The Freedom Trap. Desmond Bagley
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taking my cues from what the others were doing.
The warder came back. ‘You can eat in your cell if you like. You’ll be served with the others down in the hall, but you can bring your tray up here if you don’t feel like joining the party just yet.’
I didn’t feel like talking to anyone at all right then. I was too busy trying to keep a firm hold on myself. ‘Thanks,’ I said, and heard my voice crack.
He was ironic. ‘Don’t thank me; it’s regulations for new prisoners. And another thing, you’ll be seeing the Governor this morning. A trusty will take you to his office.’
The trusty came just before ten o’clock and I went with him out of ‘C’ Hall. ‘You’re Rearden,’ he said. ‘I’ve heard about you.’
‘Have you?’
‘I’m Simpson.’ He nudged me in the ribs with a sharp elbow. ‘You’re going before the Reception Board. Don’t volunteer anything – that’s my tip.’
‘What happens?’
‘Oh, it’s just the big boys giving you the once-over. The Governor, the Bible-Slapper, the Senior Screw, the Welfare Officer – people like that. The Governor’s not too bad if you keep on the right side of him, but Gawd help you if you don’t. Some of the others’ll try to feed you a load of old cod’s wallop – a crowd of flaming do-gooders. But watch out for Hudson – he’s a right bastard.’
‘Who’s he?’
‘The Chief Screw.’
Simpson took me into a waiting room in which half a dozen other prisoners were sitting. They all looked dispirited. Simpson chuckled. ‘You won’t have to wait your turn, mate. You’re on first; you’re someone special.’
I stared at him. ‘What’s so special about me?’
‘You’ll see. The Governor’ll explain it all very nicely.’
I was about to pursue that a bit further but a warder came into the room. ‘Rearden, come this way. Simpson, get back to “C” Hall.’
There were five men seated around a large table, two of them prison officers in uniform. It’s a funny thing about prison officers – they never take off their caps, not even when sitting in the Governor’s office. Perhaps it’s a tradition of the service. One of the civilians wore a dog-collar, so he’d be Simpson’s Bible-Slapper – the Prison Chaplain.
The military-looking man in the middle spoke up first. ‘Rearden, I’m the Governor of this prison. You are here because you have committed a crime and society has decided that you cannot be allowed to remain at large. How you get on in this prison is your own affair. There are two ways of looking at a prison – as a place of punishment and as a place of rehabilitation. The choice is up to you; we have ample facilities for both modes of operation. Do I make myself clear?’
‘Yes, sir.’
He picked up a paper from the table. ‘It is normally my practice to treat all prisoners alike. However, I have received notification from the Home Office that you are to be treated as a high-risk prisoner and that entails certain restrictive modifications of your treatment here. For instance, you were brought to this office by a Star Class trusted prisoner, that will never happen again. In future, if you have to move about inside the prison you will be escorted by a prison officer. You will also wear coloured patches upon your clothing. I have prepared a list here of all the other restrictions appertaining to a high-risk prisoner which you will study and to which you will conform.’
He handed me the paper and I folded it and put it into my pocket.
He cleared his throat. ‘You must understand, Rearden, that whether you remain in the high-risk category depends entirely upon yourself. The position is reviewed at regular intervals and my recommendations are forwarded to the Home Office. You must also understand that the Home Office is at liberty to disregard my recommendations. The fact that you are a high-risk prisoner is entirely of your own doing, and if there is any way you can convince the police authorities that you are not a risk then I strongly recommend that you do so.’
He meant the diamonds, of course. They still wanted those bloody diamonds. ‘Yes, sir,’ I said woodenly. ‘I’ll try to think of something, sir.’
The Governor turned his head. ‘Anything from you, Padre?’
The chaplain smiled. ‘My name is Clark. I note you claim to have no religion.’
‘That’s right, sir.’
‘I’m not one for pushing religion down a man’s throat,’ said Clark. ‘But do you mind if I come to see you from time to time?’
‘No, sir.’
The Governor said, ‘This is Mr Anderson, our Welfare Officer. He can do a lot for you if you will let him. Any time you want to see him ask your landing officer. Have you anything you would like to ask him now?’
‘Yes, sir. How do I get writing material and books?’
Anderson said easily, ‘The writing materials – pens and paper – you will buy in the canteen shop with money you will earn by doing work in the prison. You will be paid a minimum of one shilling and eightpence a day, but you can improve on that if you choose to. Books you can obtain from the prison library.’
‘Thank you, sir,’ I said. ‘Is it possible to get books from outside?’ I hesitated. ‘I’ll be here for a long time – I want to study. I want to improve myself.’
Anderson started to speak but checked himself and looked at the Governor, who said, ‘Very commendable, but we’ll have to see about that. That will depend upon your general conduct and, as you say, you’ll be here a long time.’ He nodded to the uniformed officer at the end of the table. ‘This is Mr Hudson, the Chief Officer responsible for prison discipline. Have you anything to say, Mr Hudson?’
‘Just one thing, sir,’ said Hudson. He had a hard face and eyes like chips of glass. ‘I don’t like high-risk prisoners, Rearden. They upset prison routine and cause trouble among the other prisoners. Don’t give me any trouble, that’s all. If you do it will be the worse for you.’
I kept my face studiously blank. ‘I understand, sir.’
‘I sincerely hope you do,’ said the Governor. ‘You have a visitor – a police officer from Scotland Yard.’ He signalled to a warder standing by the door. ‘You know where to take him.’
I expected to see Brunskill but it was another detective. ‘Detective-Inspector Forbes,’ he said. ‘Sit down, Rearden.’
I sat down, facing him over the table, and he said pleasantly, ‘I expect the Governor has broken the news that you have been classified as a high risk. Do you know what that means?’
I shook my head. ‘Not really.’
‘You’d better find out,’ Forbes advised. ‘The Governor must have given you a copy of the high-risk rules. I’ll give you five minutes to read it.’
I took the sheet of paper from my pocket and smoothed it out on the table. It was immediately apparent after a cursory reading that life was going to be made quite a bit tougher. The light in my cell was going to be on all night, for one thing. All my clothes, except for shirt and slippers, were to be deposited outside the cell door each night. Any letters I wrote I would have to hand to a prison officer – copies would be made and only photostats would be sent to the ultimate destination, the originals to be filed in the prison. Any conversations with visitors were to be monitored by a prison officer.
I looked up at Forbes. He said, ‘Those are only the rules which concern you directly, of course. There are other things. You’ll be moved from cell to cell without warning; your cell will be searched – and so will you – at a moment’s notice. It will all be very harassing.’
‘And