‘Oh.’ Sampson’s confident excitement leaked away.
‘Don’t use that as any sort of criterion,’ said Charlie. ‘Moscow wouldn’t regard me as they do you. I’m not one of theirs.’ That was the biggest illogicality of all; the people for whom he was supposed to have been an operative knew he wasn’t a traitor and couldn’t give a sod about him.
‘That’s not true,’ said Sampson, more to reassure himself than Charlie.
‘Yes it is,’ said Charlie. ‘Don’t get any half-assed idea that you and I are the same.’
‘Why are you so fucking belligerent?’ demanded Sampson, in sudden, surprising anger.
Fuck: the ultimate defiance, thought Charlie. ‘Can’t seem to help it,’ he said.
‘We’re stuck together,’ said Sampson, the anger growing. ‘Whether you like it or not, that’s a fact. From what I’ve seen thus far, I don’t like you. I think you’re scruffy and you smell and I think you go out of your way to be unpleasant. And all the stories I ever heard, about your stupid social attitudes, they seem to be true, as well. If I had a choice, I wouldn’t touch you with a long, disinfected pole. But I haven’t. I’ve got to live just five feet away from you: I hope to Christ for the shortest amount of time possible. But still live with you. I know all about this crap that you did what you did because the Director set you up to be sacrificed: that you’re still loyal. It’s all bullshit, something you cling to like a child clings to a comfort blanket. You know the Russian way is best, just like I do. I know what’s going to happen to me. I’ve just got to tolerate you, until my release is arranged. So what do you say? Are we going to be friends? Or fools?’
‘Go fuck yourself,’ said Charlie, turning determinedly against the wall, with his back to the man.
Behind he heard Sampson laugh at him. It was a fitting reaction, decided Charlie. He was being a prick.
‘Chekhov,’ identified Wilson.
‘Yes,’ agreed Harkness. ‘It’s from Three Sisters. ’
The British Director looked down at the chosen identification message. ‘If I lived in Moscow,’ he quoted. ‘I don’t think I’d care what the weather was like.’
‘The preceding lines provide the response,’ said Harkness. ‘“People don’t notice whether it’s winter or summer when they’re happy.”’
‘Good,’ judged Wilson. ‘Innocent enough.’
‘Do you know the other play of Chekhov’s, The Seagull?’ asked Harkness.
Wilson shook his head.
‘There are two characters in it, Medvedenko and Masha,’ reminded the deputy. ‘There’s a scene in which Medvedenko asks Masha “Why do you wear black all the time?” And Masha replies “I’m in mourning for my life. I’m unhappy.”’
‘Maybe that’ll be appropriate,’ agreed Wilson.
Chapter Four
It was a tenet of his early training always to remain objective, irrespective of whatever stress or pressure, because the ability to consider everything objectively was essential for that absolute necessity, survival.
Within a month of Sampson’s arrival Charlie decided, with that long practised objectivity, that the man was bloody good at making the world rotate in exactly the direction in which he decreed it should turn. Better than bloody good: practically a fucking genius.
It shouldn’t have been that way, of course. Not according to the unofficial prison lore. Prison rule dictated that the lowest common denominator was the governing factor, everything and everybody dragged down to the bottom. Anything contrary – like Charlie was contrary – was a worrying challenge to the system, something that had to be attacked and defeated.
Except in the case of Sampson.
Charlie watched Sampson swan around with the languid public school demeanour of inherent superiority with every bugger – the very same buggers giving him a hard time for being different – appearing happy, eager even, to accord the man the rank.
Hickley, who thought spies should be shot, behaved towards Sampson with an attitude that Charlie considered practically respect and Butterworth, as dutiful as ever, did the same. While Charlie had to have his boots laced and be ready and waiting at the cell door for the push-and-shove slop out, Sampson was allowed to take his time, a place always available for him in the unhurried, ready-when-you-are procession.
With the boarding school and university expertise of recognising the dormitory leader, Sampson marked Prudell as the landing boss. Sampson wasn’t gay and Prudell knew it but they established a relationship nevertheless, a compact of understanding that in no way impinged upon Sampson’s inherent superiority or Prudell’s unquestioned rule, the sort of reliance that exists between the owner of the manor and his trusted butler.
There was always a good piece of meat for Sampson in the canteen – not the shitty sort of gristle that always got dumped on Charlie’s plate – and the vegetables were always hot and there was a seat readily available, wherever he wanted to sit. Just as there was, always, in the recreation room, right in front of the television set, where Prudell and his boyfriend of the moment and the other landing chiefs had their reserved places, not where Charlie was always heaved and shunted, if he bothered to go at all, at the back, usually against the wall. If he hadn’t wanted it that way – for the protection – there wouldn’t have been a bloody seat anyway.
Sampson’s uniform jacket was altered, to fit, in the prison tailoring shop and in the second month he got one of the better jobs, in the prison hospital, not as cushy as the library but a damned sight better than the workrooms where they made the mail sacks and the street name signs and car registration plates.
Between them, in the cell, the first day hostility worsened, the attitude so obvious that Hickley and Butterworth were aware of it and spread the story along the landing, which enhanced Sampson further because it meant further harassment of Charlie.
Charlie was aware of the bulge beneath Sampson’s tunic as the man entered the cell, only a token effort made at concealment. Directly inside the door, the man took the bottle from the waistband of his trousers and put it openly on the table between them. It was whisky, single malt, in a proper bottle with the cap still sealed.
‘It is whisky, isn’t it?’ said Sampson.
‘Looks like it,’ said Charlie.
‘That’s not what I meant,’ said Sampson. ‘Whisky’s your drink, isn’t it?’
Charlie stared up at the man, suspiciously. ‘Who said?’
‘Prudell,’ replied the other man. ‘Told me that’s what got you put on restrictions, for having whisky here in the cell.’
‘So what?’
Sampson’s face tightened momentarily, but only momentarily. The smile that came was patronising. ‘So I thought you might like a drink.’
‘Why?’ demanded Charlie.
‘Why not?’
‘Because it might be a set up, that’s why not. Because it’s been six weeks since I’ve been on restrictions and the bastards haven’t been able to get me for any infringement and if they caught me again, with whisky in a mug, then this time the governor wouldn’t give me the benefit of any doubt.’
‘Which would make me a grass,’ said Sampson.
‘Isn’t that what you got thirty years for?’
‘I’m trying to cross bridges, Charlie. Like I tried to cross bridges the first day.’
‘Why?’
‘Because it’s bloody stupid not to,’ said Sampson. ‘OK, so outside you and I wouldn’t even be aware of each other’s existence. Want to be aware of it, even. But we’re not outside. We’re in a box, fourteen feet by fourteen feet and we’re going to be forced to live together for a long time. So why don’t we face the reality of the situation? I don’t like you any more than you like me but I’m prepared to make the effort, for life to be minimally tolerable.’
The man was right of course, Charlie realised, always objective. Like Hargrave had been right. They weren’t outside, with a choice. And he wasn’t able to sit in judgment, in his own individual idea of judgment, and despise this man for being a traitor, any more than he could despise Hargrave for being a murderer or Prudell for being a vicious homosexual thug who beat up old ladies and stole their purses. Trouble was, Sampson was the smarmy, self-assured sort of sod who’d always got right up his nose. ‘You’ve been pretty successful at adjusting to the reality of the situation, haven’t you?’