But at present, I can’t do anything next. You see, I’m banged up in prison, on a murder charge that I can’t shake. Some would say it’s justice. I’m inclined to agree with them. I’ve made some poor choices in my life, and I keep making them. But I’m in a spiral that won’t relent, and I chase violence for a purpose I am yet to comprehend. I had become nothing more than a brutal problem solver, not by design but by accident. And I got a taste for it, and it put me behind bars.
There is a paradox at work. I don’t recognize anything anymore. This place is not the same to me. I don’t see England as my own. I don’t even see it as England. England is an ideal and nothing more. I can’t believe I gave up everything to protect this morass I don’t even recognize anymore. But I will never give up on what England means to me. I can sense a fight in me. I can feel my rebellion boiling. If I get the chance I will do what I can to keep my England safe - even though my England hates me and wants to bury me as deep as it can dig. And I do it with the memory of Steven as my mascot.
If I ever do anything worthwhile with my life, I do it in the spirit of Steven’s memory. The courage he showed, I will too. The spirit he exhibited, I’ll do the same. The unrelenting good... I can’t give that. I’m not ‘good’. The ‘good’ I had died with him. But I will work for the cause of ‘good’, and hope that that will be good enough.
Kayla, I leave you to your own conclusions. What I wanted to do was set the record straight so that you know what really happened, and so that I know you found out just how much Steven loved you. I need you to know that. I can’t carry it around anymore without you knowing it.
I also want you to know I am sorry. I did what I did out of love and respect. Don’t you dare forgive me. I won’t ever forgive myself either.
All the best in life, and know that once upon a time, you were loved very much.
Ben”
3
Dag’s eyes lift from the page, and drift out onto the prison. It looks just the same as it did moments before. Yet, inside there is a man festering and bubbling over, a man so in need of help yet too hurt to ever accept it. Dag feels for him, and acknowledges again the similarities he felt with him when he first met Ben on that peculiar and demonic night in North Wales, when Dag had saved Ben’s life from an indoctrinated spiritual congregation.
Dag always thought there were dark events that led Ben to where he finds himself, and in a sense, he was right - only he was not expecting the story to be quite so sad, and painful, and perhaps, for it to resonate so forcefully with Dag. He too had had difficult decisions to make in combat, but nothing like the choices Ben faced. It is deeply sobering, and before Dag knows what has happened, he has been sitting in his car for 15 minutes in silence, just thinking.
He folds the letter, and put it back in the envelope. The seal is ripped, but he knows he can just get a new envelope and copy the address from the old envelope and the new one. More bothering to him, was whether he should send it at all.
This Kayla, wherever she may be, may have put these demons to bed a long time ago. She may have moved on, she may have a new life. She may know the circumstances of her husbands death in far more gruesome detail than Ben has been able to divulge. She may be happy. Or as happy as can be expected.
Is it right to give this letter to her? Would it bring up things that just shouldn’t be brought up? If the letter doesn’t make it, Ben would never know the difference. He openly guarantees he won’t contact her, so it’s not like he’ll ever see Kayla to confirm it’s receipt. Ben’s darkness is so complete, his mindset so carefully arranged in such absolute terms, that Dag is unsure whether anyone else should be burdened by it’s weight.
Dag sits there, clogged by indecision. He feels as if he might sit there forever, just staring at the prison walls, digesting what he has read and hoping that the passage of time will allow it to help him make a decision. But he can’t bring himself to move. He just sits there holding the letter.
It is dark before he turns on the car engine, his decision made. He just hopes it is the right one - and in truth, he knows he will never know the answer to that. He drives off, leaving the sprawling urban prison behind him, and the tortured soul it conceals firmly encased inside, toiling and troubled, waiting for a chance at something resembling redemption.
FROM STEEL
1
It is a horrible sound. That repetitive scrape of plastic against concrete. Over and over again, a solitary fingernail across an infinite blackboard. It has been this way for well over two hours now, but the man who is creating the sound seems as devoted as ever, and shows no sign of abating.
