Although she’d moved on, she’d never recovered from what had happened to their son.
To their life together.
They had been wildly in love from the moment they’d crossed paths in a club, with Sam enthralled by the combination of her wit and her beauty.
They built a wonderful life together, living in a quaint house in Ruislip just outside of London and when they welcomed Jamie into their lives, Sam felt complete. He had been discharged from the army after the horrors of Project Hailstorm and had a real future worth fighting for.
But by failing to protect their son, he’d lost everything.
Now, as he sat in his tiny cell, in a prison only those in a privileged position knew about, he wondered how she rebounded from the devastation in a way so drastically different to him.
It was a loaded question; one which Sam already knew the answer to.
He was a born killer.
But through it all, Sam had always carried a sense of nobility. Whether he was staring through the scope of his sniper rifle in the middle of a tour, or wiping out a criminal empire, it was always for the greater good. Now, as he recounted Jimmy’s howls of anguish, he tried to trace back to where he finally crossed the line that kept him from the other inhabitants of Ashcroft.
Before his thoughts could lead him any further down the depressing rabbit hole, a metal baton clattered against his cell door, breaking his train of thought. Moments later, the door opened, and a guard poked his head in.
‘Guvnor wants to see you.’
Sam sighed.
He was being beckoned. Like a lap dog.
Sam lifted himself from the bed, nodded his thanks to a nervous guard, and then walked through the empty corridor. As he headed towards Chapman’s makeshift office, he could feel the envious eyes of the other inmates peering through the small peephole of their cells. Approaching the door, Sam could hear Chapman on the phone.
‘If he doesn’t want to cook, offer him more money. That prick may be a smart-arse, but he makes the purest fucking meth in the country.’ Sam waited just outside of the door as Chapman continued his conversation. ‘I don’t give a fuck, Dom. Get him onside or put a bullet in your own fucking skull.’
Chapman tossed the phone down on the desk, giving Sam his cue to enter. As he stepped into the doorway, Chapman was leant forward, elbows on the tables, and massaging his temples in anger.
‘Everything okay?’
‘Sam.’ Chapman snapped out of it, looking somewhat embarrassed by losing his cool. ‘Come in.’
Sam stepped in anxiously. Without Glen hankered down in the corner, surrounded by a cloud of cancerous smoke, the cell looked a little bigger. Although he wondered how they would all fit inside now Ravi had returned and something told Sam that Ravi wouldn’t be too keen sitting on the floor. As he lowered himself onto the leather cushion of the bench, Chapman reached under the desk and pulled out a bottle of whisky. He shook it proudly at Sam, then retrieved two mugs from the shelf above.
‘I thought we could have ourselves a little drink,’ Chapman said, pouring two generous helpings and handing one to Sam. ‘To a job well done.’
Reluctantly, Sam clinked his mug and took a sip. Never one for a whisky, Sam was surprised how nice the burning sensation was as it slid down his throat. In a place where luxury was prohibited, being afforded one certainly added to the flavour.
‘You wanted to see me?’
‘I thought it would be a good idea to get to know each other a little better. What do you think?’ Chapman smirked.
‘I’ve heard better ideas.’
‘That’s the spirit.’ Chapman chuckled and took a sip. ‘Your dry sense of humour will keep you sane in here a lot longer than snorting any of my shit up your nose, I’ll tell you that for nothing.’
‘Then why do it?’ Sam asked, coughing slightly at the extreme heft of the drink. ‘Why give them the option?’
‘Because I can. Because I run this fucking place. I know you have this moral code that paints you like a martyr, but the harsh reality is this place needs someone like me. I keep the inmates in line a shite sight better than the guards do and the poor fuckers in their cells get to block out the horrible truth of their existence.’
‘And you? What do you get out of it?’
‘Jesus. Fucking twenty questions. I get what I always have. Power. They can put me in this place, throw away the fucking key, and I still have every fucker in here dancing on command. Guards, inmates…hell, even the legendary Sam Pope.’ Chapman finished his drink and poured another, reaching over and topping up Sam’s mug. ‘So, answer me this, Sam. How the fuck did you end up in here, anyway?’
Sam baulked at the question, taking his time to find the right words. There was something unnerving about Chapman, a strong sense of intimidation underpinning his charm. Sam could see how a man like him could rise to the top of the underworld.
‘Same reason we all did, right? I broke the law.’
‘Don’t give me that shit.’ Chapman’s words carried a slight inebriation. ‘You’re the hero of the country. You were taking down drug dens, killing foreign pimps. Hell, they even said you exposed a global terrorism unit.’
‘Guilty.’ Sam smiled. ‘Hence why I’m in here. It doesn’t matter why we do the things we do. Eventually, we all have to face the consequences of our actions, this side or the other.’
‘Wow. That’s some deep thinking.’ Chapman shook his head and then looked at Sam with a pitiful frown. ‘I guess we’re not that different after all.’
‘Oh, we are very different.’
‘Are we?’ Chapman topped up his drink. ‘I read all about you in the papers when you were on trial. They were fascinated by you. Some of them pegged you as a crazed soldier, unable to
