Killing with Confetti

2

Warren is up as usual at 5:30 A.M. to boil water for coffee and his shave. Then he tries working for an hour on his Open University assignment. Hard going with his mind on what will happen next. He returns his books to the shelf and settles to watching the door. Roll check has to be completed first. He’s long ago learned that the screws are as enslaved to routine as the inmates and some of them are more scared than any inmate of making a mistake.

The eye appears at the judas hole. So far, so normal.

From the landing comes the familiar rasp and creak of cell doors being unlocked, followed by sleepy voices. Warren steps across to Muscles, still out to the world, feet the size of French loaves hanging over the end of the ludicrously small bunk.

‘Better move, mate.’

The cell feels colder than usual, and Warren’s head is aching. Stress, he supposes. He can’t be certain if last night’s suggestion to Uncle Joe has been acted on. No one is likely to tell him. He can only be sure of one thing: he won’t himself be attacking any screw this morning.

He grasps some of Muscles’s bedding and pulls it back from the tattooed shoulder. ‘Time to get up, mate.’

A large fist grabs the sheet and pulls it close again.

Warren gives up trying. It isn’t clever to upset Muscles. He really did snap the neck of a man who bugged him. Leave the beached whale to wait for the next tide. Won’t hurt him to miss breakfast.

There is a thump from next door that could be the lad from the top bunk getting out — or the heart-warming sound of the screw being smacked against the wall. Either way, something is up because the unlocking hasn’t reached their cell yet.

Encouraging.

More noise than usual starts coming from the landing outside. You get to know the level of sound to expect, the tones of voice. These aren’t the mutterings of people starting another boring day of bird. A definite air of urgency is coming through.

And this door hasn’t been opened.

Good sign. The lads next door must have got the message from Uncle Joe and duffed up the screw.

Five minutes go by.

Quite a bedlam of noise now. The excited voices of a mob that realises this is a day like no other.

Warren moves closer and puts his ear to the sheet metal to try to hear better. Someone out there must have keys by now and ought to be unlocking the bloody thing. He yells, ‘Oy!’

No response.

Muscles sits up in his bunk and yawns.

‘What’s up?’

‘They’re not letting us out,’ Warren says.

‘Prison, innit?’ Muscles says.

Can’t argue with that.

‘They were planning to clobber the screws and grab the keys.’

Muscles isn’t impressed. His face has gone blank again, his standard expression.

‘It was a plan, all set for now.’

‘No one told me.’

‘They could let us out any moment.’

‘I need a crap.’

‘Be my guest. Then you’d better get dressed. I don’t think we’ll be going home today, but if the plan works, we’ll get to negotiate.’ Warren is talking to himself more than Muscles. A hostage negotiation is a concept too far for the big man.

Still no sound of the door being unlocked. The ugly possibility is forming that their fellow cons have decided to keep them banged up. There is no knowing what version of last night’s conversation filtered down from the top landing.

Muscles says from the toilet seat, ‘Where’s breakfast?’

Breakfast, so-called, consists of teabags, cereal, bread and jam with sachets of whitener and sugar, all in a clear plastic bag shoved through the judas hole. ‘I wouldn’t worry about that if I were you.’

‘I’m hungry.’

‘They’ve got other stuff to think about.’

‘Like what?’

‘Like taking out the CCTV.’

‘Whassat?’

‘The cameras that spy on us all day long.’

Thinking it over, there is something to be said for being shut up in the cell. The cons might think of it as punishment for opting out, but when the riot comes to a bad end, as it surely will, he and Muscles can’t be blamed for the violence and damage.

‘Banged up all day?’ the big man asks.

‘Could be.’

‘And nothing to eat?’

‘They won’t forget us,’ Warren says without the certainty he would have liked.

The level of noise on the other side of the door is increasing. No question: something unusual is going on. A bad-tempered debate, probably, about the next step. Trash the place or prepare for a long siege by pooling resources? Prison inmates aren’t the best at evolving strategies. Surely the gorillas upstairs must have formed a plan. They ought to exert their authority over the hotheads.

‘All we can do is sit it out, however long it takes,’ Warren says.

Muscles is sitting it out on the toilet.

The rigid prison routine is on hold for sure. Being banged up is harder to endure than usual, not knowing what to expect. If you know you’re there for hours because of staff shortages you can pass time reading a book or watching telly.

Muscles eventually works the flush and gets dressed.

The commotion on the landing subsides in the next hour. Just the occasional shout, impossible to interpret as speech.

‘Do you have to do that?’

Muscles looks up. ‘What?’

‘Grind your teeth. It’s getting to me.’

There’s a sound at the door and the hatch below the judas hole opens. Muscles, eager for food, gets to it before Warren.

Something is pushed through and the hatch slams shut before words can be exchanged.

‘What’s this?’ Muscles asks, holding it up for Warren to see.

A sheet of soiled toilet paper has been pushed through. The word SCABS is scrawled across it.

‘Dickheads.’

Muscles is frowning. ‘What does this writing say?’

‘Scabs.’

‘What do they mean by that?’

Warren doesn’t try to explain. ‘Flush it away and wash your hands.’ He puts the telly on.

Two or three hours pass and no one unlocks the door.

Something is on TV about doing up houses and selling them for a profit. Top viewing for a prison inmate. Warren watches it blankly, his thoughts still on the significance of the insult from their fellow cons. Uncle Joe has obviously dished the dirt and put them in trouble with everyone. The toilet paper could be a sign of worse to come.

‘I should be lifting weights now,’ Muscles says.

‘It’s not going to happen today,’ Warren says.

‘Smoke.’

‘No, thanks.’ He gives Muscles a second look. Weird thing to say considering both are non-smokers — the main reason why they are sharing a cell. Then he sniffs the air they are breathing and understands what the big man is on about. ‘They’ve started a fire.’

‘What for?’

‘A quick result. The screws aren’t interested in a bunch of cons rampaging on the landing, but a fire can’t be ignored.’

‘Where is it?’

‘Your guess is as good as mine. Somewhere upstairs if they’ve got any sense. Keep it from spreading down here. We don’t want the whole sodding wing alight.’

‘Why not?’

‘Give me strength. Because we’re in it, for Christ’s sake.’

‘I don’t want to get burnt.’

‘You won’t know much about the burning part. The fumes kill you first.’ Warren runs at the door and kicks it repeatedly.

No one comes.