Chapter 119

Chapter 119

David Reynolds kept his head down, his eyes to the gantry floor, but he could still feel their hatred, their anger, their rage. The two days he'd spent in the custody cell at Southampton Central had been bad enough, former colleagues staring at him with unconcealed distaste, but setting foot inside Winchester Prison, home to numerous violent, unhinged men who would tear him apart as soon as look at him, was something else entirely. Reynolds knew his arrival at the Cat A prison would have been well heralded, malicious colleagues and screws sharing the identity of the new inmate with the prison's inhabitants, ensuring that the disgraced officer received the warmest of receptions. Reynolds had been expecting this, but even so, the avalanche of abuse, vitriol and spittle that rained down on him now was shocking.

‘Hurry up, Reynolds, don't dawdle.'

Reynolds didn't need telling twice, responding to the warden's demand, keen to be away from this place as soon as possible. He had no cause to be in this wing – he was on remand, whereas the inmates of this hideous outpost were serving long sentences – and it enraged him that he should be paraded for their pleasure. Perhaps it was just a decent distraction, a bit of entertainment for the violent thugs who spent twenty-three hours of the day in a tiny cell. But Reynolds suspected something else, something more sinister was at play here, the screws ensuring every vicious half-wit who dreamed of scalping a former police officer could take a good look at him, thereby marking his card, perhaps even signing his death warrant. Loath though he was to admit it, Reynolds knew that there could be no higher accolade for a violent lifer than doing in a former police officer accused of sexual offences against minors. Even now, he could hear the vile slurs cascading down on to him – nonce, paedo, pig. Every one of them cut through him, shredding his nerves, and now he just wanted to be away from their vengeful presence, out of sight, out of mind.

Buzzing open the security door, the screw thrust him roughly into the next wing and instantly the cacophony died away. Relieved, Reynolds hurried on, before the warden tugged on his arm, bringing him to an abrupt halt.

‘This is it. Your home from home …'

The door opened to reveal a tiny, cramped cell, smeared with the graffiti of despair and filled with the malodorous smell of the overflowing toilet.

‘Enjoy,' the screw laughed, shoving him inside and slamming the door.

He would enjoy it, despite the grimness of his new circumstances. Reynolds would enjoy this respite, this brief moment of safety. But he knew his reprieve would be brief. They would come for him sure enough, the only question was where and when. Would it be a shiv in the belly whilst he took a shower? A rock in a sock in the exercise yard? Or would they slip into his cell as he slept, insensible and powerless to defend himself against their bloodlust?

For so long, Reynolds had been in charge, in control, toying with other people's lives. But now it was his turn to suffer, to be afraid. He was trapped, with nowhere to run, with only violence and degradation to come. This was it then, this was his reckoning.

It was his turn to enter Hell.