Deadly secrets, p.8
Deadly Secrets, page 8
The intake gates opened, the truck moved inside the compound, and the gates closed behind them as they rolled forward for another minute before coming to a shuddering stop. The doors to the transport truck opened, correctional officers barked orders and the prisoners got out. It appeared to be a well-rehearsed routine, and everyone complied.
When it was his turn, Marty stepped out into the summer evening sunshine. The bright sunlight burned his eyes, forcing him to raise his cuffed hands to his face. He turned his head away from the entrance gates to face the foreboding façade of Hawk Green Prison.
In stark contrast to Marty’s normal life, there was no ‘celebrity entrance’, no VIP wing and no special treatment, all made abundantly clear by the prison transport officers earlier when he had been loaded into the truck. Along with the other inmates, he was quickly marched inside the intake block, told to strip naked and stand inside an observation booth to be checked by two officers for any hidden contraband. The next stage of the process involved the transferral of all his personal possessions and clothes into a sealed box, taken away until his release. He was handed prison-issue underpants, an oversized grey tracksuit and white slip-on trainers, and was ready for deployment to general population; a folded blanket and a pillow were lain across his outstretched arms. He was a mirror image to his four companions, who had formed a line facing the long corridor to A-Wing.
Marty had never felt more terrified as when they left the safety of the intake block, walking slowly in single file. As they moved through the building, gates opened loudly, and each time they moved through to the next secure area, gates closed behind them with a deafening thud, plunging them deeper and deeper into the belly of the prison. Every step took Marty closer to hell. His heart pounded erratically until he struggled to force any breath into his heaving lungs. He wanted to cry out, overcome by an overwhelming urge to shout for his mother. He knew it was ridiculous for a grown man to break down and cry like an infant, but prison does strange things to people, and right now Marty wanted his mum to sweep in and make it all better; just like she had when he was a kid.
A moment later, the entrance gate to the main detention block of A-Wing rolled open noisily and the procession of men obediently moved forward into general population, with Marty the last man in the line. His fear was overwhelming as they moved into plain sight of the rest of the inmates.
The noise was the first thing that struck him, like a wave crashing over every sense in his body, disorientating and terrifying. News of the celebrity guest arrival had spread fast, and the parallel landing floors above were filled with inquisitive faces. A mixture of sneers, laughter and total indifference. Inmates chanted, whistled and shouted, while absolute terror surged through every fibre of Marty’s body. He had arrived at the gates of hell and was now at the mercy of some of the most evil men on the face of God’s earth; even God could not help him now.
The cacophony of chants and screams was almost impossible to decipher as the line moved slowly forward, but two loud voices became instantly clear.
As part of his daily radio show, Marty played a jingle package and audio sting that said confidently, ‘Demand the King at Breakfast – DEMAND MARTY MICHAELS!’ Now, here in the middle of A-Wing, he could hear that jingle being sung in unison. He looked up to the first-floor landing, in the direction of the singing. To his horror, he saw the broad, smiling faces of Vic McCloud and Clarence Keats. Marty stopped in his tracks before the prison officer bringing up the rear of the procession ushered him forward.
He kept his eyes fixed on McCloud, who pointed his index finger back at him before running his outstretched thumb across his own throat, and both men laughed loudly as he stared back in terror. A second later, Keats and McCloud stepped away from the rail as a group of prison guards ushered the inmates back into their cells, trying to calm the baying masses. Marty’s arrival was a break from the boredom of daily life in prison. It had caused the inmates to become over-excited which, without proper management, could easily turn volatile. Within minutes, a temporary lockdown was in effect and the landings and cell-block floors were empty; each of the prisoners was locked behind six inches of steel and glass. Their maniacal chants and screams, though muffled, were still audible as they echoed around the large prison wing.
Marty finally reached his cell. Locked inside his twelve-by-ten-foot room, alone for his own safety, he would remain that way until morning.
He was now officially remand prisoner number 865439 of HMP Hawk Green.
Today was, without doubt, the worst day of his life. He had no doubt that, if McCloud and Keats caught up with him tomorrow, it could well be his last.
21
Marty did not see his attackers coming.
