Radical

Radical walked away from the gates without looking back.

The bag in his left hand held everything he owned. A few changes of clothes, a pair of trainers that had seen better days, and the envelope of discharge papers that still smelled of the office where they’d stamped them. His right hand stayed free. Old habit. The salt-and-pepper buzz cut did nothing to soften the set of his jaw or the tattoos that climbed both forearms and disappeared beneath the sleeves of his dark jacket. Anyone with sense took one look and found somewhere else to be.

Cars queued at the lights. A woman pushed a pram past the white pillars with their blue prison signs. Leaves skittered across the pavement under a sky that couldn’t decide between cloud and cold blue. London had carried on for ten years without him. People had gone to work, got married, had children, buried their parents and moved house, while he’d been locked behind those fucking walls. The world hadn’t even noticed he was missing.

He needed the bus. Probation appointment in half an hour and no cash for a cab. The stop was further down, past the parked cars and a white SUV that looked as though it had never seen the inside of a prison car park. He was almost there when an engine slowed beside him and the passenger window dropped.

“Oi, Kershaw!”

Radical turned.

Alfie Fletcher sat behind the wheel of a black hatchback, his jacket open over a plain shirt, grinning like he’d just spotted a mate on the high street. No uniform. No keys on a chain. Just the same unbothered face Radical had spent years trying, and failing, to get under.

“You planning on walking all the way to the Angel?”

“What the fuck’s it to you?”

“Lovely to see you too, mate. Get in.”

“Why?”

“Because I’m going that way, and you look like a miserable bastard standing there.”

Radical regarded him. The car was clean, although the passenger footwell contained an empty crisp packet and a parking ticket. Fletcher’s hands rested on the wheel, relaxed. Not a man braced for trouble.

“Thought you’d be glad to see the back of me.”

“Ecstatic. That’s why I’m offering you a lift. Get you away from the place quicker.”

Radical opened the door and dropped into the passenger seat. The bag went between his boots. He pulled the belt across and clicked it home without looking at the gates again. Fletcher indicated and pulled out into the traffic as though this were any other morning. Radical’s shoulders remained tight beneath the jacket. Ten years of waiting and the first thing the outside world had offered him was a lift from the one screw who had never flinched. He didn’t thank him. Fletch knew him well enough not to expect it.

The car moved, and the prison disappeared behind them.

Fletcher drove with one hand on the wheel and the other resting on the gear stick, as though the man in the passenger seat were nothing more than an old acquaintance heading to the Angel. The radio stayed off. Traffic moved in its usual stop-start rhythm along the road that led away from the prison walls.

“Got any plans, Rad?”

“A few.”

“Anything legal?”

Radical turned his head. Fletcher was still smiling, eyes on the road ahead.

“You always ask this many fucking questions?”

“Only when I don’t like the answers.”

Radical looked away again. Fletch had been doing that for years, asking questions nobody else dared ask and refusing to be impressed when he received a thoroughly unpleasant answer. The man had once told him that his attitude would be improved enormously by a decent breakfast and a personality transplant. Radical had suggested he shove both up his arse. Fletch had laughed, which was the irritating thing about him. He always fucking laughed.

“Probation appointment this morning, yeah?” Fletcher asked. “Chance he’s sorted something useful for you. Job, somewhere to kip. Bloke seemed decent enough when I spoke to him last week.”

“Probation officers are all the same. Nervous cunts who think a form and a lecture will stop you doing whatever the fuck you want.”

“Maybe. Still be a bloody stupid way to start, getting on the wrong side of the one who’s supposed to keep you out. You know that.”

Radical didn’t answer. He watched the houses and shops slide past the window. Fletcher was right, and they both knew it. That didn’t mean he had to like the reminder. He’d had enough of other people telling him what he could and couldn’t do. When to eat, when to sleep, when to exercise, when to make a telephone call. He’d spent ten years having his life measured out in permissions, and now some bastard in an office would be deciding whether he was behaving himself. He could tolerate that for the time being, however. There were more important things to occupy his attention.

Colette Whitmore. He hadn’t seen her since the trial. Sometimes he wondered whether he’d recognise her if she walked past him in the street. Twenty then. Thirty now. Ten years was a long time, particularly at that age. He remembered her face, though, and he remembered what she’d said. The rest could wait until he knew where to find her.

Fletcher pulled up at the kerb outside a low brick building with a sign that had seen better weather. The engine idled.

