after changing into his personal ciwies, he was admitted
into a bench-lined holding-cell, where another prisoner, a thin sallow-faced
man in his forties, was already seated. Their exchange of conversation was
brief and un memorable ' Not much more o' this shit, mate. '
'No,' said Repp.
At 9. 05 a. m. his name was again called, and he was taken along to a
reception desk where one of the Principal Officers took him through the forms
pertaining to his release: identity check, behaviour and health records,
details of destination and accommodation. It seemed to Repp somewhat
reminiscent of a check-in at Heathrow or Gatwick.
Except that this, as he kept reminding himself, wasn't a check-in at all. It
was a check-out.
He signed his name to several documents without bothering too much what they
were. But before signing one form he was asked to read some relevant words
aloud: 'I understand that I am not allowed to possess or have anything to do
with firearms or ammunition of any description . . .' It didn't matter
anyway. In all probability there'd be no need to use the gun; and apart from
himself only Debbie knew its whereabouts.
Almost finished now.
He took possession of an order issued under the Criminal Justice Act re
Supervision in the Community, specifying the Oxford Probation Service in Park
End Street as the office to which he was required to report regularly. Then
he completed the Discharge Certificate itself, with a series of initials
against Travel Warrant (Bullingdon to Oxford), Personal Property (as
itemized), Personal Cash ( 24. 50), Discharge Grant ( 45), Discharge
Clothing (offered but not issued).
And, finally, one further full signature, dated and countersigned by the
Princi- pal Officer, underneath the unambiguous assertion: i have no
outstanding complaints. And indeed Harry Repp had nothing much to complain
about. At least, not about Bullingdon - except perhaps that any residual
good in him had wasted and had withered there.
He was escorted across the prison yard to the main gates, where he reported
to the Senior Officer, citing his full name and prison number to be checked
against the Discharge List. And that was it. The heavy gates were opened,
and Harry Repp stepped out of prison. A free man.
He looked at his wristwatch, repeatedly glancing around him as if he might be
expecting someone to meet him. But there seemed to be no one. According to
the bus timetable they'd given him, there would be a wait of ten minutes or
so; and he walked slowly down the paved path which led from the Central
Reception Area to the road. There he turned and looked back at the high
concreted walls, lightish beige with perhaps a hint of some pinkish
coloration, lamp-posts 7i
stationed at regular intervals in front of them,
sturdily vertical until, at their tops, they leaned towards the prison, like
guards- men inclining their heads around a catafalque.
Harry Repp turned his back on the prison for the last time, and walked more
briskly towards the bus stop and towards freedom.
chapter seventeen What is it that roareth thus? Can it be a Motor Bus? All
this noise and hideous hum Indicat Motorem Bum (Anon) seated at the front
window of the Central Reception Area, Sergeant Lewis had been a vigilant
observer of the final events recorded in the previous chapter, immediately
ducking down when the newly released man had turned to look back at the
prison complex.
Needlessly so, for the two men were quite unknown to each other.
This was hardly the trickiest assignment he'd ever been given, Lewis knew
that; and in truth he could see little justification for the trouble being
taken. Except in Superintendent Strange's (not usually fanciful)
imagination, there seemed only a tenuous connection between the Harrison