Ben Bracken lies in his bunk, completely swallowed by the infernal sound, but doesn’t cover his ears. He listens to the sound, it’s repetition, and tries to find comfort in it’s routine. He can’t at all, because he knows what it is for. He rolls onto his side, the small bed creaking as he shifts, and he looks to the floor.
A man is crouched by the corner of the small cell, reaching behind the toilet bowl to hide his actions. Ben knows what he is doing - using the concrete walls of the cell to sharpen the handle of a toothbrush into an ugly point. The main hides the scrape marks behind the toilet in an attempt to cover his tracks - so that when this hasty shank is found on the floor by someone bleeding to death, it will not so easily lead back to this very cell.
The man checks the progress of the sharpening handle, and seems pleased. He smiles grimly.
‘Should be good for two or three hits, then will probably break off in the bugger. Perfect.’ he says.
Ben frowns, and then rolls away again, trying to achieve a little rest and calm before the inevitable frantic scenes that will ensue from his cellmate’s preparations.
As Ben turns to face the wall, and the incessant scratch resumes, he sighs. 20 months. That’s how long he has been there, give or take. He doesn’t know exactly in days. When he was locked up for 17 years with no eligibility for appeal until 15 years in, bothering about counting days seems a little hopeful and futile to Ben. He didn’t bother.
He is in Strangeways Prison, Manchester - a mammoth brick hulk cripplingly close to the city centre, but far away enough to remind you that you are no longer part of it. He has been in the same cell all that time, but his cellmate has changed twice. This most recent addition, a local Salford lad doing time for GBH and armed robbery, has been with him 3 weeks, and has scrapped and fought every second of that. He goes by the name of Craggs, and admits his crimes in full - but that doesn’t stop him from believing he shouldn’t be there. He is, Ben firmly asserts, a viscous little twerp lost in a gangster lifestyle he has adopted from rap videos. Ben told him this when he arrived, having kicked off about preferring Ben’s bunk, and threatened to have Ben killed by his ‘mans on the outside, gats blazing’. Ben almost broke down in laughter at hearing that, and reminded Craggs that they aren’t in Compton, and that Ben himself is doing 17 years for murder. Craggs nearly pissed his pants on hearing that, but within a couple of days, he was telling all and sundry how he himself was so ‘hard’ that they had him holed up with the cold killers. Ben didn’t like being spoken of in such a way, but if it gave him a quiet life, he would reluctantly take it.
And now Craggs has a beef with someone elsewhere in this hell-hole, and is fashioning an ugly looking weapon to settle things. Ben can’t help thinking how pathetic it is - how this man chases a life of uncertainty and violence, lost in the perceived glamour of it all. Is it England’s fault for not giving him anything to identify with, or is it MTV for giving him something so over-stylized to latch on to? Who knows, thinks Ben, acknowledging, that really he couldn’t give a shit. Another symptom, that’s all. Besides, Ben has bigger fish to fry.
The last 20 months have been fantastic for Ben, despite obviously being behind bars. Like the toothbrush-dagger, only much less hastily prepared, he too has sharpened in prison. He has cleared his mind, and brushed away the muddled cobwebs of confusion, doubt and self-loathing that dogged him before - n
ot least thanks to the letter he sent to Steven’s wife Kayla. After all this time, setting the record straight felt very good indeed, and has allowed him a new lease of life (well, within the confines of the prison routine). He has diligently kept to a gym routine that has seen his body strengthen also - and of course, he hasn’t touched a drop of alcohol since he crossed the prison threshold. He feels 10 stories tall.
Ben has also, finally, assigned himself a purpose. Society seemed reluctant to give him one, the events prior to his incarceration assigned him one, but now? He has something to believe in, something to fight for. And he is convinced he will get his chance soon.
He has no respect at all for the people or circumstances that placed him there, but he does still believe in good. Remembering Steven taught him that. He firmly believes good exists but it is so rare and hidden at times, and it must be cherished and protected - just like any beautiful, endangered species in the animal kingdom.
