Sam sighed, arching an eyebrow in agreement.
‘Yes.’
‘Yes, what?’
‘Yes, deputy warden.’ Sam’s emphasis on the word caused a flash of fury to betray Sharp’s calm demeanor. He quickly tried to mask it, but Sam clocked it. He also noticed the time on Sharp’s watch, seeing it was well past the allotted time slots for dinner. ‘I take it you haven’t put on a special dinner for me?’
‘Oh, I haven’t. No.’ Sharp smirked, trying his best to be mysterious. ‘But someone has.’
‘Who?’ Sam asked, flashing a quick glance at his surroundings, his training kicking in when an ambush seemed imminent.
‘Like I said, I run this side of the prison.’ Sharp opened the door. ‘Bon appetite.’
Two hands roughly slammed into Sam’s back, shunting him through the door and into the canteen. The door slammed behind Sam, and he turned to look at the room which had been plunged into the darkness. The halogen tubes he’d stared up at as he was pulled across the floor a week ago were off, but Sam couldn’t see the fixtures at all. He knew where they were, he’d logged that detail away, but the darkness was so thick, he couldn’t even see his hand in front of his face.
The only light in the room came from the table in the far corner where a lamp had been placed, its bulb bathing the metal table in a bright glow, illuminating the solitary plate that was covered in food. Sam’s hunger and curiosity drew him towards it, walking slowly so as not to collide with any of the other furniture. As Sam approached, a waft of meat and vegetables filled his nose and he hurried his pace. Just as he adjusted to take his seat, a figure stepped out from the shadows opposite him.
The bearded man from the first night, who had watched approvingly as Sam had dismantled his two men. Without saying a word, the man stepped to the other side of the table, his advanced age showing as he lowered himself to the chair opposite. As he adjusted his sizeable gut, he looked up at Sam with a powerful glare, one that was used to demand respect and furious that Sam wasn’t showing any.
‘Jesus fucking Christ, would you sit down?’ The man’s East London accent was as thick as his beard. ‘Your food’s getting cold.’
Sam looked around, seeing nothing but darkness, before slowly lowering himself into the chair, not taking his eyes off the prisoner.
‘Who are you?’
‘I’m the ‘Guvnor’,’ he replied proudly. ‘And once you have a nice full belly, I’ll explain to you just how well and truly fucked you really are.’
Chapter Eleven
It took Harry Chapman over twenty years before he was known as the Guvnor. He always saw it as paying his dues, but there was an underlying frustration that it took him that long to rise to the top of the criminal underworld that ran through London like an insidious vein.
He got his first taste of his future during his teenage years. Growing up on an estate in Stockwell on the south side of the Thames, he and his older brother, Mike, were on amicable terms with the drug runners that frequented their building. The large tower block comprised of eight concrete floors of identikit apartments and was owned by the council and filled with many people living below the poverty line during the seventies. Harry would often stare out from their seventh-floor window. The view his bedroom window afforded him, especially at night, was a cacophony of lights.
The city of London in all its majesty.
It was beyond the version he’d grown up in, and his father, who worked as a bus driver, would constantly complain about the rat race that infested the city.
Giles Chapman was an honest man, who had worked hard to emerge from a monstrous childhood to build a quaint life for himself. Happily married for fifteen years until the untimely death of his wife, Giles had worked diligently to ensure their two sons were given the opportunities that he never had.
Looking back at it, Harry often wondered whether his father would have been proud of the man he became. Sure, he eventually rose to being the most notorious criminal in the UK, but he built an unshakable legacy that was still standing long after his incarceration.
During his teen years, Harry had towed the line. He had gone to school. He had done his homework, excelling in maths which would eventually be the greatest tool in his arsenal. By being able to read the numbers and plot ahead, Harry took the drug empire to places it had never been before.
Back then, he wanted to be an accountant. His father often spoke about the rich men he saw while having a cheeky cigarette by the side of his bus. All of them marching around Marble Arch in their fancy suits, weaving in and out of accountancy firms.
‘Money is what really equals power. Not position.’
Those words always stuck with Harry, and during his rise up the criminal food chain, they echoed in his mind with every move he made. Whether it be when concluding a multi-million-pound drug deal or slicing open a snitch’s throat with a box cutter, those words rang in his head.
The dream of being an accountant began to fade when Mike was approached by the local drug dealers to become a spotter, and within six months, was promoted to an actual dealer. At just seventeen years old, Mike was bringing in more money than their heart-broken father. That heartbreak was soon superseded by lung cancer and while he would regret not speaking to Mike before he passed, he’d begged Harry to follow the right path.
To keep following the numbers.
To seek out money, not reputation.
Harry had every intention of honouring his father’s dying wish, but when Mike was beaten and hurled from the fifth floor of the block less than a year later, Harry’s life took a turn. There
