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SEBASTIAN CLIFTON
1981
11
“I’M SORRY.”
“Is that all you’ve got to say?” said Jessica, glaring at him.
Sebastian placed an arm around his daughter’s shoulder. “I promise I’ll be back in time to take you and your mother for a celebration dinner.”
“I remember the last time you promised that, then flew off to another country. At least then it was to support an innocent man, not a crook.”
“Desmond Mellor is only allowed visitors on a Saturday afternoon between two and three o’clock, so I wasn’t left with a lot of choice.”
“You could have told him to get lost.”
“I promise I’ll be back by five. Six at the latest. And as it’s your birthday, you can choose the restaurant.”
“And in the meantime I’m expected to babysit Jake, and when Mom gets back, explain to her why you’re not around. I can think of more exciting ways of spending m
y birthday.”
“I’ll make it up to you,” said Seb. “I promise.”
“Just don’t forget, Pops, he’s a crook.”
* * *
As Sebastian battled through the late morning traffic on his way out of London, he couldn’t help thinking his daughter was right. Not only was it likely to be a wasted journey, but he probably shouldn’t be having anything to do with the man in the first place.
He should have been taking Jessica to lunch at Ponte Vecchio to celebrate her sixteenth birthday, rather than heading for a prison in Kent to visit a man he despised. But he knew that if he didn’t find out why Desmond Mellor wanted to see him so urgently, he would be forever curious. Only one thing was certain: Jessica would demand a blow-by-blow account of why the damned man had wanted to see him.
There were about ten miles to go before Seb spotted the first signposts to Ford Open. No mention of the word “prison,” which would have offended the locals. At the barrier an officer stepped out of the small kiosk and asked his name. After “Clifton” had been ticked off on the inevitable clipboard, the barrier was raised and he was directed to a patch of barren land that on Saturdays acted as a car park.
Once he’d parked his car, Seb made his way to the reception area, where another officer asked for his name. But this time he was also requested to provide identification. He produced his driving license—another tick on another clipboard—and was then instructed to place all his valuables, including his wallet, watch, wedding ring, and some loose change, in a locker. He was told firmly by the duty officer that under no circumstances was he to take any cash to the meeting area. The officer pointed to a notice screwed to the wall warning visitors that anyone found in possession of cash inside the prison could end up with a six-month sentence.
“Forgive me for asking, sir,” said the officer, “but is this the first time you’ve visited a prison?”
“No, it’s not,” said Seb.
“Then you’ll know about vouchers, should your friend want a cup of tea or a sandwich.” He’s not my friend, Seb wanted to say, as he handed over a pound note in exchange for ten vouchers.
“We’ll refund the difference when you return.”
Seb thanked him, closed the locker door, and pocketed the key along with his vouchers. When he entered the waiting room, another officer handed him a small disc with the number 18 etched on it.
“Wait until your number is called,” said the officer.
Seb sat on a plastic seat in a room full of people who looked as if this was just part of their daily routine. He glanced around to see wives, girlfriends, parents, even young children, who had their own play area, all with nothing in common except a relation, a friend, or a lover who was locked up. He suspected he was the only person visiting someone he didn’t even like.
“Numbers one to five,” said a voice over the tannoy. Several of the regulars leapt up and hurried out of the room, clearly not wanting to waste a minute of their allocated hour. One of them left behind a copy of The Daily Mail, and Seb flicked through it to pass the time. Endless photographs of Prince Charles and Lady Diana Spencer chatting at a garden party in Norfolk; Diana looked extremely happy, while the Prince looked as if he was opening a power station.
“Numbers six to ten,” crackled the tannoy, and another group made their way quickly out of the waiting room. Seb turned the page. Margaret Thatcher was promising to bring in legislation to deal with wildcat strikes. Michael Foot described the measures as draconian, and pronounced her policy as jobs for the boys, but not for the lads.
“Numbers eleven to fifteen.”
Seb looked up at the clock on the wall: 2:12 p.m. At this rate, he’d be lucky to get more than forty minutes with Mellor, although he suspected the man would have his pitch well prepared and wouldn’t waste any time. He turned to the back page of The Mail to see an old photograph of Muhammad Ali jabbing his finger at reporters and saying, His hands can’t hit what his eyes can’t see. Seb wondered who came up with such brilliant lines—or was the ex-champ just brilliant?
