Free Hard Landing by Stephen Leather Page A

food and telephone calls. It’s just one of the ways they can make your life a misery.’
    Macdonald tossed the list on to his bunk. ‘Nothing there I need,’ he said.
    A smile flickered across Harris’s face. ‘Say that after a couple of weeks of prison food,’ he said. ‘And tobacco gets things done here.’ He jerked a thumb at the fresh clothing. ‘Better gear, for a start.’
    ‘Thanks, Ed,’ said Macdonald, who had realised that Harris was doing what he could to make him feel at home. He wondered if the man really had killed his wife with his bare hands, but decided it would be bad manners to broach the subject.
    ‘You can get money sent in, but it has to come from people on an approved list.’
    ‘I won’t be giving anyone a list,’ said Macdonald.
    ‘You can bring your own money in, but that’ll mean identifying yourself.’
    ‘I figured that much.’
    ‘There’s jobs here, and that’ll earn you some. If you’re available for work but they can’t find you a job then you get two pounds fifty a week unemployment rate. Refuse to work and you get nothing.’
    ‘Like I said, Ed, there’s nothing on that list I need. And I won’t be making any phone calls.’
    ‘And like I said, see how you feel after a few weeks. You’ve got another ten minutes to use the showers.’
    As Harris left the cell, Macdonald scooped up the tracksuit and towel and walked down the landing. Two black men in their early twenties, wearing Nike tracksuits and gleaming white Nike trainers, stared at him stonily as they leaned against the railing around the inner atrium. ‘Hiya, guys, I’m looking for the showers,’ he said.
    The men stared at his forensic suit. ‘What planet are you from, then?’ asked one. He had shoulder-length dreadlocks and a scar that ran the full length of his left forearm.
    ‘Showers, guys, please. I’ve only got ten minutes.’
    The men pushed themselves off the railing and stood in front of him, blocking his way.
    ‘Where’s your manners, Smurf?’ said Dreadlocks.
    His companion snorted. ‘Smurf,’ he repeated. He was tall and stick-thin, his lanky arms protruding from the sleeves of his tracksuit showing half a dozen beaded bracelets.
    Macdonald’s eyes hardened and he tried to push past them. Dreadlocks shoved his arm with his left hand and pulled the right back in a fist. Macdonald moved fluidly, tossing his clothes and towel at Stickman, then grabbing Dreadlocks’s arm. Macdonald twisted Dreadlocks’s arm behind his back and gripped his neck, digging into either side of his windpipe. ‘Keep struggling and I’ll rip your throat out,’ he hissed. Dreadlocks grunted and pushed back, trying to force Macdonald against the railing, but Macdonald’s foot was behind his right knee and he pushed down, forcing the man to the ground. He released his grip on Dreadlocks’s throat and kicked him in the ribs, savagely.
    Stickman kicked out at Macdonald but Macdonald caught his foot andstood up, forcing him to hop backwards. He kept him off balance then kicked him hard between the legs. Stickman’s arms windmilled as he fell backwards. His head thudded against the concrete and he slumped to the floor.
    Dreadlocks was curled up in the foetal position, his hands at his throat, gasping for breath. Macdonald bent down to pick up his towel and clothing. He looked up and down the landing. Three teenagers in polo shirts and black Adidas tracksuit bottoms stood at the stairs, watching with open mouths. Across the landing, two middle-aged prisoners turned away as Macdonald looked in their direction. Stafford was in the glass-walled administration cubicle, deep in conversation with another male officer. Neither were looking his way. Ahead of him, Ed Harris was standing in the doorway to a cell. ‘Winning friends and influencing people already?’ he said drily.
    ‘I had no choice,’ said Macdonald.
    ‘Watch yourself,’ whispered Harris, as he walked by. ‘Those guys have friends in