‘Nothing.’

‘I’m going to get hurt.’

There was a pause from the unseen man. ‘It might stop, if you were.’

‘You mean I’ve got to let it happen! Don’t be bloody stupid!’

When the silence stretched out, Charlie said, ‘I’m sorry.’

At last Hargrave said, ‘I’t’s your attitude, Charlie – fuck everyone. You treat the officers like idiots and you haven’t aligned yourself with any group, here in prison. No one likes that: you’re supposed to conform.’

‘I don’t conform.’

‘You’re going to get hurt,’ confirmed Hargrave. ‘You’ve been inside long enough to know that. So far you’ve been lucky. Or clever. Or whatever. But it can’t last. You can be smart-assed outside, because at the end of the day you can always go home, safe by yourself. But there’s nowhere to go in jail. You’re here. Always.’

Completely concealed against any observation, Charlie grimaced. Why hadn’t the bastards kept their promise! Where was the sodding deal! He looked along the rack, to the carefully regimented set of books hiding his precious booze. There wasn’t much left: less than a third. He needed more.

‘Take a beating, Charlie.’

‘Bollocks.’

‘Until you’ve been taught a lesson that all the landings in this block recognise, then Hickley’s a cunt. You can’t make prison officers look cunts, Charlie: not even if they are.’

That night Charlie took the bottle back to his cell. He was careful, confident that he was unobserved, removing it from its concealment under the pretext of replacing some returned books and easing it down the waistline of his trousers, against the skin at the back, so the elastic of his under-pants kept it in place; the trousers were sufficiently ill fitting to prevent any bulge and his tunic jacket was low, as well.

There was sticky tape in the library, for basic repairs to torn books and Charlie took some of that with him to the cell. The bottom of the lavatory pot was recessed, creating a small cavity and into it he wedged the bottle, securing it with the tape.