And Thereby Hangs a Tale Read online

  “Get your arse upstairs, Friedman, and sharpish. Once they’ve checked your piss you can come back down and enjoy a well-earned rest. Now move it.”

  Benny folded his copy of the Sun, lowered himself slowly off the bottom bunk, strolled out of his cell into the corridor, and made his way up to the medical wing. No officer ever bothered to accompany him while he was out of his cell, as he never caused any trouble. You can have a reputation, even in prison.

  When Benny arrived at the medical wing, he was surprised to find that none of the usual reprobates was waiting in line to be checked for drugs. In fact, he seemed to be the only inmate in sight.

  “This way, Friedman,” said an officer he didn’t recognize. Moments after he had entered the hospital, he heard a key being turned in the lock behind him. He looked round and saw his old friend Detective Inspector Matthews, who had arrested him many times in the past, sitting on the end of one of the beds.

  “To what do I owe this honor, Mr. Matthews?” Benny asked without missing a beat.

  “I need your help, Benny,” said the detective inspector, not suggesting that the old lag should sit down.

  “That’s a relief, Mr. Matthews. For a minute I thought you were being tested for drugs.”

  “Don’t get lippy with me, Benny,” said Matthews sharply. “Not when I’ve come to offer you a deal.”

  “And what are you proposing this time, Mr. Matthews? A packet of fags in exchange for a serial killer?”

  Matthews ignored the question. “You’re coming up for appeal in a few months’ time,” he said, lighting a cigarette but not offering Benny one. “I might be able to arrange for a couple of years to be knocked off your sentence.” He took a deep drag and blew out a cloud of smoke before adding, “Which would mean you could be out of this hellhole in six months’ time.”

  “How very thoughtful of you, Mr. Matthews,” said Benny. “What are you expecting me to do in return for such munificence?”

  “There’s a con on his way to Belmarsh from the Old Bailey. He should be checking in any moment now. His name’s Bryant, Kevin Bryant, and I’ve arranged for him to be your new cellmate.”

  When the cell door was pulled open, Benny looked up from his copy of the Sun and watched as Bryant swaggered into the cell. The man didn’t say a word, just flung his kit bag on the top bunk. New prisoners always start off on the top bunk.

  Benny went back to his paper while Bryant placed a thin bar of white soap, a green flannel, a rough green towel, and a Bic razor on the ledge above the washbasin. Benny put his paper down and studied the new arrival more closely. Bryant was every inch the armed robber. He was about five foot five, stockily built, with a shaved head. He unbuttoned his blue-and-white striped prison shirt to reveal a massive tattoo of a red devil. Not much doubt which football team Bryant supported. On the fingers of one hand were tattooed the letters HATE, and on the other, LOVE.

  Bryant finally glanced across at Benny. “My name’s Kev.”

  “Mine’s Benny. Welcome to Belmarsh.”

  “It’s not my first time in the slammer,” said Bryant. “I’ve been here before.” He chuckled. “Several times, actually. And you?” he asked once he’d climbed up onto the top bunk and settled down.

  “Fourth time,” said Benny. “But then, I don’t like to hang round for too long.”

  Bryant laughed for the first time. “So what are you in for?” he asked.

  Benny was surprised that Bryant had broken one of prison’s golden rules: never ask a fellow con what he’s in for. Wait for him to volunteer the information. “I’m a fence,” he replied.

  “What do you fence?”

  “Almost anything. But I draw the line at drugs, and that includes marijuana, and I won’t handle porn, hard or soft. You’ve got to have some standards.”

  Bryant was silent for some time. Benny wondered if he’d fallen asleep, which would be unusual on your first day inside, even for a regular. “You haven’t asked me what I’m in for,” said Bryant eventually.

  “No need to, is there?” said Benny. “Your mugshot’s been on the front page of the tabloids every day for the past week. Everyone at Belmarsh knows what you’re in for.”

  Bryant didn’t speak again that night, but Benny was in no hurry. The one thing you’ve got plenty of in prison is time. As long as you’re patient, everything will eventually come out, however secretive an inmate imagines he is.

  Benny didn’t much like being in jail, but most of all he dreaded the weekends, when you could be banged up for eighteen hours at a stretch, with only a short break to collect an oily meal of spam fritters and chips from the hotplate.

  The screws allowed the prisoners out for a forty-five-minute break in the afternoon. Benny could choose between watching football on television or taking a stroll round the yard, whatever the weather. He had no interest in football, but as Bryant always went straight to the yard, he settled for watching television. He was grateful for any break he could get in this hastily arranged marriage, and if Bryant was ever going to say anything about where the diamonds were, it was more likely to be in the privacy of their cell than in the bustling, noisy, overcrowded yard where other prisoners could eavesdrop.

  Benny was reading an article about how the Italian Prime Minister spent his weekends when Bryant broke into his thoughts. “Why don’t you ever ask me about the diamonds?”

  “None of my business,” said Benny, not looking up from his paper.

  “But you must be curious about what I’ve done with them?”

  “According to the Sun’s crime correspondent,” said Benny, “you sold them to a middle man for half a million.”

  “Half a million?” said Bryant. “Do I look that fuckin’ stupid?”

  “So how much did you sell ’em for?”

  “Nothin’.”

  “Nothin’?” repeated Benny.

  “Because I’ve still got ’em, haven’t I?”

  “Have you?”

  “Yeah. And I can tell you one thing. The fuzz ain’t never gonna find out where I stashed ’em, however hard they look.”

  Benny pretended to go on reading his paper. He’d reached the sports pages by the time Bryant spoke again.

  “It’s all part of my retirement plan, innit? Most of the muppets in this place will walk out with nothin’, while I’ve got myself a guaranteed income for life, haven’t I?”

  Benny waited patiently, but Bryant didn’t utter another word before lights out, four hours later. Benny would have liked to ask Bryant just one more question, but he knew he couldn’t risk it.

  “What do you think about this guy Berlusconi?” he asked finally.

  “What’s he in for?” asked Bryant.

  Benny always attended the Sunday morning service held in the prison chapel, not because he believed in God, but because it got him out of his cell for a whole hour. The long walk to the chapel on the other side of the prison, the body search for drugs—by a female officer if you got lucky—the chance for a gossip with some old lags, a sing-song, followed by a saunter back to your cell in time for lunch, were a welcome break from the endless hours of being banged up.

  Benny settled down in his usual place in the third row, opened his hymn sheet, and, when the organ struck up, joined in lustily with “Fight the good fight.”

  Once the prison chaplain had delivered his regular sermon on repentance and forgiveness, followed by the final blessing, the cons began to make their way slowly out of the chapel and back to their cells.

  “Can you spare me a moment, Friedman?” asked the chaplain after Benny had handed in his hymn sheet.

  “Of course, Father,” said Benny, feeling a moment of apprehension that the chaplain might ask him to sign up for his confirmation class. If he did, Benny would have to come clean and admit he was Jewish. The only reason he’d ticked the little box marked C of E was so he could escape from his cell for an hour every Sunday morning. If he’d admitted he was a Jew, a Rabbi would have visited him in his cell once a month,