existence to another country fitted easily into the back of his estate car. Reporters do not travel with bulky paraphernalia. What cannot be fitted into jacket and trouser pockets goes into the bag with the laptop. He loaded the car with more than he thought he needed and it was still half empty – even with the Trek carefully protected by a heavy-duty winter duvet.
McBride did not relish the 400-mile journey north. Although he never acknowledged it, he was not a good driver and his short fuse burned at its brightest when he was behind the wheel. His impatience had led to more roadside confrontations that he would admit to. The only reason he possessed a vehicle the size of a Ford Mondeo Estate was to transport his cycle without having to first dismantle it – a simple task which he found difficult.
The trip to Scotland was relatively uneventful, thanks mainly to the absence of heavy lorries, most of whose drivers were still on holiday. McBride had sworn at no more than twenty other road-users all the way north and congratulated himself on his unaccustomed restraint. His most practised motion had been to repeatedly switch off the radio at the sound of seasonal music.
He returned to the Apex on his first night back in Dundee. The following day, he took up the tenancy of a furnished flat. The choice of its location had been straightforward. It was on the Esplanade at Broughty Ferry, three minutes’ walk from The Fort and overlooking the River Tay, the banks of which presented the finest running routes in the entire city. Even without a story to chase, he knew he would be content.
13
If it’s possible to imagine a smell that combines anticipation with uncertainty and anger with sex, then that’s what rises to meet you in The Tank at Perth Prison. It hits you full on the first time you meet it and you know you’ll never forget it.
The officers who patrol The Tank stopped noticing it long ago, as they did the rest of the aromas that make every penal institution smell the same. They experience it three times daily, every time a group of inmates are brought there to wait before moving through the system to meet their visitors for sixty minutes in the big room half a dozen locks away.
The faces of the prisoners who sit expectantly in the brown seats round the walls of The Tank tell different stories. Mostly it’s excitement at the prospect of the brief reunion with the woman they spend all of their waking time thinking about. Sometimes it’s anxiety about the kind of minor matter you’d shrug off on the outside but which makes your head want to explode when you’re banged up.
The worst thing that can happen in The Tank is to be told your visitor hasn’t turned up and you’re left alone on a plastic seat after everyone else has moved out. Society demands most of what you have when it locks you away. Remove the last link with the real world and you’d be as well dead.
The last thing Bryan Gilzean was feeling was any resemblance to a corpse. The scent he was giving off was hope. He rested his head against the cream-painted wall in The Tank, gazed into the middle distance of the afternoon and began to dream.
As the man serving the life sentence permitted himself to contemplate freedom, McBride was being subjected to the drawn-out security measures at the Gate Complex, the visitors’ section, which fronted the prison. He had remembered previous visits to Her Majesty’s penal establishments and travelled light. It cut down on the rigmarole. The less you had with you, the less chance there was to conceal drugs. Life was easier for everyone if you left the bulky clothing and mobile in the car.
It wasn’t difficult to recognise those who had also been previous visitors to a jail. Without being asked, they dumped their travelling paraphernalia into the lockers, walked through the metal detectors and raised their arms for the pat-down searches. The real pros opened their mouths and effortlessly rolled their tongues
McBride did not relish the 400-mile journey north. Although he never acknowledged it, he was not a good driver and his short fuse burned at its brightest when he was behind the wheel. His impatience had led to more roadside confrontations that he would admit to. The only reason he possessed a vehicle the size of a Ford Mondeo Estate was to transport his cycle without having to first dismantle it – a simple task which he found difficult.
The trip to Scotland was relatively uneventful, thanks mainly to the absence of heavy lorries, most of whose drivers were still on holiday. McBride had sworn at no more than twenty other road-users all the way north and congratulated himself on his unaccustomed restraint. His most practised motion had been to repeatedly switch off the radio at the sound of seasonal music.
He returned to the Apex on his first night back in Dundee. The following day, he took up the tenancy of a furnished flat. The choice of its location had been straightforward. It was on the Esplanade at Broughty Ferry, three minutes’ walk from The Fort and overlooking the River Tay, the banks of which presented the finest running routes in the entire city. Even without a story to chase, he knew he would be content.
13
If it’s possible to imagine a smell that combines anticipation with uncertainty and anger with sex, then that’s what rises to meet you in The Tank at Perth Prison. It hits you full on the first time you meet it and you know you’ll never forget it.
The officers who patrol The Tank stopped noticing it long ago, as they did the rest of the aromas that make every penal institution smell the same. They experience it three times daily, every time a group of inmates are brought there to wait before moving through the system to meet their visitors for sixty minutes in the big room half a dozen locks away.
The faces of the prisoners who sit expectantly in the brown seats round the walls of The Tank tell different stories. Mostly it’s excitement at the prospect of the brief reunion with the woman they spend all of their waking time thinking about. Sometimes it’s anxiety about the kind of minor matter you’d shrug off on the outside but which makes your head want to explode when you’re banged up.
The worst thing that can happen in The Tank is to be told your visitor hasn’t turned up and you’re left alone on a plastic seat after everyone else has moved out. Society demands most of what you have when it locks you away. Remove the last link with the real world and you’d be as well dead.
The last thing Bryan Gilzean was feeling was any resemblance to a corpse. The scent he was giving off was hope. He rested his head against the cream-painted wall in The Tank, gazed into the middle distance of the afternoon and began to dream.
As the man serving the life sentence permitted himself to contemplate freedom, McBride was being subjected to the drawn-out security measures at the Gate Complex, the visitors’ section, which fronted the prison. He had remembered previous visits to Her Majesty’s penal establishments and travelled light. It cut down on the rigmarole. The less you had with you, the less chance there was to conceal drugs. Life was easier for everyone if you left the bulky clothing and mobile in the car.
It wasn’t difficult to recognise those who had also been previous visitors to a jail. Without being asked, they dumped their travelling paraphernalia into the lockers, walked through the metal detectors and raised their arms for the pat-down searches. The real pros opened their mouths and effortlessly rolled their tongues
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