step. He’d known it then and there was no escaping it now.
Steve felt oddly calm, detached, observing all this from a distance. He saw the man playing aimlessly with his gun. He saw it all, and he felt untroubled. He had no illusions about what the man would do. Perhaps no more than he deserved.
So he stood there, motionless, waiting for it to start. And in that moment – before the flare and the noise, before the impact, before his blood began to seep into the worn fibres of the cheap grey carpet – Steve felt almost relieved.
He’d almost missed it.
Something caught the corner of his eye, some movement. A twitch. He moved himself to the right to try to gain a better vantage through the spyhole.
It was well after midnight. The dead hours of routine patrols when nothing much ever happens. Maybe just some scrote with insomnia – and, Christ knew, all of this bunch ought to have trouble sleeping – shouting the odds, wanting to share his misery with the rest of the fucking world.
But usually nothing much. A fifteen minute stroll along the dimly lit landing, glance into the cells, check that no one was up to no good. There was never any real trouble.
Sometimes Pete tried to kid people that this was a responsible job, stuck up here all night by himself on the landing. If anything happens, it’s up to me to sort it out. Yeah, he thought, up to me to press the bell and summon backup. He was an OSG. Operational Support Grade. Bottom of the pile, with – at least in theory – minimal prisoner contact. Didn’t always work out that way, of course. But nobody expected much of him. Especially not the Prison Officers.
Like that one earlier, who’d been coming up here just as he was ending his previous patrol. Pete had been running a bit late, had lingered a bit too long over his coffee and copy of The Sun. Nobody really cared at this time of the night, but he didn’t like to let things slide, so he’d been a bit out of breath, dragging his overweight body hurriedly round the landings then down the stairs.
He hadn’t recognised the officer who’d met him on the stairs. He thought he knew most of them, but they kept buggering the shifts about and this one was new to him. Christ knew what he was doing going up to the landings at this hour.
Pete had tried to offer a cheery greeting – they were both stuck on this arse end of a roster, after all – but the guy had just blanked him, hardly seeming to register that Pete was there. Well, fuck you as well, Pete had thought, puffing down the last few stairs. He’d heard the officer unlocking the landing doors above him.
Afterwards, he’d been worried that the officer might report him for being late. It was a stupid concern. The guy probably wouldn’t even have known what time Pete was supposed to carry out the patrol. But there was something about him, something about the way he’d ignored Pete on the stairs, that had seemed unnerving. Just the kind of officious bastard who’d grass you up for the sheer hell of it.
So, just in case the guy was still up there, Pete had kicked off his next patrol a little early so he could get it finished on time without busting a gut. But of course the landing had been deserted. Whatever the officer had been doing, he’d finished it and buggered off.
There was nothing else to do. Pete shuffled with effort round the landing, stopping to check on each cell in turn. Everyone sleeping like a baby.
He’d reached the last cell and was preparing to move on to the next landing, when he stopped and looked again.
Yeah, he’d almost missed it. The cell was in darkness and he’d assumed the occupant was securely in bed. Then he’d caught some movement in the periphery of his vision. He hadn’t even been sure he’d seen it at first. He’d shifted his body to get a better view.
Jesus.
There was something – someone – there, jerking and struggling. Someone pressed against the wall behind the door, almost invisible. And now Pete could hear the sound of choking, the awful sound of a wordless, gasping scream…
He reacted better than he’d have expected, racing across the landing to sound the alarm. Then back to the cell, fumbling with his own set of keys. He was supposed to enter the cells only in the direst of emergencies, but surely this counted as one of those. As he pushed open the door, it occurred to him that he might have been suckered. But the landing was sealed and backup would be there in minutes.
He knew straight away he’d done the right thing. The prisoner was hanging halfway up the wall – Christ knew how he’d managed it – some kind of cord tight around his neck. The man’s head lolled to one side, his waxy face already blue in the dim light from the landing.
Pete threw his arms round the prisoner’s body and tried to drag it down from whatever was holding the rope. He struggled at first, afraid that he was doing more harm than good, but knowing the prisoner would have no chance as long as his own weight continued to tighten the cord. Suddenly, as Pete strained to lift the prisoner’s body, the rope gave way and the body toppled sideways, out of Pete’s grip, on to the hard floor.
A nail. A fucking six inch nail hammered into the wall. Where the fuck had he got that from? And the rope, for that matter? Someone was for the high jump.
Pete crouched down by the body, fumbling to loosen the ligature from the prisoner’s neck. The face was purple now, and the old guy looked like he might be a goner already. Pete fumbled around the plastic cord and finally found the knot. He could feel it beginning to give under his trembling fingers. At the same moment, he heard the sound of the landing gates behind unlocked.
By the time the two officers and the principal had reached the cell door, Pete had managed to loosen the rope. He looked up as the three men crowded the doorway: ‘Trying to top himself.’
Pete moved back as the principal officer crouched over the body and began to administer CPR, thrusting hard and rhythmically on the prisoner’s chest. One of the officers was on his radio calling for an ambulance.
Pete dragged himself to his feet, only now beginning to take in what had happened. What he’d just dealt with. ‘Jesus.’ He glanced down at the supine figure, still bouncing under the pounding arms of the principal officer.
The officer with the radio nodded laconically towards Pete. ‘Good work, son. Let’s hope we’re in time. We all get a bollocking if one of them tops himself.’ He took a step back and glanced at the number of the cell. ‘Mind you,’ he added, ‘won’t be too many saying any prayers for this one.’
Pete looked up. ‘That right?’
‘Don’t reckon so.’ The officer moved to lean against the doorframe. ‘This is Keith Welsby. Just another bent copper. There’s one or two would be glad to help him on his fucking way.’
‘So you were lying to me.’
Salter gazed back at her, his mouth working hard at a piece of gum. His expression was that of a bored spectator staring into an aquarium at an unfamiliar species of fish. ‘If it wasn’t the kind of thing that gets me branded as sexist,’ he said, finally, ‘I’d say that sounded a tad hysterical, sis.’
She
