Slammer (3 page)

'Gross,' somebody said.

Glass silently agreed when he saw what was being referenced. Blood. Dripping onto the floor at Peeler's feet, gouts of it, like red paint from a tin.

Then he saw where it was coming from.

And heaved.

'Oh, you dirty bastard.'

'What a poof.'

Comments directed at him, not at Peeler.

Glass gagged again, stood up, eyes watering, stomach muscles burning.

Felt a right prick, but Christ Almighty, who wouldn't throw up?

Peeler was still standing there, his machete in one hand, his other hand by his side, blood dripping from his fingers. He had a bemused look on his face, like he was asking himself:
How did this happen?

He made eye contact with Glass, and Glass felt his balls shrink. But it was okay. Peeler wasn't about to rush him. Quite the opposite.

Peeler dropped the machete. The hole he'd sliced in the underside of his left arm ran from the crook of his elbow down to his wrist. He inserted the fingers of his right hand into the hole. Pushed them inside. Slid in his thumb.

Oh, Jesus.

He spread his fingers, pulling the skin apart, and stared inside his arm.

'Christ you doing, you mad fuck?' Horse again.

'Would you look at that?' Peeler said. He'd grabbed hold of a bunch of veins and tendons and was showing them off, grinning.

Someone else spewed and Glass felt slightly less like a lightweight.

Then Peeler's face changed. It was as if he realised what he was doing, what he was holding in his hand. Abruptly, he let go and screamed. He ran on the spot, screaming. Jumped up and down, screaming. Threw his head from side to side, screaming.

Glass wanted to join him. But he had a job to do. He needed to restrain the crazy bastard before he hurt himself. Okay. Before he hurt himself further.

The noise, though, that screaming. Grating worse than the machines. And the cons, now staring at Glass. Expecting him to do something. Knowing he had to do something. No doubt hoping he got hurt trying to do it.

Couldn't think, though. Couldn't …

He stepped forward, feeling the shake in his knees. There was a sharp tang of bile in his mouth.

Peeler was still screaming, dancing. He slipped in his blood. Fell.

Now.
Now was Glass's chance. He ran forward, dived on top of Peeler.
Got him.
'Help me,' Glass shouted.

Nobody moved.

Peeler was ten times stronger than him under normal circumstances and crazy men were supposed to have the power of ten men, making Peeler the serious odds-on favourite to come out victorious. Glass scrambled for Peeler's arm to get a restraining hold on him, but Peeler was wriggling and shaking all over as if he was being electrocuted and Glass's hand kept slipping in the con's blood. If nobody came to help, Glass was dead. 'Help, you bastards!'

'Fuck off,' Wireman said. 'He's probably got AIDS.'

Ah, Jesus. Wireman had a point.

Glass rolled off Peeler, and Peeler lay there, staring at him, gasping. After a moment, he slapped a bloody hand on the floor, wiped it. Glass remembered the machete. Hoped to Christ Peeler wasn't going to pick it up and lunge at him now.

But that wasn't possible. The machete was gone.

Jesus Christ, this was becoming increasingly fucked up.

Perfect time for a riot. And Glass would be the perfect hostage.

Shit, shit, shit.

Peeler got to his feet. Licked his lips. Eyeballed Glass. Then his head turned towards the gate as it clanged open.

'The fuck is this crap?'

Thank Christ. Glass hated himself, but that was a welcome voice. He looked up.

Fox said, 'Move, fuckwits.'

The relief was almost sexual. Glass felt it in his balls.

Muir and Ross had arrived with Fox, all three taking in the scene.

Ross stepped forward. 'What's the matter with you, then, Peeler?' Her voice was steady, no sign that his sliced open arm and exposed veins were affecting her.

Peeler stared at her.

'Very pretty.' She nodded towards his arm. 'You should have been a surgeon.'

Peeler looked at his arm as if he'd just noticed it. Then he keeled over onto the floor and lay there, still.

Ross looked at Glass. 'Wasn't so hard, was it?'

*

'You shouldn't be here,' Mafia said. He was still in the Digger, sitting on the cold floor, knees hugged to his chest.

'You want me to go?' Glass asked him.

'What do you want, Glass?'

'
Officer
Glass.'

'Don't play the officer card with me. Doesn't suit you.'

Glass thought about leaving, but his curiosity had the better of him. He asked, 'What's with you and Caesar?'

'Don't like him.' Mafia pulled his knees tighter against his chest. 'And he doesn't like me.'

There was more than that. They'd fought before.

'That stoat's protected,' Mafia said.

