Killing with Confetti

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The two short words Warren doesn’t wish to hear: ‘It’s on.’

‘When?’

‘Tomorrow — at unlock.’

‘Soon as that?’

‘Catch the white-shirts off guard.’

‘Right.’

But it isn’t right, not for Warren. It’s wrong, disastrously wrong. He is playing the good-behaviour card this time round in his prison career, working with the system for early release. He’s been one of HMP Bream’s model cons for two long years. Two years, three months and twenty-seven days.

A riot has been talked about for weeks on C wing. Talk is easy. For a time it was no more than that, wishful thinking, like sex with the gorgeous Miss Martindale who teaches black history. But by degrees the chat has got serious. The gorillas on the top landing mean business. ‘Together we can do this. We outnumber them. They won’t know what’s hit them.’

A plan has been hatched. Nothing brilliant. Grab the screws the moment they unlock, disable their radios and body cameras, drag them into the cells, tie them up and take their passes, keys and pepper spray. Then hold them hostage. At the same time, someone else will be disabling the CCTV. Coordinated action, see?

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