“Stay out of trouble, Rad.”

“Fuck off, Fletch.”

Fletcher laughed under his breath. “That’s the spirit. See you around.”

Radical got out, bag in hand, and shut the door. The car pulled away into the traffic. He stood on the pavement for a moment, watching it disappear, then turned towards the probation office entrance. He’d liked Fletch. Never told him, obviously. The smug bastard would have been unbearable. He adjusted the bag on his shoulder and went inside.

The probation office smelled of carpet cleaner and old paper. Gavin Chance stood when Radical entered, then sat again almost at once, as though he’d remembered that standing made him shorter. Mid-forties, neat suit, brown hair greying at the temples, grey eyes that flicked towards the tattoos and away again. Three separate piles of paperwork occupied his desk, each squared neatly against the edge of a blotter.

“Mr Kershaw. Please, take a seat.”

Radical sat. The chair was too small for him. He set the bag on the floor between his boots and waited. Fletcher had treated him like a man. Chance was treating him like a problem that required careful handling. The difference was apparent in the way the probation officer kept his hands clasped on the desk, his knuckles pale.

“I’ve managed to arrange employment for you, Mr Kershaw.”

“Doing what?”

“Maintenance work. There’s a small social-housing estate requiring someone to undertake general repairs and upkeep.”

Radical stared at him.

“You want me fixing bloody toilets?”

“Not exclusively. There’s gardening, painting, minor repairs...” Chance’s voice remained even. “It’s paid work. You can start once the paperwork clears.”

“I used to run a financial business.”

“Yes, I’m aware of your previous occupation.”

“And now I’m a fucking handyman.”

Chance adjusted the papers in front of him, aligning the edges. “It’s paid employment, Mr Kershaw. And given your circumstances, I think it’s a very positive opportunity.”

Radical said nothing. Chance swallowed but held his gaze, although the effort was plainly costing him something.

“Have you got something against handymen?” Radical asked eventually.

“No, of course not.”

“Then why are you looking at me like you’re expecting me to fucking hit you?”

The question caught him completely off guard.

“I’m not, Mr Kershaw.”

“Bollocks.”

Chance glanced at the paperwork, apparently deciding that further discussion would achieve very little. He straightened the top sheet and reached for the next pile.

“Shall we discuss your accommodation?”

“By all means.”

He slid a set of keys and a printed sheet across the desk. “A studio flat in Archway. Just off Holloway Road. Furnished, minimally. Address is there. It’s modest, but suitable for the time being.”

Radical examined the keys. Modest. The word was doing some heavy lifting. He pocketed them anyway, then waited while Chance produced a brown envelope and set it on the desk between them.

“There’s also some financial assistance. I managed to get you onto the St Ephraim’s Rehabilitation Scheme.”

“The what?”

“It’s a charitable programme for people who’ve served ten years or longer. They provide three hundred pounds towards resettlement, subject to available funding. I submitted your application before your release and fortunately there was still money available.”

Radical looked at the envelope. “Three hundred quid.”

“Fifty in cash and two hundred and fifty on an Argos gift card. For household essentials.”

“So I can buy myself a fucking kettle.”

“Among other things, yes.”

Radical took the envelope, opened it and examined the card. The notes inside were small denominations. Tens and fivers. He counted them without thinking, then returned them to the envelope.

“And what do these generous bastards want in return?”

“Nothing. It’s a grant, Mr Kershaw. Not a loan.”

“There’s a first.”

Chance’s mouth twitched, almost a smile, then settled. He moved on to the reporting requirements. Weekly appointments initially, with the possibility of reducing their frequency if everything went satisfactorily. Address changes to be reported. Employment details to be confirmed. His licence conditions remained in force, and failure to comply could result in recall to prison. Radical listened, occasionally glancing at the printed documents Chance placed before him. He understood the conditions perfectly well. He didn’t need them explained three fucking times, but he also understood the consequences of ignoring them. He wasn’t going to spend ten years waiting to get out, only to hand somebody an excuse to put him straight back inside.

“Do you understand everything we’ve discussed?” Chance asked.

“Yes.”

“And you’re happy with the arrangements?”

Radical looked at him. “Happy?”

“I meant, are there any immediate concerns?”

“You’ve found me a job fixing fucking toilets, a bedsit in Archway and three hundred quid from a charity. I’m overwhelmed.”

