‘Keep still, please, try to relax. I’m checking for swelling just inside the anus. OK, we’re done. You can get dressed.’
Phil has filled the sink again, adding hot water that he’s had to bring from the kitchen. Water from the taps is never hot after eight o’clock in the morning.
‘Thank you, nurse,’ Wolfe says, as he sometimes does.
‘Suck my dick,’ Phil replies, and passes him a towel. Wolfe joins Sahid, who is dressed again, on the bunk.
‘You look like you’ve lost weight, to me.’
Sahid gives a flat smile. ‘My bathroom scales are broke. It’s hard to tell.’
‘Trousers feel looser?’
A grudging nod. ‘A bit.’
‘Any itching?’
A shrug. It means little, anyway. With hygiene so poor, itching of the genitalia is more or less the norm. Some cons seem never to take their hands out of their trousers. The constant movement down there could be scratching; few like to enquire.
‘How’s your appetite?’
‘How’s anyone’s in this place, the shit they serve us.’
Wolfe thinks of the porridge he was given in his first week, with actual shit in it. He’d taken a mouthful before realizing where the smell was coming from. ‘If you’re lucky, Mr Sahid, you’ve got haemorrhoids. I can’t see anything, and I don’t have the equipment for an internal examination, but it’s quite possible you’ve got enlarged blood vessels inside your rectum. They’ll be causing the bleeding you talked about, any itching you might have experienced, and can also cause discomfort, particularly when passing stools.’
Sahid looks at his guards. ‘You two, outside.’ He doesn’t bother looking at Phil, just raises his voice a fraction. ‘You too.’
They obey him. It wouldn’t occur to them not to. The door closes.
‘And if I’m unlucky?’
No point not giving it to him straight.
‘The symptoms you described to me just now can be indicative of bowel cancer.’
Wolfe gives him a second or two. No one wants to hear that word. And if word gets around that Sahid is seriously ill, his position as head of the Muslim Boys, the most powerful gang in Parkhurst, will be undermined. And there is always another gang just waiting for the opportunity to strike.
‘This is not a diagnosis, mind you. You need to see Dr Evans, have him carry out tests. If he refuses to refer you, remind him that under the Prison Act you have the right to prompt medical attention.’
‘Is there anything I can do in the meantime?’
The man is scared. There really is no leveller like cancer. ‘Assume it’s haemorrhoids. Tell everyone it’s haemorrhoids. Increase the fibre in your diet, if at all possible, and drink plenty of fluids, especially water. Avoid painkillers that contain codeine, it can make constipation worse.’
Sahid gets to his feet. ‘Thank you, Doctor.’ He glances back, at the supplies that, of course, Wolfe isn’t allowed to have, but that are tolerated because these informal daily surgeries help to keep the peace in the block. And go some way towards repairing the damage when peace doesn’t hold out.
‘I’m sorry about what happened this morning,’ Sahid says. ‘In the lavatories, I mean. I hope you know it was nothing to do with my people.’
‘No harm done,’ says Wolfe, even though he’s still sweating when he thinks about it.
‘Anything you need?’
Sahid and his contacts are among Wolfe’s main suppliers. When drugs, money and phones are smuggled into prison, a packet of aspirin or a roll of medical plaster often slips its way in too.
Wolfe and Phil have already been through the stock. ‘We’re getting low on paracetamol, as always. Ibuprofen would be good too. Bandages and plasters always needed. Any donations gratefully received. Ideally not smuggled in up someone’s arse.’
‘I’ll make enquiries if Superdrug can deliver.’
‘And that map I asked you about?’
‘That’s in hand.’ The other man nods as he gets to his feet.
The door opens. There is a blast of noise and stale disinfectant from the corridor. Something is kicking off somewhere close. In the next cell, music begins, full volume. Sahid’s Muslim Boys have largely put a stop to non-Islamic music on the wing, but when disguising the sound of a fight, it’s tolerated.
Wolfe turns to the window. He shouldn’t, it never ends well, but sometimes the temptation to look at the outside world, even a tiny square of it, is irresistible. The smell of tobacco and stale feet tells him that Phil is back.
‘Who’s next?’
‘Stan from H. Wanker’s been cutting himself again. I told him you wouldn’t see him unless he hands over his tool.’
Wolfe clenches his eyes shut and tells himself that this is a normal day, he’s had a hard morning at the Bristol General, spent several hours in surgery. This afternoon will be bad too, consultations and meetings, a late finish, but then he can drive home and take his dog for a run in the forest.