assault, as suggested by Henry, who had voiced the opinion that if Jack had the capacity to do that to someone he allegedly loved, he deserved to face the consequences. Danny shook her head. No.
That was the last thing she wanted. Muck-raking, grievances, courts, ruining reputations, marriages, professional relationships. She simply wanted it all sorted out as amicably as possible.
Danny’s fingertips touched her cheek, gently moving across the two stitches inserted at Casualty earlier that morning.
Two stitches. A serious assault by any standards.
And yet she did not want Jack to get away without facing any consequences — especially if he had smashed her window and damaged her car in a fit of pique. He should be forced to admit it, pay restitution — then get out of her life.
She moved in the chair to ease the pain in her back.
She knew she could at least make one decision about her life there and then. That would be to drag herself, unwillingly, to fitness classes a couple of times a week. Then, she reasoned, if she was feeling physically better it would make it easier to get to grips with other more nebulous aspects of her life.
Such as cutting out smoking — although as she thought about that one, a deep longing for a cigarette pervaded her body like an insistent spirit. Maybe that would have to wait.
The phone on her desk rang. It was the public enquiry assistant (PEA), down at the front desk.
Claire Lilton wanted to see her. Could Danny come down, please?
It is not necessarily the prison hard men who know everything there is to know about the institutions in which they are forced to lead their lives. In fact, more often than not, these are the people who know the least. They may control things like drugs, screws, booze, cigarettes and violence, but they were wrapped up in their own comfort zones, insulated and smug. They know what they feel they need to know and little else. Only when they want to escape, perhaps, or cause a riot, do they get to know it better.
It’s usually the more harmless inmates, the trusted ones, the pathetic ones, the listeners, the shadows, who know everything there is to know.
They are aware of the full picture as regards the comings and goings of the prison staff. They know the complete geography of the buildings; all the little nooks and crannies; the hidey-holes where they can disappear for a while if necessary. They know where everything is kept, locked away, stored.
These people are the ones who can, seemingly, move around unchallenged because they are not worth challenging; float around, creeping, watching all the time.
Trent was not one of those people.
But Vic Wallwork was.
Fifteen years behind bars had made him so. Turned him into an acquiescent, simpering inmate who said yes to everything, never let the authorities down, yet at the same time watched, learned, listened, explored.
This was his third prison. He knew it intimately.
Which is why he was able to lead Trent through places he never knew existed.
He guided Trent out through the back of the kitchens, past a series of storerooms, down a doom-laden corridor with low beams and little light, out through a door and into the glorious open air, somewhere — Trent could only guess — near to the. back of the Governor’s offices.
They had to race across this space, around the corner of a redbrick building Trent had never seen before, and into a narrow ginnel no more than three feet wide. It twisted at right angles. and ten yards further came to a dead end. But in the dead end was a door with a huge rusting padlock securing it.
Wallwork produced a key from his pocket, inserted it and forced it to turn. The lock released itself. He removed it and pushed the door open. Beyond was a dank, dark room. Wallwork reached around the door jamb and flicked a switch. A single naked bulb flickered uncertainly, casting a dim light into the room.
Trent followed Wallwork inside, closing the door behind him. He gazed around, sniffing, trying to speculate what the room was for.
Wallwork second-guessed the question. ‘Part of an old boiler area
… course, it’s all gas now. Through that door is where the main boiler is.’ He pointed a crooked finger at the far end of the room. Trent saw a door which looked as if it hadn’t been opened for years. Wallwork’s index finger then pointed downwards at a petrol can on the floor.
‘ That’s what you wanted, isn’t it?’
A surge of pure pleasure beat through Trent. He knelt down by the can and touched it lovingly. ‘Yeah, great. How much is in it?’
‘ A gallon. Like you asked for — at great risk to me, I might add.’
‘ Excellent.’ Trent pulled two milk bottles Coysh had given him out of his jacket pockets and stood them up on the concrete floor. He looked at the petrol can, head cocked, and did some calculations, as well as visualising a spectacular future. ‘Mmm,’ he murmured thoughtfully, biting his bottom lip.
Wallwork watched him with a certain degree of puzzlement, although having now seen the milk bottles, things were a little clearer to him now. What was still foxing him, though, was why Trent was also carrying a pillowcase stuffed with the Styrofoam cups Coysh had stolen for him. Didn’t make any sense to him. Trent placed the pillowcase on the floor.
‘ Need more bottles,’ Trent said. ‘Four more, to be on the safe side.’ He exhaled through his nose. ‘And I need another container of some sort, like an open can — something I can pour the petrol into.’
Both men considered the matter for a few seconds.
‘ I know just the thing!’ Wallwork declared, raising a finger. He went to a dark corner of the room where he rooted about amongst some debris. He picked something up and returned. It was a lidless metal toolbox, old and misshapen.
Trent grabbed it greedily from Vic’s grasp and inspected it closely, holding it up to the light, carefully rotating it. All the seals, corners and edges appeared to be intact. There was a lot of rust, some of it flaking off, but nothing which would cause a problem in the short term. In fact, a bit of rust would be quite nice, Trent thought.
‘ That’s good.’ He looked at his companion. ‘That’s very, very good.’ His eyes glazed over as he spoke; once again he was seeing the future.
Wallwork’s blood froze for an instant. A tremor crawled all the way down his spine like a serpent. The expression on Trent’s face was one he knew well. He recognised it from himself, a look which had crossed his own face just over fifteen years ago. Twice. And each time it had resulted in the brutal slaying of a young boy. After which — here Vic Wallwork thanked God — they caught him and incarcerated him for the rest of his life before it happened again.
It was the killing look.
Trent’s eyes refocused and he came back to his own brand of normality. He squatted down by the petrol can and poured petrol into the two milk bottles until each was about a third full. Not being an expert, he guesstimated that would be enough.
He placed the bottles out of the way, next to the brick wall.
‘ By the way, Vic,’ he said conversationally. ‘I bumped into Blake again.’
‘ Oh?’ Wallwork swallowed.
‘ Soon, he told me. Soon. He’s going to get you and stick a broom-handle right up your arse so it comes out of your mouth. Exact words.’ And Trent continued with his task, pouring the remaining petrol from the can into the toolbox, slowly, checking for leaks as he did so.
Wallwork watched the activity, virtually catatonic because of what Trent had just said. Without even seeing Wallwork’s face, Trent realised the devastating effect he’d had on the man. He smiled wickedly to himself.
Next he emptied the pillowcase, making a small mountain of the Styrofoam cups next to the toolbox. He sat down on the floor and picked up one of the cups. He tore it into little stamp-sized pieces and began dropping them into the petrol, like confetti. Bit by bit.
‘ What are you doing?’ Wallwork asked. He had shaken himself out of his moment of terror.
Trent stopped. He raised his head slowly. His eyes once more became glassy.
The killing look.
‘ Ever heard of napalm?’