Chance appeared uncertain whether he was supposed to respond. Radical stood, his bag in one hand, envelope and keys in the other, and the probation officer rose with him.

“Any questions before you go?” Chance asked.

“No.”

“Very well. I’ll see you at your next appointment, Mr Kershaw.”

Radical left. Behind him, he heard Chance exhale, the sound following him into the corridor. Poor bastard. He’d probably need a cup of tea and a lie down. Outside, Radical examined the address Gavin had given him. He had keys, a job he didn’t want, three hundred quid that wasn’t a loan and a list of rules he intended to obey only because the alternative was worse. It would have to do.

The building stood on a side street off Holloway Road, its red brick dulled by years of weather and neglect. An old conversion sign remained screwed to the wall beside the entrance. Radical let himself in with the keys Chance had given him and climbed the stairs. The landing smelled of old cooking and damp carpet.

His studio was at the end of the corridor. He unlocked the door and stepped inside.

A double bed with a bare mattress took up most of one wall. A small wardrobe stood opposite, alongside an empty bookshelf and a television stand without a television. A basic kitchenette ran along the far side, with a sink, two-ring hob and a fridge that hummed when he opened it. The shower room was separate, tiled in a colour that had once been white. One small window looked out towards the backs of neighbouring buildings. Woodchip wallpaper peeled at the corners. The carpet was so worn in places that he could make out the shape of the floorboards beneath it. Clean enough to sleep in. Tired enough that no amount of cleaning would make it anything else.

Radical stood just inside the doorway and surveyed his new home. Ten years ago he’d had a house with decent furniture and rooms that reflected the money he’d been making. Now he was looking at a bed without sheets and an empty stand where a television ought to be. Three hundred quid and a fucking bedsit. Welcome back to civilisation.

He closed the door and turned the key. The lock engaged with a satisfying click. He stood there for a moment, looking at it, then turned the key again, opened the door a few inches and closed it. Nobody shouted at him. Nobody demanded to know where he thought he was going. He locked it once more. His door. His key. That, at least, was something.

He crossed the room and checked the shower. The water ran hot enough. The wardrobe door stuck, then opened to reveal empty rails and a single bent hanger. He stood at the window and watched the traffic moving beyond the neighbouring buildings. There wasn’t much to look at, but he didn’t particularly care. He set the bag on the bare mattress and took the Argos card from his pocket. Fifty pounds in cash wouldn’t cover much. The card would have to stretch to bedding, a kettle, plates, towels and whatever else he needed to make the place habitable. He knew how to work a budget. Two hundred and fifty quid wasn’t a fortune, but it was more than he’d had when he walked out of Pentonville that morning.

He pocketed the card, locked the door behind him and went back down the stairs. Time to go shopping.

Argos was brighter than Radical remembered, although the familiar collection counters were still there. The catalogues he’d once flicked through had been replaced by screens, which irritated him before he’d even bought anything. Apparently writing down a few numbers and handing them to somebody behind a counter had become too fucking straightforward.

He stood in front of one with the gift card in his hand and a list in his head. Bedding. Pillows. Towels. Kettle. Mugs, plates, cutlery. Enough to stop the studio looking like a cell with better wallpaper. He worked through the options, comparing prices and checking which items were available for immediate collection. The cheapest bedding looked thin enough to fall apart after a couple of washes. He decided on the next one up. Still nothing special, but it would do.

Pillows were a calculation he spent longer on than he liked. One would do. Two would be better. The difference was four quid. He bought two. The kettle was simple. Mid-range. Not the cheapest thing that would boil water and not the one that cost more than the rest of the list put together. Mugs and plates came in sets. He checked the prices per piece and chose something plain. Cutlery the same. Towels last, because they would take up space in the bags and money in the total. He checked the amount twice before completing the order. Under the limit. Not by much.

At the collection counter, a woman checked his order and directed him towards the waiting area. He took a seat, his arms folded across his chest, and watched people come and go. It took longer than he’d have liked. A small boy stared openly at the tattoos visible beneath his jacket sleeves. His mother noticed and pulled him closer. Radical looked away. Then another child did the same thing, only this time the father took one glance at him and steered the girl towards the opposite end of the seating area.

For fuck’s sake. He wasn’t going to eat the bloody children. He shifted in his chair, and the man promptly found something fascinating on his telephone. Radical stared at him for another moment before turning his attention back to the collection counter.