Also, like the animal kingdom, he has decided, within reason, to apply his own law. This is borne out of his complete lack of faith in the execution of laws today. The pliability of law is something that always bothered him, the varieties of it’s interpretation unsettling, allowing the wrong-doers leeway via red-tape and bureaucracy. Ben has decided that where good is concerned, he will be it’s judge. And he will decide what happens next with a clear conscious. He intends to right wrongs as and when the occasions provide. He has no interest in looking for trouble, but he is well aware that trouble cannot be ignored. He also has no penchant for seeking violence, but he knows in this area, he is proficient. And if violence can be used in the protection of such wrongs? Ben will damn well commit it.
The problem for Ben, is his predicament. In prison, his ability to protect good is somewhat limited, granted. But he does not agree at all with being there.
The trial itself was as quick and brutal as the death of Markland Masters, which had seen Ben arrested. Factor into that the death of Keith Sinfield in Manchester (who Ben certainly did kill, throwing him out of Beetham Tower to rain down onto Deansgate), and a Molly Cleverson in Llanberris (who he threw on a bonfire) and a pretty damning picture emerges. But the only charges that they could completely pin on Ben were relating to Markland’s death, as he was caught in the act. Ben’s involvement in the other deaths was acknowledged by almost all, but there was no evidence. Ben’s defense lawyer, Mr Selwyn Barraclough, had rightly pointed out there was not a shred of evidence to prove he had done any of those things, never mind the one that he actually didn’t do, which was Markland. Nevertheless, by this point Ben had quickly accepted that his lack of trust and faith in the justice system was chronic and permanent, and suggested he would plead guilty to the one charge and get a lesser sentence - rather than fight all 3 charges, lose the case and be faced with a life sentence - or multiple life sentences, if they drudged up too much of his past and had to factor in Steven’s death in that Afghan sewer all those years ago.
The prosecution quickly accepted, seeing another win tucked swiftly under it’s belt - justice prevails again. Ben again feeling the pointed end of a compromised society’s morality stick. At that point, Ben just wanted to escape it all, feeling disillusioned with the England he had come back to and foolish for the haphazard nature of his arrest. Plus, frankly, he felt he deserved punishment. And away he went.
Craggs interrupts Ben’s thoughts. ‘I think it’s ready. Just in time for rec hour’.
Now, Ben’s mind - piqued and lucid from his time off - is ready, and his body readier. He has a plan to get out. It’s almost time to put it into action - and recreation hour is where it all starts.
2
A bleak, droning buzzer emanates for somewhere in the bowels of the prison, echoing through the halls and permeating Ben and Craggs’ cell. Craggs almost leaps out of his skin at the sound, while Ben merely sits up. Off to the main mess hall, to watch the pointless prison ecosystem at work. There is an obvious hierarchy, a nasty order of life in this prison, where those in trusted to upholding the law are as serpentine as those they are paid to keep in line. Ben has no respect for the prison, nor the people that run it - he has seen so much corruption in here, that every drop of faith he had was slowly squeezed away. He doesn’t believe in this place, and conversely, he gets the feeling this place doesn’t believe in him either. All Ben’s rehabilitation (if that’s what you can call it) was undertaken by himself. Ben has tried to be a model prisoner at times, if only to keep his nose out of trouble - never because he was encouraged.
Craggs is at the door, toothbrush shank in hand, waiting for the door to be opened. Usually takes within 2 minutes for the door to unlocked remotely, and then they are ushered down to the main mess hall, by two guards. Ben and Craggs, despite their violent pasts, are not classed as violent risks - there are others in the prison of far higher priority in those terms and budget cuts and austerity measures had seen Ben and Craggs fall down the pecking order in terms of priority. This pleases Ben no end, as far as his plan is concerned. The doors open with an earthy crunch, and Craggs steps forward.
‘Conceal it, for crying out loud’, spits Ben. Despite himself, Ben finds himself having to instruct Craggs - after all, if Craggs marches out of here weapon in hand, it makes both of them look bad. And Ben is hoping that today, like all days, his own behaviour will be looked on favourably. Well, especially today.
