Die Alone

coming for us.
They were getting closer. I could hear them. Inside the walkway that separated us from the rest of the prison. They must have stolen keys.
Which meant there was nothing between them and us.
Everyone else in here knew it too. Some of the inmates were grouped round the two full-sized pool tables in the centre of the wing, talking quietly in frightened huddles. I recognized almost all of them. There was the grossly fat Roger Munn, who raped and murdered his stepdaughter, then cut up her body and hid it in the loft where, incredibly, the police missed it twice during their searches. He was slouched on the sofa in his wifebeater vest, watching the news footage of raging flames on the big-screen TV. Then there was Ricardo Webster, the night caller, who liked to rape old ladies in their homes, and who was now standing watching the doors, armed with a pool cue, while a group of prisoners huddled behind him for protection.
And there, standing at the back of the communal area, partially hidden behind a larger group so he wouldn’t get spotted if someone came through the door, was the worst of them all. Wallace Burke, the infamous child killer, who’d abducted and murdered two ten-year-old boys more than twenty years ago and who was also suspected of at least two similar murders, for which there’d never been enough evidence to prosecute.
These were the lowlifes I now lived with. Men who I’d gladly put in the ground myself. As a former soldier and police officer I was a long way above them, but I had a feeling that this wasn’t going to help me. Because I was a bigger target than anyone in here.
The bounty on my head was half a million pounds. Now, half a million isn’t much use to you when you’re in jail, but most of these guys were planning to get out at some point, and even if that wasn’t a possibility, that amount of money can do a hell of a lot to help a family on the outside. And it wasn’t just the prisoners I had to watch either, it was the guards. As a general rule they were honest and hard-working but, even so, the average prison officer’s wage is £27,000 per year, and that’s before the taxman gets his hands on it, so it was a big temptation for them too.
All of which meant I had to watch my back. A month after I got here, I found ground glass in my food. A month after that, my cell mate at the time, a bent cop called Pryce who was on remand, put smuggled sleeping pills in my water and tried to smother me in my sleep with a pillow. I’d liked him too. He was good fun to be around with a raconteur’s love of tales. Unfortunately for him, he’d got the dose wrong, and I’d only drunk half the water, so I woke up and broke his arm, and after that he’d been transferred.
From then on I was constantly alert. I was in the gym every day for my allotted hour. I did weights. I did cardio. I practised my self-defence moves. Right now, I was as fit as I’d been in a long time.
But even so, I’ll be honest, I was scared. I could almost smell the closeness of the mob.
Then I heard it. An unintelligible howl just beyond the reinforced door – and a couple of seconds later it flew open and two guards rushed inside. One was bleeding from the head, but they were moving fast. As I watched, they tried to shut the door only for it to be forced open from the other side, and they were flung to one side as a crowd of screaming and yelling prisoners streamed in.
I stepped back inside the cell, watching the vulnerable prisoners scatter in all directions as the invading inmates ran among them, throwing punches and howling insults. Meanwhile a separate group, their faces masked, ran into the nearest cell, grabbed hold of its occupant – Fanning, who’d killed his own baby – and dragged him outside. It looked like they were interrogating him.
A second later, I saw him turn and point up towards my cell.
So they had come for me.
‘What’s going on?’ asked Luke, in a whimpering voice. ‘What are they doing?’ He was crouched in a foetal position in the far corner of the cell, shaking like a leaf.
‘Stay put and you’ll be OK,’ I said, watching as the masked group, close to a dozen strong, turned as one in my direction.
Another alarm had gone off now, this time in the wing itself, and it would now be clear to the authorities that lives were in imminent danger. But there was still no sign of the cavalry and, even if they’d already entered the prison, it was going to take them a few minutes at least to get here. And I didn’t have a few minutes, because already the group – their faces covered with a mixture of scarves and rags, several of them carrying makeshift weapons – were racing up the steps towards the first floor, and my cell.
A primal fear rose up from somewhere in my gut. Like I said, I’ve been in frightening positions before. I’ve faced down guns, both as a soldier and a police officer, and I’ve even been caught up in a full-scale street riot, with hundreds of people baying for my blood, but at least then I’d always had colleagues not far away. Here, I was on my own, and trapped. The only two guards who could have helped me were backed up in a corner surrounded by jeering inmates, several of whom were throwing missiles at them.
I made a fast decision. There was no point trying to hide in the cell. I’d be finished. I had to go out and meet them.
The group coming up the steps caught sight of me as I came