Books of Blood (13 page)

     
He knew she was going to say pig, but she stopped just short of the word.

‘Those wretched animals on the farm,’ she said, looking back down at her report.

      ‘Henessey spent time at the farm?’

      ‘No more than any other boy,’ she lied. ‘None of them like farm duties, but it’s part of the work rota. Mucking out isn’t a very pleasant occupation. I can testify to that.’

      The lie he knew she’d told made Redman keep back Lacey’s final detail: that Henessey’s death had taken place in the pig-sty.

      He shrugged, and took an entirely different tack.

      ‘Is Lacey under any medication?’

      ‘Some sedatives.’

      ‘Are the boys always sedated when they’ve been in a fight?’

      ‘Only if they try to make escapes. We haven’t got enough staff to supervise the likes of Lacey. I don’t see why you’re so concerned.’

      ‘I want him to trust me. I promised him. I don’t want him let down.’

      ‘Frankly, all this sounds suspiciously like special pleading. The boy’s one of many. No unique problems, and no particular hope of redemption.’

      ‘Redemption?’ It was a strange word.

      ‘Rehabilitation, whatever you choose to call it. Look, Redman, I’ll be frank. There’s a general feeling that you’re not really playing ball here.’

      ‘Oh?’

      ‘We all feel, I think this includes the Governor, that you should let us go about our business the way we’re used to. Learn the ropes before you start —‘

      ‘Interfering.’

      She nodded. ‘It’s as good a word as any. You’re making enemies.’

     
‘Thank you for the warning.’

      ‘This job’s difficult enough without enemies, believe me.’

      She attempted a conciliatory look, which Redman ignored.

      Enemies he could live with, liars he couldn’t.

      The Governor’s room was locked, as it had been for a full week now. Explanations differed as to where he was. Meetings with funding bodies was a favourite reason touted amongst the staff, though the Secretary claimed she didn’t exactly know. There were Seminars at the University he was running, somebody said, to bring some research to bear on the problems of Remand Centres. Maybe the Governor was at one of those. If Mr Redman wanted, he could leave a message, the Governor would get it.

      Back in the workshop, Lacey was waiting for him. It was almost seven-fifteen: classes were well over.

      ‘What are you doing here?’

      ‘Waiting, sir.’

      ‘What for?’

      ‘You, sir. I wanted to give you a letter, sir. For me mam. Will you get it to her?’

      ‘You can send it through the usual channels, can’t you? Give it to the Secretary, she’ll forward it. You’re allowed two letters a week.’

      Lacey’s face fell.

      ‘They read them, sir: in case you write something you shouldn’t. And if you do, they burn them.’

      ‘And you’ve written something you shouldn’t?’

      He nodded.

      ‘What?’

      ‘About Kevin. I told her all about Kevin, about what happened to him.’

      ‘I’m not sure you’ve got your facts right about Henessey.’

      The boy shrugged. ‘It’s true, sir,’ he said quietly,

apparently no longer caring if he convinced Redman or not ‘It’s true. He’s there, sir. In her.’

      ‘In who? What are you talking about?’

      Maybe Lacey was speaking, as Leverthal had suggested, simply out of his fear. There had to be a limit to his patience with the boy, and this was just about it.

      A knock on the door, and a spotty individual called Slape was staring at him through the wired glass.

      ‘Come in.’

      ‘Urgent telephone call for you, sir. In the Secretary’s Office.’

      Redman hated the telephone. Unsavoury machine: it never brought good tidings.

      ‘Urgent. Who from?’

      Slape shrugged and picked at his face.

      ‘Stay with Lacey, will you?’

      Slape looked unhappy with the prospect.

      ‘Here, sir?’ he asked.

      ‘Here.’

      ‘Yes, sir.’

      ‘I’m relying on you, so don’t let me down.’

      ‘No, sir.’

      Redman turned to Lacey. The bruised look was a wound now open, as he wept.

      ‘Give me your letter. I’ll take it to the Office.’

      Lacey had thrust the envelope into his pocket. He retrieved it unwillingly, and handed it across to Redman.

      ‘Say thank you.’

      ‘Thank you, sir.’

      The corridors were empty.

      It was television time, and the nightly worship of the box had begun. They would be glued to the black and white set that dominated the Recreation Room, sitting through the pap of Cop Shows and Game Shows and

Wars from the World Shows with their jaws open and their minds closed. A hypnotized silence would fall on the assembled company until a promise of violence or a hint of sex. Then the room would erupt in whistles, obscenities, and shouts of encouragement, only to subside again into sullen silence during the dialogue, as they waited for another gun, another breast. He could hear gunfire and music, even now, echoing down the corridor.

