The Wrong Man (3 page)

The warden might call it a library for official purposes, but in reality it was a small, low-ceilinged room with a scant selection
of books and old magazines, and few genuine visitors. Nestled in the north-east corner of the main building like a forgotten
relative, the area wasn’t even patrolled by the guards very much. Twice a day, they
accompanied the state-appointed library
supervisor to and from his private office, which took up one side of the room behind its wall of bars. The lights were on
and Bishop could hear the amplified sounds of a game coming from inside. Sounded like football highlights on ESPN again. The
guy was really earning his pay in there.

Four reading tables
filled the space between the bookshelves and the entrance. Two were currently in use as a couple of inmates
pretended to read magazines as they listened to the commentary. At the rear, in the alcove nearest the windows, Bishop stood
facing a man with dreadlocks. He was an inch taller than Bishop and, at a hundred and sixty, about fifteen pounds lighter.
He was slowly going
through the stamp books for a second time.

‘Don’t talk much, do you?’ Owen Falstaff said.

‘What’s there to talk about?’ Bishop said, watching as Falstaff flicked through the prison currency. ‘I told you what I need.
There’s the money.’

Falstaff finished counting and looked at him. ‘That ain’t what I meant. You got the whole population
scratching their heads,
you know. Folks here like to know everything ’bout everybody, but you’re still a closed book even after three years. Like,
this is the first time you ever called on me, and I supply
every
one in here. Even the odd Aryan, believe it or not.’

Bishop shrugged. He should have known Falstaff would be the curious type. ‘So?’

‘So, most of the fools in here I class as bad boys who were just itchin’ for the law to slap cuffs on them. But you don’t
fit the profile, man. You don’t be
long
.’ He started tapping the stamp books against his lips.
‘I had to guess, I’d say somebody screwed you over, big time. Probably someone you trusted, too.’

Bishop hid his surprise. Falstaff was a lot sharper than
he looked. But then, to be a successful hustler he probably had to
be. ‘All right,’ Bishop said, ‘let’s get it over with.’

‘Get what over with?’

‘You’re building up to a question. I can feel it.’

After a few moments chewing his inner cheek, Falstaff said, ‘Okay, I admit I got curious. A while back one of my sources got
me a copy
of the trial transcript and the thing kept me up all night. Man, all that evidence they used on you . . .’ Placing the
books in his shirt pocket, he leaned forward and used his fingers to count off all the points Bishop knew by heart. The knife.
The blueprints. The offshore account. Natalie Brennan. The bullets in Oates.

Bishop only half listened. In his
defence, he could have told Falstaff how ballistic fingerprinting was hardly an exact science,
especially when it came to the problematic polygonal rifling of a Glock. Or how hard it was to convince a jury you’d been
unconscious for the entire duration of the assault when doctors had failed to find any trace of a drug in your system. But
he just waited for Falstaff to finish
and said, ‘So?’

‘A hell of a lot of work just to get you sent up the river, ain’t it? Expensive, too.’

Bishop sighed. This wasn’t exactly news to him. Although it
was
the first time he’d heard it come from somebody else’s mouth. ‘That your question?’

‘Uh, uh. My question is, just what did Brennan
keep
in that vault in the first place? The
Ark of the Covenant?’

Bishop shrugged, ‘Hey, your guess is as good as mine.’ The only thing he did know for sure was it had to be more than two
million. He arched both eyebrows at Falstaff and said, ‘Anything else I can help you with, or can we get back to business?’

Falstaff grinned and tapped his shirt pocket. ‘I believe we’re good to go.’

‘All right. How long?’

‘Three, three and a half weeks. Maybe more. Depends on availability, you know?’

That meant another twenty-four days. At least. ‘No good. That’s too long.’

Falstaff shrugged. ‘Hey, the Buddha’s a breeze, but the other thing ain’t gonna be easy, even for me. Gonna take a lot of
arranging I hadn’t planned
on.’

And at that moment, a big, shaven-headed Aryan with a face full of hate pushed open the entrance doors and stared straight
at Falstaff.

Out the corner of his eye, Bishop watched the two cons at the tables silently get up and walk out. He kept watching as the
thug came forward and leaned against the table nearest them, his thick arms folded across his chest, sleeves rolled up to
show off the tats. Up close he wasn’t pretty. He had a mass of acne scars that went right down
to his neck and a nose too
big for his face.

Falstaff followed Bishop’s stare and frowned when he saw the large man.

‘I told you about my refund policy, Alvin,’ he said. ‘And you got what you wanted in the end.’

‘I’m here about something else,’ said Alvin, smiling. It wasn’t a friendly smile. He finally turned to Bishop and tilted his
head to indicate the rest was a private matter.

