But he would certainly find himself dead within days.
Realising where the true power sat, Sharp straightened his shirt, marched out of the room, and headed towards the guard quarters, hoping beyond hope that one of his men would speak out of turn so he could offload the fury encaged within.
* * *
Sam felt sick to his stomach.
It had been two days since he’d taken his seat at The Guvnor’s table. By effectively kissing the ring, he’d allowed the entire prison to see that he was not above corruption. Every inmate had targeted Sam upon his arrival at The Grid, many of them eager to tear the criminal killer apart. While some of them had accepted their incarceration and had dedicated themselves to a quiet, peaceful existence behind the fortified walls, there were still a number of exceedingly dangerous criminals vying for his blood.
Because he wasn’t one of them.
But now, having hitched his wagon to Harry Chapman, he’d shown them all that he was no better than they were.
Chapman had maintained his calm, but Sam was certain he couldn’t have been happier. For a man who wielded such power, on this side and the other, having broken the unbreakable and forced him to bend to his whim would have been his greatest triumph.
Chapman had the control.
Always had. Always would.
The first day, Sam’s cell door was opened at nine o’clock in the morning and to his surprise, there was no guard to greet him with a snide comment or an errant baton to the stomach. Afforded the freedom on the prison floor, Sam was guided by uncomfortable guards to Chapman, who had been allocated two cells. One was his personal quarters, which was strictly off limits to everyone, including the guards. Such a statement made Sam scoff in disbelief, but when the occupant had the power and resources to eradicate your family from the face of the earth, you towed the line.
Chapman, however, didn’t take the violent route. The guards were handsomely rewarded for their obedience and Chapman lived a comfortable existence within Ashcroft. The cell which Sam entered was decked out like a small office, with Chapman sat in a leather chair next to a side table. A storage cupboard was pushed into the corner to the side of the door and a bench ran along the opposite wall. It was a tight squeeze, but Sam appreciated the leather cushion that met his rear as he sat down. Glen didn’t seem too keen on his arrival and seemed even less impressed when Sam turned down his offer of a cigarette.
‘It’s fine.’ Chapman encouraged. ‘You work for me, now.’
The implication was clear.
Now that Sam had bent the knee, the guards would no longer focus their attentions on him.
Chapman had nonchalantly told him that Sharp would no longer be a problem.
Sam wished he’d been a fly on the wall when that conversation happened, but he just shrugged and sat quietly while Chapman went about his business. Throughout the morning, The Guvnor took a number of phone calls on his mobile phone, as if he were sat in a London office as opposed to a maximum-security prison. As he barked out orders to his men on the outside, he ended every call by telling Glen and Sam how incompetent criminals were these days.
Although he didn’t disagree, Sam didn’t say anything. He hadn’t agreed to Chapman’s demands to enjoy light banter about the inner workings of a criminal empire.
It was out of necessity.
Just after eleven, a prison guard arrived with three mugs of tea and Sam couldn’t help but smile at the pathetic team in charge of the prison. Harris was in no fit state to change anything, but Sam wondered just how much the warden knew about Chapman’s set up. Despite his disgust that the men put in charge of the criminals were bending over for Chapman, the tea was a wonderful treat.
Sat on a leather chair with a cup of tea was a world away from lying on the cold floor of solitary confinement. The comforts didn’t outweigh the fact he had to spend time with Chapman or inhale a continuous stream of second-hand smoke.
There was little in the way of conversation and Chapman returned to reading his novel while Glen shuffled a pack of cards. Catching Sam eyeing the stack of books atop the cupboard, Chapman encouraged Sam to help himself. The small pleasure of reading was welcomed, and he sat down with a copy of I Am Pilgrim, a thick book that Sam had never heard of. After a few pages, he was engrossed.
A well-prepared lunch was brought to the cell, and Sam understood why every inmate was falling over themselves to find their way into Chapman’s good books. The usual lunchtime meal was a bowl of porridge of questionable quality and temperature, which made biting into the cheese baguette something of a luxury.
Don’t get drawn in, Sam told himself, as he polished off the sandwich and followed Chapman and Glen to the outside courtyard for a private exercise session. Chapman and his confident took a seat in the shade, while Sam took advantage of a vacant weight bench to work out. Slowly, more prisoners ventured into the opening, their hour would be monitored strictly.
Throughout the hour, Chapman kept his eyes on the inmates, intermittently telling Sam to stare at a certain inmate as a thinly veiled threat. He didn’t like it, but Sam followed orders.
He was a weapon at Chapman’s disposal, and after his dismantling of Chapman’s previous heavy, Sam knew he was feared by the rest of Ashcroft’s population, on both sides of the cell door.
The rest of the day was spent reading the book, with Sam finding himself engrossed. Despite falling deeper into the story, he kept his ears tuned to Chapman whenever he took a call.
Glen sat quietly, working his way through another packet of cigarettes as