      The Office was open, but the Secretary wasn’t there. Gone home presumably. The clock in the Office said eight-nineteen. Redman amended his watch.

      The telephone was on the hook. Whoever had called him had tired of waiting, leaving no message. Relieved as he was that the call wasn’t urgent enough to keep the caller hanging on, he now felt disappointed not to be speaking to the outside world. Like Crusoe seeing a sail, only to have it sweep by his island.

      Ridiculous: this wasn’t his prison. He could walk out whenever he liked. He would walk out that very night: and be Crusoe no longer.

      He contemplated leaving Lacey’s letter on the desk, but thought better of it. He had promised to protect the boy’s interests, and that he would do. If necessary, he’d post the letter himself.

      Thinking of nothing in particular, he started back towards the workshop. Vague wisps of unease floated in his system, clogging his responses. Sighs sat in his throat, scowls on his face. This damn place, he said aloud, not meaning the walls and the floors, but the trap they represented. He felt he could die here with his good intentions arrayed around him like flowers round a stiff, and nobody would know, or care, or mourn. Idealism was weakness here, compassion and indulgence. Unease was all: unease and —Silence.

     
That was what was wrong. Though the television still popped and screamed down the corridor, there was silence accompanying it. No wolf-whistles, no cat-calls.

      Redman darted back to the vestibule and down the corridor to the Recreation Room. Smoking was allowed in this section of the building, and the area stank of stale cigarettes. Ahead, the noise of mayhem continued unabated. A woman screamed somebody’s name. A man answered and was cut off by a blast of gunfire. Stories, half-told, hung in the air.

      He reached the room, and opened the door.

      The television spoke to him. ‘Get down!’

      ‘He’s got a gun!’

      Another shot.

      The woman, blonde, big-breasted, took the bullet in her heart, and died on the sidewalk beside the man she’d loved.

      The tragedy went unwatched. The Recreation Room was empty, the old armchairs and graffiti-carved stools placed around the television set for an audience who had better entertainment for the evening. Redman wove between the seats and turned the television off. As the silver-blue fluorescence died, and the insistent beat of the music was cut dead, he became aware, in the gloom, in the hush, of somebody at the door.

      ‘Who is it?’

      ‘Slape, sir.’

      ‘I told you to stay with Lacey.’

      ‘He had to go, sir.’

      ‘Go?’

      ‘He ran off, sir. I couldn’t stop him.’

      ‘Damn you. What do you mean, you couldn’t stop him?’

      Redman started to re-cross the room, catching his foot on a stool. It scraped on the linoleum, a little protest.

     
Slape twitched.

      ‘I’m sorry, sir,’ he said, ‘I couldn’t catch him. I’ve got a bad foot.’

      Yes, Slape did limp. ‘Which way did he go?’ Slape shrugged. ‘Not sure, sir.’ ‘Well, remember.’

      ‘No need to lose your temper, sir.’

      The ‘sir’ was slurred: a parody of respect. Redman found his hand itching to hit this pus-filled adolescent. He was within a couple of feet of the door. Slape didn’t move aside.

      ‘Out of my way, Slape.’

      ‘Really, sir, there’s no way you can help him now. He’s gone.’

      ‘I said, out of my way.’

      As he stepped forward to push Slape aside there was a click at navel-level and the bastard had a flick-knife pressed to Redman’s belly. The point bit the fat of his stomach.

      ‘There’s really no need to go after him, sir.’

      ‘What in God’s name are you doing, Slape?’

      ‘We’re just playing a game,’ he said through teeth gone grey.

      ‘There’s no real harm in it. Best leave well alone.’

      The point of the knife had drawn blood. Warmly, it wended its way down into Redman’s groin. Slape was prepared to kill him; no doubt of that. Whatever this game was, Slape was having a little fun all of his own. Killing teacher, it was called. The knife was still being pressed, infinitesimally slowly, through the wall of Redman’s flesh. The little rivulet of blood had thickened into a stream.

      ‘Kevin likes to come out and play once in a while,’ said Slape.

      ‘Henessey?’

      ‘Yes, you like to call us by our second names, don’t you? That’s more manly isn’t it? That means we’re not children,

that means we’re men. Kevin isn’t quite a man though, you see sir. He’s never wanted to be a man. In fact, I think he hated the idea. You know why? (The knife divided muscle now, just gently). He thought once you were a man, you started to die: and Kevin used to say he’d never die.’

