Clifton Chronicles 02 - The Sins of the Father (3 page)

Harry had so much he wanted to ask his new tutor and, like an enthusiastic student, he concentrated on the questions that would help him pass the entrance exam, rather pleased that Quinn hadn’t questioned his accent.

‘Do you know where we’re going?’ he asked.

‘Lavenham or Pierpoint,’ said Quinn. ‘All depends on whether we come off the highway at exit twelve or fourteen.’

‘Have you been to either of them before?’

‘Both, several times,’ said Quinn matter-of-factly. ‘And before you ask, if there was a tourist guide to prisons, Lavenham would get one star and Pierpoint would be closed down.’

‘Why don’t we just ask the guard which one we’re going to?’ said Harry, who wanted to be put out of his misery.

‘Because he’d tell us the wrong one, just to piss us off. If it’s Lavenham, the only thing you need to worry about is which block they put you on. As you’re a first-timer you’ll probably end up on A block, where life is a lot easier. The old-timers, like me, are usually sent to D block, where there’s no one under thirty and no one with a record for violence, so it’s the ideal set-up if you just want to keep your head down and do your time. Try to avoid B and C block – they’re both full of hopheads and psychos.’

‘What do I have to do to make sure I end up on A block?’

‘Tell the reception officer you’re a devout Christian, don’t smoke and don’t drink.’

‘I didn’t know you were allowed to drink in prison,’ said Harry.

‘You aren’t, you stupid fucker,’ said Quinn, ‘but if you can supply the greenbacks,’ he added, rubbing a thumb against the tip of his index finger, ‘the guards suddenly become barmen. Even prohibition didn’t slow them down.’

‘What’s the most important thing for me to watch out for on my first day?’

‘Make sure you get the right job.’

‘What’s the choice?’

‘Cleaning, kitchen, hospital, laundry, library, gardening and the chapel.’

‘What do I have to do to get in the library?’

‘Tell ’em you can read.’

‘What do you tell them?’ asked Harry.

‘That I trained as a chef.’

‘That must have been interesting.’

‘You still haven’t caught on, have you?’ said Quinn. ‘I never trained as a chef, but it means I’m always put in the kitchen, which is the best job in any prison.’

‘Why’s that?’

‘You’re let out of your cell before breakfast, and you don’t go back to it until after dinner. It’s warm, and you have the best choice of food. Ah, we’re going to Lavenham,’ said Quinn as the bus turned off the highway at exit 12. ‘That’s good, ’cause now I won’t have to answer any dumb questions about Pierpoint.’

‘Anything else I ought to know about Lavenham?’ asked Harry, unperturbed by Quinn’s sarcasm, as he suspected that the old-timer was enjoying delivering a master class to such a willing pupil.

‘Too much to tell you,’ he sighed. ‘Just remember to stick close by me once we’ve been registered.’

‘But won’t they automatically send you to D block?’

‘Not if Mr Mason’s on duty,’ Quinn said without explanation.

Harry managed several more questions before the bus finally drew up outside the prison. In fact, he felt he’d learnt more from Quinn in a couple of hours than he’d managed in a dozen tutorials at Oxford.

‘Stick with me,’ repeated Quinn as the massive gates swung open. The bus moved slowly forward and on to a desolate piece of scrubland that had never seen a gardener. It stopped in front of a vast brick building that displayed rows of small filthy windows, some with eyes staring out of them.

Harry watched as a dozen guards formed a corridor that led all the way to the entrance of the prison. Two armed with rifles had planted themselves on either side of the bus door.

‘Leave the bus in twos,’ one of them announced gruffly, ‘with a five-minute interval between each pair. No one moves an inch unless I say so.’

Harry and Quinn remained on the bus for another hour. When they were finally ushered off, Harry looked up at the high walls topped with barbed wire that surrounded the entire prison and thought even the world record holder for the pole vault wouldn’t have been able to escape from Lavenham.

Harry followed Quinn into the building, where they came to a halt in front of an officer who was seated behind a table and wearing a well-worn shiny blue uniform with buttons that didn’t shine. He looked as if he’d already served a life sentence as he studied the list of names on his clipboard. He smiled when he saw the next prisoner.

‘Welcome back, Quinn,’ he said. ‘You won’t find much has changed since you were last here.’

