‘What’s happening?’ It is a stupid question. She knows what is happening, can hear it. The guard outside is being beaten up. She can hear the grunts and gasps of someone in pain, the solid thud of heavy bodies crashing around. She has no idea how many are out there. It could be two, or a dozen. She and Hamish are locked in though, aren’t they? They are safe? She pushes her chair back.
One last loud exclamation outside and silence falls. Hamish gestures again for her to move and this time she does, darting to the corner of the room.
Three loud bangs on the door and a shout. ‘Who’s in there?’
Hamish’s grip tightens on the handle. The door is locked. She is repeating it to herself like a mantra. The door is always locked. It’s standard procedure. When she’s ready to leave, she always hears the guard slide back the bolts and turn the key.
The same bolts that are being slid open now.
The door is still locked. The door is still locked.
With the key held by a guard who is likely unconscious or even dead.
‘Wolfe! Is that you in there?’
Move on, she is praying, wreak your havoc elsewhere. Above all, do not search the guard’s unconscious body. Don’t find the—
The key is being turned. The door pushes open a fraction. Wolfe shoves it closed and leans against it. The colour of his face turns quickly from near white to bright pink. He is breathing in short, angry bursts. She should help, surely? Her strength is better than nothing.
‘Maggie, get on the phone.’
Angry that she didn’t think of this sooner, she finds her phone and makes the call. Someone is kicking the door now and Wolfe is losing ground.
A voice on the phone tells her that the situation is known to the police and a response is under way. ‘How long? How long before you get here?’
She doesn’t hear the answer. She has dropped her phone at the sight of Wolfe’s boot-clad feet sliding along the floor. The door is opening and she can see a bent knee behind it, straining forward.
With a sudden change of tack, Wolfe leaps from the door and it crashes open. She darts from her corner and stands behind him.
‘Who’ve you got in here, Hamish?’ The voice is South London, a white man, she thinks, somewhere in his thirties or forties. Not old, not young.
‘Somebody in here smells a fuck of a lot nicer than you do, Wolfe.’ Midlands accent. Older.
Someone hawks and spits. She can see the bloody gob of spittle on the tiled floor. Three pairs of feet.
‘Turn around, gentlemen. Walk away.’ Wolfe does not sound terrified, but he wouldn’t, would he? He is one of them. She is the prey.
On either side of Wolfe, the jackals come into view.
‘Hello, Bluey.’ The Londoner grins at her with the sunken jaw of a mouth that has few remaining teeth. He is smaller, thinner, older than Wolfe and alone might not be a threat. The other two, leering at her from the other side, are younger and bigger.
‘Out you go, Hamish. We’ll look after your visitor for you.’
‘Not happening, guys.’
The smell of them is stronger and their voices louder. It is as though they are leaning in towards her. One of them keeps sucking in air, noisily, as though he is feeding on the smell of her.
‘I spoke to the police before you broke in.’ Years of practice keeps her voice steady in difficult situations. ‘They know what’s going on here. I wouldn’t be surprised if they’re already in the building.’
‘Oh, I think we’ve got a bit of time.’ The man is actually unfastening the top button of his jeans.
‘Hang on.’ This from one of the others. ‘Who says you go first?’
‘Nobody’s going first,’ says Wolfe. ‘The man who touches my lawyer, who puts my appeal at risk, I will come for with a razor. I will slice open his abdomen and I will pull out his intestinal tract. I will do this at night, so that no one finds him till morning, after he has spent several hours dying in agony. I will do this to each and every one who jeopardizes my chance of getting out of here. Now, does anyone think I’m bluffing?’
No answer, but she has a sense of the pack being less sure of itself. Hamish thrusts out his hand.
‘Keys.’ He steps forward, taking the fight to them. ‘Who’s got them?’
‘Come on, Wolfe, ten minutes?’ The man from the Midlands is wheedling now, like a kid trying to negotiate a bedtime reprieve. ‘We’ll let you go first.’
‘Give me the keys and fuck off out of here.’
There is an unspoken signal between them, then the leader mutters something. They turn. One of them has left. Two are out of the door. They are going, they are actually going. Maggie stares at the doorway, willing it to be empty. The third leaves, with one last obscene gesture, a thrusting of the hips in her direction and a wiggling of a fur-covered tongue.
Elsewhere in the prison, the fighting is still going on. Overhead, along the corridor she can hear yelling, swearing.
‘Hold up, you’re not going anywhere.’ She has been making for the door, Hamish is holding her back. ‘Listen to me. Maggie, are you listening?’
‘I have to get out.’ She twists round, grasps his arms. ‘Listen, they’re everywhere. That lot could come back. They’ll tell others. I’m not safe here.’