Murder Mile

Chapter 4

Neil Henderson watched the prison officer pack up his belongings, tipping the little plastic containers into the brown paper bag. He was sneering, the bastard was sneering at him, he thought.

‘Got something to say to me, pal?’ said Henderson.

The officer shook his head, dropped his chin onto his chest and jangled some coins into the bag. He looked to be enjoying himself too much, continued to sneer.

A spasm twitched on Henderson’s lip as he spoke, ‘No, come on, out with it.’

The officer closed a drawer, turned a key in the lock and then returned to Henderson’s possessions. The bag was full now, he rolled over the top, made it into a neat bundle then passed it through the chute. He was still sneering as he made a little wave through the glass. ‘See you soon, sunshine!’

Henderson double blinked. The muscles in his neck tightened, became firm rods. He wanted to punch the window, smack the screw bastard. They were all the same, screws and filth; just out to rumble you, give you a hard time. They got off on it. He spat out, ‘You’ll be fucking lucky!’

A laugh now, he was laughing at him. His Adam’s apple rose and fell as he spoke through the laughter, ‘Want to take a wee bet?’

Another screw came into the picture, a fat bastard with pools of sweat under his armpits, they were both laughing in sync. The one who called him sunshine rubbed his hands together, then pointed at his palm. ‘Could make a few quid at this, Drew.’

‘Yeah, yeah… Only this prick hasn’t got a penny. What’s he gonna bet with?’

The prison officer tugged at his earlobe, tilted his head and pretended to look thoughtful. ‘Have to go out and rob someone… Now there’s an idea, Hendy!’

Henderson inflated his chest, yelled, ‘Fuck off.’

‘That’s what you do, isn’t it?’

‘I said, fuck off.’

The other screw joined in, he leaned over the counter and widened his eyes, raised his voice. ‘Robbing and beating the shite out of innocent old punters. You followed him home from the bookies, didn’t you. Wonder if that old boy’s family will be waiting for you out there?’

The other one jumped in, ‘His son’s a rugby player, I heard.’

They were winding him up, just sticking the needle in. Henderson grabbed his belongings from the chute; the bag was bulky and the brown paper wrapping rustled loudly as he tugged it free. When he had the package under his arm he raised a single digit on his right hand and said, ‘Get fucked.’

The tone suddenly changed, the screws weren’t having a laugh any more. The big one pointed at him through the glass. ‘I hope you do, mate. I hope you get well and truly fucked, because you know what, you deserve it. You’re a fucking animal.’

‘You don’t know what you’re talking about. You know fuck all about me.’

The screw nodded, his meaty neck quivered under his chin. ‘I know your type, fucking sure I do. And I know a leopard doesn’t change its spots.’ He leaned closer, got right up against the glass, ‘You’ll be back in here in under a month. How do I know that? Because you’re all the same. You’re scum, Henderson. Fucking trash.’

Henderson’s pulse raced, he dived for the screen, got close enough to face the screw but was yanked back by his shoulder, another prison officer turned him away. ‘Move it!’

The pair beyond the glass were still staring. What had started out as a bit of innocent patter had turned ugly. It always turned out like that, thought Henderson. ‘Get fucked the pair of you!’ he yelled.

‘I said move it!’ The screw poked him in the back.

Henderson thundered along the corridor, his heart was still beating hard. He wanted to attack the screws; he wanted to show them who he was, that he didn’t take that kind of shit from anyone. Least of all a couple of lard-arsed screws. He was Hendy the Leith boy; he was known. Folk knew that name, knew who he was. He wasn’t to be messed with.

As he walked his rushing blood calmed, seemed to settle. When he got like that, he couldn’t control it. He just wanted to lash out. He couldn’t change that, it was who he was. He put his energy into his stride, but the prison followed him. The prison smell haunted him. He would never forget that smell; on his first night he’d asked an old giffer what the smell was. ‘The stench of a thousand reeking bastards,’ he’d told him, ‘their farts and shits, their BO and their utter fucking despair!’

There was no escape from it, the prison got under your skin. It polluted you. If it wasn’t some radge talking about who he’d offed on the outside it was some nut-job looking to make a name for himself by offing someone on the inside. You had to be on your toes, every minute of the day. There was no way of avoiding it; if you didn’t play the game then they thought there was something wrong with you. That’s how rumours started. He remembered the bloke who’d got moved from Kilmarnock, he never fitted in, never made the effort and then folk started to say he was a nonce. A beast. He was battered into a coma.

That’s what prison had taught Neil Henderson, to be tough; to get the first punch in. No one was looking out for you in the pound. You were on your own. And if you let your guard down for a second it could be fatal. Life was like that, too. That’s what they all said. ‘Get your retaliation in first!’ That’s what he’d been told, and that’s what he believed.

‘You got someone coming for you, Hendy?’ said the screw.

‘I don’t know, not a fucking mind reader am I.’

The screw shook his head. ‘Have you no family?’

Henderson shrugged.

The screw rattled some keys. ‘What about a girl?’

‘What the fuck’s it got to do with you?’

The conversation came to an abrupt halt as the prison officer opened the first door into an enclosed area that had been partitioned off. He pointed to a sheet of paper on a clipboard, said, ‘Sign.’

‘What’s this?’

‘For your possessions.’

Henderson grabbed the brown paper bag tighter. ‘You better not have nicked anything… I know what I came in here with, got it all up here,’ he tapped his head.

‘You saw it counted out, now sign it or you’ll be in another night. That what you want?’

Henderson grabbed the pen, signed. When he was finished he let the biro fall, it swung on its chain, rattled off the wall. The screw picked it up and placed it on the counter. ‘Always the arsehole, right to the end, eh. You learnt nothing in here?’

‘Oh, I learnt plenty, mate… fucking plenty.’

The screw turned down the corners of his mouth, he seemed to have something else to say but kept it to himself. It was a look that Henderson had seen many times before, it had started at home, when he had a home, then it was school, the workplace, the street, pubs. Everywhere. Someone always seemed to be ready to tell Neil Henderson how to lead his life, where he was going wrong.

A key turned in a large lock, then another. A bolt slid across the door and then light and a cool breeze flooded in. Henderson tipped back his head to inhale the luxury of clean air.

‘Don’t get too used to it out there, sure we’ll be seeing you again soon.’

Henderson smiled. He was too pleased to see the outside world to manage a riposte. As he stepped over the prison threshold he felt a weakness in his knees. He was out. He was back in the real world. For a second he felt exhilarated and then he felt a tightening in his gut. Something twisted there, like a rag being wrung out. He wondered what it was. Fear? Panic? It was nothing, surely. Just the shock of being out, of getting away from that shit-hole. There would be no more, he was out.

‘You fucking beauty!’

He looked up Gorgie Road, he could go anywhere, do anything. He sniffed the air like a dog that had been kept in for too long. Beer, he wanted a bevy. He could grab a pint and then, at the weekend, he could see Hearts. The glorious Jam Tarts.

Henderson was free, he felt it like a rush. He raised his bag and ran towards the bus stop.