Osama

THIRTEEN

It was impossible to keep track of time in that cramped, windowless cell. All Joe knew was that one mealtime and several hours had passed. That meant it had to be approaching 5 p.m. Hennessey hadn’t returned. They only person he’d seen was the screw who’d dumped his meal tray in the cell and collected it thirty minutes later. No words, no eye contact. If Hennessey had this man in his pocket, there was no way of telling. He half expected a police officer or another lawyer to walk through the door at any moment. Nobody did. They knew, he supposed, that he wasn’t going anywhere.

He sat by the door, listening. Occasionally there were voices in the corridor outside, but they were muffled – he couldn’t tell who they belonged to or what they were saying – but that didn’t stop him trying. Hennessey was his only hope, but also the last person on earth that he could trust. But Joe’s eavesdropping yielded nothing.

It was during one of the frequent moments of silence, while he was pacing the room to keep warm, that the door suddenly clicked open. Nobody appeared. He approached it with care, half expecting an attack, which didn’t come, and slowly opened it wider.

The corridor was brightly lit with strip lights. The walls were beige – paint applied directly to breeze blocks – and the smell was antiseptic. The corridor extended about twenty metres – to his left there was a locked metal door, to his right the corridor turned a corner. Two men were standing opposite his cell: Hennessey and Hobson, the screw with the ginger moustache whom Joe had lamped during his first minutes at Barfield. His upper lip was swollen, and he had steristrips across the bridge of his nose. Hennessey was leaning heavily on his crutch and rolling a cigarette. Both men looked at Joe with cool hostility.

‘Time?’ Joe asked.

Hobson stepped forward and held up a pair of handcuffs. ‘Put these on,’ he instructed.

‘No.’

Hobson glanced back to an alert-looking Hennessey. ‘If anyone finds me taking a segregated prisoner unrestrained to the loading bay,’ Hobson whispered, ‘I’m fucked.’

‘Then you’d better make sure nobody finds us,’ Joe said.

Hobson shook his head in disgust. ‘Forget it,’ he said. He was looking at Joe, but clearly talking to Hennessey. ‘Just forget the whole fucking thing.’ He turned and stomped off down the corridor.

‘You got kids, Hobson?’ Joe called after him.

Hobson stopped, but didn’t turn.

‘Think they’ll fancy visiting their dad in prison? Mine was banged up. I didn’t bother with him after he went inside. And helping this piece of crap smuggle some tart onto prison property has to be worth a couple of years, hasn’t it?’

Hobson turned, his swollen face carved with even more hatred than before. ‘No one will believe you,’ he said.

‘If you really thought that, you wouldn’t have just opened my cell door. But it’s your call.’ He gave a shrug and stepped backwards towards his cell.

‘Do it, Hobson.’ The instruction came from Hennessey and Joe immediately noted that there was something calculating in his expression. Was he just eager to get Joe out of his hair? Joe didn’t think so.

Hobson was pacing back to them. He was sweating. ‘If I can’t cuff you…’

‘Hand them over,’ Joe said. He took the cuffs from Hobson and placed them round his wrists without locking them. It wouldn’t pass a close inspection, but at a glance he would appear to be restrained. He turned to Hennessey: ‘Give Hobson your crutch.’

The skin tightened around Hennessey’s eyes and for a moment he looked like he was going to argue. But he clearly thought better of it, and handed his crutch to the screw. He was evidently not nearly so lame as he pretended, because he was able to stand quite well without it. ‘When you get to the van,’ he said, ‘knock five times and she’ll let you in.’

Joe nodded. ‘Let’s go,’ he told Hobson.

Hennessey said nothing. He just lit his cigarette, blew smoke into Joe’s face, then turned and limped without much difficulty back down the corridor and round the corner. Before he disappeared from sight, however, he looked over his shoulder. He seemed neither nervous nor angry. More pleased with himself. Then he was gone.

He had something planned. Joe was sure of it.

‘The medical van’s arrived. They’re unloading now.’ Hobson wouldn’t look at Joe as he spoke. ‘You need to walk in front of me.’ He indicated the opposite direction to the one Hennessey had taken, towards the locked metal door at the end of the corridor.

