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‘Working,’ he said gruffly, and shrugged as he continued to swish the mop on the scuffed floor.
Frankie shook his head at the grumpy old bugger’s attitude. He’d only appeared at the jail a short while ago and had somehow managed to blag himself a pad on the ‘ones’, prison slang for the preferred ground floor. Probably because the old bastard’s knees were so creaky.
‘Frankie, dude. What’s happening?’ came a voice from Logan McGill’s cell, his small and wizened face pressed against the hard Perspex of the cell wicket, the sliding door that the screws used to check on prisoners without opening the door. Logan was a bitclaustrophobic, so the screws always kept his wicket open during the daylight hours, as long as he behaved.
‘Fucking partial lockdown, Logan. Have to eat this shite in my pad. I’ll never get rid of the fucking smell, man,’ said Frankie.
Logan cackled, showing stained and broken teeth, his muddy brown eyes full of amusement. He was a total junkie, and mad as a box of frogs, but he was a likeable enough guy. ‘Aye, I’d give this place a two-star review on Tripadvisor, maximum.’
‘I may stretch to three, Logan, if the stovies don’t give me the shi—’ Frankie stopped mid-sentence, as Logan’s eyes flared wide open with alarm, staring beyond him, just as a shadow fell across his shoulder.
‘Frankie, look out!’ yelled Logan, in what was almost a high-pitched squeal.
Time seemed to slow, and it felt like Frankie was wading through treacle as he turned. The elderly con, who seconds ago was working his mop on the floor, now had the wooden handle held high, like a spear, the pitted tip flashed bright white with something jammed into it as he drove the makeshift weapon with surprising speed at Frankie’s neck. The man’s face was set firm, teeth bared. Frankie fell to the floor, instinctively, feeling the disturbed air as the makeshift spear passed over his head, ramming with a clatter into the heavy metal of Logan’s cell door. The tip broke, and the man stumbled. Immediately Frankie’s martial arts training clicked in. He’d been a proficient cage-fighter in his time, and a big part of that had been jiu-jitsu. He rolled onto the floor, scissoring the old man’s legs with his, bringing him to the hard, wet ground. He went straight on the attack, and within a second, had him restrained, his forearm pressed into the old man’s throat.
‘Who fucking sent you?’ hissed Frankie.
The man said nothing, so tightly was his airway constricted by Frankie’s forearm, but his eyes sparkled.
‘Who fucking sent you?’ Frankie repeated, letting some of the pressure off the man’s throat.
The man coughed wetly, a smile stretching across his face, showing a mouth totally devoid of teeth. ‘You dead man, Hardie. Not today maybe, but soon. You say a fucking word, and you’ll be dead within a day. You can’t stop it. No one can, he has people everywhere,’ he said, his voice crackling with phlegm, and his normal mumbled timbre replaced with a harsh and thick Eastern European snarl. The crudely worked tattoo on his corded neck of a two-headed bird stood out harsh and stark against his skin.
A piercing tone split the silence as the alarm began to sound, and there was a sudden uproar, as the cons behind their doors erupted in shouts and catcalls.
Frankie felt strong arms pulling him away, and in a second he was secured, in an arm lock, his face pressed to the hard floor, whilst the prison raged around him.
38
MAX AND JANIEsat across the worn and chipped desk in the healthcare office in the far wing of Shotts jail, a turgid silence in the room as they looked at the lean form of Frankie Hardie. He leant back in his chair, his chin cupped in his hands, as he returned their stare. He still wore his customary contemptuous glare, but it was marred by something else. It was visible in his eyes by the slight downturn at the corners, and by the flush in his cheeks.
Vulnerability. Max could see it as clear as if it was tattooed on his forehead. Frankie was scared. He barely looked like a Hardie any more. He looked what he was: a man in fear of his life. A man with nothing to lose.
Max didn’t speak, and neither did Janie. They both knew that as Frankie had requested to speak to them, the obligation was his. They were happy to wait and allow the uncomfortable silence to continue until Frankie was ready. There was just the three of them in the poky and depressing room, the wordless prison officer had left after escorting Frankie in with just a nod. The room was silent apart from a slight whir from the fan in the old desktop computer that sat at the side of the room next to a medicine cabinet. Frankie’s eyes were downcast, and his face radiated a mix of fear and despair. He looked like a man who had lost everything. Still Max and Janie said nothing.
Predictably, Frankie broke first. ‘Who tried to spring Davie, then?’
‘We don’t know yet. Inquiries are ongoing,’ said Max.
‘And who killed him? I’m hearing a sniper.’
‘Same answer, Frankie. Inquiries are ongoing, but we have some leads. It was a sniper, but he’s not been that careful.’
‘What leads?’
‘Items from the scene where he fired from. He’s not been as meticulous as he could’ve. Can you think why or by who he was shot?’
‘I would’nae be asking if I knew, would I? He knew lots of folk on the outside, though. Davie was always better connected than me, and Pa and Tam always favoured him. He’d have had people to call. I don’t, which is why we’re talking now. I need help, or I’m gonna get killed. Maybe not today or tomorrow, but no way will I last ten years in gen pop, and I’m nae going rule 43, either. Nonces and grasses are just as dangerous if they think they can curry favour with someone. Killing me could get a nonce a powerful ally and get them off 43 and back in gen pop, or at worst a few quid to their family on the out. I want a deal. I know things about why Davie and Slattery were killed, but I need assurances.’ He sat back in his chair and exhaled, the relief at having said what he wanted to say was almost palpable.
Max held Frankie’s gaze for a beat. ‘So what happened on the landing last night?’
‘You not heard from the screws?’ said Frankie, narrowing his eyes.
‘I want to hear it from you.’
‘Some old con went for me with a fucking makeshift spear. His mop handle had a toothbrush handle sharpened to a point attached. If a pal hadn’t shouted, he’d have fucking brained me, man.’
‘Who is he?’
