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  1

  The small, square blacked-out windows on either side of the wagon were set too high to offer a view. A minor irritation for many, but for the three prisoners ensconced inside, it was the start of their punishment. They sat in individual cages in the back of the truck, separated by half a metre.

  The diminutive Warren Binns was quiet, thoughtful, as he tried to calculate if they would pass his native Sheffield on their way North. He took a deep breath, trying to breathe in a clue as to his whereabouts, hoping for a whiff of something familiar, something that meant home. There was nothing but the stench of sweat that emanated from all occupants of the van. It was cold outside, but with the heating on full blast, they were uncomfortably hot inside this airless metal box. The enclosed space reeked of misery and desperation.

  Warren closed his eyes and pictured the terraced house in Weavers Row. He wondered if he would ever get the chance to unlock the front door again, now that the key nestled somewhere among his bagged and tagged belongings, attached to the key ring his mum had bought him; a picture of a large trophy inscribed with the words Number One Son. A little sliver of cut and shaped brass that meant so much more than the sum of its parts. Warren clung to the knowledge that, somewhere, he belonged and was loved. Weavers Row was the one place on the earth that he could reach into the fridge or run a bath without consideration or needing permission. He not only missed the occupants of Weavers Row, but also the little life that he had led inside his childhood home. He longed to walk through the green front door after a day at college or a shift at the quarry and make a brew in the tiny kitchen, before collapsing in the lounge and warming his feet in front of the three-bar electric fire. Stretching out in the sturdy framed chair, on the sagging cushions that used to belong to his grandad and had the perfect dimensions for an afternoon snooze. He pictured the swirly patterned carpet that had worn to nothing where it was most trodden, and the crowded cupboard under the stairs, which smelled of olden days and memories. He had hidden in it as a child, playing among the meters and the old Quality Street tins full of delicate, glass Christmas decorations and tinsel in gaudy shades. In later years he hung his leather biker jacket here—on a hook next to the hoover—and stowed his toolbox on the floor, his mum’s shopping trolley stacked on top of it. What would happen to his stuff, now that they knew he wasn’t coming home, would they throw it away? He shook his head; it didn’t really matter, not in the grand scheme of things.

  Warren pulled at the bar that was joined by chain to the loops around his ankle and succeeded in pulling his manacled hands to within four inches of his face. He laughed; the itch on his nose would have to stay put. His feet, similarly anchored inside their rubber sandals were hot and itchy against the vinyl matting.

  ‘What’s so funny, Bud?’

  Warren stared straight ahead, ignoring the posh, chinless twat sat to his right. He wasn’t anyone’s bud. The guy didn’t take the hint.

  ‘Oh, I see the strong silent type. It’s all good. I’m Henry, in case anyone is interested.’

  ‘No one is interested, so shut the fuck up!’ A burly skinhead growled in a cockney accent from behind Henry’s head.

  ‘That’s good advice from your friend.’ The portly, sweating security guard perched on the narrow bench between the cages looked Henry in the eye.

  ‘He ain’t my fucking friend!’ It was torturous enough to be so physically confined, knees pressed against the metal screen in front of him, shoulders horribly compressed inside the box, without being lumped together with a long-haired dickhead who sounded like he had swallowed a silver spoon.

  The guard pointed at the skinhead, noting his tattooed neck and misshapen nose. ‘Name?’

  ‘Keegan Lomax.’ The guard nodded as if cataloguing him. One to watch.

  Henry was not going to shut up any time soon. ‘Keegan, as in Kevin? I’ve never been a football fan, more of a cricket man, but wasn’t he a footballer? God I hope he is or I’m making a complete tit of myself. It could have been worse, you might have been called Beckham or Redknapp, they’re footballers aren’t they? And I’m sorry to say boys that this is where my footy knowledge ends. Although if I did have to support a team, it would probably be Barcelona, it’s one of my favourite cities in the whole world. I think there is nothing better than a stroll down las Ramblas, a cold beer and a plate of tapas in the sun, bliss!’

