Charlie Muffin: The Blind Run Part 3

'Know what?'

'What I did.'

'I'm not interested.'

'It's important,' insisted Sampson, 'I've been operating for them for eight years: I was on station in Beirut, so I was able to monitor all the Middle East activities of the British. Then I was liaison in Washington. Made some good friends there, not just in the CIA but in the FBI as well. Managed to let Moscow have a h.e.l.l of a lot of personnel and biographical stuff; you know how they like that, for the personality index they keep. For two years I was in European Planning, with access to the NATO desk. I suppose that was the most productive time ...'

'I said I didn't want to know,' said Charlie, not looking at the man. Sampson was a b.a.s.t.a.r.d, to have done all that. Even his arrest would have worked in Moscow's favour: disclosure of what Sampson had leaked would make America as well as NATO suspicious about co-operating with British intelligence for a long time. Mean a lot of agent and schedule changes would be necessary, too.

'I've got rank, in the Russian service,' said Sampson, 'I'm a major.' He sounded proud, 'I warned them they could face a disaster.'

'Good for you,' said Charlie, uninterested in what the man meant. b.a.s.t.a.r.d, he thought again.

'You don't understand why that's important, do you?' said Sampson, impatiently.

'Yes,' said Charlie, with equal impatience. 'For your sake I hope you're not disappointed.'

'I won't be,' said Sampson, with confidence. 'The great difference between the Russian service and every other one is that they'll never let their people rot in jail. They always arrange an exchange. They will, for me, certainly after all I've done.' He started up, suddenly encouraged. 'I won't spend thirty years in here,' he said. 'Maybe a year: perhaps two. That's all.' The man had been moving jerkily between the bunks. Caught by the thought he stopped and said, 'How long have you been in?'

Charlie hesitated. He wouldn't let the other man know about the daily count. 'Nearly a year and a half,' he said.

'Oh.' Sampson's confident excitement leaked away.

'Don't use that as any sort of criterion,' said Charlie. 'Moscow wouldn't regard me as they do you. I'm not one of theirs.' That was the biggest illogicality of all; the people for whom he was supposed to have been an operative knew he wasn't a traitor and couldn't give a sod about him.

'That's not true,' said Sampson, more to rea.s.sure himself than Charlie.

'Yes it is,' said Charlie. 'Don't get any half-a.s.sed idea that you and I are the same.'

'Why are you so f.u.c.king belligerent?' demanded Sampson, in sudden, surprising anger.

f.u.c.k: the ultimate defiance, thought Charlie. 'Can't seem to help it,' he said.

'We're stuck together,' said Sampson, the anger growing. 'Whether you like it or not, that's a fact. From what I've seen thus far, I don't like you. I think you're scruffy and you smell and I think you go out of your way to be unpleasant. And all the stories I ever heard, about your stupid social att.i.tudes, they seem to be true, as well. If I had a choice, I wouldn't touch you with a long, disinfected pole. But I haven't. I've got to live just five feet away from you: I hope to Christ for the shortest amount of time possible. But still live with you. I know all about this c.r.a.p that you did what you did because the Director set you up to be sacrificed: that you're still loyal. It's all bulls.h.i.t, something you cling to like a child clings to a comfort blanket. You know the Russian way is best, just like I do. I know what's going to happen to me. I've just got to tolerate you, until my release is arranged. So what do you say? Are we going to be friends? Or fools?'

'Go f.u.c.k yourself,' said Charlie, turning determinedly against the wall, with his back to the man.

Behind he heard Sampson laugh at him. It was a fitting reaction, decided Charlie. He was being a p.r.i.c.k.

'Chekhov,' identified Wilson.

'Yes,' agreed Harkness. 'It's from Three Sisters.'

The British Director looked down at the chosen identification message. 'If I lived in Moscow,' he quoted. 'I don't think I'd care what the weather was like.'

'The preceding lines provide the response,' said Harkness. '"People don't notice whether it's winter or summer when they're happy."'

'Good,' judged Wilson. 'Innocent enough.'

'Do you know the other play of Chekhov's, The Seagull?' asked Harkness.

