Wilt on High by Tom Sharpe

be just jake.’
    ‘And if I don’t?’ asked Wilt feeling weaker still.
    ‘Sudden bereavement is a sad affair,’ said McCullum, ‘very sad. Specially for cripples.’
    Wilt gazed through the wire mesh and wondered, not for the first time in his life, though by the sound of things it might be the last, what it was about him that attracted the horrible. And McCullum was horrible, horrible and evilly efficient. And why should the evil be so efficient? ‘I still want to know what’s on that paper,’ he said.
    ‘Nothing,’ said McCullum, ‘it’s just a sign. Now as I see it Forster was the typical product of a middle-class background. Lots of lolly and lived with his old Ma …’
    ‘Bugger E. M. Forster’s mother,’ said Wilt. ‘What I want to know is why you think I’m going to …’
    But any hope he had of discussing his future was ended by the return of the warder. ‘You can cut the lecture, we’re shutting up shop.’
    ‘See you next week, Mr Wilt,’ said McCullum with a leer as he was led back to his cell. Wilt doubted it. If there was one thing on which he was determined, it was that he would never see the swine again. Twenty-five years was far too short a sentence for a murdering gangster. Life should mean life and nothing less. He wandered miserably down the passage towards the main gates, conscious of the paper in his pocket and the awful alternatives before him. The obvious thing to do was to report McCullum’s threats to the warder on the gate. But the bastard had said he had one warder on his payroll and if one, why not more? In fact, looking back over the months, Wilt could remember several occasions whenMcCullum had indicated that he had a great deal of influence in the prison. And outside too, because he’d even known the number of Wilt’s bank account. No, he’d have to report to someone in authority, not an ordinary screw.
    ‘Had a nice little session with “Fireworks”?’ enquired the warder at the end of the corridor with what Wilt considered to be sinister emphasis. Yes, definitely he’d have to speak to someone in authority.
    At the main gate it was even worse. ‘Anything to declare, Mr Wilt?’ said the warder there with a grin, ‘I mean we can’t tempt you to stay inside, can we?’
    ‘Certainly not,’ said Wilt hurriedly.
    ‘You could do worse than join us, you know. All mod cons and telly and the grub’s not at all bad nowadays. A nice little cell with a couple of friendly mates. And they do say it’s a healthy life. None of the stress you get outside …’
    But Wilt didn’t wait to hear any more. He stepped out into what he had previously regarded as freedom. It didn’t seem so free now. Even the houses across the road, bathed in the evening sunshine, had lost their moderate attraction; instead, their windows were empty and menacing. He got into his car and drove a mile along Gill Road before pulling into a side street and stopping. Then making sure no one was watching him, he took the piece of paper out of his pocket and unrolled it. The paper was blank. Blank? That didn’t make sense. He held it up to the light and stared at itbut the paper was unlined and as far as he could see, had absolutely nothing written on it. Even when he held it horizontally and squinted along it he could make out no indentations on the surface to suggest that a message had been written on it with a matchstick or the blunt end of a pencil. A man was coming towards him along the pavement. With a sense of guilt, Wilt put the paper on the floor and took a road map from the dashboard and pretended to be looking at it until the man had passed. Even then he checked in the rear-view mirror before picking up the paper again. It remained what it had been before, a blank piece of notepaper with a ragged edge as though it had been torn very roughly from a pad. Perhaps the swine had used invisible ink. Invisible ink? How the hell would he get invisible ink in prison? He couldn’t unless …