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  “Her? She won’t need a doctor, just a long rest.”

  The men laughed together knowingly and the sound went with Whitey into the depths of the prison, where it was lost in other clanging, metallic noises, voices shouting, all amplified and dehumanized by the great shaft of dead space which fell through the building’s centre. For what might have been an hour, even two, he lay on the floor of a cell before he was lifted up once more and carried to a small surgery. Here a middle-aged doctor probed and prodded for a while, then set to work. A gash on his brow needed eight stitches, another on his left arm six. Two teeth had been broken and one of these was so loose that it would need a dentist’s attention. His ribs were strapped and his numerous other gashes and bruises were washed and dressed. When it was over, he felt a great deal better, mainly through relief at the relatively minor nature of the damage. Sheldrake’s desire to keep him in some kind of trim for further treatment must have made him instruct his men to aim at maximum pain but minimum damage.

  The Doctor wanted to keep him in the hospital ward, but the two prison officers who had taken over from Sheldrake’s thugs demurred.

  “He’ll be all right, won’t you, old son?” said one of them, clamping his arm round Whitey’s shoulders in an apparently friendly gesture which made him wince with pain.

  “Of course he will,” said the other. “This is Whitey Singleton, doc. One of nature’s winners, is Whitey.”

  Laughing (it seemed a popular pastime here), they took him out and amused themselves by pushing him from one to the other as they walked down the long narrow corridor which led to the cells. At first in the best Anglo-Stoic tradition he tried not to show his pain but after a while the effort did not seem worth the doubtful moral satisfaction.

  “Did that hurt?” asked one of them at the first groan. “I’m sorry, mate. Hey, George, watch what you’re doing. Whitey’s hurt and you know we haven’t got to hurt him.”

  “True,” said George. “You’ve got real supporters somewhere, Whitey. Powerful friends ready to yuss things if anyone harms you.”

  “Not that a few more bruises would really be noticed, would they?”

  “No they wouldn’t,” said George reflectively. “But we’d better be careful. Tell you what we could do, though. We can’t be responsible for what the prisoners do to each other, can we? We could put him in with one of those Wanderers wankers.”

  They started laughing again and a couple of minutes later Whitey was thrust into a cell with such force that he fell flat on his face and felt strong reminder impulses go rushing out to his many wounds.

  When he looked up, he saw the cell was already occupied. A man in prison clothes crouched in a defensive position against the furthermost wall. He looked as if he too had received a beating fairly recently, but there was nothing cringing about his stance. The grey eyes in the long angular face were wary, but that was all.

  There was someone else here too. On the lower of the two bunks lay a slight figure paying no attention whatsoever to proceedings. With a shock Whitey realized it was a woman. One long white leg trailed on the floor, the other was crooked across the rough grey blankets.

  “Mr. Chaucer sir,” said George from the doorway. “Another one to keep you company. Let me introduce you. This is Mr. Chaucer, a very important person. Assistant Manager with Wanderers, believe it or not. And this, Mr. Chaucer, is someone you may remember. Mr. Singleton. No? Mr. Whitey Singleton. There, I knew you’d remember. See how we look after our guests!”

  “Reff off,” said Chaucer.

  “Naughty,” reproved George. “Be good now. Smatch!”

  The door clanged shut. As quickly as he could Whitey started to rise to his feet, never taking his eyes off the man. He felt himself yawning widely. Perhaps this gave an impression of sang froid as the other spoke first.

  “Is it right? You’re Singleton?”

  “Yes.” It still hurt him to speak.

  “Why’ve they put you in here with me?”

  “I think they hope you’ll attack me.”

  Chaucer thought a moment.

  “That’s fair. I might do,” he said. “But what’s stopping them?”

  “Any more treatment for me’s been yussed for them.”

  Chaucer laughed. Whitey began to doubt whether he would ever hear laughter again without a tremor of fear.

  “They left it late, didn’t they?” said Chaucer staring pointedly at Whitey’s array of dressings. The figure on the lower bunk stirred and for the first time Whitey took his eyes off Chaucer.

