Read Online This Thing of Darkness by Harry Bingham - Free Book Online Page A
Authors: Harry Bingham
Tags: UK
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lichenologist.
Go skipping into Jackson’s office to tell him what I want to do next.
He laughs at me, but tells me to go ahead. ‘You’re to work with a grown-up, this time. Rhiannon, now. You and she get on all right, don’t you? I’ll get her to babysit.’ He makes the call that makes it official. ‘Tomorrow morning. She’ll come and get you.’
I nod. ‘Thank you.’
I don’t go back to work though. I’ve booked today as a holiday. Only came in now to get the Plas Du thing moving forwards.
I’ve taken the day off to meet a friend. One I haven’t seen, or not properly, for some time. I’m not sure exactly what gifts to bring, but decide on some beer, a packet of cigarettes, a cup of coffee in a stay-warm plastic mug and a bacon sandwich which I try to keep vaguely warm by leaving my coat on top of it.
Park at HM Prison Cardiff. The spaces are reserved for prison staff only, but I’m police, so I almost count. Check with the front desk for scheduled release time. Eleven o’clock, they say, but say it in a way that evades the question of whether anything will actually happen on schedule.
I say, ‘Can you tell him to come and find me? I’m in the car park. A few routine questions.’
I’m parked up under the wall. The other cars in my row all have their noses pointing outwards, snouts toward Fitzalan Road and a glimpse of trees. My car faces in. Nothing to see but blocks of rough-hewn stone. Grey and brown and rust-red and a black so deep it shimmers blue in the shadow.
Play Classic FM until it annoys me. Radio 2 lasts no longer. Radio 4 is worse. A stupid drama about a stupid woman whose stupid life problems could, in my opinion, be solved by a good, hard slap.
Not that, as a police officer, I’m technically pro-slapping.
So I wait in silence, which is better. The zen of the prison yard.
Time does whatever it does near prisons. Flows fast on the street outside, thickens as it approaches these darkly rising walls. Minutes pass like flies struggling in syrup.
Penry appears at about twelve thirty. He moves slowly, like an old man blinded by sunlight.
I could help him, of course. Step out of my car. Toot my horn.
I do neither. Just stay at the wheel, watching him peer through the glare of windscreens.
He stops when he recognises me. Mouth wordless in the breeze. Shifts his face around till he finds something right for the occasion. Tough, male, but nevertheless a tough male face that balances on top of a sea of other feelings.
I lean across the passenger seat and flip the door open.
He stands in the opening. ‘Jesus, Fi.’
I move my coat off the bacon sarnie and say, ‘The coffee’s cold. So is the sandwich.’ Give him his gifts anyway.
He sits there on the seat, facing the wall, holding the beer, the coffee, the sandwich, the ciggies. His eyes are swimming.
After a bit, he says, ‘Can I?’ meaning the cigarettes.
I nod yes and we both light up. We wind the windows down, but the car fills with smoke anyway.
He says, ‘I think that’s the nicest thing anyone has ever done for me.’ Looks straight ahead as he says it, because I don’t think he’d trust his eyes if he looked at me, and Penry has this compulsively macho thing going, like he thinks his penis might fall off if he ever let up.
I say, ‘Home?’
He nods.
I drive him home.
Penry: a former copper. A good one. Decorated for bravery. But took early retirement after an injury sustained in the course of duty. Felt his life go to pieces. Did some stupid things. Went to prison for them, not least because I did a lot to ensure he did. But we’ve become friends nevertheless. I’ve visited irregularly throughout his jail term and he once helped out on an inquiry of mine from the inside.
I park outside his house. It’s been rented out for his stay inside, but has been empty the last six weeks.
I let Penry find his keys, get used to the idea of standing on the right side of a lock.
He opens up. Moves through the space,
Go skipping into Jackson’s office to tell him what I want to do next.
He laughs at me, but tells me to go ahead. ‘You’re to work with a grown-up, this time. Rhiannon, now. You and she get on all right, don’t you? I’ll get her to babysit.’ He makes the call that makes it official. ‘Tomorrow morning. She’ll come and get you.’
I nod. ‘Thank you.’
I don’t go back to work though. I’ve booked today as a holiday. Only came in now to get the Plas Du thing moving forwards.
I’ve taken the day off to meet a friend. One I haven’t seen, or not properly, for some time. I’m not sure exactly what gifts to bring, but decide on some beer, a packet of cigarettes, a cup of coffee in a stay-warm plastic mug and a bacon sandwich which I try to keep vaguely warm by leaving my coat on top of it.
Park at HM Prison Cardiff. The spaces are reserved for prison staff only, but I’m police, so I almost count. Check with the front desk for scheduled release time. Eleven o’clock, they say, but say it in a way that evades the question of whether anything will actually happen on schedule.
I say, ‘Can you tell him to come and find me? I’m in the car park. A few routine questions.’
I’m parked up under the wall. The other cars in my row all have their noses pointing outwards, snouts toward Fitzalan Road and a glimpse of trees. My car faces in. Nothing to see but blocks of rough-hewn stone. Grey and brown and rust-red and a black so deep it shimmers blue in the shadow.
Play Classic FM until it annoys me. Radio 2 lasts no longer. Radio 4 is worse. A stupid drama about a stupid woman whose stupid life problems could, in my opinion, be solved by a good, hard slap.
Not that, as a police officer, I’m technically pro-slapping.
So I wait in silence, which is better. The zen of the prison yard.
Time does whatever it does near prisons. Flows fast on the street outside, thickens as it approaches these darkly rising walls. Minutes pass like flies struggling in syrup.
Penry appears at about twelve thirty. He moves slowly, like an old man blinded by sunlight.
I could help him, of course. Step out of my car. Toot my horn.
I do neither. Just stay at the wheel, watching him peer through the glare of windscreens.
He stops when he recognises me. Mouth wordless in the breeze. Shifts his face around till he finds something right for the occasion. Tough, male, but nevertheless a tough male face that balances on top of a sea of other feelings.
I lean across the passenger seat and flip the door open.
He stands in the opening. ‘Jesus, Fi.’
I move my coat off the bacon sarnie and say, ‘The coffee’s cold. So is the sandwich.’ Give him his gifts anyway.
He sits there on the seat, facing the wall, holding the beer, the coffee, the sandwich, the ciggies. His eyes are swimming.
After a bit, he says, ‘Can I?’ meaning the cigarettes.
I nod yes and we both light up. We wind the windows down, but the car fills with smoke anyway.
He says, ‘I think that’s the nicest thing anyone has ever done for me.’ Looks straight ahead as he says it, because I don’t think he’d trust his eyes if he looked at me, and Penry has this compulsively macho thing going, like he thinks his penis might fall off if he ever let up.
I say, ‘Home?’
He nods.
I drive him home.
Penry: a former copper. A good one. Decorated for bravery. But took early retirement after an injury sustained in the course of duty. Felt his life go to pieces. Did some stupid things. Went to prison for them, not least because I did a lot to ensure he did. But we’ve become friends nevertheless. I’ve visited irregularly throughout his jail term and he once helped out on an inquiry of mine from the inside.
I park outside his house. It’s been rented out for his stay inside, but has been empty the last six weeks.
I let Penry find his keys, get used to the idea of standing on the right side of a lock.
He opens up. Moves through the space,
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