  ‘What bit of shut the fuck up did you not get?’ Keegan spoke through gritted teeth as he stamped his shackled feet.

  ‘Alright. Let’s calm it down a bit, gentlemen.’ The guard raised and lowered his palms as though placating an animal.

  Warren smiled wryly to himself. He wasn’t sure where he was heading, but it would be an interesting journey if nothing else. He was glad of Henry’s diversion. Amy’s tear stained face sat behind his eyelids with every blink, the way her mouth had crumpled as she tried to speak, her large eyes brimming. She looked like she was drowning with the effort of trying to contain all that she wanted to say, aware that the clock was ticking, unaware of how long they had to say goodbye, minutes? Seconds? When... when will I see you again, War? Where are you going now and how soon until you come home, and... and how will I know when you are coming back, how will you let me know? She had smiled, trying to be brave as her chest heaved in an effort to stem the sobs. Her small hands fidgeted with a rose-printed hanky that she twisted and untwisted around her fingers. It was this memory that would jar Warren from sleep in the middle of the night and greet him upon waking each morning. He had not been able to answer her, could not find one single word of solace or comfort. He had tried, but the barriers he had constructed around his heart and mouth in the preceding months were so strong that it was impossible to break them down. Even at that moment, when a peg on which to hang hope would have made the impending years so much easier, he found it impossible to utter a single word of optimism or love. Instead he had nodded. It was probably for the best, better for her that she didn’t wake each day with a lift in her heart that today might be the day that he came home. Better for everybody.

  ‘How much further is it? I’m getting terribly bored.’ It was as if Henry was immune to the reaction he provoked.

  ‘A good few hours yet.’ The guard kept his answer short and vague.

  ‘Well in that case, can I interest anyone in a game of I Spy?’ Henry wasn’t giving up.

  ‘Fucking perfect.’ Keegan banged his shaved head on the cage in front of him.

  ‘All okay back there?’ The driver slid back a small Plexiglas panel to speak to his colleague.

  ‘Fine mate, we’re just debating football and wondering how far it is to Glenculloch.’ There was the faintest smirk about his face.

  Warren stiffened and turned his head to look at Keegan, whose eyes were wide. It was the first mention of where they were heading. Warren had heard bad things about this place and judging from Keegan’s expression he guessed it was the same for him. He tried to recall what he’d heard while he was on remand. Even Carl, a serial offender who had seen it all, had turned serious when he explained the rumours surrounding Glenculloch. ‘It’s an old MoD site, submarines or something nuclear. It’s at the bottom of a mountain on Rannoch Moor. They say it’s run by a woman who thinks she’s God. Everything that happens there is in her hands—reform you, kill you, whichever. It’s off the radar for obvious reasons—officially, it doesn’t even exist. I know a screw that went up there and I’m telling you it’s in the middle of shitting nowhere. And I mean shitting nowhere!’<
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  300 miles away, at the bottom of a mountain on Rannoch Moor, Matthew Shackleton stood behind his desk and pulled his navy v-necked sweater over his starched, white, button-down shirt. He was a bit chilly, and hated to start his working day without making himself as comfortable as possible. He wore the same thing every day: one of six identical jerseys—three in blue and three in green—along with a pair of expensive chinos that hugged his long legs, and leather deck shoes that would have been more appropriate strolling along a dock. He patted the parting of his hair to ensure it was straight, and surreptitiously used his fingertips to check on the thinning spot that had appeared on his crown. He knew it was to be expected—at the wrong side of fifty he had anticipated a little wear and tear—but it was still a grim daily reminder that he was on the descent. He buffed his round tortoiseshell spectacles with the soft cloth from inside his glasses case. Pushing them on, he began to sort through the mail.

  This was Matthew’s third career. When, after serving as an army Captain and later as a warden at Belmarsh prison, a friend had suggested semi-retirement in an administrative role in the wilds of Scotland, it had sounded like an adventure. But had he known what life at Glenculloch was going to be like, he might have thought twice. He remembered the day he arrived four years earlier, and how, as the car approached, he leant forward in his seat, narrowing his eyes to better study the vast metal and concrete box that loomed before him. It resembled a giant slanting triangle; modernist, smooth-surfaced and most incongruent to the Scottish wilderness. It could almost have been dropped there by an alien hand.