A stoat: a nonce, a sex offender. Caesar wasn't a stoat. Mafia was just using it as an insult. In the Hilton, it was the worst thing you could call someone. Even worse than 'screw'.

'Tell me more,' Glass said.

'Why should I?'

He had no idea. But the dynamics of Mafia and Caesar's relationship had fascinated him from the outset. 'Never mind,' he said. Maybe he just liked Mafia and wanted to know what Caesar had against him. Maybe that's all it was.

'Hey,' Mafia squinted up at him, 'think you can persuade Fox to give me back my shades any time soon?'

*

Darko put the kitten down on the floor. Looked like the one Glass had seen in the locker room. It may have been feral, but Darko had it purring.

Glass wondered if Darko could teach him to do that so he could take the kitten home to Caitlin. Mind you, the thing probably had mites and God knew what else. He'd have to get it cleaned up first. But it wasn't going to be today.

The kitten bolted out of the room. Off to join the rest of the inmates for free association.

'Why d'you want to know?' Darko's English was excellent. A slight accent but you would hardly notice if you weren't listening for it.

'It'd help me do my job,' Glass said.

'Nothing will help you do that.'

He wasn't sure whether Darko was insulting him or the job. 'Tell me their history. As a favour, Darko.'

Darko smiled. 'Why should I do you a favour?'

'I'll owe you one.'Darko thought about that.

Glass could tell he was tempted. Always good to have a screw in your debt.

'Okay.' Darko leaned in close, whispered, 'Mafia used to be in Caesar's
 
gang. That's their history.' He looked around as though someone might be eavesdropping. 'Until things got messed up.' Again he scanned the cell. 'Couple of dead bodies.'

A flash. Peeler with his veins in his hand. Blood dripping onto the floor of the machine shop.

Glass rested his hand on the top bunk to stop himself falling and just about maintained his balance. He managed to speak without sounding weak. 'And Mafia took the rap?'

Darko shrugged. 'Caught at the scene.'

Glass was okay now. The feeling had passed. He moved his hand from the bed. 'I can't see him as a killer.' He waited, but Darko wasn't going to say any more. Glass prompted him: 'Must have been Caesar.'

'He had nothing to do with it.'

'How do you know?'

'Mafia confessed.'

'So Mafia did kill these people?'

'That's what he says.'

'You believe him?'

'Why would he lie?'

'I don't know,' Glass said. 'To protect someone, maybe.'

'That's possible, I suppose.'

Glass nodded. 'I wonder who.'

'Not Caesar.'

'Why do they hate each other?'

Darko looked towards the door again, then said, 'You should ask Watt.'

'Watt?'

'Mafia's little brother.'

Glass hadn't heard of him before but he didn't want to let Darko know the extent of his ignorance. 'What did Caesar do to him?'

Darko shook his head, folded his arms. 'Look, if you want to know more, speak to Mafia. I've said enough.'

'Come on. I just want to understand.'

'Sorry, but there has to be a reason he doesn't want you to know.'

Glass heard footsteps and then Horse appeared in the doorway holding a mop and the chance to persuade Darko was gone.

'Not interrupting anything, am I?' Horse asked.

'Officer Glass was just leaving.'

'What do you want?' Glass asked, forcing himself to make eye contact.

Horse was huge. Every time Glass saw him, he kept expecting to get knocked to the floor and trampled on. That's what had happened to some poor bastard four years ago. Rumour had it that Horse had broken off in the middle as the guy lay dying, gone to the shops for a packet of cigarettes and a can of Coke, then returned to finish the job of stomping the guy to death.

Horse said. 'Something I want to speak to you about in private.'

Glass didn't want to speak to Horse. He particularly didn't want to speak to him in private. But maybe Horse had something legitimate to say to him, something that would help him do his job, whatever Darko thought about that. He turned and left the cell, Horse by his side.

Horse put his mop in a bucket by the door. 'I'll keep this quick,' he said out of the side of his mouth. He picked up the bucket, nodded at a passing inmate. There was lots of nodding in the Hilton. Not greeting someone you passed on the landing could be enough of a slight to get you slashed. If the cons were dogs, they'd eat their own tails to relieve the boredom. Not saying hello could be seen as a nice big juicy bone.

Horse said, 'Need a favour.'

Glass didn't like the sound of that. Even though he'd just asked Darko for one. Or maybe
because
he'd just asked Darko for one.

Horse carried on, side-mouthing: 'We're having trouble getting gear in at the minute.'

'Jesus,' Glass whispered back. 'I don't want to know about that.'