Wilson shook his head.

'There are two characters in it, Medvedenko and Masha,' reminded the deputy. 'There's a scene in which Medvedenko asks Masha "Why do you wear black all the time?" And Masha replies "I'm in mourning for my life. I'm unhappy."'

'Maybe that'll be appropriate,' agreed Wilson.

Chapter Four.

It was a tenet of his early training always to remain objective, irrespective of whatever stress or pressure, because the ability to consider everything objectively was essential for that absolute necessity, survival.

Within a month of Sampson's arrival Charlie decided, with that long practised objectivity, that the man was b.l.o.o.d.y good at making the world rotate in exactly the direction in which he decreed it should turn. Better than b.l.o.o.d.y good: practically a f.u.c.king genius.

It shouldn't have been that way, of course. Not according to the unofficial prison lore. Prison rule dictated that the lowest common denominator was the governing factor, everything and everybody dragged down to the bottom. Anything contrary like Charlie was contrary was a worrying challenge to the system, something that had to be attacked and defeated.

Except in the case of Sampson.

Charlie watched Sampson swan around with the languid public school demeanour of inherent superiority with every b.u.g.g.e.r the very same b.u.g.g.e.rs giving him a hard time for being different appearing happy, eager even, to accord the man the rank.

Hickley, who thought spies should be shot, behaved towards Sampson with an att.i.tude that Charlie considered practically respect and b.u.t.terworth, as dutiful as ever, did the same. While Charlie had to have his boots laced and be ready and waiting at the cell door for the push-and-shove slop out, Sampson was allowed to take his time, a place always available for him in the unhurried, ready-when-you-are procession.

With the boarding school and university expertise of recognising the dormitory leader, Sampson marked Prudell as the landing boss. Sampson wasn't gay and Prudell knew it but they established a relationship nevertheless, a compact of understanding that in no way impinged upon Sampson's inherent superiority or Prudell's unquestioned rule, the sort of reliance that exists between the owner of the manor and his trusted butler.

There was always a good piece of meat for Sampson in the canteen not the s.h.i.tty sort of gristle that always got dumped on Charlie's plate and the vegetables were always hot and there was a seat readily available, wherever he wanted to sit. Just as there was, always, in the recreation room, right in front of the television set, where Prudell and his boyfriend of the moment and the other landing chiefs had their reserved places, not where Charlie was always heaved and shunted, if he bothered to go at all, at the back, usually against the wall. If he hadn't wanted it that way for the protection there wouldn't have been a b.l.o.o.d.y seat anyway.

Sampson's uniform jacket was altered, to fit, in the prison tailoring shop and in the second month he got one of the better jobs, in the prison hospital, not as cushy as the library but a d.a.m.ned sight better than the workrooms where they made the mail sacks and the street name signs and car registration plates.

Between them, in the cell, the first day hostility worsened, the att.i.tude so obvious that Hickley and b.u.t.terworth were aware of it and spread the story along the landing, which enhanced Sampson further because it meant further hara.s.sment of Charlie.

Charlie was aware of the bulge beneath Sampson's tunic as the man entered the cell, only a token effort made at concealment. Directly inside the door, the man took the bottle from the waistband of his trousers and put it openly on the table between them. It was whisky, single malt, in a proper bottle with the cap still sealed.

'It is whisky, isn't it?' said Sampson.

'Looks like it,' said Charlie.

'That's not what I meant,' said Sampson. 'Whisky's your drink, isn't it?'

Charlie stared up at the man, suspiciously. 'Who said?'

'Prudell,' replied the other man. 'Told me that's what got you put on restrictions, for having whisky here in the cell.'

'So what?'

Sampson's face tightened momentarily, but only momentarily. The smile that came was patronising. 'So I thought you might like a drink.'

'Why?' demanded Charlie.

'Why not?'

'Because it might be a set up, that's why not. Because it's been six weeks since I've been on restrictions and the b.a.s.t.a.r.ds haven't been able to get me for any infringement and if they caught me again, with whisky in a mug, then this time the governor wouldn't give me the benefit of any doubt.'

