Chapter Text
The last coherent memory he has of the past few hours is of the calm before the storm wrought by ACC Deare. Thursday telling him, Walther in hand, that he expects he’ll die a copper. The evocation in his mind of the last stanza of Housman’s How Clear, How Lovely Bright; even as he recites the words, he’s unsure whether he is praying or anticipating his own death. He exhales soft puffs of air as Thursday warns him that no help is coming, that he can leave and save himself. “To the end,” he says, puffing out short breaths through his nose, like a horse smelling the first whiff of smoke in the barn and reacting to impending disaster.
Then, chaos.
Thursday shot, collapsing to the floor.
Deare taunting him, levelling the gun at him, preparing to deliver the fatal shot then.
Angela emerging through the doorway, having just shot..
on his knees beside Thursday, sobbing his reassurances to him, that he will be okay, that help is, and Angela putting the gun to her head,
and he screams “No” as she steps out of the world to join her lost boys and
Lights in the darkness. Bright in an evening suit (why?) and Strange, Strange with the boy, Tommy, and
ambulance attendants loading up Thursday and Bright patting him on the shoulder telling him Thursday will be okay,
there’s blood on his hands, on his knees, how
Lights flashing alarm klaxons ringing Gregson from Kidlington telling him he’s being arrested for killing Standish
He fights and protests and is wrestled, wailing, into the backseat of a patrol car…
For a long while, nothing makes sense. He is taken to Kidlington nick, cuffed, fingerprinted, mug shots, strip searched, no kindness there as they shove gloved fingers up his rectum and he wonders if he will be raped in prison and if it will feel this bad, no, worse probably.
Scratchy, worn prison issue clothing. He has no idea where his possessions have gone. He doesn’t remember washing the blood from his hands, but there’s still some caught around his fingernails.
Interrogation. He asks for a solicitor, but none arrives. Middle of the night, you know. He refuses to talk. Tossed into a cramped, dirty cell with a bucket and a sink and a thin foam mattress and he sits there like he’s dead and maybe he is.
The next morning, he is shackled and transported by bus to HMP Farnleigh, along with other miscreants who have been in detention in other nicks, awaiting incarceration. He says nothing. Some of his co-prisoners looked terrified and confused. He’s scared, too, but tries not to show it, thinking that a display of vulnerability would not play in his favour. But he’s scared. He has confronted a lot of scary shit in his life, but nothing has frightened him so much as this does. He hopes his face doesn’t reflect his fear but knows it does.
Farnleigh.
He’s assigned a six digit number and new prisoner’s clothing. If they can be described as that. But before they can be donned, he and his fellow inmates are stripped naked, showered and liberally coated with de-lousing powder. He’s acutely aware of how slight he is in comparison to most of the others and supposes that many felonies require more muscle than he’s ever possessed. But he’s also aware that this does not augur well for him in here.
And then he’s unceremoniously ushered into a cell. High window. A bunk bed, A table. Toilet. Sink. Bright overhead light. The sound of the iron door slamming shut has a finality to it that strikes him to the core. He wonders if this will be the last place that he lives in.
As he sits on the lower bunk, fingers clasped, he enumerates his vulnerabilities in this place. He’s a copper, which is a big one. He’s slight in stature, which means he’s less likely to be able to fight back effectively. And, he’s aware, he’s attractive in a way that is not brutally masculine. A girl once described him as “pretty” and he cringes, inwardly, to think what that might mean in here.
What passes for a meal is served to him in his cell and he is not sure what to make of this. Is there a reason he isn’t let into the general population? If he can be grateful for anything, though, it’s this.
At nine o’clock it’s lights off. He sits on the bunkbed, his back to the cinderblock wall, knees drawn tightly to his chest and tries unsuccessfully to shut out the world beyond his bars. Disconcertingly, he hears sobbing. Is that him? A terrified voice calling out for his mother. He’s pretty sure that’s not him.
And then the taunts.
Hey, pretty boy.
You got such a nice tight ass. Can’t wait to fuck *that*!
Wanna suck my cock, pretty boy? I gotta huuge one…
He curls up, fetally, on the thin mattress. He wants to put the pillow over his ears but worries he won’t be able to hear what’s coming for him. He knows he won’t sleep. He tries not to cry, biting down on the ratty sleeve of his jacket to prevent any audible sobs. His face is wet. He thinks about whether it would be better just to kill himself. It’s not death he fears, he thinks, but intractable pain. Suffering. Humiliation.
He’s not sure how he can survive this.
***
The lights blaze on at seven in the morning and the morning alarm sounds. Senior officer O’Brien, just on shift, bellows, “Stand to”, while rattling a tin cup along the bars. He can hear sounds of grumbling, a couple of “Fuck offs” and some resounding farts among the general hubbub. Morning count time. Pretty routine, he figures, although some fresh flesh had increased the numbers yesterday.
Some of these guys have been here for years. Even though he is supposed to address them by their numbers, O’Brien has been here for years, too, and so he addresses them by their names or nicknames.
He strolls along the top walk, counting heads, saying hello to the ones he knows. Until he comes to cell C-10. He stops in his tracks for a long moment. What the fuck? he thinks, as he sees what looks like a thin, gangly young boy with an unruly mop of dark copper hair and startling blue eyes, Why the hell isn’t this kid in Borstal? Upon looking at him more closely, he could see fine lines around his eyes and mouth. Not a kid, then, he thinks.
“What’s your name, 512 618?” he asks the kid.
“Morse,” he responds tersely. “Sir.” The guard first thinks he’s being a smart arse, but then something about the kid tells him there’s military background here. C-10 is the last cell in the range, and he pulls out his keys to unlock the door. Farnleigh is a progressive prison, and the inmates are permitted limited freedoms outside their cells during the day.
“No,” says Morse. “Don’t.”
“What? You *want* to be locked in?” asks O’Brien, a little incredulous.
“No,” Morse says again. “I just want everyone else locked out.”
The guard regards him with both curiosity and disbelief but shrugs his shoulders and proceeds to unlock the rest of the cells. I need to get the story on this one, he thinks. Something off here.
O’Brien, after ensuring his charges are all squared away (excepting that strange one in C-10) searches out the Chief Officer to ask about Morse. “A queer bit, he is. Asked to be locked in. I had to bring him his toast and tea.”
The CO looks through his sheaf of papers. “Oh, yeah, he just arrived yesterday. Guess he’s nervous – he’s a copper, a DC from Cowley nick. Charged with murdering a senior officer – Standish. By strangulation”.
O’Brien snorts. “Strangulation? Kid doesn’t look strong enough to strangle a flea!” Then he says “Charged? He hasn’t been to trial? What’s he doing here, then?”
“Beats me,” the CO replies. “There’s been some hinky shit going on over at Cowley and at County. Something to do with that old boy’s school over at Blenheim Vale. There was a shoot out there a couple of days ago. Morse’s DI got shot by ACC Deare. Man called Thursday, he’s touch and go. Deare was shot and killed by a deranged woman who then killed herself. Morse was the only one left standing in the bloodbath. Kidlington fitted him up for the murder of Standish because they found Morse’s scarf on scene,”
“Fuckin’ hell,” says O’Brien. “Pardoning my French, sir. This is hardly standard procedure, is it?”
“Nothing about County is ‘standard procedure’, as you say,” responds the CO. “We have to deal with what we’re given.”
“I guess,” says O’Brien. “And he’s a sweet young face. The bull queers will have a heyday with him if they get their hands on him. And I suppose he figures he can’t trust us, either. Poor bugger.”