Chapter 32
HMP STONEHEATH
Johnny
“It’s bad out there,” Isla said, pressing her forehead to the blacked-out window. She blinked slowly, her breath fogging the glass. “Fuck whoever told the press we were coming today.”
Johnny scanned the road ahead, fingers tight around the steering wheel of the unmarked van. They were an hour out of Falkington, but people were already swarming the roads, their chants ringing out across the countryside.
They were on their way to HMP Stoneheath, the only high security omega prison in the country; an oppressive, black-stoned, high-walled Victorian monster that looked better suited to a horror film.
Like most prisons, it was in the middle of nowhere, hidden away from the general public like one of the government’s many dirty little secrets.
But not anymore.
Following the alpha murders and the internment of Reuben Atkinson, Sally Maverick, Leo Chantry and Maya Sharma, it had well and truly been placed on the map, and according to the news, omegas from across the country gathered outside its front gates like some kind of religious pilgrimage.
The atmosphere in the van was thick with tension.
No music, no chatting; even Taylor kept his mouth shut as they made the uneasy drive across the Midlands.
The only sound came from Amil’s tap, tap, tapping in the back as he worked furiously on his laptop.
Wendy kept her head down, eyes glued to her phone.
Isla was sitting in the front next to Johnny. She’d gone back and forth all morning about whether to wear her uniform or a suit, but in the end she’d settled on jeans and a blue jumper.
“It’s been six months since I last saw him,” she said, tugging at her sleeve. “I hope he’s managed to keep his weight up.”
Amil shifted in his seat, rubbing his eyes as he snapped the laptop shut. “With the shit they feed them in there? I doubt it.”
“Can we put the radio on or something?” Taylor said, propping a leg up on the prisoner cage door. “This silence is fucking depressing.”
“It isn’t a happy occasion,” Amil replied, sliding the laptop into his bag. “You’ve seen the state of it out there. The protests are peaceful now, but it’s only a matter of time before the looting and destruction start.”
Johnny wished Amil were wrong, but things had changed since the news broke about Benny Pearce. The protests that had only been in the cities were spilling into the smaller towns, taking hold of communities in a classic case of social contagion.
Everyone seemed angrier, more determined than ever to push back against the justice system, the health services, government buildings. Hell, even Dingly Heath police station had been egged three times in two weeks.
According to their internal comms, omegas had gathered outside court houses up and down the country, holding placards and chanting “FREE RUEBEN ATKINSON,” “FREE THE FOUR,” “JUSTICE FOR OMEGAS.” Johnny couldn’t blame them, and if he hadn’t still been a police officer he’d have been marching alongside them.
They had the numbers, a cause, and now they had a face for that cause. Four faces, actually.
He shivered every time he thought about Maya. About how he’d looked into the face of a killer for months and not even known it.
“Well I for one have a cracking weekend planned,” Wendy said, her voice bringing Johnny back to the present. “Wallace is taking me to a paint and sip thing tonight, then we’re off for a dirty weekend at the coast.”
Johnny glanced in the rearview mirror, snorting when he saw Amil roll his eyes. “Just remember to sip the wine and not the paint,” Amil said, toeing the base of a traffic cone that had slid out of its holder.
“You’re just jealous,” Wendy replied, reaching through the gap in the chairs to pinch Johnny’s cheek. “Because after tomorrow I’ll be a free woman. JP too.”
Amil grumbled, pushing the back of Johnny’s chair with his knee. He jerked a thumb towards Taylor, who had started dozing off with his head against the window. “Can’t believe you’re leaving me with this fuckwit.”
Johnny chuckled, only feeling a tiny bit guilty that he was leaving Taylor in the hands of Amil.
He’d given the omega a whole handover package on what to do when Taylor lost the plot, complete with nail paints and a bracelet-making kit.
But Amil, being Amil, had just wrinkled his nose, thrown the whole lot into a drawer and said he preferred to use the bolt cutters instead.
“W-wha?” Taylor grunted, a string of drool dripping down his chin.
Amil threw some balled-up paper at him, hitting him on the forehead. “Heard that okay, did you?”
Taylor rubbed his eyes. “You just talk so fucking loud, dude. Voice like a foghorn.”
Johnny realised then that Amil was going to be able to handle Taylor just fine.
Isla put her head in her hands. “Please don’t leave me, John-Paul. I don’t think I can cope with these two on my own.”
Johnny chuckled, turning his eyes back to the road. “Sorry, Sarge.”
