Find Them Dead

78 Tuesday 21 May

Mickey Starr’s previous cellmate, Charles Nelson, had been transferred to another prison, and to his dismay, Mickey had been moved to a different cell on the remand wing of Lewes Prison. He was now sharing with a tattooed, unfriendly and intimidating hulk of an Albanian bodybuilder called Lorik Vusaj, who was on a murder charge.

The tiny cell, as the one before, but even smaller, consisted of two bunk beds, one above the other, and a toilet and washbasin screened off by a plastic shower curtain. There wasn’t enough room to swing a mouse, let alone a cat.

By dint of the fact that Vusaj was here before him, the beefcake controlled the remote. Which meant Mickey had to endure an endless diet of football games, during which the Albanian shouted, constantly and loudly, at the screen, at pretty much every move every player — on either side — made.

Ever since the news of Stuie’s death, Mickey had been desperate for some peace and quiet. To mourn his brother, but also to study the law, partly as a distraction. It was for these reasons, at 5 p.m. on Tuesday, he was grateful that the Albanian, with his minimal grasp of English, had fucked off to do some weight training.

It left him free to concentrate on his research, both on the laws around drugs importation and around sentence reductions through pleading guilty and turning Queen’s Evidence — a posh description for grassing someone up.

His solicitor, Anu Vasanth, had left him several thick books on the law, at his request, with relevant chapters and pages helpfully highlighted with yellow Post-it stickers. But even so, he was struggling to get his head around the legal jargon.

Suddenly it felt like the sun had gone behind a cloud. Except there was no sunlight in this cell. He looked up to see the bald head and muscular physique of another Eastern European man he’d vaguely noticed on this wing, who had a teardrop tattoo below his right eye. It signified he might have killed someone.

‘Got a message for you, Mickey. From your good friend Terry.’

Starr looked up.

‘You’re not going to be giving evidence tomorrow.’

An instant later, his throat was gripped by a hand as powerful as the jaws of a bulldozer. Then he saw a plastic blade inches from his left eye.

Mickey’s throat was crushed even tighter. So tight he was struggling to breathe.

He looked into the eyes of his attacker. Eyes that were as dark and empty as the deepest well in the universe. The blade came closer. The pressure increased around his throat. He could not breathe. The blade touched his good eye, cold, a shining blur.

Then, suddenly, the grip on his throat was gone.

He heard a grunt, then a crashing thud. All the light was momentarily blotted out. He saw his assailant fly back and strike his head against the side of the cell door. An instant later the man was on the ground with Starr’s Albanian cellmate, Lorik, on top of him. Holding the weapon.

‘You going to blind my friend? I’ll cut your ears off, then I cut your dick and balls off and stuff them down your throat if you ever come near him again. We understand each other?’

Mickey’s assailant nodded. Then screamed as the Albanian sliced through his right ear, which fell to the ground, leaving blood spurting out of the side of his head.

‘You lucky man. Today I just take one ear. You come near my friend again, ever, I take your other. Now go fuck yourself.’

Starr’s assailant scrambled, clumsily and unsteadily, to his feet, clamping his hand to his head, and made for the door. Lorik kicked him hard in the backside, sending him forward through the doorway and crashing face down onto the floor, blood still pouring. The Albanian threw the ear after him, then kicked the door shut.

‘Thanks, pal,’ Mickey said.

Lorik patted him on the shoulder. ‘You my friend.’