Bishop got the message. He shrugged at Falstaff and sauntered past him towards the gap between the reading tables. In Alvin’s
right-hand pocket he saw the irregular shape jutting out.
Shiv
, he thought, which meant the back-up would be just outside. As he passed between the reading tables he casually picked up
the thick, well-thumbed copy of
GQ
left there by its previous owner and began leafing through it as he walked.

As he approached the door, Bishop raised his eyes to the two cams located in each corner ahead of him. The one covering the
right half of the room still had its green indicator light on, but the other had nothing. Not even a red one. Bishop guessed
Alvin had known about the camera being out of service before he’d even entered the library. For the moment, Big Brother was
definitely
not
watching. At least, not where it mattered.

He pushed through the door and in the halogen light saw the pale sheen of the back-up’s shaved head. His squat body was leaning
against the corridor wall, and he was
picking at scabs on his scalp like a chimp.
As the door swung shut behind him Bishop took several more steps, stopped and glanced at the empty hallway ahead. He remained
stationary as though trying to remember something, casually rolling the magazine up in a tight tube with the squarebound spine
facing outwards.

‘Ya waitin’ for, asswipe?’ the back-up said.

Bishop turned back to the Neanderthal. His pig eyes were dull and his mouth hung open as he glared back.

‘Inspiration,’ Bishop said and swung the improvised bat at the man’s face with his full weight behind it.

The spine smashed against the bridge of the man’s nose, and as he slammed back against the wall red spray spattered onto the
polished tile
at his feet. He dropped to his knees with one hand on the floor for support, the other at his face as he tried
to contain the blood and mucus.

Bishop looked down at his clothes to make sure nothing had sprayed on him and saw the thug placing a foot on the floor in
an attempt to rise. He rolled the magazine up even tighter and took another swing, catching
the guy just above the right ear.
His head hit the wall with a satisfying thud. By the time his body collapsed to the floor he was unconscious, breathing noisily
through his mouth.

Bishop scanned the immediate area. The short corridor leading to the refectory ahead remained empty. Monkey boy’s presence
must have warned off any witnesses – ironically,
most inmates generally didn’t want to be around when blood got spilled; it
wasn’t worth the grief. Bishop stood motionless for a few moments, breathing slowly. He knew he should just keep walking.
Down the hallway, through the mess hall and back to his cell. He’d halved the odds for the guy; the rest was up to Falstaff.
Whatever the problem was – business dispute, personality
clash – it wasn’t
his
problem.

Except it wasn’t that clear cut. Nothing ever was. And then Bishop realized this might actually work in his favour. At least,
that’s the reason he gave himself as he turned and pushed back through the library door.

Both men were still in the same alcove. Falstaff was pinned against the wall by Alvin, who had his back to Bishop. With the
sounds coming from the unseen TV Bishop could make out harsh whispers, but couldn’t hear the words.

Keeping to the right, he spotted a pencil under a table. He put the bloody magazine down next to an ancient
crime paperback
and knelt down to pick the pencil up, keeping it in his left hand.

When Bishop was about twenty feet away, Falstaff noticed him and his eyes got wider. Without turning, Alvin said, ‘You don’t
want to be here.’

‘Is that a fact?’ said Bishop.

Alvin had his left hand in Falstaff’s dreadlocks, forcing his head
against the wall. His right held the homemade blade against
Falstaff’s Adam’s apple. The young hustler made no noise as blood dripped steadily onto his grey shirt. Bishop could see the
whites of his eyes and smell the acrid stench of sweat.

Without releasing the pressure, Alvin turned to look at Bishop. ‘Need some time with your dark meat before he takes
the express?
If it’s your roll you’re worried about I’ll send it to you when I’m done.’ He grinned. ‘If I remember.’

Bishop said, ‘You’re already done.’ He briefly considered telling him to drop the weapon, but why waste valuable breath?

‘Tough baby,’ Alvin said and moved his hand down from Falstaff’s hair to cover his mouth before kneeing him in the
groin.
As Falstaff silently collapsed to the floor, Alvin turned with his right arm extended to display two inches of jagged mirror.

He reduced the space between them and began circling Bishop. ‘Just stay right there, black boy,’ he said over his shoulder.
‘We’re still gonna have our fun once I’ve finished with blue-eyes here.’

In response,
Bishop crouched with his empty right hand raised towards
Alvin and mirrored the man’s movements so only his right side was exposed at any time. Alvin suddenly ducked forward and gave
a playful jab to test his reactions and Bishop jerked back with a look of fake surprise on his face.

The Aryan’s smile became broader as he continued to circle, pleased with his own swiftness.
That was fine. Bishop had been
in enough knife fights to know that overconfidence in an enemy should always be encouraged.