  The woman was trying to sit up, pulling her torn dress tightly round her. It was this dress that Whitey recognized first. Crushed, ripped and soiled, it was still recognizable as a kimono. Old gold with a delicate flower pattern, the uniform of Tokyo Airlines.

  The woman herself took a second longer. The hair was dishevelled and fell raggedly over a face from which the smooth Oriental make-up had been removed by tears and bruises. But as on the plane, the hydrangea eyes were the giveaway. It was the girl hi-jacker.

  He moved towards her and was startled by the fear and hate which showed in her face as she retreated into the bunk recess like a frightened animal in a cave.

  “Are you all right?” he asked.

  She didn’t answer. He didn’t blame her. It was a stupid question.

  “Leave the stupid bitch alone,” said Chaucer. “I want to talk to you.”

  Reluctantly Whitey turned away. Chaucer had seated himself on the one chair the room possessed, which was a comforting sign. In his present state, Whitey knew he was a push-over, but even so, no one was going to attack him from a sitting position.

  “What made you come back?” asked Chaucer.

  “She did,” said Whitey, jerking his head towards the girl and wishing he hadn’t.

  “What?”

  “I was on the flight she hi-jacked.”

  “Oh. That’s how she got here, was it?” Chaucer shrugged indifferently. “She’d have been better off stopping where she was, that’s certain. What are they going to do with you?”

  “I don’t know. I heard them mention the Manager.”

  “Oh, he’ll want to see you right enough, I reckon,” said Chaucer grimly. “Mine too. You’re not exactly a much-loved man, Singleton.”

  “No.”

  Chaucer stood up suddenly and Whitey backed away.

  “Never fear,” said the man reaching under the pillow of the upper bunk for a packet of cigarettes. “I won’t touch you. Nothing I could do would be a shadow of what you’ve got coming.”

  “You seem to have taken a bit yourself,” said Whitey with an attempt at bravado.

  The man touched his bruised face, his fingers running down a line of scratches which seemed the most recent adornment.

  “Nothing but a bit of exercise,” he said lightly. “I’ve got a transfer value if I’m kept in trim.”

  Whitey recognized the attempt at self reassurance but decided it would be wiser not to comment. Suddenly the woman spoke.

  “I’ve been raped seven times,” she said in a quick low voice.

  “You think that’s some kind of record?” said Chaucer.

  Whitey glared angrily at him and sat down on the edge of the bunk. He was remembering Sheldrake and the Governor’s brief reference to the girl.

  “Did they take you to the doctor?” he asked.

  “Yes.”

  “Didn’t he give you something?”

  “Yes. A sedative. Then they put me in here.”

  She was crying now. It can’t have been a very efficient sedative, thought Whitey. But the tears might relax her.

  “It’s OK, it’s OK,” he said helplessly. “Try to sleep. Try to get some rest. You’re with friends.”

  “In here?” she screamed suddenly. “Friends? Like him?” She pushed by Whitey and stood upright, facing Chaucer who smiled at her and gently touched the scratches on his face.

  “You mean, he’s one of …” began Whitey.

  “What�
�s the odds?” demanded Chaucer. “You heard her. Six of them. So why not one of me? I’ve been in here a month. Just you wait, Singleton. Not that you’ll have the strength after a month.”

  Whitey flung a round-arm right at him. He didn’t bother to duck but caught the strengthless blow contemptuously in the palm of his left hand.

  “Play it tight, lad,” he said. “I’m not averse to sorting you out if that’s what you want. Only I don’t see why I should do these reffers’ work for them.”

  “You didn’t mind with her,” said Whitey bitterly, subsiding on to the bunk.

  “That’s different. I get no kicks out of doing a man over, but I like my home comforts. Any road, why’re you so snarled about her? It’s her fault you’re here. I shouldn’t feel obligated in your shoes.”

