push-ups. Then he rolled over and did fifty sit-ups, hands clasped behind his neck, relishing the burn in his stomach muscles.

  As he got to his feet, Ed Harris ambled over. 'How's it going?' he asked.

  'I'm having trouble getting time in the gym,' said Macdonald. He widened his stance and started to
uching his toes. Left, right, left, right.

  'What's the problem?' asked Harris.

  'Hamilton,' said Macdonald. 'Says gym time's a privilege and that as I'm not co-operating I don't get any privileges.'

  'He's talking bollocks,' said Harris. 'Prison rules say you get an hour a week physical education. That's above and beyond outside time. Two hours if you're convicted. There are privileges they can give and take, but exercise isn't one. I'll talk to him.'

  'I don't need anyone to fight my battles, Ed.'

  'I can make an approach as a Listener.'

  Macdonald straightened up and arched his back. 'It's okay.'

  Harris nodded. 'If you change your mind, let me know. Hamilton's got a bit of a chip on his shoulder. He wanted to be a fireman but couldn't pass the physical. Sees this as second best and sometimes takes it out on the prisoners. You've just got to know your rights, that's all. The rules work both ways and if he breaks them it's a black mark on his record.'

  'So I can get him into trouble?'

  'Let's just say you can make life difficult for him. And if there's one thing a screw wants, it's an easy life.'

  Macdonald glanced over at the entrance to the exercise yard. Rathbone was patting down a young prisoner who was wearing a harlequin-type uniform made up of yellow and blue patches. The man said something and Rathbone laughed. He seemed to be taking extra care searching him. 'What's his story?' Macdonald asked Harris.

  'The guy in the escape uniform? That's Justin Davenport- he escaped from Brixton a few years back. Managed to get over the wall with a home-made ladder he built in the metal shop.'

  Davenport was slightly built and the uniform was several sizes too big for him - the trouser hems scuffed the floor as he walked. He started to circle the exercise yard, prowling like a trapped tiger, his eyes darting from the wire fence to the perimeter wall.

  'They caught him last month on the Eurostar heading to France.'

  'What was he in for, originally?'

  'Believe it or not, TDA - taking and driving away. He'd been stealing cars since he was a kid and eventually a judge lost patience and sent him to an open prison for twelve months. Silly bugger went AWOL. They added a few months to his sentence and put him in a Category C prison. Ran away again. He's been inside now for three times as long as if he'd just done his time and kept his nose clean.'