Quinn grinned. ‘It’s good to see you too, Mr Mason. Perhaps you’d be kind enough to ask one of the bell hops to take my luggage up to my usual room.’

‘Don’t push your luck, Quinn,’ said Mason, ‘otherwise I might be tempted to tell the new doc you’re not an epileptic.’

‘But, Mr Mason, I’ve got a medical certificate to prove it.’

‘From the same source as your chef’s certificate no doubt,’ said Mason, turning his attention to Harry. ‘And who are you?’

‘This is my buddy, Tom Bradshaw. He doesn’t smoke, drink, swear or spit,’ said Quinn before Harry had a chance to speak.

‘Welcome to Lavenham, Bradshaw,’ said Mason.

‘Captain Bradshaw actually,’ said Quinn.

‘It used to be Lieutenant,’ said Harry. ‘I was never a captain.’ Quinn looked disappointed with his protégé.

‘A first-timer?’ asked Mason, taking a closer look at Harry.

‘Yes, sir.’

‘I’ll put you on A block. After you’ve showered and collected your prison clothes from the store, Mr Hessler will take you to cell number three-two-seven.’ Mason checked his clipboard before turning to a young officer who was standing behind him, a truncheon swinging from his right hand.

‘Any hope of joining my friend?’ asked Quinn once Harry had signed the register. ‘After all, Lieutenant Bradshaw might need a batman.’

‘You’re the last person he needs,’ said Mason. Harry was about to speak as the pickpocket bent down, removed a folded dollar bill from inside his sock and slipped it into Mason’s top pocket in the blink of an eye. ‘Quinn will also be in cell three-two-seven,’ said Mason to the junior officer. If Hessler had witnessed the exchange, he didn’t comment. ‘You two, follow me,’ was all he said.

Quinn chased after Harry before Mason could change his mind.

The two new prisoners were marched down a long green brick corridor until Hessler stopped outside a small shower room that had two narrow wooden benches fixed to the wall, littered with discarded towels.

‘Strip,’ said Hessler, ‘and take a shower.’

Harry slowly removed the tailored suit, smart cream shirt, stiff collar and striped tie that Mr Jelks had been so keen for him to wear in court to impress the judge. The trouble was, he’d picked the wrong judge.

Quinn was already under the shower before Harry had unlaced his shoes. He turned on the tap and a trickle of water reluctantly dripped down on to his balding head. He then picked up a sliver of soap from the floor and began to wash. Harry stepped under the cold water of the only other shower, and a moment later Quinn passed him what was left of the soap.

‘Remind me to speak to the management about the facilities,’ said Quinn as he picked up a damp towel, not much bigger than a dishcloth, and attempted to dry himself.

Hessler’s lips remained pursed. ‘Get dressed and follow me,’ he said, before Harry had finished soaping himself.

Once again Hessler marched off down the corridor at a brisk pace, with a half-dressed, still wet Harry chasing after him. They didn’t stop until they came to a double door marked STORES. Hessler rapped firmly and a moment later it was pulled open to reveal a world-weary officer, elbows on the counter, smoking a rolled cigarette. The officer smiled when he saw Quinn.

‘I’m not sure we’ve got your last lot back from the laundry yet, Quinn,’ he said.

‘Then I’ll need a new set of everything, Mr Newbold,’ said Quinn, who bent down and removed something from inside his other sock, and once again it disappeared without trace. ‘My requirements are simple,’ he added. ‘One blanket, two cotton sheets, one pillow, one pillowcase . . .’ The officer selected each item from the shelves behind him, before placing them in a neat pile on the counter. ‘. . . Two shirts, three pairs of socks, six pairs of pants, two towels, one bowl, one plate, one knife, fork and spoon, one razor, one toothbrush and one tube of toothpaste – I prefer Colgate.’

Newbold made no comment as Quinn’s pile grew larger and larger. ‘Will there be anything else?’ he eventually asked, as if Quinn were a valued customer who was likely to return.

‘Yes, my friend Lieutenant Bradshaw will require the same order, and as he is an officer and a gentleman, be sure that he gets only the best.’

To Harry’s surprise, Newbold began to build another pile, seeming to take his time selecting each item, and all because of the prisoner who’d sat next to him on the bus.

