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 prisoners 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
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
