From the Dead

TWENTY-TWO

Jeremy Grover lay on his bunk and listened.

There was always plenty of chat echoing around the wing in the hour after lock-down: earlier conversations continued and news shared; filthy jokes and songs bawled from behind cell doors that spread along the landing; rumours, curses and threats.

He listened out for Howard Cook's name.

A couple of the black lads had been talking about Cook while dinner was being dished up, pissing themselves in a corner and grinning happily across at the screws who were on duty. Grover heard them, caught the name and wandered across. They told him this was big news and funny as fuck. One of them said something about Cook's retirement being permanent, but a fat, ugly screw named Harris came over and broke up the conversation before Grover could find out any details.

Harris was a mate of Cook's and, from the look on the bastard's face, he had heard something, too.

Grover had gone right off his dinner, wandered back to the landing and crawled into his bunk. Happy to be on his own until lock-up and needing time to think. Hoping the flutter in his guts would settle. He had dug out the mobile from its hiding place and sent a text message to the usual number, making it clear that he needed to talk. Needed to be told.

Now the phone lay tucked inside the pillow case beneath his head; the same phone, ironically enough, that Howard Cook had given to him.

That was when Grover had found out Cook was iffy. That, when it came down to it, they were on the same team. It had come as a major surprise. If he'd been asked to guess, Grover would have marked down plenty of others, that fat sod Harris included, as a bent screw long before he would have picked out Howard Cook. He supposed it was the same as with the cons themselves. Often those who looked like full-on nutters wouldn't say boo to a goose, while the ones who sat good as gold in the library all day, would tear your head off if you took the piss out of the book they were reading.

Still, it had been a shocker definitely, finding out a jobsworth like Cook was on the take.

He remembered how it had been in that cell, the evening he'd done Monahan. Cook standing there in the doorway, clearing his throat like he was struggling to breathe and holding out his hand. 'Give it to me,' he'd said and Grover had handed over the sharpened toothbrush; wiped the blood off against his trousers first so Cook wouldn't get it on his uniform. For a second they'd just stared at each other and Grover could still remember how utterly terrified the screw had looked. His face was the colour of porridge, and at first he couldn't even get the toothbrush put away properly. Couldn't find his pocket because his hand was shaking so much.

From what Grover was hearing now, it seemed that Cook had been right to be afraid.

'The twat is dead, with tyre-tracks on his head,

Howard Coo-ook, Howard Coo-ook…'

The song rolled along the landing like a football chant. Aggression and exuberance in equal measure.

When he felt the vibration beneath his cheek, Grover started, then reached quickly to retrieve the phone. He slid off his bunk and stood flat against the wall to the side of the door.

Took a deep breath.

'What's the panic?'

'Tell me about Cook,' Grover hissed.

'Bloody hell, that was quick. They haven't finished scraping him up yet.'

'I don't understand.'

'Would you like me to explain, Jeremy? Words of one syllable, that kind of thing.'

'There's no way he would have said anything.'

'He was being given a hard time by that West Yorkshire DI, and, you know, better safe…'

Grover said, 'Hold on,' and pressed his ear to the cell door. Still plenty of noise and no way that he'd be heard talking over it. 'So, I'm supposed to be scared, am I?'

'Are you?'

'Tell me about the money I'm supposed to get. For doing Monahan.'

'We'll need to leave it a while longer, until the pressure's off, but there's no need to worry. It'll be sent where you wanted it to go.'

Grover thought about his son, and the woman who had given birth to him. He couldn't be sure that the silly cow wouldn't blow most of the cash on powder and booze when she finally got it, but it should certainly make life easier for them.

'By the way, it seems like a nice school. The one your son goes to. He's a pretty decent footballer too. You should be proud.'

Grover refused to rise to it, understanding well enough what was really being said, but he suddenly found it that bit harder to breathe. A belt pulled tighter across his chest. 'So, what…?'

'Just keep your head down.'

'I always do.'

'We'll try to make things as pleasant as we can for you in there. Long as you know it can go the other way easy enough.'

'You've got nothing to worry about.'

'I hope so. I remember having much this conversation with Paul Monahan a long time ago…'

Grover said, 'Listen, you can relax, OK?' then realised he was talking to himself. He put the phone back in its hiding place and lay down again.

Outside, they were still singing about Howard Cook, inventive variations now on a popular theme, until a voice rose above the cacophony, shouting about the withdrawal of privileges and suggesting they shut up.

Fucking Harris.