August 2015

< Michael Dolan arrived at my cell door last night. Dolan is or was an infamous London gangster. He was also the psychotic ringleader of a gang of thugs here. He is what they call a ‘lifer,’ in for a string of violent offences in the 1990s, including prostitution, arson, extortion and murder, most notably the sadistic torture and killing of a gangland rival. The court case dominated the newspapers for weeks, leading up to his eventual conviction and sentence. I remember reading about the brutal way the man died, having his teeth and fingernails extracted before his murder sickened the nation, but this gives him notoriety which he obviously enjoys and relies on here. >

***

“Nice,” he said, smiling in the doorway. As soon as he spoke, I recognised his voice. The clipped, precise timbre, the emphasis on the 'c' extending the word to a strange hiss. This was the man from the storeroom. I remember thinking that his surprisingly articulate, slightly feminine voice didn’t match either his character or reputation. I didn’t reply; I didn’t know what to say and frankly didn’t know what he was referring to.

‘Nice.’ What does that mean? What was nice? “You do know that by the time you get out of here she will have found somebody else.” I kept my head down, aware that he was talking about my wife, but keeping my focus on a dark blue fleck of paint that stained the hard grey concrete floor. “In fact, I’m surprised a pretty young thing like her has hung around for as long as she has.”

”You see, it’s her mouth. It was the first thing that I noticed and it’s quite exquisite. A little like yours, my dear boy, it is simply made for fellation, but I imagine that you already know that. Yes, I can picture her now with those lips wrapped around a nice, thick cock. She’s going to be perfect. The next time she visits, I want you to give her something from me. And unless you want our relationship to become a lot more regular, you will comply.”

And then he was gone. I had no idea what had just happened. It was left to my cellmate, Charlie Walker, to fill in the blanks and tell me how it all worked. Charlie is dead now, died in the prison infirmary. He was a small-time career criminal, a man in his late sixties from Dundee who had spent half his life in prison, mainly for what is considered to be petty crime: house and shop break-ins.

“I don’t know how you’ve done it, son, but somehow you’ve found your way into his book. I’ve seen it happen.” I still didn’t understand what I had done or what I could do to rectify it.

“He preys on your weaknesses and exploits them. You’re a mild-mannered man, and just one look at your photos in this room tells me that you’re happily married with children.”

“What do you mean?” He looked at me, reading my blank features and thoughts before continuing.

“Easy to exploit. My guess is he will want you to give her something, a note maybe. It’ll have a phone number on it and when she calls, and she will, she will be told that you are in danger, to be confirmed by the state of your face. They’ll say that she can help you.”

“What can she do?” I actually said that, can you believe it? Christ, I was so naïve.

“Fucking hell, son, do I need to spell it out?” he answered, his eyes narrowing with a mixture of amusement and bemusement. “He’s going to put your wife to work in return for your safety.” I could feel a stab in my chest as if a cold steel blade had punctured my skin, passing between the ribs and piercing my heart.

“Doing what?” I asked. I was so green that I didn’t understand this world; it was a million miles from my background.

“Drugs. They’re all in on it, the gangs, some of the guards, the ones with a secret they want to be kept hidden. He’ll get her to smuggle them in, stash them in a pre-arranged place. One of the guards will collect and into the system it goes. And although you don’t want to hear it, Dolan also runs a seedy porn ring. My guess is she’ll be asked to participate. She’ll have to perform sexual favours for them.”

My wife. I met Olivia, or Livy as I call her, on a night on the town when we were both twenty-one years old. She was on a hen night with a group of rowdy girlfriends when they burst into the same pub that I was in on a night out with work colleagues.

She was so obviously different from the rest, all wearing short skirts and low-cut tops and showing everyone what they had.

Olivia stood, a little embarrassed, on the fringes and I was immediately drawn to her. She was wearing a coffee-coloured jumper-dress and a black leather jacket and her long brown hair hung down to her shoulders.