As they shuffled around each other, Bishop studied Alvin’s right shoulder muscle. He took three or four steps to match his
opponent’s and saw the deltoid tense. He jerked back at the exact instant Alvin’s arm shot out and almost smiled.
Then he
saw the shoulder begin to twitch again and took another step back as Alvin lunged forward and missed his face again by inches.

The Aryan’s grin faltered. ‘Bad baby,’ he said. ‘No dessert for you.’

Bishop remained silent as he awaited his cue. This was already taking too long.

Ten more seconds passed as they circled, each waiting
for the other to make his play. With every movement their rubber soles
squeaked on the polished tile. Twenty seconds.
Come on
, urged Bishop.
Come on
. Thirty seconds. Then he saw the deltoid tighten for the third and last time.

A millisecond before Alvin thrust his arm forward Bishop dropped his left shoulder, moving his head out of the danger area.
He aimed
a side kick straight at Alvin’s armpit. Alvin saw it coming and began to swerve his body and Bishop’s right foot
struck the edge of his ribcage instead. The Aryan staggered back two steps and Bishop immediately darted forward. He dodged
the outstretched arm and gripped Alvin’s shirt, using his right foot to connect with Alvin’s left ankle and sweep his leg
out from under
him. As Alvin lost his balance, Bishop used the power in his hips and threw the bigger man to the floor in
one fluid movement.

Bishop came down with him, used his right hand to grab hold of the man’s throat and crunched his knee painfully into Alvin’s
knife arm, trapping it. Tightening his grip on the pencil in his left, Bishop was about to thrust it towards
Alvin’s shoulder
when Alvin’s free hand slammed into his throat with the force of a sledgehammer. As Bishop gagged, he felt Alvin’s fingers
clasp the wrist and start to turn it inwards.

Instead of increasing the pressure, Bishop let the arm go slack. When the pencil tip was pointing towards his face, he relaxed
his grip slightly and the shaft
came out the other end instead, the blunt end now protruding from his clenched fist like a
dagger. He then ground his knee further into Alvin’s wounded arm until he heard something snap and the man’s grip on him eased.
Bishop shook his hand free and immediately plunged the blunt end of the pencil down into Alvin’s face. Towards the area where
Alvin’s cheek would have
been if he hadn’t turned his head towards the snapping sound.

It pierced Alvin’s left eye instead.

The eyeball immediately collapsed in on itself and blood and dark tissue spurted from the wound. Bishop clamped his other
hand over Alvin’s mouth to stifle the man’s animal cries and adjusted his position to avoid the blood. Alvin’s movements became
frenzied and Bishop took his hands away, grabbed the man’s head by the ears and slammed it against the floor. The struggling
immediately stopped as the Aryan lost consciousness, blood pooling around his head like a red halo.

Bishop placed his fingers against Alvin’s artery to check for a pulse. Still alive. He was trying to decide whether that was
good
or bad when a shaky voice from behind him said, ‘Whoa.’

Bishop got to his feet and looked down at Alvin, frowning as he thought through the pros and cons of leaving him and the one
outside alive. After a moment, he decided to go with the lesser of two evils.

‘What now, man?’ asked Falstaff.

Bishop turned to see him raising himself
up against the wall, still in pain. ‘You say, “Two weeks, maybe less,” and then you
leave,’ he said.

‘Two weeks it is.’ The younger man tried to smile and failed. ‘Hey, maybe less.’

Bishop nodded. ‘So get going.’ After a few seconds Falstaff still had not moved. ‘I didn’t do it for you,’ he said, ‘so don’t
bother. Get moving. Keep to the left.’

Falstaff let out a long breath. ‘Sure. Sure, man. I’m on it.’ He stepped over the body and ran towards the door. When he pushed
it open he stopped by the second man on the floor outside and looked back at Bishop briefly. Then he was gone.

Bishop studied the pencil shaft in Alvin’s eye. It was shiny with blood now, obscuring any prints it might
have held. He jogged
over to the door and checked outside. Still nobody, but that could change at any
time. Grabbing monkey boy’s wrists, he dragged him back into the room and dropped him next to his partner. Then he wiped the
mirror piece clean and dropped it in the pool of blood near Alvin’s head.

He walked back towards the door and stopped by the magazine
he’d used earlier. And people complained
GQ
had too many ads. He tore the covers off and put them in his pocket. He’d flush them in the cell later.

Glancing across at the closed librarian’s door behind its barred wall of steel, he could still hear the TV through the frosted
glass pane. The state employee was either asleep or still wrapped up in the football. Either
option was fine with Bishop.
With a final look around the room, he pushed through the door and walked back to his cellblock.

Fifteen days. He just needed to steer clear of any further trouble for the next fifteen days.