‘Was Henessey one?’
She allowed herself a little sneer as she shook her head.
‘Henessey was unstable in a completely different direc-tion. He thought he was going to live forever. That was his little dream: Henessey the Nietzchean Superman. He had something close to contempt for the common herd. As far as he was concerned, he was a breed apart. As far beyond the rest of us mere mortals as he was beyond that wretched —‘ 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 detaiclass="underline" 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 plead-ing. 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 alclass="underline" 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.