It was Saturday morning. Having made it through the shower he was forced to take by prison staff, followed by the loneliest breakfast he’d ever eaten – isolated on the end of a long bench in the mess hall – Marty had returned to his cell, trying his best to avoid Saturday recreation and the risk of bumping into either McCloud or Keats in the yard. He was perched on the end of his bed with his head in his hands when the three men arrived.
They moved quickly through his cell door and, as Marty reacted, a heavy blow on the left side of his head knocked him sideways onto the mattress. Before he could respond, they struck him again, this time on the back of his head. Pain surged through his body. Dizzy and disorientated, he tried to cry out for help. A thick hand covered his mouth as they dragged him to the floor. They then pushed his face down hard onto the cold concrete, ensuring he was unable to see his attackers.
As he attempted to kick and scream his way to freedom, two of the men held him down whilst a third pulled thick duct tape over his mouth before attempting to bind his hands with cable ties. Drawing on a strength he didn’t know he had, Marty kicked out and thrust his head backwards, catching one of his attackers in the face, causing him to cry out. In the melee that followed, Marty managed to lift himself off the floor and charge the man in front of him. He slammed him against the wall with a deafening thud, momentarily stunning him. As he turned to face the room, the third man swung something long and heavy that crashed into Marty’s temple with a loud thud. Marty went down hard and fast. A split second later, the three men began kicking him up and down his body.
When it finally appeared they had run out of steam, one knelt down and leaned in close to Marty’s right ear. In a heavily-accented voice, he whispered, ‘Don’t struggle. Just enjoy a cell-warming present from your friends, Mr McCloud and Mr Keats.’ Then he laughed, a cold, hoarse belly laugh. His friends joined in. Then one of the other men forced his knees onto Marty’s shoulders, pressing his head to the cold floor, then trapped him under his heavy, hot, sweating crotch. Marty’s tracksuit bottoms were pulled down around his knees, followed by his underwear. Marty squirmed, attempting to kick the men off, but it was no use; they were heavy, and he was totally incapacitated.
The man who had spoken to him laughed as he stood above Marty for a moment before pulling down his own tracksuit bottoms, allowing them to fall to the floor. A moment later, he dropped back to his knees and leaned in close to Marty’s right ear. ‘This may sting a little—’ he whispered. Marty kicked and wriggled frantically. ‘—but you’ll soon start to enjoy it.’ He placed both hands on Marty’s buttocks.
Suddenly the third man returned to warn the others that the prison guards were on the landing below, heading towards their cells.
‘Shit, that’s all we need!’ the man on top of Marty said as he leapt off Marty and quickly dressed. His accomplices roughly pulled up Marty’s tracksuit bottoms and dragged him back onto his bed. Frozen with shock, Marty stared at them, blinking wildly as they stood above him – three dark-skinned men, heavyset, possibly Greek or Lebanese.
One of the men leaned in close, brandishing a small razor melted into a toothbrush in his hand, and smiled wickedly. As he spoke, Marty recognised him as the man on top. ‘Welcome to Hawk Green,’ he whispered, before laughing hard and turning to share the joke with his friends. His gaze returned, the smile gone now. ‘I’m going to take off the tape from your mouth. You are not going to mention any of this to anyone, or we’ll come back again tomorrow and finish this off. If the screws ask, you fell. Do you understand?’
Marty nodded quickly, his eyes wide and wild.
‘That’s a good boy,’ said the man, tapping the blade on Marty’s cheek. ‘And if I were you, I’d stay in my cell and get some rest. It’s been a big first day, superstar!’ he said, and laughed loudly as he painfully pulled off the tape.
There was a sudden flurry of movement and Marty was struck again on his left temple. His world went black.
22
Lying on the cool grass of Alexandra Park opposite his family home in Whalley Range had always been a favourite pastime for Marty as a child. Most summer days after school, he would head across the road and into the park, watching excitedly as the bigger boys played football or cricket each evening. He so wanted to be like them, but as his father had told him many times over, he was not the athletic type.