'Which would make me a gra.s.s,' said Sampson.

'Isn't that what you got thirty years for?'

'I'm trying to cross bridges, Charlie. Like I tried to cross bridges the first day.'

'Why?'

'Because it's b.l.o.o.d.y stupid not to,' said Sampson. 'OK, so outside you and I wouldn't even be aware of each other's existence. Want to be aware of it, even. But we're not outside. We're in a box, fourteen feet by fourteen feet and we're going to be forced to live together for a long time. So why don't we face the reality of the situation? I don't like you any more than you like me but I'm prepared to make the effort, for life to be minimally tolerable.'

The man was right of course, Charlie realised, always objective. Like Hargrave had been right. They weren't outside, with a choice. And he wasn't able to sit in judgment, in his own individual idea of judgment, and despise this man for being a traitor, any more than he could despise Hargrave for being a murderer or Prudell for being a vicious h.o.m.os.e.xual thug who beat up old ladies and stole their purses. Trouble was, Sampson was the smarmy, self-a.s.sured sort of sod who'd always got right up his nose. 'You've been pretty successful at adjusting to the reality of the situation, haven't you?'

Sampson refused to react to the constant challenge and went on winning because of it. 'Right!' he said. 'On that first day you told me to adjust and learn to conform. And you said I'd find it b.l.o.o.d.y awful. And you're right, it is b.l.o.o.d.y awful. It's the most awful situation in which I've ever been and because it is I've adjusted and learned to conform as fast as I can, to make it as bearable as I can. I've made my peace and my arrangements with the people who matter. No one bothers me Charlie. Because I don't bother them. I don't practise dumb insolence to little men like Hickley and b.u.t.terworth because that's what it would be, in a place like this. Dumb. And I acknowledge that people like Prudell are masters of their territory, just like my father acknowledged that our gamekeeper knew the grouse moors better than he did.'

Prudell broke the metal seal on the bottle top, poured whisky into his mug and held the bottle out in invitation towards Charlie, who stared at it, hoping the longing wasn't obvious on his face. He made no effort to accept it.

'What is it with you, Charlie?' said Sampson, putting the bottle back on the table. 'Pride? Arrogance? Where do you get this att.i.tude that you can fight the world and win?'

'I always have,' said Charlie, carelessly.

Sampson laughed outright at him. 'Have you?' he jeered, gesturing around the claustrophobic cell. 'Have you? You call this winning! You might have been good once, Charlie. I know you were good once. I've had the lectures about your expertise more times than I can remember. But you lost it. I don't care whether you consider yourself a traitor or what you think you are. It doesn't matter. OK, so maybe you were set up. It happens, in the business. Our business. And maybe you taught them a lesson. Which doesn't often happen in the business. But they won in the end, Charlie. The establishment always does. That's why it's called the establishment.'

'b.o.l.l.o.c.ks,' said Charlie, unable to think of anything better but wishing he could.

'It isn't b.o.l.l.o.c.ks. It's reality. That's one of the things they used to say about you: that you were a realist, able to adjust and manoeuvre faster than anyone else. What's happened to the reality now?'

Right again, Charlie accepted, not wanting but having to. He knew it and everyone else knew it so why the h.e.l.l couldn't he accept it? Because it meant giving in! he told himself desperately. He knew all the prison rules the written and the unwritten and all the dodges and all the shortcuts: like objectivity, it was a necessity for survival. And he could play the part if they'd only let him but if it stopped being that, becoming unthinking obedience and conformity instead of an act, then it would mean he had given up. 'I'll settle it my way,' he said, still careless.

'Jesus!' exclaimed Sampson, jeering still. 'I thought you were good! I really did. I listened to all the stories and somehow you became a legend and when I learned I was coming here and that you were here I actually wanted to meet you! But you're not clever or smart, not any more. You go through this bulls.h.i.t routine about refusing to become inst.i.tutionalised but that's exactly what you've become, just like those grey-faced, shuffling zombies who've been here for more years than they can remember. You know what prison has made you, Charlie m.u.f.fin? It's made you f.u.c.king stupid.'

