Waiting for Wednesday

routine, irritating rather
than traumatic. The prison officers knew him, they knew why he was there and mainly they
were sympathetic to him – to Fearby and to Conley.
    Over the years Fearby had heard of inmates
who had used prison as a sort of school. They had learned to read; they had studied for
A levels and degrees. But Conley had only got fatter, paler, sadder, more defeated. His
dark hair was greasy and lank, he had a long ragged scar down from the corner of one
eye, the result of an attack while he was queuing for lunch one day. That had been early
in his sentence, when he was the subject of constant threats and abuse. He was jostled
in the corridor; his food was interfered with. Finally he was confined to solitary for
his own protection. But gradually things changed, as questions were raised, as the
campaign began, largely inspired and then sustained by Jim Fearby. Fellow prisoners
started to leave him alone and then became positively friendly. In recent years, even
the prison officers had softened.
    Fearby sat opposite Conley as he had so many
times before. Conley had become so fat that his bloodshot eyes almost disappeared in the
fleshy slits in his face. He compulsivelyscratched at the top of his
left hand. Fearby made himself smile. Everything was good. They were winning. They
should both be happy.
    ‘Did Diana come to see you?’ he
asked.
    Diana McKerrow was the solicitor who had
taken over Conley’s case for the latest appeal. At first Fearby had worked closely
with her. After all, he had known more about the case than anyone else in the world. He
knew the weak links, all the people involved. But as the case had proceeded, she had
stopped phoning him. She had been harder to reach. Fearby tried not to mind. What
mattered was the result, wasn’t it? That was what he told himself.
    ‘She phoned,’ said Conley, never
quite looking Fearby in the face.
    ‘Did she tell you about the
appeal?’ Fearby spoke slowly, separating each word, as if he was talking to a
small child.
    ‘Yeah, I think so.’
    ‘It’s all good news,’ said
Fearby. ‘They’ve got the details of the illegal interview.’
Conley’s expression didn’t change. ‘When the police picked you up,
they didn’t interview you properly. They didn’t warn you. They didn’t
explain things the way they should have done. They didn’t pay attention to
your …’ Fearby paused. At the next table a man and a woman were facing each
other, not speaking. ‘Your special needs,’ said Fearby. ‘That’s
enough on its own to quash the conviction. But added to the details of your alibi that
the prosecution suppressed …’
    Fearby stopped. He could see from the blank
look in Conley’s eyes that he had lost his attention.
    ‘You don’t need to get bogged
down in the details,’ said Fearby. ‘I just wanted to come and say to you
that I know what you’ve gone through all these years. All that stuff, all that
shit. I don’t know how you did it. But you just need tohang on a
bit longer, be strong, and it’ll all come right. You hear what I’m
saying?’
    ‘Coming right,’ said Conley.
    ‘There’s something else,’
said Fearby. ‘I wanted to say that it’s good, but it’ll be hard as
well. When someone gets paroled, they prepare them for months. They take you out on
visits, you know, walks in the park, trips to the seaside. Then, when you’re on
the outside, you get to stay in a halfway house and they check up on you. You’ve
heard that, haven’t you?’ Conley nodded. Fearby couldn’t make out if
he was really following what he was saying. ‘But it won’t be like that for
you. If the appeal court quashes your conviction, you’ll just walk free that
minute, straight out the door. It’ll be difficult. You should be prepared for
that.’
    Fearby waited for a reaction, but Conley
just seemed puzzled. ‘I just came up here today to tell you that I’m your
friend. Like I’ve always been. When you’re out, you might want to tell your
story. A lot of people would be interested in what you’ve been through. It’s
an old-fashioned tragedy-and-triumph story. I know about these things and you’ll
want to put your own side of the story because if you don’t people will do it for
you. I can help you with that. I’ve been telling your story right from the
beginning, when no one else would believe you. I’m your friend, George. If you
want help telling your story, I can do that for you.’ Fearby paused, but the
reaction