Joe held his wrists against his stomach to stop the cuffs from slipping, and walked. When he reached the door he stepped aside to let Hobson open it.

The door led onto an alleyway about two metres wide, and the facing wall was at least ten metres high. Joe deduced that this was the exterior wall of the prison. Dried leaves had blown into the alleyway, along with old crisp packets and other bits of rubbish. This was evidently a little-visited part of the prison. It was raining quite heavily, but they were protected from the worst of it by the high wall. It could rain all it wanted as far as Joe was concerned. The more the better. It would keep people inside.

Hobson locked the door behind them, then nodded at Joe to walk down the narrow passageway. He didn’t like having the screw behind him, but he understood that it would look suspicious if Hobson didn’t have eyes on him at all times. They continued for twenty metres, Joe scanning ahead, though all he could see was a right-hand turn at the end of the alleyway, and all he could hear was the rain.

At the end they turned right. The corridor extended for just a couple of metres, then opened up into a tarmacked yard about fifteen metres square. Five metal catering bins, each a couple of metres high, were lined up on the far side of the yard, outside a set of closed double doors that Joe assumed led to the kitchens. The rain drummed noisily on the metal lids. Parked in the middle of the yard, ten metres away, was a white Transit van. ‘MediQuick’ was written in blue lettering on the side and the rear doors were open. Hanging back in the protection of the alleyway, Joe could see the legs of three individuals hidden by the open doors of the Transit. Then two inmates emerged from the protection of the doors, each carrying a cardboard box that Joe took to be part of the delivery, their faces sour on account of the driving rain. And following them, after they’d slammed the van’s doors shut, he saw Sowden. Unlike the inmates, he wore a black raincoat, with the hood up.

‘Stay there,’ Hobson said. Joe saw that he had leaned the wooden crutch against the wall before stepping forward a few paces. Sowden clearly saw this, and Joe felt himself tensing up. What the hell was Hobson doing? His question was answered by a brief nod of acknowledgement from Sowden. Clearly the fucker was in on Hennessey’s little treat too. Sowden barked an indecipherable instruction at the two prisoners. They carried the boxes through the double doors, followed by the screw, who closed them and – Joe assumed – locked them behind him.

But had Sowden seen him? Joe didn’t think so. The courtyard was empty now, and the rain coming down even harder. Joe slipped his hands out of the cuffs and indicated to Hobson that he should retreat into the cover of the alleyway. Hobson obeyed. He looked like shit. Bedraggled hair, rain running down his face.

‘Who’s the driver?’ Joe asked.

‘Always the same guy. Stays in the cab.’

‘Does he know what’s going on? Does he know it’s me?’

Hobson nodded. His eyes flickered anxiously to the left, almost as though he was expecting something to happen.

Joe acted on impulse. He grabbed Hobson and thrust him up against the wall, pressing his right forearm into the screw’s neck. He didn’t say anything for a full twenty seconds, by which time both Hobson’s arms had gone into spasm and his rasping breath was noisier than the rain on the metal bins. ‘What’s Hennessey got waiting for me in there?’ he finally demanded.

At first Hobson said nothing. He just tried to shake his head. But another twenty seconds and his eyes were rolling up – he was as close to passing out as it was possible to be – and his wheezing and struggling told Joe he was trying to speak. Joe relaxed his arm, but only slightly. ‘What’s he got waiting for me?’ he repeated.

‘There’s no girl…’ Hobson managed to say, but as he spoke, his eyes rolled again. Joe swore as the screw crumpled to the ground – two fingers to the jugular confirmed he was still alive, just unconscious – but Joe had enough information to know that whatever was waiting for him in the back of the Transit, it wasn’t some chick expecting to give Hennessey a blow job. He dragged Hobson by his feet back down the alleyway, out of sight. It was impossible to know how long he’d be out for, so he took the precaution of cuffing him to the bracket of a hefty metal drainpipe and removing his keys from his belt. Even if he awoke, he’d have to scream over the rain to raise the alarm.

