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CHAPTER 42

It was called the Visitors' Room but it was more like a public meeting hall or a large works canteen. Not dissimilar to a canteen, with tables spaced equidistant on the squeaky composition floor, except the tables were quite small, with plain grey plastic tops, room enough for just one remand prisoner, one visitor. The kids had to stand or play on the floor. Four uniformed wardens patrolled the perimeter, constantly on the move, eyes alert for any communication between prisoners – strictly forbidden. Two senior wardens sat like tennis umpires on high chairs, keeping a general watch on the proceedings. The prisoners were rotated in batches of twenty, over a hundred in the hall at any one time. Once seated, their visitors were allowed in, while the previous batch of visitors streamed out, so there was continuous noise and bustle and movement, the scampering and crying of children, the muffled weeping of women, the rumbling hum of a hundred conversations.

Shirley was in the first batch. She came in with other wives, girlfriends and mothers, heads craning for their loved ones. There were a number of black prisoners, but she spotted Cliff at once, his hand slightly raised, a shy, almost painful smile on his face. Like all the others he was dressed in a blue shirt, dark trousers without a belt, black slip-on shoes with soft soles.

'How you keeping?' asked Cliff, eyes very large and suspiciously bright, fixed on her as she sat down.

Shirley placed a paper bag on the table. She slipped off her shoulder bag and put down the styrofoam cup of coffee she'd only taken a couple of sips of before the name Morgan came up over the PA.

'There's chocolate, crisps and cigarettes.' She pushed the bag towards him.

'I don't smoke,' Cliff said.

'Susie said to bring them in, you can trade with them. She takes in some for…' Shirley glanced around the crowded room. 'Have you seen him yet?'

Cliff shook his head. 'They keep us segregated. I got a message to Harry, but he…' Cliff gulped, and the tears that were there, waiting to be shed, suddenly filled his eyes. '… he sent it back. I just had to tell them what went down, Shirley, this is all a mistake, we didn't do it.' Out it poured in a frantic gabble: 'You see I saw the van, the furniture van that was used in the robbery, and I saw the guy drivin' it, it was me that told Frank, that Newman's put us all in the frame. I had to tell them, but they twist it, they twist it around. I know they found the gear at our place, but we'd come from Newman's, we were gonna hand it in. I think Frank's scared that Newman'll do somethin', he reckoned we'd get bail you see, an' -'

'Cliff – Cliff, you've told me all this, you tell it to me every time, but why won't they give you bail?' Shirley searched his face. 'None of this makes sense to me. Why are they askin' about other robberies unless…' She leaned over until their faces were nearly touching. 'Cliff, don't protect them, will you?'

Cliff's mouth was quivering. Tears had made wet pathways down either side of his nose. He was looking at Shirley but he wasn't seeing her. The inside of his head was spinning like a merry-go-round, the same endless, obsessional whirl of facts, events, places, names blurring in front of his eyes. She tried to stop him, to stem the flow, but he was unstoppable.

'… I said to Frank we should go straight to the cops, but we had to clean ourselves up an' then there was the car, windscreen was wrecked… now the gun, Harry took it off the blokes, I mean I nearly got myself killed. I explained all this. I told them all this. I recognised one of the guys, I said to Harry, I said…' He blinked, tears splashing down. 'I dunno why he kept it, we should have handed that gun back. It'll be sorted. It'll all be sorted, we'll be out of here…' Cliff wept openly. 'Shit, why didn't we hand over that bloody shooter…?'

Shirley could hardly hear him for all the racket going on around them. Not that it mattered. She'd heard it ten times before. She simply sat and gazed at him, at the merry-go-round spinning madly out of control.

A bell rang, signalling a changeover of batches. Twenty in, twenty out. There was a clicking and crackling from the PA, and a voice announced in a monotonous drone: 'Allen, Alcott, Allerton, Anthony, Daneman, Dillon, Dupres, Hoyle, Knight, Morris, Mayfield, Mayell, Netherton, Normans, Orchard, O'Rourke, O'Neill…'

Dillon was brought in and directed to a table on the far side of the room from Cliff. He sat down and looked expectantly towards the door as the visitors filed in, eager for his first glimpse of Susie. The clamour was tremendous, women moving along the aisles, many with toddlers in tow, some carrying babies. Around the human arena the wardens kept up their steady pacing and relentless steely-eyed scrutiny. At last he saw her, moving through the tables, and something strange happened. He thought he was strong, that he could face anything, had built up his resolve to get him through each minute of every day as a prisoner on remand. But the moment he saw her his strength and resolve just crumbled away. His insides seemed to shrink, and he had to turn away because his face was too naked and vulnerable. Tough guy Dillon who could throw himself out of a Here at 800 feet, and yet this particular ordeal nearly did for him. He understood now how a man's reason could snap, as easily and suddenly and fatally as a brittle pencil point.

'They made me wait almost two hours.' Susie gave him a quick smile, sounding out of breath. She had a paper bag with her, and from her handbag produced a manila envelope. 'I brought all your letters from the C.O. You'll give them to the lawyer?'

Dillon nodded. He couldn't trust himself to speak. He took the envelope to give his hands something to do. His mouth was dry as dust and his palms were cold and damp.

'Is there anything else you need?'

'No,' Dillon croaked. He cleared his throat. 'I got everything.'

'He said the trial will be in ten – ten to twelve weeks.'

'Yeah. That's right.'

'He said you'd moved cells. You're sharing now. All right, is it?' Susie raised her eyebrows. It was stupid small talk, but what else was there? You couldn't talk about the weather to a man inside.

'Guy's a nutter, but I'll make out,' Dillon said, making an effort. He found the strength to look into her eyes, and that gave him hope. He said, 'We been set up, it'll just be a question of gettin' the facts right, that Newman's got to be palmin' somebody. He denies we were in the warehouse, he's a liar, he's got them in his pay. I sussed that out.' His voice hardened as his confidence grew. 'Cliff saw the furniture van, he saw it, that's why we knew he was involved, right? That's why we went to his place, that's where we got the wages, they were still in the packets.' Faster now, gathering pace, urgent. 'I mean, if we'd been gonna rob somebody, we had every opportunity. He had the stolen gems, diamonds. If we'd been gonna pull a robbery we'd have, we'd have…'

His voice faltered, tailed away. Susie waited a moment. Then she said, as gently as she could with all the racket going on, 'Frank, you said this last time I was here… it's me, and I believe you. You don't have to prove anything to me, you know that. I believe you.'

Dillon nodded. He glanced away, as if embarrassed. 'Sorry, it's just that's all I keep thinking about. I'm sorry.' He looked at the envelope, rolled into a tight tube in his hands, and then up at her. 'They not mentioned anythin' else to you, have they? The cops?'

Dillon looked relieved when she shook her head, though Susie had no idea why. It was something he kept harping on, every time she visited, and she was too scared to ask the reason. What else could there be?

'We'll be out,' Dillon said, and this time his confidence seemed real, as if he actually believed it himself. 'They can't keep us in here. Me and Harry'll get the firm back on its feet in no time.' He even found the old Dillon grin. 'I can keep Harry in line – I told him he should've handed over that ruddy gun, but… but…' His head dropped, eyes shut tight. 'Sorry, I'm sorry.'