The Blind Run by Brian Freemantle

that from his arm, dulled by local anaesthetic. Was Hargrave right? Now it had happened, now that he’d taken his punishment, would things get better? Dear God, he hoped so. He knew – always objective – that he couldn’t go on as he had, these last few weeks. He wanted to continue defying them. And the system. Christ, how he wanted to! But like Hargrave said and like Sampson said, it wouldn’t work. Couldn’t work. He had to adjust. Not conforming: not giving in. Just adjusting. Just being realistic. Was it true, what Sampson had said, about his still having a reputation within the department for realism? He liked to think so. Be good, to be remembered in the department. To be admired. Abruptly Charlie stopped the reverie. If it were admiration, it would be begrudging, after what he’d done.
    Miller, the state registered nurse who replaced Sampson as the hospital orderly, made the approach to Charlie after supper the first night. He was a flaking skinned, nervously smiling man: Charlie thought he looked capable of indecency but hardly of making it gross.
    ‘Sampson said he’s sorry you got hurt.’
    ‘Tell him thanks,’ said Charlie.
    ‘Want anything for the arm? I could give you some pain killers.’
    ‘It’ll be all right.’
    ‘Sampson sent you this,’ said the man, offering his hand palm down, his body shielding the gesture from the doctor and the duty prison officer in the ward cubicle. Charlie cupped his hand beneath Miller’s and looked down at the small container.
    ‘It’s whisky,’ identified Miller.
    Another medicine bottle, Charlie saw. Would it be watered like last time. ‘Thank him for this, too,’ he said.
    ‘He said to say if there was anything else you wanted.’
    ‘Tell him this will be fine. That I’m grateful.’
    Charlie waited until long after lights out, the bottle hidden within the pillow cover, his fingers against its hard edge. Set-up, like he’d feared before? Or the bridge that Sampson said he was offering? Adjust, remembered Charlie; he’d decided to adjust. And it would, after all, be a way to discover if the pressure were still on. Easily able to conceal the movement from the ward cubicle, Charlie eased the small bottle from its hiding place, unscrewed the cap and drank. It wasn’t watered this time. It was malt and smooth and although the bottle had seemed small there seemed to be a lot of it and Charlie took it all. If it were a set-up then Charlie decided he couldn’t give a damn; it was worth it.
    But it wasn’t a set-up. There was no search and no discovery and two nights later Miller brought in more and Charlie got away with that as well.
    Charlie’s arm was still strapped when he was released from the hospital, which meant he didn’t return to the registration plate workshop. He thought he might have got kitchen duties but instead was seconded back to the library, a temporary assignment because they were restocking and needed someone who knew the system. Charlie went direct from the hospital to the library the first day, so it was not until the evening that he returned to his cell and felt able to talk openly to Sampson.
    ‘Appreciated the whisky,’ he said. ‘Thanks.’
    ‘Glad you felt able to drink it this time,’ said Sampson.
    Charlie hesitated at the moment of commitment, finding it difficult. Sampson was still a snotty little sod who got up his nose. At last he said, ‘There doesn’t seem a lot of point in fighting running battles.’
    There was no obvious triumph in Sampson’s smile and Charlie was glad of it. ‘No point at all,’ agreed the other man.
    Charlie sat down on his bunk and gazed around the tiny cell. ‘Forgotten how small it was, after the space of the hospital,’ he said.
    ‘Notice anything new?’ demanded Sampson.
    Charlie did, as the man spoke, standing and going over to the small table, better able to see the radio. ‘How the hell did you get this?’
    ‘Applied for it,’ said Sampson, simply. He came beside Charlie