After a relatively quiet meal, Sam spent the rest of his evening lying on his cell bed, devouring his book and appreciating the lack of interruptions. The one time he saw Sharp, stood stoically in the corner of the canteen, the deputy warden refused to make eye contact with him.
The following day was much the same, with a morning spent reading in Chapman’s cell, listening as he barked orders and threats into his phone, while demanding a fresh coffee from the guard who went scurrying away like a bumbling waiter.
After another delicious lunch, Sam found himself with the freedom of the exercise section of the courtyard and despite the snide comments from Glen, he put himself through his paces. The stiffness in his shoulder had all but gone and although his back gave him the odd flicker of pain, he found himself feeling revitalised after a good workout.
As the other prisoners filtered out into the courtyard for their own hour of fresh air, Sam slowly made his way back to Chapman’s side, ready for another peaceful afternoon of reading. As he sat down beside Chapman, dabbing at his sweaty brow with a rag, Sam noticed Glen had disappeared.
‘Where’s Glen?’
‘Working,’ Chapman replied coldly, his eyes fixated ahead. Sam followed the gaze and saw Glen calmly talking to a clearly terrified inmate. The man, a chubby, balding man in his mid-fifties, was pleading with Glen but the cruel smirk on Glen’s face told Sam it wasn’t going to work. Resound to his fate, the prisoner slowly followed Glen back towards the bench where Sam and Chapman sat, his head lowered in defeat. As he approached, Chapman snapped into action.
‘Jimmy.’ He spoke in a condescending tone. ‘You knew this was going to happen, didn’t you?’
‘Please, just give me another week.’ Jimmy was shaking with fear, trying his best to maintain his composure. ‘I’m good for it.’
‘But you’re not, are you? Look at me when I’m talking to you.’
Jimmy did as he was told, and Sam shuffled uncomfortably in his seat. A group of inmates were watching on with interest. The guards had all turned away.
‘Please…’ Jimmy’s voice trailed off.
‘Three bets over the last six months, none of which you’ve been able to pay. You know the rules.’
Chapman motioned to Glen, who launched forward, wrapping his arm around Jimmy’s throat locking him in place. Glen thrust a knee into the back of Jimmy’s legs, dropping him to his knees before slamming the man’s hand down on the bench, locking it in place with a firm grasp of his wrist. An audible wave of excitement weaved through the watching crowd and Sam shook his head.
‘Now…I’ll go easy on you. Just the one.’
Chapman held up a finger on his left hand, but with his right, he theatrically slid the blade up on his box cutter. Jimmy squealed in terror, but a sharp knee to the spine stopped his squirming. Chapman then turned to Sam, offering him the box cutter.
‘Take his pinky.’
Sam stared at Chapman in disbelief, his instinct to take the man down overshadowed by the dire situation he was in. He needed to gain Chapman’s trust, to be part of the gang and a refusal to fall in line would undercut the reputation he’d already established with the other prisoners.
It would also see him struck from the group and undoubtedly be put back in Sharp’s firing line.
Do what you can to survive.
Harris’s words echoed in his mind and reluctantly, Sam took the blade, offered the terrified man an apologetic look and in one swift movement, sliced through the man’s bone. He screamed in agony before passing out, the myriad of pain and shock rendering him unconscious. The guards swiftly moved in, hoisting the prone inmate away for medical attention.
A terrified silence swept across the courtyard, only interrupted by the click of Glen’s lighter as he partook in a celebratory smoke.
With his hands covered in blood, Sam handed the cutter back to an approving Chapman, swallowing his own nausea at the barbaric act. Reminding himself that the man he’d disfigured was a violent criminal, Sam stared at the blood on his hands and wondered how long he would be to keep this up.
Chapter Seventeen
Getting a meeting with Police Commissioner Michael Stout was one of life’s hardest tasks. As head of one of the world’s leading police institutions, the man was constantly on the move. A number of his scheduled appointments were more political than anything else, as a man of his power and status needed to be seen in the right rooms with the right people. Despite a glistening career that had spanned almost three decades, he was not entrusted with his own words. Reporting directly to the Home Secretary, every public speech was carefully crafted by a team of highly literate professionals, all to ensure that the public message was clear and concise.
It was a high-pressure role that Singh had no desire to fill.
The fact Ashton would soon be sitting in the seat filled her with a sense of dread, but considering the political game she relished, Singh had to admit she would be a good fit.
There was enough steel in Ashton to take the inevitable criticism of the public, but after her shocking revelation the day before about Sam’s transfer, there was also a perverse side that Singh knew a position of that magnitude needed.
Ashton played her own games, focused on what she wanted, and she did so seemingly within the confines of the rules.
But Singh needed to know exactly what Ashton had put in motion.
After spending the entire day calling Commissioner Stout’s PA, requesting an urgent meeting, she’d finally managed to attain a five minute
