Sam stared at the man, who seemed aggravated by his lack of appreciation. The man cleared his throat.
‘Do you know who I am?’ His tone was menacing, yet clearly rehearsed.
‘The cook?’ Sam shrugged.
‘Very funny. My name is Harry Chapman. Ring any bells?’ Sam shook his head. ‘Or, like I said, you can call me The Guvnor.’
‘I’d rather not.’ Sam extended his hand. ‘I’m Sam.’
‘Oh, I fucking know who you are. See, while you may have had the country shaking in its boots for the last year or so, I’ve been doing it for nearly four decades. And I may have been in here when you went on your little quest for justice, you still stepped on toes you really shouldn’t have.’
Chapman carefully eyed Sam, the lack of fear in the man’s eyes causing his fists to clench in anger. He continued.
‘Now, you want to go around killing bad guys or bent coppers because your little boy got killed, that’s fine by me. As far as I’m concerned, there is nothing worse than a bent copper and most of the fuckwits running the streets these days don’t know their arse from their elbow. In some ways, you were actually providing a service. But then you took down a good friend of mine, Frank Jackson.’
‘He had friends?’ Sam responded, knowing his flippant answers were angering Chapman. The Guvnor pursed his lips in contemplation.
‘Friend might be a little strong. How about acquaintance? Frank ran a tight ship in his High Rise. He paid the right people to keep the wolves from the door and his clientele was almost as valuable as the money he made. His building was the number one location on the High Street, which you’ve pretty much brought crashing to the ground since you filled him with bullets.’
‘So?’
‘The High Street belongs to me.’ Chapman slammed his hand on the metal table to emphasise his point, the impact echoing loudly throughout the dark room. ‘Every building, every bag of cocaine, every disease-ridden whore. They belonged to me. I may be on this side of freedom, Sam, but believe me, I still ran that fucking show. But then you strolled in, the avenger, with a gun in his hand and nothing to lose. This isn’t the wild fucking west, son, and while you didn’t have anything to lose, unfortunately for you, I did.’
Chapman sat back in his chair to catch his breath and Sam noticed the beads of sweat beginning to form across the man’s thinning hairline. As he pulled out a handkerchief to dab at it, a guard appeared from the darkness with a glass of water. Sam raised his eyebrows to meet the scowl of the man, who slipped seamlessly back into the void. Chapman took a sip of water and continued.
‘Money is what equals power, Sam. Not position. Your attacks on the High Rise, your obliteration of the Kovalenkos, all of it directly hit my pockets. Now in here, I can get whatever I want, whenever I want. The guards know it. The inmates know it. And I want you to know it.’
‘That’s very impressive,’ Sam said dismissively.
‘Shut your fucking mouth. As far as I see it, you’ve cost me millions of pounds. And the only reason I haven’t had your solitary door ripped from its hinges and had you beaten to death is that it’s too good for you. I would hazard a guess that you would quite like to die a martyr to the hero worshippers who see you as more than what you really are.’
‘And what’s that?’
‘A killer.’ Chapman clasped his hands together, interlocking his fingers and doing his best to calm his temper. ‘Whatever reason you tell yourself, you killed those people because you liked it. I get it. I’ve slit enough throats in my time to get the lust for it, the power surge that rattles through every muscle when you end a man’s life. But you have this irritating boy scout bullshit which means death is too good for you. So instead of dying for what you took from me, you’re going to work it off.’
‘You want me to wash your car?’ Sam asked, but this time, Chapman smirked.
‘I would suggest you take this seriously. There are a lot of desperate men in this place, Sam. A lot of them wanting the smallest crumb from my table and I’ll make every single day you have left in this place a living hell. You don’t have any guns in here. No plans. No backup. Like Sharp says, everyone walks their final mile in this place and up until I decide when yours has arrived, you will work for me. Is that clear?’
Sam regarded Chapman with an unnerving stare and then pushed his plate to the centre of the table and stood.
‘Thanks for dinner. Oh, and although I’ve only been here for a week or so, I’d steer clear of quoting anything Sharp says. You wouldn’t want to get tarred with that brush.’
‘Quite.’ Chapman slowly lifted himself from his chair. ‘Obviously, you need a little time to think about it so let me just reinforce exactly what I mean when I say I run this place.’
Chapman slowly lifted his hand into the air and then clicked his fingers. Instantly, the halogen bulbs clunked loudly, illuminating the entire cafeteria. Sam scanned the room and lined up against the walls, previously shrouded in darkness, where over ten prison guards, all of them with their metal batons in their hands.
Each with their eyes locked on Sam.
Fixing them all with an unblinking stare, Sam cracked his neck and then calmly walked back through the room towards the door, a silent dare to any of them who fancied their chances. Even before one of them provided the Guvnor with a glass of water, Sam knew they weren’t alone. He also knew that the numbers were against him and if all of them called his bluff, then he was in for a hell of an uncomfortable night.
The guard nearest to
