Dailey waited for the correction to come from the governor and when it didn’t he said, ‘It was a clumsy attempt at concealment.’
‘Intentionally clumsy,’ insisted Charlie. He paused and then he said, ‘There is an escape being planned from this jail, an escape the embarrassment of which will cause repercussions sufficient to bring about your dismissal. Demands for your resignation, certainly.’
Probably too strong, conceded Charlie. But he had to bestir the silly old bugger somehow. On each side of him, Dailey and the warder he didn’t know shifted and actually moved closer, as if they expected Charlie to make a run for it there and then.
Armitrage’s demeanour of vague distraction slipped away. He came tight-faced to Charlie and said, ‘What is it? I want to know all about it. Everything.’
‘No,’ said Charlie.
The governor’s face reddened, the anger obvious. ‘I want to know all about it,’ he repeated. ‘And you will tell me.’
‘No,’ said Charlie again. ‘Not now. I will tell you, but only in the presence of Sir Alistair Wilson.’
‘Sir Alistair Wilson?’
‘The Director.’
‘Don’t be preposterous!’ said Armitrage.
‘Tell him that it’s important… vitally important,’ Charlie bulldozed on. They might have welched on the earlier deal but they weren’t going to on this one. This time Charlie intended getting his freedom.
‘I have no intention of making any approach to any outside person,’ said Armitrage. ‘This is a prison matter which will be settled by me. And it will be settled. Here. Now.’
Charlie stared at the man across his desk, saying nothing.
‘I’m waiting,’ said Armitrage.
‘In the presence of the Director,’ said Charlie. Then I’ll tell you everything.’
Armitrage looked to the prison officers on either side of Charlie. ‘Any suggestions of unrest, worse than normal?’ he demanded. ‘There’s usually an atmosphere, just before an intended break?’
‘Nothing sir,’ said Dailey.
‘I’d better get the deputy governor in on this,’ said Armitrage. ‘And the chief prison officer.’
Which would be how the story spread, thought Charlie, desperately. He said, ‘There’s no concerted plan: you’ll not discover anything, tightening security.’
To Dailey, Armitrage said, ‘Take him to solitary.’
As the order to turn and leave the office was snapped out, militarily, Charlie said, ‘I’ll say nothing, only in the presence of Sir Alistair Wilson. If it goes ahead, it’ll be the biggest embarrassment of your life.’
‘Out!’ said Dailey, thrusting him forward.
In the solitary cell, which was internal, without any window and smaller than that he occupied with Sampson, Charlie slumped forward on the bunk, head forward in his hands. Bad, he thought, judging his effort. Bloody awful, in fact. Word that he was before the governor would have already circulated through the prison, because the trusties who worked in administration had seen him marched in and out. They’d know he’d gone to solitary, too. And the silly old fart would convene his conference with the deputy and the chief screw because he was too damned ineffectual to make up his own mind without the advice of as many people as possible. Shit! thought Charlie. He’d been better than this once. A long time ago; too long. Sampson would have him killed. Charlie didn’t have any doubt about that. Any more than he had any doubt that the man would learn that he’d grassed. He could apply for permanent solitary, he supposed. There was a regulation that permitted it, usually invoked for bastards who’d sexually assaulted kids and needed protection from other prisoners, forming an enclave within an enclave, permanently frightened like he was frightened now. People went mad in solitary: Sampson said he would go mad. What was better, mad or dead? Jesus! What a fucking choice!
Without a watch or a window to judge from the changing light Charlie found it difficult to calculate the time but he guessed it was three hours before anyone came. Maybe longer, he thought, as he was marched back through the administration wing, where there were windows, through which he could see that it was dark. Did it really matter, whether it was day or night? Did anything matter, any more?
Charlie’s depression – his fear – was absolute so the stretch of euphoria was a physical reaction when he got to the governor’s office and saw, among the assembled people, the man who’d looked blank-faced at him in the dock of the Old Bailey on the day he got his sentence. Charlie stopped, so that the escorting officer following actually collided with him and he said ‘Thank Christ,’ aloud, careless of their knowing of his relief.
Sir Alistair Wilson stood – because it was more comfortable for him to stand, although Charlie didn’t know that – to the left of the governor, right against the window, half-perched upon the radiator. To Armitrage’s right was the deputy governor, Collis, and deferentially next to him was the chief prison officer, whose name was Dexter. One of the bastards.
Armitrage had made a concession by approaching Wilson and he knew it and everyone else in the room knew it and he tried to cover the weakness by immediately imposing his control over the meeting, nodding curtly towards Charlie as if it were an order to stop. He said, ‘I don’t think you can have any idea what has been involved in creating this meeting. Other departments, apart from the Home Office, have had to be involved and Sir Alistair here…’ the man paused, turning his head towards the Director. ‘Sir Alistair has shown a very great public attitude by coming here, at such short notice. His attendance was your condition, Muffin. And it is one that I have deferred to. If, having heard what you have to say, I conclude that this whole episode was the farcical invention I fear it to be, I shall have you charged before visiting magistrates with secreting a weapon, with intent to facilitate an escape and make a prosecution plea that an additional sentence is imposed upon you. Further I shall endorse your file against any parole consideration, for as long as regulations permit such suspension.’
Fuck you, thought Charlie. He was home. Home and dry. Steady, he thought, in immediate warning. He’d considered he had a deal before with Wilson and the bastard had reneged upon it.
‘All right,’ said Armitrage, still attempting to appear forceful. ‘What is it?’
Charlie talked not to the governor but to Wilson. ‘What about our deal?’ he demanded.
‘What deal?’
Charlie looked around the other assembled men. ‘You want me to talk about it here, like this?’
‘What deal?’ repeated Wilson.
‘I could have run, in Italy,’ reminded Charlie. ‘I knew you’d found me but I could still have run. But I didn’t. Because I knew our own ambassador there had gone over to the Russians I stayed and did everything you wanted me to, so you could not only stop it but reverse it, to try to create as much harm as you could…’
‘Which was all set out at your trial,’ interrupted the Director.
‘Bullshit!’ rejected Charlie. ‘It wasn’t set out, like you say it was. It was mentioned, almost in bloody passing. But the deal was that you’d make sure the judge understood. That there would be a consideration, not the maximum sodding sentence possible. And that after the sentence, you’d see I got out…!’ Charlie’s anger grew, as he remembered the promises Wilson had made to him. ‘Didn’t you?’ he said, careless of the rise in his voice. ‘ Didn’t you?’
‘I will not have Sir Alistair interrogated!’ broke in Armitrage. ‘Any more than I will tolerate any longer this ridiculous charade.’
‘It’s all right,’ placated Wilson, from behind the governor. To Charlie he said, ‘Approaches were made to the judge. I could only give you undertakings, not guarantees. He decided that what you did in Italy was a very small mitigation against the damage you did. There was no way I could prevent that.’