      ‘Never die.’ ‘Never.’

      ‘I want to meet him.’

      ‘Everybody does, sir. He’s charismatic. That’s the Doctor’s word for him: Charismatic.’

      ‘I want to meet this charismatic fellow.’

      ‘Soon.’

      ‘Now.’

      ‘I said soon.’

      Redman took the knife-hand at the wrist so quickly Slape had no chance to press the weapon home. The adolescent’s response was slow, doped perhaps, and Redman had the better of him. The knife dropped from his hand as Redman’s grip tightened, the other hand took Slape in a strangle-hold, easily rounding his emaciated neck. Redman’s palm pressed on his assailant’s Adam’s apple, making him gargle.

      ‘Where’s Henessey? You take me to him.’

      The eyes that looked down at Redman were slurred as his words, the irises pin-pricks.

      ‘Take me to him!’ Redman demanded.

      Slape’s hand found Redman’s cut belly, and his fist jabbed the wound. Redman cursed, letting his hold slip, and Slape almost slid out of his grasp, but Redman drove his knee into the other’s groin, fast and sharp. Slape wanted to double up in agony, but the neck-hold prevented him. The knee rose again, harder. And again. Again.

      Spontaneous tears ran down Slape’s face, coursing through the minefield of his boils.

     
‘I can hurt you twice as badly as you can hurt me,’ Redman said, ‘so if you want to go on doing this all night I’m happy as a sand-boy.’

      Slape shook his head, grabbing his breath through his constricted windpipe in short, painful gasps.

      ‘You don’t want any more?’

      Slape shook his head again. Redman let go of him, and flung him across the corridor against the wall. Whimpering with pain, his face crimped, he slid down the wall into a foetal position, hands between his legs.

      ‘Where’s Lacey?’

      Slape had begun to shake; the words tumbled out. ‘Where d’you think? Kevin’s got him.’

      ‘Where’s Kevin?’

      Slape looked up at Redman, puzzled.

      ‘Don’t you know?’

      ‘I wouldn’t ask if I did, would I?’

      Slape seemed to pitch forward as he spoke, letting out a sigh of pain. Redman’s first thought was that the youth was collapsing, but Slape had other ideas. The knife was suddenly in his hand again, snatched from the floor, and Slape was driving it up towards Redman’s groin. He sidestepped the cut with a hair’s breadth to spare, and Slape was on his feet again, the pain forgotten. The knife slit the air back and forth, Slape hissing his intention through his teeth.

      ‘Kill you, pig. Kill you, pig.’

      Then his mouth was wide and he was yelling: ‘Kevin! Kevin! Help me!’

      The slashes were less and less accurate as Slape lost control of himself, tears, snot and sweat sliming his face as he stumbled towards his intended victim.

      Redman chose his moment, and delivered a crippling blow to Slape’s knee, the weak leg, he guessed. He guessed correctly.

      Slape screamed, and staggered back, reeling

round and hitting the wall face on. Redman followed through, pressing Slape’s back. Too late, he realized what he’d done. Slape’s body relaxed as his knife hand, crushed between wall and body, slid out, bloody and weapon less. Slape exhaled death-air, and collapsed heavily against the wall, driving the knife still deeper into his own gut. He was dead before he touched the ground.

      Redman turned him over. He’d never become used to the suddenness of death. To be gone so quickly, like the image on the television screen. Switched off and blank. No message.

      The utter silence of the corridors became overwhelming as he walked back towards the vestibule. The cut on his stomach was not significant, and the blood had made its own scabby bandage of his shirt, knitting cotton to flesh and sealing the wound. It scarcely hurt at all. But the cut was the least of his problems: he had mysteries to unravel now, and he felt unable to face them. The used, exhausted atmosphere of the place made him feel, in his turn, used and exhausted. There was no health to be had here, no goodness, no reason.

      He believed, suddenly, in ghosts.

      In the vestibule there was a light burning, a bare bulb suspended over the dead space. By it, he read Lacey’s crumpled letter. The smudged words on the paper were like matches set to the tinder of his panic.

      Mama,

      They fed me to the pig. Don’t believe them if they said I never loved you, or if they said I ran away. I never did. They fed me to the pig. I love you.

      Tommy.

      He pocketed the letter and began to run out of the building and across the field. It was well dark now: a deep, starless