the single cell,' he grunted as they walked down the corridor.
'You scratch my back and I'll scratch yours,' said Hagen. He didn't speak again until they reached the stores, when he banged loudly on the double doors. The stores manager pulled them open and said, 'Name?'
'Brad Pitt.'
'Don't try it on with me, Leach, or I might have to put you on report.'
'Leach, 6241.'
'You've got a parcel.' The stores manager turned around, took a box from the shelf behind him and placed it on the counter.
'I see you've already opened it, Mr. Webster.'
'You know the regulations, Leach.'
'Yes, I do,' said Leach. 'You are required to open any parcel in my presence, so that I can be sure nothing has been removed or planted inside.'
'Get on with it,' said Webster.
Leach removed the lid from the box to reveal the latest Adidas tracksuit. 'Smart piece of gear, that,' said Webster. 'Must have set someone back a few quid.' Leach didn't comment as Webster began to unzip the pockets one by one to check for any drugs contraband or cash. He found nothing, not even the usual five-pound note. 'You can take it away, Leach,' he said reluctantly.
Leach picked up the tracksuit and began to walk off. He'd only managed a couple of paces before the word 'Leach!' was bellowed after him. He turned around.
'And the box, muppet,' Webster added.
Leach returned to the counter, placed the tracksuit back in the box and tucked it under his arm.
'That will be quite an improvement on your present gear,' remarked Hagen as he accompanied Leach back to his cell. 'Perhaps I ought to take a closer look, since you've never been seen in the gym. But on the other hand, perhaps I could turn a blind eye.'
Leach smiled. 'I'll leave your cut in the usual place, Mr. Hagen,' he said as the cell door closed behind him.
'I can't go on living a lie,' said Davenport theatrically. 'Don't you understand that we've been responsible for sending an innocent man to jail for the rest of his life?'
Once Davenport had been written out of his soap opera, Craig had assumed that it wouldn't be too long before he felt the need for some dramatic gesture. After all, he had little else to think about while he was 'resting.'
'So what do you intend to do about it?' asked Payne as he lit a cigarette, trying to appear unconcerned.
'Tell the truth,' said Davenport, sounding a little overrehearsed. 'I intend to give evidence at Cartwright's appeal and tell them what really happened that night. They may not believe me, but at least my conscience will be clear.'
'If you do that,' said Craig, 'all three of us could end up in prison.' He paused. 'For the rest of our lives. Are you sure that's what you want?'
'No, but it's the lesser of two evils.'
'And it doesn't concern you that you might end up in a shower being buggered by a couple of eighteen-stone lorry drivers?' said Craig. Davenport didn't respond.
'Not to mention the disgrace it will bring on your family,' added Payne. 'You may be out of work now, but let me assure you, Larry, if you decide to make an appearance in court, it will be your final performance.'
'I've had a lot of time to consider the consequences,' Davenport replied haughtily, 'and I've made up my mind.'
'Have you thought about Sarah, and the effect this would have on her career?' asked Craig.
'Yes, I have, and when I next see her I intend to tell her exactly what happened that night, and I feel confident she will approve of my decision.'
'Could you do me one small favor, Larry?' asked Craig. 'For old times' sake?'
'What's that?' asked Davenport suspiciously.
'Just give it a week before you tell your sister.'
Davenport hesitated. 'All right, a week. But not a day longer.'
Leach waited until lights out at ten o'clock before he climbed off his bunk. He picked up a plastic fork from the table and walked across to the lavatory in the corner of the cell-the one place the screws can't see you through the spyhole when they make their hourly rounds to check if you are safely tucked up in bed.
He pulled off his new tracksuit bottoms and sat on the lavatory lid. He gripped the plastic fork firmly in his right hand and began to pick away at the stitching on the middle one of the three white stripes that ran down the length of the leg, a laborious process that took forty minutes. Finally, he was able to extract a long, wafer-thin cellophane packet. Inside was enough fine white powder to satisfy an addict for about a month. He smiled-a rare occurrence-at the thought that there were still another five stripes to unpick: they would guarantee his profit, as well as Hagen 's cut.
'Mortimer has to be getting the gear from somewhere,' said Big Al.
'What makes you say that?' asked Danny.
'He used tae turn up at the hospital every morning without fail. Doc even got him started on a detox program. Then one day he's nowhere to be seen.'
'Which can only mean he's found another source,' concurred Nick.
'Not one of the regular suppliers, I can tell that,' said Big Al. 'I've asked around, and come up with nothing.' Danny slumped back down on his bunk, succumbing to lifers' syndrome. 'Dinnae give up on me, Danny boy. He'll be back. They always come back.'
'Visits!' hollered the familiar voice, and a moment later the door swung open to allow Danny to join those prisoners who had been looking forward to a visit all morning.
He had hoped to tell Beth that he'd come up with the fresh evidence Mr. Redmayne so desperately needed to win the appeal. Now all he had to hope for was Big Al's belief that Mortimer would be back in the prison hospital before too long.
In prison, a lifer clings on to hope as a drowning sailor clings on to a drifting log. Danny clenched his fist as he made his way toward the visits area, determined that Beth would not suspect even for a moment that anything might be wrong. Whenever he was with her, he never let his guard down; despite all he was going through, he always needed Beth to believe that there was still hope.
He was surprised when he heard the key turning in the lock, because he never had a visitor. Three officers charged into the cell. Two of them grabbed him by the shoulders and pulled him off the bed. As he fell, he grabbed at one of the officers' ties. It came off in his hand; he'd forgotten that screws wear clip-on ties so they can't be strangled. One of them thrust his arms behind his back while another kicked him sharply behind the knee, which allowed the third to cuff him. As he collapsed on to the stone floor, the first screw grabbed him by the hair and yanked his head back. In less than thirty seconds he was bound and trussed before being dragged out of his cell and on to the landing.
'What are you fuckin' bastards up to?' he demanded once he'd caught his breath.
'You're on your way to segregation, Leach,' said the first officer. 'You won't be seeing daylight for another thirty days,' he added as they dragged him down the spiral staircase, his knees banging on every step.
'What's the charge?'