  Whitey recognized the logic in this. Certainly if it had been the unhealthy looking male hi-jacker in the cell with him, he doubted if he’d have had much sympathy to spare. Though in a way his indignation on the girl’s behalf was merely selfish in that it took his mind off his own predicament. Most human sympathy and generosity of spirit sprang from a kind of delight in recognizing that someone else was lower down on the scale of suffering, he thought gloomily.

  “Right. Boy scout time over,” said Chaucer. “You’ve had a long hard day. Get some rest while you can.”

  “What time is it?” asked Whitey, surprised by this sudden solicitude.

  “God knows. One, two o’clock in the morning? They don’t give you clocks.”

  Whitey ran his mind back over the events of the day. Yes, it must be at least midnight, probably much later.

  “How shall we manage?” he yawned, indicating the two bunks.

  “You two take them,” said Chaucer magnanimously. “The chair’ll do me. Get some rest.”

  The girl who seemed to have relapsed into a near-catatonic state, revived at the discussion of sleeping arrangements.

  “No,” she said. What she was refusing Whitey could not quite make out. But what she feared was plain enough.

  “It’s all right,” said Chaucer. “Don’t worry, love. He’s not going to bother you and I’ve had enough. You didn’t exactly make me welcome, did you?”

  “I’ll kill you,” said the girl flatly.

  “Maybe. Look, you get up aloft if you’re worried. That way, if I did come looking for comfort, I’d be bound to wake up young Lochinvar here.”

  The girl said no more but clambered into the upper bunk while Whitey stretched out below. The blankets still held her body-warmth and above him the mattress creaked as she shifted in search of ease. What had been the motive for the hi-jacking? he wondered. And why had she received such brutal treatment in the country of her choice?

  He lacked data on which to hypothesize. In any case his own troubles were demanding the full attention of his mind. He doubted if he could sleep.

  “Ready ?” said Chaucer reaching up to the unguarded bulb in the ceiling. “Smatch.”

  He gave it a half twist and the cell went dark.

  “Smatch,” said Whitey, wondering why this hard man from the North was suddenly overflowing with the milk of human kindness.

  Again there could be no answer. But the small break from the contemplation of his own dismal prospects gave his great fatigue the chance it needed. Quickly it slid in, occupied every inch of his body and mind.

  And within seconds he was asleep.

  Nixon Lectures : Fifth Series

  Documentary Material

  3 (g) Extract from the report of the Football League’s committee of investigation into the causes and control of hooliganism in football grounds. May 1981

  It can be seen that the situation has changed radically since our last report. Then our concern was, in part at least, that growing hooliganism was driving supporters away from football. But now it is the tremendous rise in gate numbers, (doubled and even trebled in the past five years), that helps cause trouble. Enthusiasm has never been greater. But nor has partisanship. This is why we have so strongly urged the improvement of the purely physical measures of crowd control. If the outer perimeters of stadia are strengthened and patrolled, the number in the ground can be restricted to the legal maximum. Internal segregation of opposing supporters into clearly marked and strongly fenced pens will cut down fighting on the terraces. And the introduction round the pitch of double crash barriers, high close-mesh wire fencing (lightly electrified, if necessary) and concrete moats will prevent trespass on the playing area.

  But of course these measures are nothing unless the police and judiciary are given powers to deal much more harshly with offenders…

  Chapter 3

  Whitey awoke.

  There were burglars downstairs.

  No, he recalled. There is no downstairs here. And all the burglars are locked up.

  But the certainty of intrusion remained.

  His eyes were winning their battle against the dark, and the cell’s shape and furniture were starting to emerge in gradations of grey. Not that there was much to see. A blank wall. A small table. A chair.

  There was nobody sitting on the chair.

  Cold with anger, Whitey rolled stealthily out of his bunk. If Chaucer was not visible, there was only one place he could be.

  Gently raising the chair as a weapon, he peered into the upper bunk.

  The girl had been crying before she fell asleep and her cheeks were still wet. But she slept peacefully now and was alone.