‘Follow me,’ said Hessler when Newbold had completed his task. Harry and Pat grabbed their piles of clothes and charged off down the corridor. There were several stops on the way, as a duty officer had to unlock and lock barred gates as they came nearer to the cells. When they eventually stepped on to the wing, they were greeted by the noise of a thousand prisoners.

Quinn said, ‘I see we’re on the top floor, Mr Hessler, but I won’t be taking the elevator, as I need the exercise.’ The officer ignored him and continued past the shouting prisoners.

‘I thought you said this was the quiet wing,’ said Harry.

‘It’s clear Mr Hessler is not one of the more popular officers,’ whispered Quinn, just before the three of them reached cell 327. Hessler unlocked the heavy iron door and pulled it open to allow the new con and the old con to enter the home Harry had a lease on for the next six years.

Harry heard the door slam behind him. He looked around the cell, and noticed there was no handle on the inside of the door. Two bunks, one on top of the other, a steel wash basin attached to the wall, a wooden table, also attached to the wall, and a wooden chair. His eyes finally settled on a steel bowl under the lower bunk. He thought he was going to be sick.

‘You get the top bunk,’ said Quinn, interrupting his thoughts, ‘on account of you being a first-timer. If I get out before you, you’ll move down to the bottom one, and your new cellmate will get the top. Prison etiquette,’ he explained.

Harry stood on the bottom bunk and slowly made up his bed, then climbed up, lay down and placed his head on the thin, hard pillow, painfully aware that it might be some time before he managed a night’s sleep. ‘Can I ask you one more question?’ he said to Quinn.

‘Yes, but don’t speak again until lights on tomorrow morning.’ Harry recalled Fisher saying almost the same words on his first night at St Bede’s.

‘It’s obvious you’ve been able to smuggle in a considerable amount of cash, so why didn’t the guards confiscate it as soon as you got off the bus?’

‘Because if they did,’ said Quinn, ‘no con would ever bring in any money again, and the whole system would break down.’

3

H
ARRY LAY ON
the top bunk and stared at the one-coated white ceiling that he could touch by reaching up with his fingers. The mattress was lumpy and the pillow so hard that he could only manage to sleep for a few minutes at a time.

His thoughts turned to Sefton Jelks and how easily he had been duped by the old advocate. Get my son off the murder charge, that’s all I care about, he could hear Tom Bradshaw’s father telling Jelks. Harry tried not to think about the next six years, which Mr Bradshaw didn’t care about. Had it been worth $10,000?

He dismissed his lawyer and thought about Emma. He missed her so much, and wanted to write and tell her he was still alive, but he knew he couldn’t. He wondered what she would be doing on an autumn day in Oxford. How was her work progressing as she began her freshman year? Was she being courted by another man?

And what of her brother, Giles, his closest friend? Now that Britain was at war, had Giles left Oxford and signed up to fight the Germans? If he had, Harry prayed that he was still alive. He thumped the side of the bunk with a clenched fist, angry that he was not being allowed to play his part. Quinn didn’t speak, assuming that Harry was suffering ‘first-night-itis’.

And what of Hugo Barrington? Had anyone seen him since he disappeared on the day Harry should have married his daughter? Would he find a way of creeping back into favour, when everyone believed Harry was dead? He dismissed Barrington from his mind, still unwilling to accept the possibility that the man might be his father.

When his thoughts turned to his mother, Harry smiled, hoping that she would make good use of the $10,000 Jelks had promised to send her once he’d agreed to take the place of Tom Bradshaw. With over £2,000 in the bank, Harry hoped she would give up her job as a waitress at the Grand Hotel and buy that little house in the country she’d always talked about; that was the only good thing that would come out of this whole charade.

And what of Sir Walter Barrington, who had always treated him like a grandchild? If Hugo was Harry’s father, then Sir Walter
was
his grandfather. If that turned out to be the case, Harry would be in line to inherit the Barrington estate and the family title, and would in time become Sir Harry Barrington. But not only did Harry want his friend Giles, Hugo Barrington’s legitimate son, to inherit the title, even more important, he was desperate to
prove
that his real father was Arthur Clifton. That would still give him an outside chance of being able to marry his beloved Emma. Harry tried to forget where he’d be spending the next six years.