Bird

by KW Finch

  “You got a light my friend?” He asked in a thick Welsh accent.

  “Don't smoke.” I replied.

  “Don't I know you?” He questioned.

  I studied his face. I was very good with faces.

  “What’s your name?” I asked him but I was certain we’d never met.

  “Bryn Shamdigger.” He replied.

  “No, we've never met.” I told him. He was a tall, skinny bloke with a red head, no hair, just a red head. He had so many freckles and they were so close together and so bright that his head just gave an orangey red glow.

  “Yes, we have you're Jack London the blagger.”

  “I am Jack London but we've never met.” I insisted.

  He thought about this for a moment.

  “Of course.” He finally said. “I've met you but you haven't met me, that’s why you don't remember me.”

  “What the fuck are you on about mate?” This guy was boring me now.

  “It was at a party in the West End somewhere see, about a year ago. You were totally plastered and surrounded by gorgeous birds.”

  “Bloody hell, I remember that gig.” I did too, it was only a couple of days prior to that I had done a great bank job and it was a nice little earner.

  “Well I remember the party but you weren’t there?” I stated firmly.

  “No, you were off your head that night and you obviously had much more pressing matters on your mind see, like which one of those birds you were going to shag.”

  “It was a tough choice.” I remembered, “In the end I couldn't make my mind up so I shagged all four of them.” I looked at Shamdigger, he was just staring at me. “Sorry mate,” I said, “happier days.”

  “Yes.” He replied. “I’m glad I found you see, I’ve been on the lookout for you.”

  “Oh?” I questioned.

  “Yes, I'm just the messenger boy.” He was staring at me again.

  “Come on then, spill the beans.” I urged.

  “Keep yer pecker up Jackson.” He finally relayed. It did sound a bit odd in Shamdigger’s Welsh lilt because I knew the message was from a cockney.

  “It’s from……” Shamdigger started to say but I cut him short.

  “I know who it’s from.” I snapped at him, there was only one person who could call me Jackson and not end up in casualty.

  “There is also a couple of hundred pound in your account to spend in the prison shop which will be kept topped up.” Shamdigger continued, taking no notice of my outburst. “If you need anything you are to let me know.”

  “Like what?” I asked.

  “You know, drugs, money, that sort of thing see.”

  “How about booze, a nice drop of whisky?”

  “Booze is awkward see.” He said. “But I'll see what I can do.” With that he scuttled off.

  There was nothing else he could add. I knew who had sent the message. I had no real family left waiting for me and it was kind of reassuring to know I wasn't forgotten.

  The next day being a Wednesday meant that it was time to visit the prison shop, which as expected was a fiasco. First of all it wasn't anything like a shop in the normal sense where you pick up basket and wander around dropping in any items you might fancy. There was no checkout where you paid the lady at the till, you weren't allowed to carry money in prison anyway. A prison shop consisted of a small room with a counter, above which was a wire screen. This arrangement split the room in two, on one side an array of biscuits, chocolate, crisps, sauces and everything mouth-watering and tasty and on the other side of the counter, my side, was a heaving rabble.

  It was supposed to be an orderly queue and to be fair it did start out that way but after about two minutes of relative order it all started to change and after a short period it just became a shambles. Some cons started pushing to the front which caused rucks and rows. Some of their mates from further back in the queue moved up to join them which just added to the aggro factor. There were scuffles and arguments but no proper violence, it all seemed a waste of time to me. I suppose I could have toughed it out and pushed to the front of the queue, then rushed back to my cell to wait for the end of my sentence.

  Finally it was my turn at the front of the queue. It had taken about an hour to get there but it had given me a chance to study some of the other cons. Ricky was there with a few of his pals. He didn't seem bothered by the queue or the people pushing in. He was laughing and joking with his mates, oblivious to everything around him and gradually edging toward the front of the queue.

  Mumbles was there and he had some blokes with him as well, these were not mates but tools. Mumbles was intently watching the front of the queue seeing who brought what, no doubt so he could send his gang round to their cell at a later date to relieve them of their purchases. There were several other blokes worth remembering in the queue as well.

  Studying people and their behaviour was something I enjoyed and it nearly always proved fruitful. You could learn a lot from watching someone in an awkward or unexpected situation and use it to your advantage in the future. If you had an idea of how far you could push a person or the sort of things they were likely to say under a particular set of circumstances then you had a very distinct advantage. Failing that, you just started inflicting pain on them until they did as they were told.