Despite his obvious shortcomings in sport, he was never happier than when he could feel grass under his feet; halcyon days, ending each time with the shouts of his mother calling him into their warm, welcoming home for dinner. He remembered it like it was yesterday. ‘Marty! Marty! It’s dinnertime!’ she would shout in her thick County Mayo accent from her position on the front step. Reluctant to leave the park, more often than not, he would fail to answer her call. Then the shouts would turn more formal, using his ‘Sunday’ name. ‘Marty, Marty Michaels!’
He could hear his mother now as he lay on the grass, revelling in the feeling of the cool cushion under his body as he stared ahead at the bright blue sky above him.
‘Marty… Marty… Marty Michaels!’ came the shouts.
He smiled, lifting and turning his head towards his family home, but he could not see his mother despite hearing his name repeated over, and over.
‘Marty… Marty… Marty Michaels!’
Sat upright, his mother was nowhere in sight. He blinked slowly as the world around him changed. The bright blue sunlit sky turned grey, then white, then suddenly morphed into fluorescent tube lights and what looked like ashen white roof tiles ahead of him.
A woman’s face appeared. ‘Hello, Marty,’ she said, her voice soft and reassuring.
He turned his head slightly to look at the dark-haired woman. Her smiling elfin face that greeted him was warm and filled with kindness. He smiled weakly as he looked into the big brown eyes staring down at him. She touched his wrist reassuringly, her voice loud and certain. ‘Marty, you’ve had an accident. You’ve been unconscious for almost two days. You’re in the hospital now. I’m Nurse Cavanagh.’ Her accent reminded him of his mother’s.
Marty’s mind raced and replayed the events of the previous week; the arrest, Paula White, prison; it had all been a comatose dream. A horrible, terrifyingly realistic dream – thank God.
‘Wait there a moment, Marty, I’ll be back in a minute,’ said Nurse Cavanagh as she walked away.
Marty’s relief was palpable and, despite the overwhelming pain in his head, his body began to relax into the soft white sheets. His pillow seemed to wrap around his head, neck and shoulders like a childhood hug from his mother. He closed his eyes and, for the first time in twenty years, said a short silent prayer of thanks, a smile touching the corners of his mouth as fatigue enveloped him. He lay motionless for a few minutes, until a loud male voice interrupted his thoughts.
‘Mr Michaels?’
Marty opened his eyes with a start and followed the guttural drawl to his left, coming face to face with the saggy features of a man in his late fifties. He wore wire-framed glasses and his breath carried the stale, sour smell of a heavy smoker.
‘Mr Michaels, I don’t think we’ve actually met. I’m Jim Morrell, Governor of Her Majesty’s Prison Greater Manchester. I am, of course, familiar with your work, as you are with mine after your week-long exposé last year on the staffing crisis within Hawk Green. It really was fascinating!’ he said sarcastically.
Every fibre of Marty’s body stood on end and he wanted to scream; the nightmare of the last few days had been all too real. Sinking into the pillow, the pain from his injuries suddenly came into sharp focus.
As if sensing his discomfort, the dark-haired woman gripped his wrist gently as she spoke. ‘Marty, I’m the prison nurse. You’ve suffered severe injuries to your head and been unconscious for over thirty-six hours.’ She smiled gently. ‘We thought you’d fractured your skull, but the X-rays have so far come up clear. There doesn’t appear to be any internal bleeding, but you’ll need a full MRI and CT scan to be sure.’
Marty stared at her blankly for a long moment as he attempted to process this information before he spoke, very quietly, his voice brimming with fear and confusion. ‘No scans, no press,’ he said, shaking his head.
‘Marty, I really must insist we get you thoroughly looked-over at a proper hospital,’ Cavanagh said.
Marty ignored her plea. ‘What day is it?’
‘It’s Monday,’ she said and checked her chest-watch, ‘just after 8 a.m.’
‘Monday? Monday morning?’
‘Yes, Marty.’
Marty stared at the ceiling silently before he turned to face Cavanagh. ‘How long can I stay here in the infirmary?’ he asked desperately.
Nurse Cavanagh began to speak, but Morrell cut across her bluntly, his hand falling heavily on the bed frame.
‘Two to three days at most, I’d say, Mr Michaels, but it really all depends on how quickly your wounds heal. Ideally, you’ll back on the wing by tomorrow night!’ he said, sneering.
‘I can’t go back there! They’ll kill me!’