Back at the end of the alleyway, Joe took Hennessey’s crutch and checked out his path to the van. Apart from the driver, the courtyard was deserted, though he didn’t know how long it would remain so. Joe couldn’t see the guy, but he knew that he’d be visible in the passenger-side wing mirror as he approached the rear of the van. He looked at the angle of the mirror: about seventy degrees. Joe estimated that the driver’s field of view had a radius of approximately five metres. Did it matter if he saw Joe? Perhaps. If someone else was waiting for him in the back of the van, they might be communicating with each other. Much better to keep out of the driver’s field of view until he was directly behind the Transit, at which point he would be able to walk directly up to the rear doors, unexpected.

A crack of thunder ripped through the sky. A fresh torrent of rain hammered down. Soaked through, Joe stepped out into the courtyard.

He kept close to the perimeter wall, moving quickly while he had the advantage of an empty yard. It took no more than five seconds to get to the point where he was directly behind the Transit, at a distance of about seven metres. He suppressed a grim smile at a sign on the back of the van which read: ‘Remember: if you can’t see my mirrors, I can’t see you.’

He checked the doors leading into the kitchen. No movement. He checked back in the direction of the alleyway. No movement.

He removed the crutch from under his arm and advanced.

His mind was calculating with every step he took towards the van. Hennessey and Hobson’s game was clear: they didn’t want him in the prison, and they didn’t want him grassing them up. That meant that whoever was waiting for him in the van would have strict instructions: get Joe beyond the prison walls, then make sure he never speaks again. It would cause a fucking stink, and spark a massive investigation, but Hobson and Sowden would be hoping nothing could be pinned on them. Better that than have their cosy relationship with Hennessey revealed. So whoever was waiting there in the van would attack immediately. And his eyes would be used to the gloom inside, putting him – or them – at a distinct advantage. Joe had Hennessey’s crutch – a sturdy bit of timber, but hardly his weapon of choice. He did have the element of surprise, though: whoever was there wouldn’t expect him to go in fighting.

‘Knock five times,’ Hennessey had said. Like hell he would. He gripped the crutch firmly, then yanked open one of the rear doors and jumped inside the van.

As Joe expected, it was pretty dark inside, even with the door open. He turned his head to one side to take advantage of his peripheral vision – more attuned to low light – and spun Hennessey’s crutch ninety degrees so that it was horizontal in front of him. At once two figures rushed at him. Definitely male. Joe surged forward, throwing all his weight behind the crutch, which thumped brutally against both the silhouetted figures. His attackers dropped, their fall broken and muffled by a bank of cardboard boxes like the ones Joe had seen being removed from the van minutes earlier. One of them cursed in what sounded like Arabic.

Joe’s eyes were adjusting to the darkness. He recognized the men ahead of him: the two unharmed Middle Eastern guys from the dining hall. Hunter had been right: Hennessey was smart. He’d relied on the two men in this shithole who most wanted to kill him.

Joe didn’t give them even a second to recover.

He threw down the crutch, then, with all his strength, smashed his fist into the face of the nearer of the men. He heard the nose crack, but was already delivering the next blow.

And another.

And another.

He kept pounding the man’s bleeding face, splintering the already broken nasal bone. As the fucker collapsed, his mate got to his feet again. Joe seized his throat and dragged him down too. Grabbing a clump of his greasy black hair, he slammed his face as hard as he could against the metal floor. The guy went limp.

Silence. Joe stepped back and closed the door.

He was breathless and sweating, but thankful for the rain pounding down on the Transit because it would have masked the sound of the struggle. Although the driver would have heard the rumpus, Joe was sure he would have assumed it was he who’d been overpowered. He stood still for twenty seconds, waiting for his eyes to readjust to the increased darkness. He found himself imagining Hennessey’s sordid little encounters in the bleak darkness of this vehicle. He couldn’t help thinking they were as much to do with keeping up his reputation as the sex itself.

