tennis court. A few were standing about, smoking and talking. The exercise area was surrounded by wire mesh three times the height of a man, thick wires criss-crossed the air above their heads, threaded every few yards with dinner-plate sized metal circles. Anti-helicopter cables.
Macdonald walked round slowly, swinging his arms and taking deep breaths. He reached a vacant corner, dropped to the ground and did fifty brisk push-ups. Then he rolled over and did fifty sit-ups, hands clasped behind his neck, relishing the burn in his stomach muscles.
As he got to his feet, Ed Harris ambled over. 'How's it going?' he asked.
'I'm having trouble getting time in the gym,' said Macdonald. He widened his stance and started touching his toes. Left, right, left, right.
'What's the problem?' asked Harris.
'Hamilton,' said Macdonald. 'Says gym time's a privilege and that as I'm not co-operating I don't get any privileges.'
'He's talking bollocks,' said Harris. 'Prison rules say you get an hour a week physical education. That's above and beyond outside time. Two hours if you're convicted. There are privileges they can give and take, but exercise isn't one. I'll talk to him.'
'I don't need anyone to fight my battles, Ed.'
'I can make an approach as a Listener.'
Macdonald straightened up and arched his back. 'It's okay.'
Harris nodded. 'If you change your mind, let me know. Hamilton's got a bit of a chip on his shoulder. He wanted to be a fireman but couldn't pass the physical. Sees this as second best and sometimes takes it out on the prisoners. You've just got to know your rights, that's all. The rules work both ways and if he breaks them it's a black mark on his record.'
'So I can get him into trouble?'
'Let's just say you can make life difficult for him. And if there's one thing a screw wants, it's an easy life.'
Macdonald glanced over at the entrance to the exercise yard. Rathbone was patting down a young prisoner who was wearing a harlequin-type uniform made up of yellow and blue patches. The man said something and Rathbone laughed. He seemed to be taking extra care searching him. 'What's his story?' Macdonald asked Harris.
'The guy in the escape uniform? That's Justin Davenport- he escaped from Brixton a few years back. Managed to get over the wall with a home-made ladder he built in the metal shop.'
Davenport was slightly built and the uniform was several sizes too big for him - the trouser hems scuffed the floor as he walked. He started to circle the exercise yard, prowling like a trapped tiger, his eyes darting from the wire fence to the perimeter wall.
'They caught him last month on the Eurostar heading to France.'
'What was he in for, originally?'
'Believe it or not, TDA - taking and driving away. He'd been stealing cars since he was a kid and eventually a judge lost patience and sent him to an open prison for twelve months. Silly bugger went AWOL. They added a few months to his sentence and put him in a Category C prison. Ran away again. He's been inside now for three times as long as if he'd just done his time and kept his nose clean.'
Macdonald started jogging on the spot.
'I'm getting tired just looking at you,' said Harris, and sauntered away. He joined a group of four middle-aged men from the twos.
Macdonald realised that two black men were staring at him from across the exercise yard. Dreadlocks and Stickman. He returned their gaze. He'd beaten them once and had no doubt he could do it again, but he didn't want to have to keep watching his back on the landing. He had a choice: either beat them so badly they'd never go near him again, or win them over.
Dreadlocks whispered something to Stickman. They continued to glare at him.
Macdonald walked slowly to where they were standing. 'How's it going, guys?' he said.
'What the fuck do you want?' said Dreadlocks, fists clenched. Stickman was looking around but nobody was paying them any attention. There were no officers in the yard.
'We got off to a bad start this morning,' said Macdonald. 'It happens. Sorting out the pecking order and all. But I don't want you thinking that you've got to stick something sharp in my back to get even.'
Stickman was frowning, a faraway look in his eyes. 'What do you mean?' he slurred. Macdonald realised he was doped up to the eyeballs, probably been smoking marijuana.
'I just want to get out of here as quickly as possible. We clashed heads this morning, and I want to know if that's the end of it.'
'And if it isn't?' said Dreadlocks.
Macdonald stared levelly at him. It was important to show no sign of weakness. The man had to understand that Macdonald was offering a truce, not surrendering. 'Then let's go to it now, two against one,' he said. 'But the way I see it, either I'm going to have to put you in hospital or you're going to have to kill me. Because that's just the way I am. I'm in for shooting a cop. There's not much more they can do to me. Now you two, I'd guess drugs. Probably dope, maybe crack. If you're lucky you'll be out in a few years. But if we go to war and you win, it's life.'
Dreadlocks continued to stare at him. Stickman was swinging his shoulders from side to side. He wasn't a threat: the dope he'd smoked had dulled his reactions to the point at which Macdonald could have pushed him over with his little finger. Dreadlocks was a different matter, though. The scar on his left forearm could have been from a knife fight and he didn't look the sort to back down, even if he wasn't carrying a weapon. But there was sharp intelligence in his eyes and Macdonald could see the wheels turning as he considered what had been said. Macdonald kept his hands loose but he was ready to strike the moment he saw any sign that Dreadlocks was going to get violent.
'Shot a cop, yeah?' said Dreadlocks.
'Didn't pull the trigger but I'll be charged with it,' said Macdonald.
'Dead?'
Macdonald smiled. 'No. He was wearing a vest.'
'Pity,' said Dreadlocks. He wasn't smiling but Macdonald sensed that the tension had gone. He had made his decision.
Dreadlocks pointed at the wound on Macdonald's head. 'They do that?'
'Hit me with the butt of a Heckler.'
Dreadlocks smiled for the first time. 'Ain't that the thing about the white man? Can't even use a gun the way God intended.'
'So, are we okay?'
'We're cool.'
Dreadlocks held out his fist and Macdonald tapped his against it. 'You did look like a Smurf in that paper suit.'
'No argument about that,' said Macdonald. He turned and walked away.
Harris was still deep in conversation with the men from the twos, but he was looking at Macdonald. As he walked past, Harris nodded. He'd obviously seen the confrontation, and Macdonald realised that the nod had been of approval. Not much got past Ed Harris. Macdonald was going to have to be careful around him.
The spur emptied again as the prisoners went back to work. Macdonald was locked up in his cell. He switched on the television but there was nothing he wanted to watch.
A key rattled in the lock and the door opened. It was Lloyd-Davies. 'Your solicitor's here,' she said.
Macdonald sat up, frowning. 'I haven't asked for one,' he said.
'Yeah, well, he's asking for you. I wouldn't go looking any gift horses in the mouth, if I were you. The sort of charges you're facing, you need all the help you can get.'
Macdonald swung his legs off the bunk and slipped on his trainers. Lloyd-Davies stood aside to let him out. She locked the door, then walked down to the ground floor with him. 'How was your first night?' she asked.
'It was okay,' he said. He wasn't sure what she expected him to say. After all, he was banged up in a high- security prison, sleeping on a wafer-thin mattress surrounded by drug-dealers, rapists and other violent
