By Gladwell M.
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No approach, no ‘don’t worry’ messages in the cells below the dock. No nothing. So they’d done it to him again. He’d trusted Sir Alistair Wilson; thought him a good bloke, like the Director who had preceded Cuthbertson. Charlie stirred, aware of the metallic sound getting nearer. At least he’d lived: perhaps Wilson considered the bargain ended there. He’d only pleaded for that, after all, Charlie conceded; just his life. Charlie looked away from the window and its neatly divided squares, to the table bare of any personal mementoes and the stiff-backed chair and the pisspot he couldn’t smell any more.
The porridge was slopped half in and half out of his bowl. Charlie didn’t protest. He was as lucky with the seat in the mess hall as he had been in the washing area, with his back against the wall. He saw Prudell smirking two tables away: the companion was new, someone Charlie hadn’t seen before. Dark and very pretty: Greek or Italian, maybe. Charlie had started eating by the time Eddie Hargrave eased in beside him. ‘Saw what happened at slop-out,’ said Hargrave, his voice hardly above a whisper, talking prison fashion, lips practically unmoving.
Charlie knew he’d have to make a contact soon, to get a drink. It had been a long time. Too long. The prison was never completely quiet: always something metallic seemed to be hitting against something else metallic. This morning it was a long way off, on a far-away landing and Charlie gave up trying to guess what it was. He lay with his hands behind his head, staring up at the barred window; in the growing light, it looked like a noughts and crosses board, set out in readiness. Early on he’d actually used the reflected pattern that way, a mental chequer board, playing games against himself.