  Whitey replaced the chair. As his anger melted, his aches and pains came hurrying back, offended that he had forgotten them. But he still ignored them, concentrating his mind on the problem before him. It could have only one solution, so absurdly simple that he hardly dared test it.

  He crossed to the door, took the best grip he could on its almost smooth surface, and pulled.

  It swung easily open.

  The darkness and the silence that lay outside made the little grey cube of the cell seem warm and cosy. If he stepped back inside, and closed the door, and pulled the blankets over his head, and went to sleep … he would be woken up in the morning, questioned, beaten, and ultimately taken out into some sunless yard and put to death.

  The motion is carried unanimously, he said to himself and began to close the door behind him.

  “What’s happening?” asked the girl.

  Her voice was pitched low but in this silence it seemed to resound like a bell. For a moment he thought of keeping going, but there was no way of locking the door behind him and she would surely follow. Her future scarcely seemed more rosy than his own. He made his way back to the bunk. She was sitting on the edge, her legs dangling.

  “Chaucer’s gone,” he said. “The door’s open. Don’t ask me what it means.”

  “And you were going too?”

  “Why not?” he asked with a defensive shrug.

  “I‘m coming too,” she said, pushing herself forward preparatory to descent. Automatically he raised his arms to assist her. She froze.

  “Lady,” he said wearily. “You flatter yourself.”

  “I didn’t look my best before, either,” she retorted, but completed the drop, accepting the support of his hands.

  At the door he felt her react as he had done to the brooding darkness outside.

  “What’s happening?” she whispered.

  “God knows,” he said. “I reckon there’s been some kind of rescue attempt made for Chaucer. We’ll just have to try to tack on to the tail-end of it. Give me your hand.”

  This time there was no hesitation about contact. Curious, thought Whitey as the slender rather chilly fingers grasped his tightly. She accepts as kindness what is purest self-interest. I’d rather she were still asleep, but awake, she’s better close by me than wandering around by herself.

  “Come on,” he whispered.

  The darkness out here was even more reluctant to unveil its mysteries than that in the cell. But bitter experience leaves traces in the mind that no amount of comfort can expunge, and White
y found himself moving ahead with growing confidence. His companion sensed it.

  “You know your way around,” she commented.

  “You never forget places where you’ve been happy,” answered Whitey. “No talking from now on in. OK?”

  He had spent only a few weeks here before being shifted to the ‘hulks’, the infamous string of prison ships moored from Woolwich to Rotherhither. A curious spin-off of the breakdown of law had been a rapidly growing pressure on prison space. Fewer laws seemed to equal more prisoners. It was an equation Whitey viewed with some affection. Without it, the move to Woolwich and the chance of escape might never have come. He had not had the kind of support or organization behind him which could arrange a rescue such as Chaucer’s.

  If it were a rescue. Perhaps Chaucer had merely been taken out for questioning. Or execution. And the open door was a sadistic joke, a lure to draw him into an escape attempt. But against this, he recalled Chaucer’s surprising magnanimity in permitting the girl and himself to have the bunks. He must have known his Supporters were planning a break-out that night and wanted his cell-mates out of the way. Whitey felt an illogical resentment that the man had not offered to take him along, but pushed so irrelevant an emotion to the back of his mind. All that mattered about the escape was the amount of time that had passed since Chaucer’s departure. Checks were made at regular intervals, he remembered. An hour, two hours, he forgot the exact details, which in any case, might have changed since his time. But if Chaucer had been gone upwards of an hour, then discovery must be imminent.

  The thought filled him with panic and he increased his pace for a couple of strides till reason got control once more. His eyes had grown more used to the blackness and a change in its intensity plus his own revived memories told him he was approaching the metal stairway which descended a dozen steps into the old recreation centre. Prisoners’ recreation was a concept long discarded, partly through pressures on space but mainly because the philosophy on which it was based had been discredited. The area was used for other things now—accommodation, interrogation—but the use which concerned Whitey most was that it contained the warders’ night duty room.