He edged forward. There was a wall of cardboard boxes in front of him, but with a gap to their right that led to another space behind them, less than a metre wide. Perhaps it was where Hennessey was accustomed to losing his load. His assailants were bony to look at, but heavy to drag. Joe manoeuvred their limp frames to the hiding place behind the boxes with difficulty, before retrieving Hennessey’s crutch and joining them. It crossed his mind to try and revive them, to squeeze every last bit of information out of them – not about Hennessey, but about whoever had ordered them to take him out in the first place. He quickly rejected that idea: his focus had to be on escaping. Better these two remained out cold.

The darkness sharpened his senses: the pungent stench of his assailants’ body odour, the taste of blood in his mouth where the razor blade had nicked the flesh, the pounding of the rain on the roof. The driver would be waiting for a signal, so he thumped the metal wall dividing the rear section of the van from the cab. Three solid blows.

The engine coughed immediately into life, and the Transit moved forward.

Joe felt the van swing to the right then slow down. He wished he had the geography of the place clear in his mind so he knew when they were approaching the prison exit. But he didn’t. The van came to a halt, but the engine continued to turn over. A minute passed. It felt like much longer. What was happening outside? What was the hold-up? Had someone found Hobson? Were they locking the place down?

But then they were moving again. Slowly at first, then accelerating. Too fast, surely, to be within the confines of the prison. He felt a surge of grim satisfaction. Was he out? Had he done it?

Joe moved quickly. One of his attackers was wearing an overcoat – hardly prison issue, he thought. Were they being rewarded for killing him by a well-planned escape of their own? He pulled the coat off, slipped it on, then pushed himself to his feet – he had to fight a sudden, leaden exhaustion that threatened to knock him back down again. He didn’t know where he was being driven to, nor did he want to find out. In the gloom, he ripped open one of the cardboard boxes and rummaged inside. Perhaps there would be something useful. His fingertips identified a pencil-length scalpel, tightly sealed inside sterile packaging. A roll of bandage. Some surgical tape. He stuffed all these in the deep pockets of his overcoat, then lurched to the back of the Transit. They were now doing some 40 mph, he reckoned. He could hardly just open the door and jump out. He’d kill himself. He had to wait an excruciating couple of minutes before the van slowed down. It ground to a halt.

Joe seized his opportunity, opened one of the rear doors and debussed.

The rain was still pissing down, and he was instantly blinded by the headlights of the vehicle behind him. It took a moment for him to realize that it was a bus, which had stopped no more than a metre behind the Transit. Joe closed the door gently so as not to alert the driver, covered his eyes with one hand and staggered across the road to the pavement.

The traffic moved on. The Transit disappeared. Joe blinked heavily in the rain and tried to get his bearings.

He was in a high street standing outside a McDonald’s. Boots on one side, Coffee Republic on the other. A road sign thirty metres to his right indicated that he was a mile from both Brixton and Wandsworth, and two from Clapham. He turned on his mental GPS and continued to look around. The weather had forced most people off the streets – a blessing, given Joe’s appearance – but one woman passed, huddled under an umbrella, dragging an unimpressed cocker spaniel on a lead. She gave him a look of distaste and hurried on. Joe half considered entering the McDonald’s and cleaning himself up in the bathroom, but he quickly dropped that idea. There were about twenty people in the restaurant and he couldn’t risk one of them recognizing his face from the papers. Instead, he pulled up the collar of his overcoat, lowered his head and started to walk.

He had only two things in mind. First, he needed to get as far off the Transit’s route as possible. It wouldn’t be long before his disappearance from the prison was noticed, and it wouldn’t take a genius to work out how he’d done it – at which point every police officer in the capital would be looking for him.

And second? The world thought he was a murderer. The people he loved were dead, or in danger. And someone was hell-bent on killing him. He needed money, shelter, help. He needed someone he could trust.

The rain fell harder, soaking through his coat and running into his eyes. But his mind’s eye, for the first time in days, was clear. It focused on the pale, frightened face of a woman who, once upon a time, he had trusted without question.

The trouble was, in a world turned upside down, how did he know he could trust her now?