Logan clinked his mug against it and smiled. ‘I’ll drink to that.’
Marky scuffed his way down B wing.
The sound of what could almost pass for singing boomed out across the Second Flat as the newly formed HMP Grampian Male Voice Choir committed attempted murder on an acapella version of ‘Bohemian Rhapsody’.
He stopped outside Crowbar Craig Simpson’s cell. Peered in through the open door.
A small room, identical to all the others in this place: one corner walled off for the tiny en suite shower and toilet, a narrow desk with a kettle and a cheap TV on it, a barred window looking out to sea, walls covered in film posters and photos of a curly-haired woman with big glasses, a toddler, and an ugly dog. The inoffensive scent of lemon floor polish...
Crowbar was on his bunk, dressed in the standard prison-issue navy jogging bottoms and blue sweatshirt, one hand behind his head, the other mangling a paperback — the spine bent so far back it was broken.
Now that made Marky’s gums itch. There were killers in here, people who’d strangled their wives, or battered a drug rival to death with a sledgehammer, or drowned their own brother, or slit a stranger’s throat because they supported the wrong football team.
But to do that to a book?
Marky knocked on the door frame and Crowbar tore his eyes from PC Munro and the Cheesemaker’s Curse for all of two seconds, before returning to his tortured paperback.
‘What do you want, Marky?’
See, that was the trouble with your criminal element today: no respect. Someone like Crowbar looked at someone like Marky and all they saw was a little old man, his joggy bottoms and polo shirt faded almost grey after years of washing in the prison laundry. White hair going a bit thin on top. Arthritis-swollen hands. A back that would never be straight again.
Marky shuffled inside. ‘You busy?’
‘What’s it look like?’ Lying there with his stupid handlebar moustache and, what was it they called it these days, a ‘soul patch’? A barbed-wire tattoo around your throat didn’t make you a hard man. Not in here.
Didn’t even have the decency to put his book down when someone visited him.
Very rude.
Marky made a come-hither gesture and Ripcord and Charlie Bing slipped into the cell. Huge men, but they could move like ballet dancers when they wanted to. Charlie Bing: almost totally covered in DIY tattoos. Ripcord: face like the back end of an articulated lorry. Both wrapped in the kind of muscles you only got by spending eight-to-life in a prison gym.
The cell wasn’t big to start with, but now it was positively claustrophobic.
Marky put his hands in his pockets. ‘No need to be like that, Crowbar, not when I’ve got a present for you.’
Crowbar turned the page. ‘Not interested.’
He still hadn’t looked up from his book. How could anyone be so completely self-absorbed and unaware?
‘That’s a shame.’ Marky nodded at Ripcord and the big man eased the door closed without so much as a single squeak, muting the choir’s crimes. Another nod.
Ripcord and Charlie Bing lunged forward, silent as cats, pinning the disrespectful sod to the bed — one of Ripcord’s huge hands clamped down over Crowbar’s mouth.
His eyes went wide, tearing across the three of them. Then the struggling started: bucking and writhing, accompanied by what were probably meant to be threats. It was difficult to tell with Ripcord’s hand in the way.
But it was nice to see Crowbar paying attention at last.
Marky gave him a smile. ‘Sally MacAuley wants you to have this.’
It was a lovely piece of cell-made craft — a half-razor-blade embedded in a toothbrush. And you could tell it was quality, because the guy who’d made it had melted the plastic in the toothbrush’s head first, so the blade would stay in there nice and tight. Had to admire craftsmanship like that.
Unfortunately, Crowbar didn’t seem too keen: he went absolutely berserk on the bed. But Ripcord and Charlie Bing held firm.
‘Don’t be ungrateful, Crowbar, she’s spent a lot of money on your present. The least you can do is try and enjoy it.’ Marky held the blade against the skin beneath Crowbar’s left eye. ‘And I know you’ll be worried, but we’ve got plenty of time. At least a couple of hours till they fix the CCTV. Be lights out before they find what’s left of you. And the choir will drown out any screams, so we won’t even disturb anyone.’ He let his smile spread, showing off as much of his dentures as he could. ‘That’s nice, isn’t it?’
Marky eased the blade upwards, pulling a trickle of blood from Crowbar’s eyelid.
‘Now, this might nip a bit...’