Hell Is Too Crowded - Jack Higgins [6]
"I was under great stress at the time," Brady said.
The governor made no comment, but opened the file again. "You were a constructional engineer by profession, I see. We'll be able to make use of you. We're building our own extensions, within the walls, of course. There's no reason why you shouldn't start in the morning with the others."
"Thank you, sir!" Brady said.
"Of course, I need hardly mention that it's a privilege which will be revoked at the first sign of bad behaviour. Do I make myself clear?"
"Perfectly, sir!"
The governor smiled briefly. "If you feel in need of advice at any time, Brady, don't hesitate to see me. That's what I'm here for."
He got to his feet as a sign that the interview was over and the chief officer led Brady out.
Manningham was the third prison Brady had been in during the past three months and he looked about him with interest as he was taken to the clothing store, then to the kitchen for a meal, and finally to his cell.
The building had been constructed in the reform era of the middle of the nineteenth century on a system commonly found in Her Majesty's Prisons. Four, three-tiered cell blocks radiated like the spokes of a wheel from a central hall which lifted 150 feet into the gloom to an iron-framed glass dome.
Each cell block was separated from the central hall by a curtain of steel mesh for reasons of safety, and the chief officer unlocked the gate into C Block and motioned Brady through.
They mounted an iron staircase to the dimly lit top landing. The whole place was wrapped in an unnatural quiet and the landing was boxed in with more steel mesh to stop anyone who felt like it, from taking a dive over the rail. It gave one a feeling of being in a steel labyrinth and Brady shivered slightly as the Chief paused outside the end door on the landing and unlocked it.
The cell was larger than he had anticipated. There was a small barred window, a washbasin and fixed toilet in one corner. Against one wall, there was a double bunk, against the other, a single truckle bed.
A man was lying on the single bed reading a magazine. He looked about sixty, white hair close-cropped to his skull, eyes a vivid blue in the wrinkled, humorous face.
"New cell mate for you, Evans," the Chief said. "He'll be joining the gang on the building site tomorrow. Show him the ropes." He turned to Brady. "Remember what the governor said and watch your step. Play fair with me, and I'll play fair with you."
The door closed behind him with a slight clang and the sound of the key turning in the lock seemed to carry with it all the finality in the world.
"Play fair with me and I'll play fair with you." The man on the bed snorted in disgust. "What a load of crap." He sat up and produced a twenty packet of cigarettes from under his pillow. "Have a fag, son. My name's Joe Evans. You'll be Brady, I suppose?"
"That's right." Brady took a cigarette. "How did you know?"
Evans shrugged and gave him a light. "Got it on the vine from Wandsworth. Hear you tried to do a screw down there?"
Brady lay on the bottom bunk and inhaled with conscious pleasure. "He needled me from the day they got me in there on remand. I couldn't take any more."
"Those Sunday papers gave you a rough time, didn't they?" Evans chuckled. "I expected you to have fangs and two heads."
In spite of himself, Brady grinned, and Evans smiled back at him. "That's the way, son. Don't let the bastards get you down. If you ever feel really depressed, spit right in some screw's eye. It can always be guaranteed to liven things up."
"I'll bet it can," Brady said. "What's it like here?"
"Better than some. They'll be sticking some other bloke into that top bunk soon, but you've got to expect that these days. I came here three years ago when they made it a maximum-security nick for bad lads. There hasn't been a single crash-out since then."
"How long have you got to do?"
The old man grinned. "That's up to the Board. I've served six years of a seven-stretch. Would have been out by