EXTRACT FROM THE CRIME WRITER

Here's a taster of my new novel .....

It’s a Monday morning. There’s half a dozen lads sat drinking tea and nattering among themselves. Geordie Rob, bless him, has made a half-hearted appeal to the others to pay attention and engage with the exercises, but to no avail. Nobody’s doing any writing. The Ambassador is engrossed in The Daily Telegraph crossword. Tiny Tizzle is designing his latest tattoo. Marshall and Wesley and the lads from Manchester are talking about something that has happened back home, some rival crew or click. There’s talk of straps and beef and people getting slung in car boots. I make various attempts to interject, to get them to pay attention to the task in hand. I play dumb. A strap, what’s a strap? Of course, I know what a strap is. I’ve seen enough films and listened to enough gangster rap to have a basic grasp of the lingo, but they indulge my questions and poke fun at my mock naivety. You a soldier, Miss? You from the ends, Miss, yeah? They may not be writing but at least they’re acknowledging the fact that I’m there. And there’s laughter; always a welcome sound in prison.

We have a banter back and forth and it’s all going swimmingly until I ask Marshall: So what gang are you with then?

Gang?He snaps to attention. What the fuck!?! You for real?? He sits bolt upright, bristling.What the fuck you talking to me about a gangfor? What you saying, gang? What gang? I am I-P-P!

He stabs the letters out with his finger.

Yeah? You get me? Do you even know what that means?

Oh shit.I don’t know why he’s so upset all of a sudden, but I do know when someone is about to kick off and Mr Marshall is ready to go. He’s out of his chair now, agitated, up on the balls of his feet. My first instinct is to get out of there, just get up and go to the door, but my legs are dead weights. As confrontations go, this would be a very short-lived affair. He’s just under six foot and built like an athlete. I’m five foot four and eight stone wet through. He spends every other day in the gym. I spend every night sat on my arse on the couch, drinking wine and eating crisps. Surely he’s not gonna hit me, I’m thinking. Surely not. But I see the set of his jaw and the spots of fire dancing in his eyes and I’m not so sure. My mouth goes dry and it’s like every bit of me is trembling, even my brain. Especially my brain. It’s grappling for words, but they just won’t come.

Why you trying to do me like that, Miss? Eh? What you saying?

Marsh, one of the lads says, touching his arm. Marsh, I don’t think she …

Fuck it Cal, she knows what she’s doing!

I try and keep my voice calm and steady, like they’d advised in the induction.

Marshall, I say, I’ve been in this job for about a month now, tops. There’s a fuck of a lot about it that I don’t understand. Yeah? And I don’t know who the IPP are? Alright? I don’t mean to be clever or … disrespectful or owt like that, but ... I just ... I’ve never heard of the IPP. Sorry, but I haven’t.

Marshall looks at me like I’m a simpleton.

Indeterminate, he says.

Sorry?

It means In – de- terminate. You know what that means?

Without an end?

That’s it. Indeterminate sentence for public protection.

I just look at him, blankly. I have no idea what he’s talking about.

IPP means I got no release date, he says.

Oh, right, I say, I thought the IPP was a gang.

Uproarious laughter. Thigh slapping and finger banging all round. Geordie Rob slaps the desk and howls. This is apparently, the funniest thing that’s ever been uttered. Even the Ambassador has looked up from his crossword and is permitting himself a wry chuckle.

The relief floods through me like a wave of pure MDMA kicking in. I can feel my blood begin to surge again, making my head swim.

Marshall sits down. He’s all smiles now. It’s frightening how some of these lads can switch just like that, snap, from glorious sunshine to thunderstorm, then back again in an instant. So quick to rear up. But he’s OK now. He looks nice when he lets his guard down and smiles, he looks younger, like the happy, mischievous little lad he once must have been.

Alright, Miss, he says, what we doing then?

Tell me what IPP is, I say.

I already told you what it is.

Yeah, but now I wanna know what it means to you.

Why?

Remember that poem we did last week ‒“Always” by Charles Bukowski?

He shakes his head no.

“The important thing is the obvious thing that no-one is saying.”

That’s a poem?

Yeah.

Nah. That’s not a poem.

Why isn’t it?

Poems rhyme.

Some do. Not all of them. This one doesn’t. Hardly any of them in that book do.

I point to the Bukowski book.

Marshall looks at it, shrugs.

Yeah? So?

So tell me what IPP means to you.

I already told you what it means.

No, not the official definition. Theproper meaning. What it means to you.

Why?

Because people don’t know about it. Nobody is saying anything about it. You know about it, though. You’re living it, every day. You could give people that knowledge, that information. The proper meaning.

He laughs and shakes his head.

Fuck’s sake, Miss, he says.

He picks up the pen and starts to write.

I