‘Nonsense, and besides, based on this unfortunate incident, your legal team has successfully petitioned to place you in isolation until the trial. I am, of course, only too happy to oblige. I just hope we have enough staff to ensure your safety,’ he said, his tone still thick with sarcasm. A second later, he appeared to stand to attention, his voice suddenly light and jovial. ‘Right, well, I can’t stand here all day chatting when I have a prison full of nasty bastards out there. Good day, Mr Michaels,’ he said, turning towards the open door, before adding, ‘and good luck!’ as he marched off.
23
After discharge from the prison infirmary late on Wednesday evening, under rule 45, Marty was moved to the segregation unit, or ‘Seg’, for his own protection. Despite the overcrowding in Hawk Green, the transfer of a less-high-profile inmate to Liverpool had created space for him in the ultra-secure unit, isolated from the rest of the prison in a single cell and under the constant watch of two officers. Sitting in the small space with the door locked, shut away from Keats and McCloud, he felt a mixture of relief, and a creeping sense of anxiety that this soulless existence was to become a way of life for him.
Having spent just a few days in prison, he had yet to earn any privileges and the room was devoid of any creature comforts. The mattress was standard prison-issue blue, and there was no TV or radio to help pass the time. The cell stank of stale smoke and bleach, and the nicotine-stained walls bore the marks of previous inmates’ posters, since removed.
After making his bed as best he could, he lay down and stared at the ceiling as the light through the window above his head began to fade, casting shadows across the plain white walls. Closing his eyes, he tried to calm his racing mind as he replayed the attempted rape over and over again. In spite of the locked door and thick glass, he could hear the muffled chants of his neighbours echoing around the unit, calling him a ‘nonce’ and telling him what they intended to do to him should the opportunity arise. Finally, he broke and, curling into the foetal position, began to sob, as quietly as he could at first, as the events of the last four days overwhelmed him. His muffled sobs soon turned to the wailing scream of a tortured soul, much to the amusement of his fellow inmates.
Next morning, two prison guards escorted Marty to the shower block. Under their constant supervision he quickly washed and shaved, alone, before dressing in a fresh tracksuit and being escorted back to his cell, where he was locked inside for his own safety. As the thick door slammed into the metal frame, he stared at it for a long moment before turning and moving to the small window overlooking the main block of the prison. Red brick, concrete and razor wire surrounded him in all directions, and he felt an overwhelming sense of claustrophobia. Would he ever get out of this place?
Some time later, the loud grinding of keys in the door echoed behind him and he turned to see the officers from earlier that morning entering his cell. Mr Mayhew was a young, fresh-faced officer of average height and build with olive skin. He had a thick, well-groomed black beard and appeared new to the role, constantly deferring to his partner, Mr Clarke. Clarke was an older, taller man whose shirt strained against his muscular physique. His close-cropped hair and stiff gait gave away his previous career as a Royal Marine.
‘Michaels, you’ve a visitor waiting,’ Clarke said in the booming tones of a sergeant major.
‘Visitor? Who is it?’ Marty asked suspiciously.
‘Do I look like your fucking secretary?’ Clarke replied.
‘Come on, Michaels, we’ll take you up to see them,’ Mayhew added with a warmth that caught Marty off guard.
Cautious, Marty stepped out into the segregation block and was relieved to see he was the only inmate outside of his cell. Walking between Clarke and Mayhew, he made his way to the visitors’ block.
After a security pat-down by Mayhew as Clarke watched on, Marty slipped on a red bib, to identify him as a prisoner, and moved inside the big room. He estimated the floor space was about the size of a tennis court, with neat rows of tables and chairs laid out directly in front of him, currently empty. As a segregated prisoner, he was kept away from general population prisoners at all times, joined only by his fellow ‘seg’ inmates. To his left, in the far corner of the room, a series of eight booths lined the wall, allowing a little more privacy for visits. They were usually used by inmates and their legal teams. All but one was currently occupied. Right on cue, Nic Johnson stepped through from the civilian entrance. A huge wave of relief crashed over Marty; he could not recall ever being so happy to see his lawyer. Mayhew walked in front and Clarke fell in behind Marty as they made their way across the room.
