‘I’m all for the ideas, of course,’ says Hussain, with a slur that suggests he’s not entirely awake. ‘Creative writing? Wonderful. I’ve overseen a lot of similar schemes myself. Art. Woodworking. Mindfulness. I ran a meditation group when I was at Wandsworth. Obviously the current paymasters have different priorities to those who used to sign the cheques, but it’s up to people like you and I to find ways to turn time spent in prison into time well spent, yes?’
Annabeth smiles, politely. She’s heard him use the soundbite before. She feels a rush of pity for the man. He really did believe he could turn things around at Holderness. He really did believe that railing against Government would lead to public support and increased resources. Instead it made him a hate figure for everybody who thinks of the phrase ‘bleeding heart’ as an insult. Words that Annabeth hadn’t used since school were thrown his way. Wishy-washy. Touchy-feely. Namby-pamby. The same papers that had criticized Britain’s crumbling, out-of-date prison sentence promptly leapt on him for espousing the self-same complaints, wilfully distorting his views until the popular presses were claiming that he wanted paedophiles set free and for the victims of crime to feel sorry for the perpetrators.
‘Could have happened to anybody, of course,’ says Hussain, reaching behind him and picking up a folder from a pile behind him. He leafs through it, scowling one moment, nodding the next. ‘You have a good record, Annabeth. We’re very lucky to have you. I’m told we weren’t your first choice but I’m glad we got you in the end. You’ve been a true asset. It’s no secret that we have high hopes for you, if you stay in the service.’
‘Thank you, sir,’ says Annabeth, with as much enthusiasm as she can muster. She feels sick. Feels as though she has the word ‘PSYCHO’ carved into her forehead.
‘You understand the bigger picture, of course,’ says Hussain, smoothly. ‘You’ve worked out there in the real world. You’ve life experience. You’ve got your degree and with a CV like yours – working for such a commendable organization before you came to us – well, the world’s your oyster, really. Which is why I know you’ll understand why I thought we should have this conversation.’
‘Sir?’
He clears his throat. ‘Mr Cox. You’re aware that he suffered a nasty injury, yes?’
Annabeth nods.
‘He’s unclear of the details but has suggested that your writer friend might somehow be responsible for those injuries. He’s suggested that Mr Orton had an agenda, and may even have deliberately inveigled his way into your good graces in order to abuse his power and to find opportunity to attack him.’
‘That’s absurd, sir,’ says Annabeth, quietly. She looks at her knuckles. ‘He’s just a writer – a good one – who got caught up in something.’
‘Of course,’ says Hussain, and takes a swig of cold coffee from the mug on his desk. ‘Prisoners will say anything, we both know that. But unfortunately, this incident occurred the day after Cox was questioned in connection with an unsolved missing person case. Cox’s name is already out there as a person of interest to the police. There are websites and podcasts which don’t hold back and which name him, quite candidly, as a potential killer. He’s very much a high profile inmate, which is why he was always best served by remaining on the At-Risk wing. And yet he was permitted to attend a creative writing class with the general population. With Suggs, of all people. I understand that you were acting with the best of intentions but given the profile of this prison, and this prisoner, questions will be asked about your good judgement. It would be helpful if Mr Cox saw the merits in amnesia.’
‘Sir?’
Hussain swallows, painfully. He looks one more bad shift away from stringing himself up. ‘He’s very fond of you, Annabeth. He says you are the only officer he trusts. He’s asked for you, repeatedly. He believes himself to still be in harm’s way and has told the overseers that he is too afraid to allow the medical staff at this prison to treat him for his wounds unless you are there to ensure his well-being.’
Annabeth feels the colour drain from her cheeks. Feels as though her throat has been cut.
‘Ordinarily, such requests would be given short shrift, but in this instance I’m going to arrange matters so that you are his personal officer for the foreseeable future. He’s requested that he be sent to segregation when he is well enough to leave the medical unit. We’ll rearrange your shift pattern. The most important thing is that he feels safe. Feels protected. That he understands the harm it could do your career if he were to persist in making such half-formed accusations.’
Annabeth studies him as he speaks. She knows that he hates himself for putting her in such a position. She’s a young, motivated member of staff who has just been told to go and be nice to a convicted predator with a skill for manipulation. She tries to summon some anger, but the squall of despair circling Hussain seems to suck the passion from her. She just feels desperately sad. Sad for all of them. She feels sorry for her boss. He’s a good man, if such a thing exists. He just can’t change the world. What matters to him most is keeping his job. Protecting his prison from more bad headlines. She blinks back tears as she considers how hard he will be hit by what comes next.
‘Of course, sir,’ she says, flatly. ‘Thank you for the opportunity.’
He can’t meet her eyes, even as he flashes his best fake smile. Looks down at her file, open on his lap, and makes approving noises.
‘I’ll walk you over to the unit