  ‘I can’t see any windows.’

  His driver, one of the guards with whom he had made awkward small talk since being collected from Edinburgh Airport, shook his head. ‘No, you won’t, there aren’t any. Sunlight is a privilege that needs to be earned.’ He chewed his gum, open-mouthed, and sniggered.

  ‘Is that right?’ Matthew lowered his head and tilted his neck, trying to get the best view from the windscreen.

  Matthew dragged his thoughts back to the stack of manila envelopes in front of him. A postcard sat incongruously on top of the pile. It depicted a mountain scene; a towering hunk of snow-capped granite that nudged the bright blue skyline. Mount Domett, wherever that might be. He pulled the card closer to decipher the tiny script in the bottom right hand corner. New Zealand, fancy that. It was from someone called Nicholas, Nicholas Patterson.

  ‘Morning, Matthew.’ A tall, brisk-looking woman in a tan cashmere coat strode into the office.

  ‘Good Morning, Edwina. Bit nippy today.’ Matthew shivered involuntarily and rubbed his palms together.

  ‘Yes. Better double check on any frost warning tonight.’

  ‘Already done it. You’re worried about the fruit trees, right?’

  ‘And the bougainvillea. I’ve fashioned some rather nifty covers from old fleecy blankets that ought to do the trick. I’ve already double-mulched the roots, trouble is the main beds don’t get the morning sun and are more vulnerable to frost.’

  ‘Righto, I’m on it.’

  Edwina smiled as she removed her coat and hung it on the wooden coat stand, placing it next to Matthew’s mackintosh. She knew he would be. They made a formidable gardening partnership. Edwina knew that she had met her green-fingered match when during a sudden, violent storm last spring, she had ventured outside in the early hours with her pyjama bottoms tucked into her wellington boots. Armed with a head-torch and a handful of twine she was intent on placing carrier bags over delicate flower heads and tying up any wandering stems. Matthew’s outside light had flicked on simultaneously and there he was, with a Drizabone over his nightshirt, a rather natty sou’wester and the same intention. Undeterred by the driving rain and cracks of thunder, they had toiled merrily, determined to preserve what they worked hard to achieve.

  The two were colleagues and neighbours, living side by side in the grounds of Glenculloch in identical one-bedroom cottages, the only original buildings that pre-dated the facility. The houses sat with their back walls against the new structure, meaning their view was unobscured by their ugly workplace. Edwina loved the peace and quiet; the big, bruised sky; the rocky outcrops that sat in jagged contrast to the soft heathers sprouting at their base. To her it was the romantic landscape of adventure—though she knew that Matthew felt differently, and rather missed city life, with its constant hum of traffic, where you could buy fresh bread and good wine from the local deli, and see the latest flicks on a rainy afternoon with a bag of popcorn.

  But then, their taste was certainly opposed. Matthew’s cottage was crammed with vintage chaise-longues, fussy gilt-framed prints and curios that reminded him of his grandmother, and echoed the classic ‘stately home’ interior he tried to emulate. Edwina was most particular about the objects that surrounded her. Her walls were painted in muted, neutral shades and she favoured pale over-sized sofas and pinewood furniture with clean, elegant lines. When choosing anything, from clothes to furniture, she asked the simple questions, is it practical and does it look attractive? There was no room in her life for ugly clutter. During her sixty years on the planet she had learnt the importance of beauty. The memory of her mother hovered; despite sharing many words of wisdom, she could only ever picture her in the kitchen, her hands immersed in either suds or dough, Look, Edwina May, this is just an empty old jam jar ready for the bin, but watch what happens when I pop some bluebells in it—it becomes something quite beautiful...

  ‘You have a postcard.’ Matthew interrupted her reverie.

  ‘Oh, splendid!’

