He knew better than to rock up at the radio station without anyone to vouch for him. It had taken him a few days of asking around among the least hostile faces in the canteen and the library, but at last he’d managed to track down Kieran, a twenty-seven-year-old serving three years for, in his words, ‘a shitload of burglaries’.
How had he got involved, Tony wondered. ‘I liked listening to Razor, but I thought the show they were doing about fitness was way too specialised. I like to stay in shape, but all they were talking about was using the equipment in the gym. Now, the kit they’ve got in here isn’t that brilliant to start with, but the big problem is there’s just not enough to go round. Plus a lot of guys, they’re not in shape to start with and they’re not all that keen on trying to work out beside the gym bunnies,’ Kieran explained. ‘And then you’ve got the top dogs and their bitches thinking the gym belongs to them.’
It was more than Tony needed to know, but he understood better than most the value of letting people talk. ‘I know what you mean. I’d feel like a complete wuss beside half the lads in here.’
‘That’s ’cos you are. So I came up with this fitness routine that you can follow in your cell. Dead straightforward stretches and resistance exercises, plenty of reps to build a bit of muscle. Make you a bit more buff.’ He reached out and gripped Tony’s bicep. ‘You could do with a bit of that, Tony.’ He chuckled and rolled his shoulders, showing off his own shape.
‘I’ll check it out. So you just went along and asked to put on a programme?’
Keiran nodded. ‘The guys got me to do a run-through for them, made a few suggestions, then they gave me a weekly ten-minute slot. People liked it, so now I do fifteen minutes three times a week. I had to learn all the other stuff as well – how to do the technical shit like sound engineers do on the BBC and all that. Why are you so interested? You want to tell us all about the serial killers you’ve put away? Give us the inside track? Mind of a murderer, kind of thing?’
‘All that’s ancient history for me now. There’s no way I’ll ever get near a murder investigation again.’
Keiran sniggered. ‘Not now you’ve been on the other end of it. But I’ll bet you’ve got some cracking stories to tell.’
‘I’m thinking about something a bit different. You want to get people fit. I want to help them change their lives in other ways. So, can you get me an introduction?’
‘Sure. Come along with me on Wednesday morning when I’m doing my show. That’s the best day, there’s a bunch of us in then to plan out the rest of the week.’
Wednesday arrived and he found himself standing against the wall in a crowded little room filled with radio equipment and half a dozen men who looked like a random selection from the Grayson Street stand at a Bradfield Victoria game. And not just because they were all white, in startling contrast to the general prison population. A couple were shaven-headed, tattoos decorating their arms and creeping up their necks. One looked like a science teacher, glasses slipping down his nose, fiddling with a screwdriver and a connector of some sort. Another – thirties, neat haircut, watchful eyes, big shoulders and the beginnings of a paunch – would have fitted in perfectly in Bradfield Metropolitan Police canteen. Kieran introduced Tony to the man who clearly ran the room.
‘Spoony, this is Tony. He’s—’
‘Yeah, I know. The shrink. We got no couches in here, Doc. And we’re already shrunk down to nothing by the system. So what d’you want with us?’ Spoony cocked his head, making the tendons in his neck stand out. He was tall and lean, the arms sticking out of his T-shirt resembling an anatomical drawing – here a muscle, there a tendon, here a vein. His face reminded Tony of a tropical bird; all big eyes and hooked nose over a small mouth and a receding chin.
‘I want to make a programme.’
Spoony scoffed. The two shaven heads folded their arms across their bellies and laughed. Tweedledum and Tweedledummer. ‘Just like that? You think you’re something special, just because you made a bit of a name for yourself on the outside?’ Spoony turned away and pretended to be engaged with something on one of the monitors. The others took their cue from him and busied themselves with clipboards and screens.
‘There’s no point in me pretending I’ve got no skills,’ Tony said. ‘That would be really stupid, trying to make out I’m just another one of the lads. I’ve been listening to Razor, and it’s equally clear to me that you’re not stupid either. I don’t want to be arsey about this, but I can give you a programme that could make a difference to people’s lives. Maybe help them not to come back here.’
Spoony froze. ‘You really think so? You’ve been in here, what? Five minutes? And you know how to fix us? Think you’re fucking Coldplay, do you?’
‘I don’t even know what that means,’ Tony said. ‘All I do know is I’ve got some ideas that I think are worth trying.’ He pulled a small notebook from his pocket. Another gift from people in the justice system who knew that he knew where some of the bodies were buried. ‘I’ve drafted out ten minutes. Just to give you a flavour.’
Spoony turned, bending sideways from the waist so he could see past Tony and go eye to eye with Kieran. ‘You did right, bringing him along. We’re pitifully short on comedy.’
The geek with the screwdriver looked up. ‘Wouldn’t hurt to give the man a chance.’ Judging by the looks of surprise on the others’ faces, he wasn’t given to expressing opinions.
Spoony blew out a noisy breath. ‘Come on then.’ He nodded towards a chair with a foam-covered mic in front of it. ‘Sit your arse down and lay it on us.’
Tony obeyed, squeezing past the Tweedle twins to get to the chair. He cleared his throat. ‘I am prisoner number BV8573. I’m also a clinical psychologist called Tony Hill. I’ve spent the last twenty-five years working with people like you and me, trying to figure out the reasons why things went wrong for us.’ He looked up from his notes. Spoony was leaning back in his chair, fingers locked behind his head, staring at the ceiling.
‘I don’t believe people are born evil. I think we end up on the wrong side of the law for a variety of reasons and most of them are not our fault. I’ve said it before and I will probably say it again: Societies get the crimes they deserve. Build a society based on greed, for example, and robbery will become your default crime. Turn sex into a commodity and bingo, sex crimes spawn like tadpoles. So if that’s the underlying cause of crime, logically the remedy must lie in our own hands. If we change the script people live by, then surely we should be able to alter our outcomes? I want to talk to you about ways we can change our scripts. And the first thing we have to talk about is fear. Because in here, we’re all afraid.’
Abruptly, Spoony jumped up. ‘Right, that’ll do. You’ve got balls, I’ll say that for you, Doc. Coming in here and making out we’re all fucking bricking it.’
Tony sighed and stood up. ‘OK. I get the message. I’ll just fuck off back to my cell and forget I ever wanted to be the Zoe Ball of HMP Doniston.’
‘What are you on about?’ Spoony demanded, head thrust forward, all brittle aggression. He snatched the clipboard from Tweedledum. He ran his finger down the page. ‘Yeah. Let’s cut the Catholics down to half an hour on Friday. You’ve got fifteen minutes a week for the next month, Doc. If you can cut it, the slot’s yours. Now fuck off, we’ve got programmes to make.’