6
Against all odds, years of apparently model behaviour had earned Vance a place in the Therapeutic Community Wing at HMP Oakworth in the depths of the Worcestershire countryside. There was no set lights-out time on this wing, separated as it was from the rest of the prison; inmates could turn the light off when they wanted to. And the tiny en suite bathroom gave him a degree of privacy he’d almost forgotten existed. Vance turned out the light, leaving the TV on so he wasn’t working in complete darkness. He spread a newspaper out on the table then painstakingly chopped off his hair with a razor blade. Once it was short enough, he ran the electric razor back and forth till his skull was as smooth as he could get it. Thanks to his prison pallor, there would be no difference in skin colour between the newly shaven skin and his face. Next, he shaved off the full beard he’d been cultivating over the past few weeks, leaving only a goatee and moustache behind. Over the past couple of years, he’d been varying his facial hair dramatically – from full beard to clean-shaven, from chin strap to Zapata moustache – so that nobody would pay attention when he cultivated the look that counted.
The key part of the transformation still lay ahead of him. He reached up to the bookshelf above the table and took down a large-format book, a limited edition collection of lithographs by modern Russian artists. Neither Vance nor the usual inmate of the cell had any interest in the art; what made this book valuable was the heavy paper stock it was printed on, paper so heavy the pages could be slit open and used to hide thin plastic sheets of tattoo transfers.
The transfers had been painstakingly created from photographs Vance had taken on his contraband smartphone. They replicated in exact detail the elaborate and garish body art that covered the arms and neck of Jason Collins, the man who was currently sleeping in Vance’s bed. For Vance was not in his own cell tonight. The distraction he’d created had worked perfectly.
A photograph of Damon Todd’s wife leaning into Cash Costello’s brother at some nightclub bar had been all the currency he’d needed. Vance had casually dropped it on the ping-pong table as he’d walked past during the association period that evening. Inevitably, just as he had planned, someone had picked it up and homed in on its significance straight away. Catcalling and taunts followed and, inevitably, Todd had lost his temper and thrown himself on Costello. That would be the end of their spell on the Therapeutic Community Wing, all good behaviour undone in one uncontrollable flash of temper. Not that Vance cared. He’d never been bothered by collateral damage.
What mattered was that the ruckus had diverted the attention of the wing officers just long enough for Vance and Collins to make their way back to the wrong cells. By the time things had settled down and the screws were making the final round of the cells, both men had their lights out, pretending to be fast asleep. No reason to doubt each was where he was supposed to be.
Vance got up and ran cold water into the basin. He tore out the first prearranged page and peeled the two sheets of paper away from the plastic. He immersed the thin plastic film in the basin, then, when the tattoo transfer began to shift, he applied it meticulously to his prosthesis. It was a slow process, but nothing like as awkward as applying it to his other arm. Yes, the new artificial limb was remarkable. But what it could do was still a distance away from the fine motor control of a living arm. And everything depended on getting the details right.
By the time he’d finished, his head was sweating and fine trickles of perspiration ran down his back and sides. He’d done the best he could manage. Put him side by side with Collins and it would be easy to tell the real tatts from the fake, but unless things went horribly wrong, that wasn’t going to happen. Vance picked up the copies his helper on the outside had had made of Collins’ glasses and slipped them on. The world tilted and blurred, but not too much for him to cope with. The lenses were far less powerful than Collins’ own ones, but a cursory check would demonstrate that they weren’t plain glass. Details, it all came down to details.
He closed his eyes and summoned up the sound of Collins’ nasal Midlands accent. For Vance, that was the hardest part of the impersonation. He’d never had much of a gift for imitation. He’d always found himself sufficient. But for once, he was going to have to lose himself in someone else’s voice. He’d try to keep the chat to a minimum, but he had to be ready to avoid a response in his own warm generic tones. He recalled the scene in
It had taken years to get this far. First, to be admitted to the Therapeutic Community at all. Then to find someone roughly the same height and build who also had a powerful need for what Vance could provide. Jason Collins had been in his crosshairs from the first day the creepy little firebug had walked into group therapy. Collins had been a hired gun, firing businesses for cash. But Vance didn’t need the psychologist to tell him that Collins’ motives had been darker and deeper than that. That he was in the group at all was the proof.
Vance had befriended Collins, uncovered his chagrin at losing his family life, and started to sow the seeds of possibility. What Vance’s money could do for Collins’ three kids, for his wife. For a long time, Vance had felt he was treading water. The crucial stumbling block was that assisting Vance would pile more years on top of Collins’ existing sentence.
Then Collins got a different kind of sentence. Leukaemia. The kind where you have only a forty per cent chance of still being alive five years after the initial diagnosis. Meaning he’d probably never have a second chance to provide a future for his kids or his wife. Even if he got maximum time off his sentence, Collins felt like he’d only be going home to die. ‘They’d let you go home anyway if you were that close to dying,’ Vance had pointed out. ‘Look what happened to the Lockerbie bomber.’ It seemed like a perverse version of having your cake and eating it. Collins could help Vance escape and it wouldn’t matter – they’d still let him out when he was sick enough. Either way, he’d be spending the end of his life with his family. And if they did it Vance’s way, his wife and kids would never have to worry about money again.
It had taken all Vance’s powers of persuasion and more patience than he knew he possessed to draw Collins