  She reached out her hand and strode towards his desk like a child being offered sweets, afraid the offer might be withdrawn. She studied first the picture and then the text, scrawled by a biro on the other side. Turning it over twice more, she scrutinised the picture and then the words again.

  ‘Well well, Nicholas in New Zealand. How wonderful.’ She beamed at Matthew who smiled back; he loved to see her this happy.

  ‘Is he a friend of yours?’

  ‘Yes.’ she nodded.

  Matthew swallowed the curious mixture of interest and jealousy that rose in his throat. He had hoped for a bit more.

  Edwina walked into her small office adjacent to Matthew’s desk. It was a grey room with little in it to admire or lift the spirits; it was in fact similar to the inmate’s rooms, bland and impersonal. That was with the exception of the large cork board that held pride of place behind her work space. It hung like a fine work of art, a brightly painted and magnificent collage that brought all the corners of the world into this windy, damp corner of Perth and Kinross. The snowy peak of a Patagonian mountain was partly obscured by the outstretched arms of Christ the Redeemer as he watched over Rio. A pale, stone fort in Jordan overlapped a dense Finnish forest. She selected a fat headed pin from the small, square box and tacked the picture of Mount Dommet in between a spouting geyser in Yellowstone National Park and the Nynäshamn docks just south of Stockholm.

  ‘Coffee?’

  ‘Please.’ She nodded.

  Matthew placed the stack of mail in the wire basket on the corner of her desk. He avoided touching the bulky green filing cabinet that sat against the wall. Once, he had placed the mail basket on top of it and Edwina had been so furious that he had thought he might get the sack. She was clearly a woman that liked things kept just so. She obviously had a system, and he was not about interfere with a woman and her system, especially a woman like the formidable Edwina Justice, who was rumoured to have left her last job as head warden at HMP Marlham because she refused to work within the guidelines for prisoner punishment.

  He popped an espresso in a little china cup in front of her and folded his arms over his chest. As usual he took up only the minimum of space; he was, in every detail, neat.

  ‘We have three new inmates that arrived late afternoon yesterday. CCTV report shows that one of them, Warren Binns, spent a large part of the night pacing, but the other two seem to have slept straight through. The induction ro
om is booked for nine-fifteen. I’ve emailed you their files and I’ve notified Angelo.’

  ‘Thank you, Matthew.’ She smiled at him for the second time that morning and gratefully sipped the strong coffee.

  Edwina clicked open her desktop and entered today’s password. This daily rotation of letters and numbers, issued by Whitehall, was the only contact she had with the Ministry of Justice, other than her annual report. She rather liked the autonomy, though it had taken her a while to digest the reality of the job when it had first been offered four years ago, in a dimly lit basement beneath the Royal Courts of Justice. It had been a lot to absorb and she had been more than a little distracted by her future employer’s brash manner.

  ‘So let me get this straight, you are saying that I wouldn’t come under any jurisdiction?’ she asked quizzically.

  The Minister for Penal Reform smiled and loosened his tie. ‘Exactly right, you’d be invisible. You’d be the boss, answerable to no-one. No-one. There’s an election looming and the PM wants to get tough and remove these little shits from the streets, so we are throwing the rule book out and giving you complete free reign to do as you see fit. Not that we’ll be phrasing it exactly like that you understand, heaven forbid we offend the PC brigade.’ He laughed and winked at the IT guy on the computer. Edwina felt excluded; did he think she was the PC brigade? He continued, ‘This place does not exist if you get my drift. What happens up there really will be up to you. Reform them, kill them, whichever. You’ll be God. Imagine that.’

  The minister leant forward, placing his elbows on his thighs and forming a pyramid with his fingers, through which he spoke. ‘Now, I expect you’re wondering about finances. Well, this is one of those problems we believe can be solved by throwing money at it. We give you a handsome budget, a very handsome budget, and what you do with it is up to you. No questions asked. You could get yourself a hot-tub, a chocolate fountain and a lifelong subscription to your favourite magazine; let the little fuckers eat dust for all we care. We are running out of ideas and it’s time to get radical or sink.’