He even swore better, the word natural and easy now, not forced, thought Charlie. He said, 'You want a boyfriend, why not go and live with Prudell? You've got enough pull with the screws to make the change.' Charlie swung away from the direct confrontation, in the familiar avoidance pose of lying out on his bunk with his hands behind his head, staring towards the noughts and crosses window pattern and hoping the movement would appear what he intended it to be, a nonchalant dismissal of boredom.

'Twelve years, four months and four days,' said Sampson, from the other bunk. 'Three days if you subtract today, even though it isn't fully over.'

Charlie swallowed, refusing to respond.

'I know all about the calendar,' said Sampson, 'I know about the regime you've tried to establish. How you count every day off. Seen you do it, when you didn't think I'd notice. The instructors would be proud, if they knew how well you'd remembered.'

Still Charlie gave no reaction.

'I'm going to have another drink,' said Sampson. 'Sure you won't join me?'

'Go f.u.c.k yourself,' said Charlie, gripped by a feeling of helplessness. The feeling worsened when he remembered that was how he had ended their last big argument.

It was a week later when Hickley came to the library, fifteen minutes before it closed. The doorway was blocked from Charlie's view by a shelf; he was aware of some conversation and of some half-hearted, fl.u.s.tered warning from Hargrave but didn't realise what it was until the prison officer appeared at the opening into the book-lined corridor.

'Cosy here,' said Hickley.

'Can I help you, Mr Hickley?' said Charlie, cautiously. He'd done nothing so they couldn't put him on restriction. Not unless it was a phoney charge.

'I don't think you can help me,' said the prison officer. 'I don't think you can help anyone, m.u.f.fin. You can't even help yourself.'

Charlie avoided looking directly at the man, careful of any accusation of unspoken insolence. There was nothing he could say to that, so not replying wouldn't be insubordination.

'Cosy,' said Hickley again. 'You like it here, m.u.f.fin?'

'Yes, thank you, Mr Hickley,' said Charlie. The enforced politeness was like a sour-tasting lump, in that part of his throat from which he couldn't swallow to lose it.

'Pity,' said the officer, with lead-footed sarcasm. 'Terrible pity.'

Nothing to say to that, either, Charlie realised. Just as he realised something else. b.a.s.t.a.r.ds, he thought: absolute b.a.s.t.a.r.ds.

'Time you were transferred,' said Hickley. 'Bad policy to keep someone in the same job for too long. Can even be dangerous. And you didn't come here for a rest cure, after all, did you m.u.f.fin? You came here because you're a s.h.i.tty little spy who's got to be punished. You know what we did to spies in the war, m.u.f.fin?'

'Yes, Mr Hickley,' said Charlie.

'Tell me what we did to spies in the war.'

'Shot them,' said Charlie.

'Shot them what?' pounced the bully, at once.

'Shot them, Mr Hickley,' said Charlie.

'Still should,' said the man. 'Don't you think spies should still be shot, m.u.f.fin?'

Sampson included? wondered Charlie. He said, 'Yes, Mr Hickley.'

'Vacancy in the registration plant workshop just right for you,' said Hickley. 'You're transferring tomorrow.'

The most dangerous place, thought Charlie: there was a small furnace and an indentation press and hammers and files and chisels and caustic solutions used in the spraying and the painting. A hundred different ways he could be attacked and hurt.

To the hovering Hargrave, Hickley said, for no other reason than to prolong his goading of Charlie, 'Taking him away isn't going to wreck the administration of the library, is it?'

'No, Mr Hickley,' said the prison librarian.

'You'll get on well with the new man,' promised Hickley. He began talking directly to Hargrave but finished turning back to Charlie, to savour the moment fully. 'Everyone does,' he said 'Sampson's a good man. Knows the way things are supposed to work.'

'b.a.s.t.a.r.d!' shouted Charlie, thirty minutes later, standing over Sampson in their shared cell.

The other man smiled up from his beds.p.a.ce, appearing unconcerned at Charlie's fury. 'I didn't fix it.'