Eventually his order arrived. There was rather more of it than he’d anticipated. The bedding didn’t fold particularly small, and the kettle box dug into his fingers as he gathered the bags. He adjusted his grip and headed outside. Ten years inside, and one of his first independent decisions had been whether an extra pillow was worth four quid. He almost laughed. Almost.

Holloway Road was busy with traffic and people going about their afternoon. Radical shifted the weight of the shopping and decided he’d earned a pint. One would do. Two, perhaps, if the first went down well. The studio wasn’t going anywhere. He spotted a pub on the corner and headed towards it.

The pub had dark wood, patterned carpet and a bar that ran the length of the room beneath a row of brass fittings. Radical carried his Argos bags inside, ordered a pint and found a table near the window. The place was half full. A couple of men were watching football on a television above the bar, while a group of women occupied a table near the back. He set his shopping beside his chair. There was rather a lot of it, and some of the bags protruded into the narrow space between the tables. He didn’t bother moving them.

A man in a suit jacket, mid-thirties, stopped on his way past and looked down.

“Mind moving those bags, mate? Someone’s going to break their bloody neck.”

Radical raised his eyes from his pint. He didn’t speak at first, merely looked at the man until the silence became uncomfortable.

“What?”

The man’s mouth opened, then closed. He shifted his weight.

“Nothing. Doesn’t matter.”

He stepped around the bags and continued towards the bar. Radical watched him go, then returned to his drink. The fellow had been right, of course. Somebody probably would trip over the bloody things. But that wasn’t Radical’s problem.

The pint was cold, more expensive than he remembered, and absolutely magnificent. He drank it slowly. Nobody was telling him when he could have it. Nobody was counting how long he spent drinking it. Nobody was standing nearby with a bunch of keys waiting to escort him somewhere. He could sit there until closing time if he wanted.

Halfway through the pint, he noticed a man at a table further along the wall. Colin McWhirter. Same thinning hair, same careful clothes, a little greyer at the temples than Radical remembered. Colin had been one of those men who always seemed to turn up at the right restaurants and business functions. Never particularly important, never particularly interesting, but always keen to be seen in the company of people with money. Radical remembered him laughing at jokes that weren’t funny and agreeing with opinions he hadn’t held five minutes earlier.

Their eyes met. Colin recognised him. Radical saw the exact moment it happened, the slight widening of the eyes, the sudden stillness, the way his expression changed as he took in the tattoos and the cropped hair. Then Colin looked away. He lowered his eyes to his glass, glanced towards the door and pretended to be absorbed in something on his telephone. Radical took another mouthful of beer. The corner of his mouth twitched. Still a spineless little cunt, then.

He made no attempt to approach him. What would be the point? Colin had never been worth much of his attention when he was a free man with money in the bank. Ten years inside hadn’t made him any more interesting.

Radical finished his first pint and returned to the bar for another. When he came back, Colin was still sitting at his table, doing an admirable job of pretending the enormous tattooed bastard by the window didn’t exist. Radical settled down with his second pint. He wasn’t trying to get drunk. He was enjoying himself. Sitting in a pub with his shopping at his feet, drinking a decent beer and doing precisely what he pleased. It was a simple pleasure, and he’d forgotten how satisfying simple pleasures could be.

Colin lasted another ten minutes before getting up, leaving some money on the table and making for the door without looking in Radical’s direction. Radical watched him go. No anger. No urge to follow him. Just the faint satisfaction of knowing he’d made the man uncomfortable without having to say a fucking word.

The second pint went down more slowly than the first. Outside, the afternoon light was beginning to fade. Eventually Radical finished his drink, gathered his shopping and stood. The bags seemed heavier than they had when he’d arrived. He adjusted his grip and headed outside.

There was a small grocery shop on the next corner, and he realised he hadn’t bought anything to eat. He didn’t want to eat too far into the fifty pounds if he could help it, but a few essentials were unavoidable. Tea bags, milk, bread, margarine and some sliced meat that was cheap enough to buy but dubious enough to deserve the name of mystery meat. He added a packet of biscuits. Fuck it. He was entitled to a biscuit. He paid, redistributed the bags between his hands and headed back towards the flat.

The studio was exactly as he’d left it. Radical set the shopping on the floor and locked the door behind him. The silence settled immediately. No keys rattling along a landing. No officers calling instructions. No other men shouting to one another through doors. Just the low hum of the fridge and the distant traffic.