As the door opens, and the familiar harsh smell of industrial cleaning products fills the men’s noses and scratches the back of their throats, Ben hops up and follows Craggs into the hallway - and while doing so he shoves the makeshift shank up his sleeve. They turn left, and immediately walk directly up the dark hallway, were two burly wardens wait for them. Ben knows them both, but he knows that they rotate. Today is Thursday, and Thursday means they get the pleasure of Ronson and Dunn to escort them through the prison. They beckon them forward with batons. Craggs walks with not so much a spring in his step but an entire pilled-up jack-in-a-box, energy rippling out of every pore. Ben ribs him.
‘Keep cool,’ Ben whispers.
‘I can’t, I’m fucking jacked’ Craggs replies. Ben knows this could mean either he is less inclined to bottle it, and will go for it all in, or he may, in a jittery fit, botch the whole thing. Either way, it’s too late for team talks. Ben is still confident that his plan is solid, but he needs Craggs to play his part - and what a part it is.
‘Come on you two’ bellows Dunn. ‘Queer-baits this way’. Ben can’t really disguise his dislike for these two, but he knows just how pathetic they are, and how little they are worth his time. Getting one over these two is not key to his plan, but a happy side-effect if all comes off well. They are two who would just as easily be on Ben’s side of the iron bars, if it weren’t for their position here in Strangeways. Their behaviour in here alone should have seen them charged and imprisoned long ago, but the fact that they are not only proves Ben’s assertions and strengthens his resolve to beat this godforsaken system.
As they walk past the two guards, Ronson slaps Ben’s arse. Ben froths at the affront, but only inwardly. It only makes Ben hope he sees these two twits’ faces with figurative egg all over them later, when they witness what he has done and what it means for them.
Ben also knows that the sexual element of the banter is only to exert power over them, as they test how far they can take the exercising of their power. It’s designed to objectify and put them down, much like archaic societies would do to their women. Reduce individuality and personality from them, and sabotage their footing so that they can never gain proper societal hold. And it only makes Ben pity them more.
Over his period of incarceration, he has seen many different examples of the staff’s abuse of their position, ranging from the minute (kind of like what Ben just experienced) and the pretty grand (beatings, framings, you name it - anything to keep the power where it is). It took Ben about 2 minutes to realize he didn’t care about this at all - to care would only dilute his resolve to leave this place,
and leave he must. So he never argued with the injustice, never took umbrage when the staff’s whims affected his own comfort and wellbeing. He just kept his head down, waited and planned - simmering.
Ben has become all too used to sorting out problems with violence - so much so that when he decided that he was going to do something about his predicament, he was faced with the stumbling block of acknowledgement that, on this occasion, if he really wanted out of here, he was going to have to do so with cold intelligence and foresight. Ben found the process of doing so extremely informative and liberating, and has concocted a plan that - now the wheels are in motion - would have one of two very possible outcomes. Namely that it would either see Ben offered the door to freedom with no questions asked and a slap on the back, or would see the entire prison rocked to its corrupt foundations and instigate real fundamental change in its governance. Either way, Ben is happy that the wind is going to change one way or the other - and only for the better where his well-being is concerned.
He just needs to keep an eye on Craggs, who is marching next to Ben a little too quickly.
‘You look like a man who has got some serious business to attend to’ whispers Ben. ‘If you want to get this done, you have to keep cooler than this.’
‘What’s it matter to you?’ Craggs fires back.
‘You are not going to get close to him at this rate, you’ll end up back in the cell with me and I’ll have to listen to you pissing and moaning every night while you work out how you screwed your chance up. Keep it together and you’ll have your shot.’
Craggs reluctantly slows a touch, and drops into the same stride pattern as Ben. To be associated with a deluded scumbag like Craggs would ordinarily bother Ben greatly, but today, if he has to take Craggs by the hand, he’ll damn well do it. They approach the central mess facility, it’s hulking blue safety door manned by another warden.
Ben Bracken: Origins (Ben Bracken Books 1 - 5) Page 11