She had a slim, petite figure which, despite giving birth to two children, she continues to have. Her quiet, unassuming personality was underlined by the pair of black-rimmed glasses, which I always joked gave her the look of a librarian. I knew that I loved her almost instantly. We married a year later, and our children arrived quickly over the next three years. We were both twenty-nine when this happened.

***

September 2015

< Last night I couldn’t sleep because Charlie’s words were spinning around in my head. It’s all my stupid fault. I have done this to her; put her in this vile position. She is my wife and the mother of my children, a TA at the local primary school, the school that my children attend. How can I allow her to be dragged into this?

My brain plagues me with images of what she is going to be asked to do. It’s not her and she isn’t like that. But there is this selfish part of me, and it’s this that mainly occupies my thoughts. What will happen to me if she doesn't oblige? >

***

Two weeks later, on the morning of visitors’ day, one of Dolan’s cronies arrived at my cell door handing me a folded yellow post-it note. No words were exchanged as my role in this sordid transfer was simple. As he left, he looked me up and down and gave me a pitying smirk. I knew exactly what he was thinking. I had two choices and had chosen the coward’s route.

A real man would have torn the note up and stood up to him, taking the punishment that comes afterwards. But meekly, I received it with full knowledge of where this was going to lead.

After he had left, I opened the note, and just as Charlie had predicted, a mobile phone number and a name, Rashaad, was written on it. I handed it to Charlie, who had witnessed the whole thing while sitting on the bottom bunk. He glanced at it and handed it back.

“What you going to do?”

“I don’t know.” I somehow didn’t think this day would materialise. Stupidly, I thought it might just be an idle threat. The sudden air of excitement in the corridor outside signalled that friends and family had arrived, and I, along with a group of others, exited our cells and shuffled in an orderly queue towards the visitors’ room.

The room is set up very much like a school classroom with rows of tables and chairs on either side. The prisoners all sit on the same side of the tables facing the door, waiting. Suddenly it sprang open and for a brief moment, the fresh smell of freedom as they entered allowed us a taste of normality, a brief glimpse of the outside world.

***

< Olivia visited today and although it was, of course, a joy to see her, the knot of guilt in my stomach made me feel sick. It’s August and she wore a yellow summer dress, cut just above the knee. This place makes her nervous and I could see it in her body language, the way she fidgets and plays with her hair. My mind was a mess, acutely aware that at least two other people in the room were observing us, watching to see if I go through with it, keen to report back if I don’t.

She sat opposite me smiling and, as always, she had made an effort to look good with her hair and makeup all perfect. The dress had a deep V at the front and my gaze is automatically drawn to the small but pleasant cleavage. When I look up, she is smiling. This is all for me, the dress, the hair, the makeup. >

***

“How have you been?” she asked, totally unaware of the betrayal that was about to unfold.

“I’m good. It’s been quiet,” I lied. We talked about the children, and our parents, her work, but I couldn’t concentrate. The hands on the clock behind her on the wall seemed to be flying round with every minute passing as quickly as a second, and soon I heard the guard saying that time was up.

“Put your hands under the desk,” I mumbled, feeling the prickle of heat spreading from my cheeks and across my skin, down over my neck.

“What? Why?” she replied, her eyes wide and confused, hearing the urgency in my voice, but doing as I asked. Blindly, I felt for her hands under the table, feeling for her fingers. Our eyes lock as we connect, and I pass her the note.

“Don’t look at it,” I murmured, “open it later.”

“Come on ladies and gents.” The guard called again, and I watched her crumple the note into her fist. She looked worried and bewildered, and although I didn’t say a word, I knew she had good cause to be.

Later that evening in my cell, I imagined the conversation as she called the number, speculating on what would be said. I couldn’t even begin to surmise what thoughts would float through her head as she was told of what would be expected of her, or envisage her reaction.

If Charlie was correct then what she was going to be asked to do would be beyond most people's imagination, bordering on sub human, an act for the desperate and destitute. My fate was now in her hands and there was no guarantee of what her final decision would be. I guessed as that soon I would find that out, one way or the other.