He unpacked. Bedding first. He stripped the packaging from the duvet, fitted the sheet over the mattress and put the pillows into their cases. He made the bed properly, smoothing the covers and straightening the corners until everything was where he wanted it. The towels went onto the bottom shelf of the wardrobe. In the kitchenette, he rinsed the mugs and plates beneath the tap, dried them with one of the new towels and stacked them in the cupboard. Cutlery went into the drawer. The kettle took its place on the worktop.

He put the groceries away, leaving the tea bags and biscuits beside the kettle. The bookshelf remained empty. So did the television stand. The room still looked shabby. The woodchip still peeled at the corners, and the carpet was still threadbare. But the bed was made, the cupboards contained something other than dust, and he could make himself a cup of tea whenever he bloody well pleased.

He filled the kettle and switched it on. While it boiled, he stood by the window and watched the lights coming on in the neighbouring buildings. Somewhere nearby, a dog barked. A car alarm sounded briefly, then stopped. Ordinary noises. Nothing to do with him. He made his tea and sat on the edge of the bed.

For the first time that day, nobody wanted anything from him. He could stay awake as long as he liked. He could make another cup of tea, eat the entire packet of biscuits or walk straight back out of the door. He could even go to bed at six o’clock in the evening if the fancy took him. Nobody would give a shit. He drank his tea and considered the possibilities.

Then, inevitably, his thoughts turned to Colette Whitmore.

He remembered her standing in the witness box. Twenty years old. Brown hair, a serious little face and eyes that had met his across the courtroom without flinching. That was what he remembered most clearly. She’d looked straight at him. Not once had she lowered her eyes or shown the slightest hesitation when she’d told the court that he was the man who’d attacked a stranger in the street. A complete fucking lie. He hadn’t committed that mugging. Hadn’t even been on the street where it happened.

But she’d identified him, repeated her accusation and sat there while the prosecution used her testimony to help put him away. And the jury had believed her. He remembered watching her leave the witness box. He’d wanted her to turn around, to look at him once more, to show some sign that she understood what she’d done. She hadn’t. She’d simply walked away.

He knew why she’d done it, of course. The old couple. Their investments had gone badly wrong. They’d lost their money, then their home, and apparently that was all his fault. They’d signed the paperwork. They’d been told there were risks. Investments went up and down. Sometimes people lost money. That was business. What happened to them afterwards was unfortunate, certainly, but he hadn’t forced them to invest.

Colette Whitmore had decided otherwise. She’d wanted somebody to pay for what had happened to them, and when she couldn’t prove he’d done anything criminal in his business dealings, she’d found another way. He’d lost ten years because of her. His business, his home, his marriage, his reputation. Everything. And she’d carried on living.

He put his mug on the floor beside the bed. For ten years he’d imagined what he would do when he got out. Not every detail. There were too many things he couldn’t know until he found her. But the ending had always been perfectly clear. He wanted her frightened. He wanted her to know what it felt like to have the things she’d worked for taken away. Her job, her money, her home, whatever relationships she’d built while he’d been rotting inside. He wanted her to wake up every morning wondering what the next disaster would be.

And when she’d finally had enough, when she couldn’t take another fucking thing going wrong, he wanted her standing in front of him. Crying. Apologising. Begging him to stop. He’d pictured that moment more times than he could count. Sometimes she’d been on her knees. Sometimes she’d been standing, tears running down her face, trying to explain herself. It didn’t matter. The important thing was that she’d be asking him for mercy, and he would decide whether she deserved it.

He leaned back against the wall and stared across the room. There was one small difficulty. He hadn’t seen her in ten years. He didn’t know where she lived, what she did for work or whether she’d married, had children or moved halfway across the country. He didn’t even know whether she still used the name Whitmore. The girl he’d watched in the witness box was thirty now. He’d spent years hating somebody whose life he knew almost nothing about, and that was going to have to change.

He finished his tea, set the empty mug aside and lay back on the newly made bed. The mattress was surprisingly comfortable. Above him, the ceiling bore the faint yellow stains of an old leak, while a strip of woodchip wallpaper had begun to peel away where the wall met the plaster. He’d have to do something about that eventually. For now, he had other priorities.

Colette Whitmore. Ten fucking years. He’d waited ten years to get his hands on her life. He could wait another few days to find out what she’d made of it.