There are ropes hanging from the window, manic shouting from the other cells, banging from the walls, the ceiling, the floor. Meanwhile the other guy, the one who hasn’t spoken, is just sitting there on his bed, staring at Kieron with intense focused interest.
Ivan spins away from the window. Kieron steps back, presses his back against the inside of the door. This is it, he thinks. It’s happening now. He’s coming now, he’s lifting a fist, okay here he comes, oh Jesus he’s massive, he’s… he’s holding out a hand. Right. Okay. He wants to shake my hand.
Kieron hugs his bedding with one arm and extends a hand. The Russian pumps it hard.
‘What is your crime?’
‘Piracy. That’s what they say.’
‘Pirate. Yes, very cool. How old?’
‘How old am I? Why do you… I’m twenty-nine.’
‘London, yes?’
‘Yeah, London.’
Charge, name, age, location. The Russian wants to know it all, then he pulls an exercise book from the shelf and writes it all down before returning to the window and shouting it all out into the night. And Kieron’s thinking, is this guy FSB? I mean, if he is then it’s pretty blatant.
In the cell next door, Phil Ball is looking at a skeletal figure in a dirty, crumpled shell suit. Three weeks ago Phil was enjoying the late English summer at his home in the Oxfordshire countryside. He was the last recruit to the crew after a late dropout. He’s forty-two years old and has three young children. Now he’s standing before a man with a shaved scalp and eyes sunk in deep, dark sockets. The door goes bang behind him, and instantly the man wants to know Phil’s full name, date of birth, his home town and which article of the criminal code he’s charged with. And Phil’s thinking, you’re a prisoner, what the hell has it got to do with you?
But then the guy crosses the cell and returns with a list of names and cell numbers, and some of the activists are already on there.
Next door, Ivan takes Kieron’s bedding from him, throws a sheet over a bunk and tucks in the corners. He crouches down in the corner, pours water, opens tins, shovels powder then turns around to proffer a cup of tea and a biscuit. Finally the other guy is ready to introduce himself. He stands up, holds out a hand and says his name is Stepan. He’s just a kid, shy, possibly not dangerous but Kieron’s taking nothing on sight here. He’s in full fight or flight mode, alert to every bang and thump, his wide eyes taking in the details of the cell – the peeling walls painted gooseberry green, the rusting bunks, a tiny barred window, a cubicle of rotting wood around the toilet, bags of food on a shelf on the wall, and ropes running out through the bars. The cell stinks of stale cigarette smoke and wet laundry. There’s a loud bang on the wall. Stepan turns away and tugs on one of the ropes, like he’s fishing and he’s hooked a catch. Ivan darts over and pulls a sock through the window, plunges his hand into it and extracts a small piece of rolled-up paper. He unfolds it, looks down, reads it then offers the scrap to Kieron.
‘For you.’
‘For me?’
‘Uh huh.’
Kieron plucks it from his fingers and holds it up. It’s a written note, the size of a packet of cigarettes.
Hey man, I just heard about this thing called the road. It’s like an email system but on ropes. Stay strong, we’ll get through this. Po-Paul.
Next door, Phil is being handed a pen and a square of paper, and with wide eyes and a form of sign language involving rotating arms and energised pointing, the Russian guy explains that Phil can write to his friends. A minute later in cell 308 there’s a bang on the wall. Stepan pulls in the rope again and extracts another piece of paper from the sock. He unfolds it and hands it to Kieron.
I’m not quite sure how this system works but I thought I’d try it out. Send me a message back if you get this. Phil.
Kieron asks Ivan for a piece of paper and a pen, and scribbles a message.
‘What you say?’ asks Ivan.
‘Just a note to my friend. Some self-help bullshit, basically.’
Phil, we can get through this, we’ve got to stay tough, we’ve got to be strong for each other. Kieron.
Ivan rolls it up, drops it into the sock and bangs on the wall. The sock flies out of the window and a minute later Phil reads the note. He folds it, drops it into his pocket and glances up at his cellmate. The man says his name is Leonid. His lower gum is lined with a sparse row of teeth that look like broken fence posts. With more pointing and gesticulations Leonid explains how the rope system works, how all of the windows are connected throughout the night. It’s a grid consisting of horizontal and vertical ropes across the outside walls.
‘Prison internet,’ he says.
On a corridor on the same floor, the Russian campaigner Roman Dolgov is holding a mattress, a blanket, a bowl and a spoon. The guard leans forward and pushes the door. Roman takes in the bright green walls, two bunk beds and a small barred window, then a head snaps up and a kid screams at him from a bunk. ‘What are you doing? Get the fuck out of here!’
Roman flinches. The guard shouts, ‘I haven’t got a choice, okay. We’re full up.’
‘But you know I don’t have anybody in here with me. This is a woollen cell, you know that!’
‘I don’t fucking care, he’s coming in with you. It’s one in the morning, I haven’t got anything else. Deal with it, arsehole.’
Roman hugs his mattress and shuffles forward. He’s a large man with a thick mane of swept-back hair and a long luxuriant beard. His voice is soft, his demeanour gentle. The door slams behind him. The kid slumps down on his bunk in a sulk.
‘I’m sorry,’ says Roman.
The kid scowls and stares at the wall. ‘This is a woollen cell.’
‘I’m sorry, I don’t know what that means.’
‘It means I should be alone.’
‘I’d leave if I could.’
‘You should be in a people’s cell.’
‘I’m sorry, I don’t know the difference.’
The kid spins around and sits up. He’s in his late teens, a bony face, wispy stubble on his chin, big blue eyes. ‘There are people’s cells, okay. Normal cells for normal prisoners. Thieves like you. And then there are woollen cells, cells like this. This is a woollen cell.’
Slowly, carefully, Roman steps forward and lowers himself onto the edge of the bed opposite.
‘And what does that mean, to be in a woollen cell?’
‘What does it mean? It means I’m way down the hierarchy. Waaaaay down, brother. But don’t go thinking I’m obizhenny. I may be a piece of shit in this place, but I’m not that low.’
‘I’m sorry, I—’
‘Obizhenny.’ It means ‘morally injured’. ‘You know, like poofs and perverts. This is a woollen cell, but I’m not obizhenny. When you’re woollen you’re on your own, that’s the deal. But now you’re in here and that means you’re woollen too.’
‘Is that bad?’
The kid throws his head back and laughs. ‘Believe me, brother. You really don’t want to be here. You’ll have big problems later, when you get to the labour camp.’
‘Why?’
‘You’re in a woollen cell! Aren’t you listening? A cell for collaborators, for people who grass up the thieves. I’m a woollen guy. Couple of dealers wasn’t it. Dealers like me. And an addict. I gave them up to the cops so the bosses got me put in here. They run this place, they got me demoted and now I’m isolated from prison society. And if you’re in here then so are you. You want to watch it, mate. While you’re in here you’re only one step away from the bottom of the bottom, in with the poofs.’