Free The Blind Run by Brian Freemantle

vitally important,’ Charlie bulldozed on. They might have welched on the earlier deal but they weren’t going to on this one. This time Charlie intended getting his freedom.
    ‘I have no intention of making any approach to any outside person,’ said Armitrage. ‘This is a prison matter which will be settled by me. And it will be settled. Here. Now.’
    Charlie stared at the man across his desk, saying nothing.
    ‘I’m waiting,’ said Armitrage.
    ‘In the presence of the Director,’ said Charlie. Then I’ll tell you everything.’
    Armitrage looked to the prison officers on either side of Charlie. ‘Any suggestions of unrest, worse than normal?’ he demanded. ‘There’s usually an atmosphere, just before an intended break?’
    ‘Nothing sir,’ said Dailey.
    ‘I’d better get the deputy governor in on this,’ said Armitrage. ‘And the chief prison officer.’
    Which would be how the story spread, thought Charlie, desperately. He said, ‘There’s no concerted plan: you’ll not discover anything, tightening security.’
    To Dailey, Armitrage said, ‘Take him to solitary.’
    As the order to turn and leave the office was snapped out, militarily, Charlie said, ‘I’ll say nothing, only in the presence of Sir Alistair Wilson. If it goes ahead, it’ll be the biggest embarrassment of your life.’
    ‘Out!’ said Dailey, thrusting him forward.
    In the solitary cell, which was internal, without any window and smaller than that he occupied with Sampson, Charlie slumped forward on the bunk, head forward in his hands. Bad, he thought, judging his effort. Bloody awful, in fact. Word that he was before the governor would have already circulated through the prison, because the trusties who worked in administration had seen him marched in and out. They’d know he’d gone to solitary, too. And the silly old fart would convene his conference with the deputy and the chief screw because he was too damned ineffectual to make up his own mind without the advice of as many people as possible. Shit! thought Charlie. He’d been better than this once. A long time ago; too long. Sampson would have him killed. Charlie didn’t have any doubt about that. Any more than he had any doubt that the man would learn that he’d grassed. He could apply for permanent solitary, he supposed. There was a regulation that permitted it, usually invoked for bastards who’d sexually assaulted kids and needed protection from other prisoners, forming an enclave within an enclave, permanently frightened like he was frightened now. People went mad in solitary: Sampson said he would go mad. What was better, mad or dead? Jesus! What a fucking choice!
    Without a watch or a window to judge from the changing light Charlie found it difficult to calculate the time but he guessed it was three hours before anyone came. Maybe longer, he thought, as he was marched back through the administration wing, where there were windows, through which he could see that it was dark. Did it really matter, whether it was day or night? Did anything matter, any more?
    Charlie’s depression – his fear – was absolute so the stretch of euphoria was a physical reaction when he got to the governor’s office and saw, among the assembled people, the man who’d looked blank-faced at him in the dock of the Old Bailey on the day he got his sentence. Charlie stopped, so that the escorting officer following actually collided with him and he said ‘Thank Christ,’ aloud, careless of their knowing of his relief.
    Sir Alistair Wilson stood – because it was more comfortable for him to stand, although Charlie didn’t know that – to the left of the governor, right against the window, half-perched upon the radiator. To Armitrage’s right was the deputy governor, Collis, and deferentially next to him was the chief prison officer, whose name was Dexter. One of the bastards.
    Armitrage had made a concession by approaching Wilson and he knew it and everyone else in the room knew