“No, you aren’t.” Isla snorted, elbowing his arm.
Johnny smiled, slowing the van as they rounded a sharp corner. “No, I’m not.”
“Anyway,” Isla continued. “The governor said they’ve moved Ru off the psych ward and back in with the general populace. The other three are there too, and I’m worried they’ve been whispering in his ear again.”
“You’d think they’d separate them,” Johnny replied. “Given that he hasn’t been sentenced yet.”
Isla sighed. “I know, but the prisons are full, and what does the governor care about one omega potentially serving a life sentence?”
“Well, they’re about to care a whole lot more,” Amil replied.
Johnny nodded. The Omega Rights Bill had been sanctioned only a week before, and the cynical side of him wondered if it was more than a coincidence that the prison had authorised Ru’s interview amidst the turmoil. More than likely a government PR strategy.
They turned off the main road, following a tiny grey sign with an Edwardian crown and the prison insignia. The crowds weren’t letting up, only growing as Johnny wound the unmarked van around the lanes. People had placards slung over their shoulders and camping gear strapped to their backs.
Someone banged the side window, another threw a paper cup at the windscreen, making them all sit straight. Isla’s hand twitched at her hip, over the PAVA concealed in her pocket, and Johnny found he was becoming increasingly worried about what they’d find when they got to the prison.
Warmth seeped across his chest, the muscles in his shoulders relaxing a little as he realised Taylor was pushing reassurance across the bond. He’d gotten good at that over the last couple of weeks, and Johnny had gotten better at not holding back his emotions.
“Here we go,” Isla murmured as small groups of shifted wolves appeared around the next corner.
They were stalking up and down the road, guarding the perimeter and warding off anyone who drifted too close to the security gate.
“All hell’s gonna break loose when the protestors realise we’re the ones here to interview Ru, so be ready. ”
Johnny heard the clunk and scrape as Amil extended his baton, and the crack of Taylor’s knuckles. Wendy let out a shaky breath and Johnny wished they hadn’t brought her out for one last hurrah.
A breeze rolled through the trees, blowing leaves across the road as the high grey walls of the prison entryway came into view. There were people everywhere, some shifted, others still in human form. They held candles and flowers, and some people were singing as though holding a vigil.
“Dear God,” Johnny whispered, slowly turning the van onto the long, gated driveway and towards the massive security barriers.
“Make sure your windows are up,” Isla said, glancing over her shoulder.
People in the crowds turned, pointing and waving in their direction. Suddenly they were swarmed as two dozen protestors closed in, shaking their placards and banging the van bonnet. Johnny growled low in his belly, turning on the wipers to flick away anyone that tried to smack the windscreen.
“Please don’t run anyone over,” Isla said, her voice tight and back ramrod straight. “I can’t deal with the paperwork.”
“Wasn’t planning on it, Sarge.”
Johnny pulsed the washers to deter a few more grabby hands, and eventually they made it to the security lodge. “ID please,” the guard said, looking at them through the tiny sliding window. “Ah, DS Wilson from Dingly, is it?”
Isla withered.
“They’re here!” someone in the crowd screamed. “It’s them! They’re here for Ru!”
The guard blanched, quickly pressing the button to open the gate. “Go!” he said, and Johnny slammed his foot on the accelerator as people closed in around them.
More guards came running out of the prison brandishing shock shields and batons. The van was ushered through an archway, barely squeezing through the narrow gap that had clearly been meant for horses once upon a time.
Then, there it was. HMP Stoneheath, in all its Victorian limestone glory.
The outside was a dirty grey, discoloured through centuries of use. They pulled into a wide courtyard, surrounded on three sides by high walls. There were short, barred windows with barbed wire surrounds and netting underneath.
Johnny’s eyes trailed up a tall wooden column in its centre. It had a hook bolted onto the top, and a frayed rope strung to the platform beneath. The old hanging post, he realised, used when the death penalty was still in force.
He shuddered.
Judging by the barred windows, some of the prisoners’ rooms overlooked the yard. A sick and mocking reminder of what could have been in store for them in the not-so-distant past.
The metal gates slammed shut behind them, making the rope shiver.
“Pull over there!” a prison warden called, directing them towards the corner of the yard.
“This is horrible,” Isla whispered, her bottom lip shaking. “When I came here last time I went through the medical entrance. But this is… Ru is… Holy shit.”
“And the others,” Amil said. “They’re all here.”