Free High Moor 2: Moonstruck by Graeme Reynolds

said “He knows. I could see it in his face. He suspects.”
    In a single sinuous movement the woman rose from the sofa and put her hand on the doctor’s shoulder. He flinched at her touch. “The policeman knows nothing, and it had better stay that way. If he comes around asking questions again, then deal with him, just like you did this time. Do you understand?”
    Doctor Miller nodded. “Yes, I understand.” He looked up into her eyes. “Please, I’ve done what you asked. Can I see my family now?”
    The woman smiled and pushed him down onto the sofa. “Don’t worry about your family, Wesley. You just be a good boy and sit quietly over there. Once your receptionist leaves, I’ll take you home to your wife and children. I’m sure my friends have been taking very good care of them.”
    ***
    12th December 2008. Durham Prison. 07.30.
    The reveille bell echoed around the cell block. John’s eyes snapped open and he sat upright in bed. His brow was sticky with sweat and his heart raced. He’d been dreaming, reliving the fight with Malcolm over and over, feeling the hot gush of blood on his tongue and the sweet taste of his enemy’s flesh. He forced himself back to the present and shook off the memory, aware of dissatisfaction lurking in the back of his mind.
    John’s cell mate, a man called Jonesy, peered down from the top bunk. “Fuck me, you don’t half make a racket when you’re asleep. You must have had a nightmare and a half last night. I tried to wake you a couple of times, and you just opened your eyes and stared at me like I was meat. Scared the shit out of me.”
    John’s fear of the coming night coiled and writhed in his stomach. He managed a sheepish grin.“Oh, shit, sorry, mate. Last night’s dinner can’t have agreed with me.”
    Jonesy clambered off the bed, stark naked, and stumbled across to the toilet, then sat down. “Yeah, tell me about it. I swear it’s given me the shits n’all. I can feel my guts sloshing around. Oh, here we go.”
    John buried his face in his pillow and tried to ignore the noises coming from the other side of the cell. It was going to be a long half−hour before the doors were unlocked to let them out for breakfast. Thirty minutes in which to agonise over the details of his plan and to let doubt gnaw the edges of his already tattered nerves.
    There was no way he could get out of this prison before moonrise that night. It was early tonight −17.38 on the dot, just after the cell doors were unlocked and the prisoners let out for their evening’s free association. The entire block would be out in the communal areas, playing cards and gambling their daily allowances away. Almost a hundred men would be torn to bloody ribbons and no−one would be able to do a thing about it. They’d know the truth then. The world would know. There was nothing that he could do to change that. There might just be a chance to save the lives of the other inmates. That’s if the plan worked; if he didn’t go on to make things even worse.
    Jonesey let out a satisfied grunt, accompanied shortly afterwards by a liquid splattering. “Ah, better out than in, that’s what my Dad used to tell me.”
    John buried his face deeper in the pillow. This close to the change, his senses had heightened, and right at this moment an enhanced sense of smell was the last thing he needed.
    The automatic door lock clicked open and John dived through the cell door, out onto the steel walkway beyond, almost colliding with one of the prison officers.
    Officer Phelps glared at him. “Watch where you’re going, Simpson.” He stuck his head into the open cell and withdrew it at speed. “For Christ’s sake, Jones. Wipe your arse and get dressed. Breakfast’s in five minutes.”
    “I can’t, guv, got the shits, guv. Must have been that manky tuna casserole we ‘ad last night.”
    “I don’t give a fuck. Stick a bloody cork up it if you have to. I want you out of that cell and downstairs in two minutes or