Читать книгу No Smoke Without Fire - Paul Gitsham - Страница 10

Prologue

December 2010

The old man shuffles through the gate, blinking as if he hasn’t seen the sun in years. In many ways, he hasn’t. Not really. He’s dressed in a shabby grey suit that’s a size too small and a once expensive shirt, open at the neck. A simple crucifix on a thin metal chain is just visible, partly hidden by curling grey hair. The leather of his shoes creaks, having stiffened over time. In his right hand he clutches a blue plastic carrier bag — it contains all that he has owned for the last twelve years.

Behind him the guard stops, still inside. One more step and his authority evaporates; inside he is as a god, his jurisdiction absolute — outside he is no more than an ordinary man.

“I’m sure we’ll be seeing you again. Your kind never change. I just hope they catch you next time before you ruin any more lives.” His voice is muted, his cruel taunt only audible to the old man.

For his part, the old man keeps on walking as if he hasn’t heard a word; a few more paces as if to guarantee he is truly outside and he stops. Turning slowly to survey the place he has called home for over a decade, he looks slowly at the guard and fingers the crucifix.

“No, you won’t. I’m never coming back. I will never spend another day in that hell-hole.” His voice, quiet, raspy, damaged by too many cigarettes, is nevertheless resolute.

The guard scowls, disappointed that the prisoner — former prisoner — doesn’t rise to the bait. Sometimes they do; sometimes they start the first day of their new life in a bad mood, as he manages to turn a joyous occasion for the prisoner and his family into a nasty confrontation. Prisoners dream of the moment they step through those gates free men. They idolise it, constructing fantasies about how perfect it will be — as if they are soldiers returning from a far distant front line; conquering heroes, not the dregs of humanity finally released back into society, more often than not to pick up where they left off. The guard always does his best to spoil that moment — his final gift to his former charges. If he had his way, people like the old man would never leave — they’d serve time until their dying breaths, and then they’d be buried in unmarked graves in an inaccessible and overlooked part of the prison grounds.

Finally, the old man breaks his gaze and turns back towards the road, starting his shuffle again. He seems to notice the chill December wind for the first time and shivers. It was spring when he was driven through the gates that last time; the lightweight suit that he wore in his final court appearance more than adequate. Now it’s winter and he almost wishes he’d put on his prison-issue sweater. But no, he could never do that. He only has it in his bag so that he can light a bonfire with it and start to expunge the legacy of his recent incarceration. To have put the sweater back on would have been to surrender his freedom again. Never.

He waits on the side of the kerb, not quite sure what to do, his teeth starting to chatter. How ironic, he thinks, to have survived all of these years, only to freeze to death because his lift is late. Behind him he hears the whine of an electric motor, then the heavy thunk as the huge door closes, shutting him off from the nearest source of warmth for miles around. Never mind, he long ago made a promise to himself: even if the snow was three feet deep and the temperature twenty below freezing he would never step inside a prison again, either by choice or by compulsion; he’d rather die of exposure.

Finally, he hears the purr of a well-tuned engine. Looking up, he sees a dark blue Jaguar driving slowly towards him. Instinctively he knows it’s for him. The car, an unfamiliar model sporting the new type of licence plate that means nothing to him — yet another small detail that slipped past as he languished inside — eases to a halt. The driver reaches across and opens the passenger door. He remains leaning across the seat, looking up at the old man.

“Hello, Dad. You survived, I see.”