He looks up at the green canopy, watches the light dance through. He can hear twigs breaking beneath his feet, the dry leaves scratching in tree hollows. Behind him is the soft padding of his dog’s paws.
And Daisy. He tries not to think of Daisy during the daytime, but sometimes she creeps in, is upon him before he can steel himself to keep her out. The glint in her eyes, the cold curve of her smile. Daisy, after all this time, the woman who will never leave him.
He takes a deep breath. And another. The panic is fading. He can go on. One more day. He nods at Phil, who is used to him by now. ‘Show him in.’
Chapter 28
PROPERTY OF AVON AND SOMERSET POLICE. Ref: 544/45.2 Hamish Wolfe.
Chapter 29
PROPERTY OF AVON AND SOMERSET POLICE. Ref: 544/45.2 Hamish Wolfe. Letter found in Wolfe’s cell at HMP Parkhurst. (NB: Of hundreds of letters received by Wolfe during his time at Parkhurst, this was one of fewer than a dozen that he kept. Most of that number were from the same anonymous author.)
Chapter 30
THIS IS THE third lockdown this month. Everyone is on edge, like dogs kept in a kennel that is too small. The slightest grievance, real or otherwise, gets blown out of all proportion. This one kicked off in the showers, as they often do, when they don’t start in the dining room, or the games room, or the exercise yard, or even chapel. Someone with a score to settle. A fist shooting out. A well-aimed boot kick. Two bodies thud together and crash to the ground. A second later, pandemonium.
Wolfe sits on his bunk, folding and refolding a small, thin rectangle of paper.
‘Like Santa’s frigging grotto in ’ere.’ Sedge, a Scot in his early twenties, has been dragged into the cell by Phil because if you spend too long on the corridor during a lockdown, you’re likely to find yourself swept up with the reprisals. Participant or bystander, it makes little difference when the batons start swinging. He looks over at Wolfe. ‘Fuck’s he doing?’
‘Ornithology.’ Phil can never remember the term origami, and Wolfe has given up reminding him. Ornithology isn’t way off beam. Often he makes bird shapes. Not today, though. Nor is he making yet another Christmas bauble. There are more than enough of those hanging from the ceiling.
‘He makes things out of coloured paper. Look.’ Like a proud parent, Phil is directing their visitor’s attention towards the narrow, metal window ledge. ‘It’s like having a window box.’
Most often, Wolfe makes flowers. Their simple, regular form makes them amongst the easiest of shapes to create and he is a relative newcomer to origami. Using the coloured paper his mother sends he’s fashioned roses, tulips, chrysanthemums and lilies, that to his mind seem to emphasize the drab squalor of the room, but which nevertheless delight Phil. Other inmates on the block have started to copy their Christmas decorations, fashioning their own chains, which are relatively simple, begging lessons in how to make the baubles, which are not. There have been rumours that the Governor is getting concerned about the fire hazard, is threatening to have the home-made decorations taken down. This worries Wolfe. His chains and baubles are important to him and Phil.
‘What are these about?’ Sedge can’t keep still. He stands below Wolfe’s bookshelf, looking up at the row of paperbacks, seven of them by the same author. ‘Throw the Key Far.’ Sedge spells out the words slowly. ‘A true-life tale of harsh justice, by Maggie Rose.’ He pulls the book from the shelf, oblivious to Wolfe’s glare of annoyance, and opens it at a page marked with a yellow Post-it note. ‘Part . . ., part . . .’ he tries.
‘Participle.’ The tone of Wolfe’s voice makes Phil frown, nervously. ‘She uses the participle sunk, when she really needs the past tense, sank. It’s a common mistake.’
Sedge flicks through the other Post-it notes peering out of the top of the book. ‘So you’ve, like, gone through the whole book, looking for mistakes?’
‘It passes the time,’ says Wolfe.
In the corridor someone is hurting, although not so badly that he doesn’t have the strength to swear and threaten the officers who are trying to contain him. Then he falls silent, and maybe he is hurting that badly now.
‘Can’t get my fuckin’ ’ead round it.’ Sedge has grown bored with the books and has found Wolfe’s pile of mail on the narrow desk. He’s flicking through the latest batch of coloured, even scented, paper and photographs. ‘Are these bints mental, or what?’
Wolfe is fairly certain that Sedge’s reading ability is limited to the more basic of the graphic novels. Not that he’d care. He feels no need to protect the confidentiality of women he will never meet. ‘You could describe it as a mental disorder,’ he says. ‘But it’s pretty much common to every woman in the world.’