Seven Daze (38 page)
“Someone in east London admires your sense of discretion. He was watching your trial with interest. I think you know who I mean.”
Jim nodded as best he could. The wannabe Kray with the Range Rover seemed the best candidate for this.
“But he says don’t get any ideas about squealing. True, you might get out a year or two earlier. But ...” He moved in closer. “The life sentence you’ll get from my employer won’t be as easy to shift.”
He removed his hands and straightened Jim’s collar. Looking him in the eye, he nodded before leaving the cell. It took ages before he could breathe properly. Even then, he was sure the red marks round his neck would be permanent.
He saw them every day at breakfast and dinner. Every day without fail, Chocker would nod a greeting at him, his eyes heavy. Every day, Jim would return that nod.
Aside from the usual fights and disagreements time plodded on. He kept his nose as clean as he could and took an interest in a cookery course. The kitchen beat sewing mailbags, and as his time progressed he ended up on mashed potato duty. This in itself, although repetitive, bought him a certain amount of respect from the other prisoners as he tried hard to remove the stodgy lumps others didn’t care about.
Another year and an NVQ in food hygiene later, Jim was leading the kitchen. He’d never considered it as a job before, he’d never considered any job before, but he found something enormously satisfying about creating an edible meal from basic ingredients.
Another few months and talk was of early release. He’d kept his nose clean, taken exams and read books. He’d learnt his lesson. Plus, a local hotel was after a kitchen assistant and, as the enhancements paid to the hotel for employing ex-cons were huge, they were interested in him.
A visit to the hotel, prison guard attached, told him the real reason why the hotel was so keen. The entire staff except for the chef were from either Poland or Romania. “No one’ll work for these shit wages,” the chef said. “Just can’t get the staff.”
With a month to release, the job was accepted and a bedroom in a halfway house obtained by his case worker. He knew he didn’t have to stay there forever, but was also more than aware his history would follow him around like a bad smell. He knew it was a start though. And what came of it was up to him.
The letters from his sister had all but dried up. He still wrote occasionally but guessed she had a new life, and if anything was worried she’d become his next victim after release. He told her of cooking and of the hotel and suggested she visit it sometime.
The last month dragged. Friendships made inside wouldn’t carry on no matter how much they insisted they would. It was known by both sides too. Little more than saying what they thought should be said. With three weeks to go, he was moved to the releasers wing. The prisoners in the last few days of their sentences tended to be calmer. Avoiding anything that may hinder their early release became a way of life.
As he ticked down each day to go, he had a different feeling to the other times he was awaiting release. This was it now. The start of a new life. A second chance. He was going to take that chance and see where it took him.
The prison gate opened. Stepping forward, he crossed the line that separated being inside and being free. The air tasted sweeter. Just under three years of breathing that foul air had made him yearn for this moment. The grass looked greener than the last time he could remember seeing it too. The trees taller, they appeared to swish more in the wind.
He turned round and thanked the guard.
“Don’t come back,” he replied with a smile.
Jim shook his head. “This time, I won’t.”
He walked to the front gate past the gatehouse that inspected cars coming in and out. One final wave and he was out. Traffic sped by on the road. People in cars looked round and saw a man in jeans and coat. Jim wondered if they’d mistake him for a guard, or could everyone tell straight away he’d just been released.
Heading for the bus stop, he breathed in deeply. Traffic fumes, but they were familiar. The taste of freedom. The taste of free England.
He knew the bus would arrive in ten minutes. The timetable had been scoured every day for the past week. He’d get on and ask for a single to Dunchurch then change there to Rugby. He’d find the halfway house easily then nip to the shops for some food and maybe a couple of cans of lager. After that, he’d go back to the room and sleep. He’d an early start in the morning. Four a.m. Half a mile walk to the hotel to help cook breakfasts for its guests.
He looked round at the car slowing on its approach to the bus stop. Range Rover; new model. Black with blackened windows. His heart sunk as it pulled up beside him and the passenger electric window wound down.
The man he expected to see wasn’t there; the passenger seat empty. The only seat occupied was the driver’s and that wasn’t him.
It was a woman. Mid-thirties, maybe older but heavily made-up. Red hair, sunglasses and a very familiar look to her nose.
“Fancy a lift?” she said.
Opening the door he got in. Fastening his seat belt he turned to her. The years had been kind. Her face seemed smoother. If anything she looked younger. Jim wondered whether a surgeon had a hand in it.
“You okay?” she asked.
He nodded. “Not bad. I take it I didn’t ruin everything?”
She took her glasses off as she pulled away. “No, God no. Worked out just fine in the end. Sorry I just…” she paused, looking back at the road, “left you.”
He was going to say I’d have done the same but didn’t. He didn’t know if he would have or not. “I’d have got caught eventually.”
She nodded. “So ... Fancy a drink? There’s a little pub up the road.”
“Charlotte, I ...” He stopped, wondering what her name was now. “I’ve got a job and somewhere to live. It’s only a hotel kitchen, but it’s a start. I ...” He looked out of the window as the trees rushed by. “I’m getting too old for this.”
“That’s a shame,” she said. A smile he’d never forgotten reappeared. “I’ve got this thing going in Manchester, but I really need some help. How about we have a little drink and I tell you all about it.”
The End
Charlie Wade was born in 1971 and grew up in an Oxfordshire village. Despite having an interest in books and even trying to write a spy novel at the age of 18, he instead headed down the path of maths.
After a succession of jobs in his mid-twenties, he settled on accountancy. After reading Irvine Welsh in the nineties, his interest in writing was rekindled, the results of which were several short stories and a part finished novel. Trying again when he was thirty then again at forty, he eventually finished the spy novel but realised he much preferred writing crime fiction.
Some of his short stories have appeared online and in print over the years. Include Out of the Gutter magazine issue 7 and the Off the Record Anthology.
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