  Eventually I made it to the front of the queue.

  “Number and name?” Asked the bespectacled old man from behind the safety of the wire barrier. He looked like a very sad bank clerk and I should know, I’d seen enough of them in my time. Behind him to one side an assistant was breaking up empty biscuit boxes.

  “CH3743, London.” I answered.

  “Mmm.” He said while pondering a printed sheet on the counter in front of him, “You have a very healthy balance of £200.” He then looked up and said. “You can only spend up to £20 though, prison rules.”

  I was a bit put out by this but arguing the toss with this bloke was a no win situation. He was a well-seasoned employee and from his manner and the statement about prison rules meant he was telling me how it was and that was the end of it. Besides that he had a hard glint in his eye.

  “Did you want to buy anything today?” He asked politely but the look on his face suggested sarcasm.

  “Yeah.” I nodded. “Four pouches of 4oz ready rubbed.” The bank clerk’s assistant sprang into action when he heard this request.

  “I better have half a dozen packets of the green Rizla as well and two packets of custard cream biscuits and a bar of that chocolate.” I added.

  A few moments later I was standing outside the prison shop waiting for a warden to unlock the steel barred gate to let me back onto the wing. After about 20 minutes several other cons had gathered, all with their weekly shop. After a few more minutes the screw waiting on the other side of the gate decided we had all been standing around doing nothing for long enough and unlocked the gate to let us back onto the wing. It was all part of their game, make us wait, we could come through the gate when they wanted us to and not before.

  Darren was waiting in his cell, making out he was doing yet another crossword in a tabloid. It was far too difficult for him though, even though he made it look like he was really concentrating. It was all bluff. As I walked into the cell he picked up the paper very quickly and put a pen to his mouth in a, I'm pondering, type pose and then proceeded to fill in the odd clue. All the while he was watching my every move. I took out the tobacco pouches and placed them in a drawer next to my bunk.

  “Buy much?” Darren asked in a mildly interested voice.

  “A few bits.” I replied.

  “Anything of interest?” He persisted.

  “Not really, Darren, bits and bobs, you know. You seem very interested?” I asked.

  “No not really.” He lied. “Just trying to make conversation.”

  “Oh! How's the crossword going?” I asked, diverting him away from the contents of my shopping bag.

  “It's difficult, hard going you know.” He repl
ied.

  “Yeah, thought it might be mate.” I said.

  “Why’s that then, you think I'm not smart enough to do a crossword then?” He was starting to bite.

  “Didn't say that did I.” I grinned.

  “I don’t get it London, what are you trying to say then?” He was confused now.

  “All I was trying to say Darren is that it must be difficult to do that crossword puzzle because the pen ran out of ink two days ago.” As expected he came out with a lot of verbal, this bloke was starting to bore me.

  Of course I had to say what I thought of him also and his mother for bringing him into the world. I should have chinned him but he was still in a bad way from his encounter with camp Colin. Apart from that I just couldn’t be bothered with the annoying little sod at the moment.

  Neither of us spoke for a while after that which was fine as far as I was concerned. As expected though, he couldn’t keep his mouth shut for long.

  “What did you buy in the shop then?” He finally asked, he had been skirting around the question for long enough but the row had given him the courage to ask.

  “You want to know a lot mate.” I replied.

  “I don’t get why you’ve bought some burn. You don't smoke, so is there any chance of borrowing some?”

  “How do you borrow tobacco?” I laughed. “Do you just want to look at it for a while or give it a sniff perhaps?”

  “Don't fuck about London. Go on mate just one roll up. I still haven’t recovered properly from my fall yet.” Darren sounded pretty desperate.

  “Nope.” I answered abruptly. “I've got plans for that burn and they don't include you. Why don’t you go and see your lover boy for some. Perhaps he could kiss your wounds better while you’re there as well.”

  We stared at each other for a few seconds. I was ready to give him a slap now, strange how quickly how I’d changed my mind about it. There was a tap on the half open cell door which diverted me from taking things any further. Bryn Shamdigger poked his head through the gap.

  “London?” He called. “You got a minute my friend?”

  “Sure, come in mate.” I answered, “What’s up?”

  Darren pretended once more to go back to his very difficult crossword, forgetting the pen wasn't working.

  “There you go see.” He said, handing me a miniature bottle of whisky. “Sorry about the size mind, I can get you one of these a day at the moment but I’m working on a better solution see.”

  “Blimey Shamdigger, whisky, you beauty, it looks pretty good to me.”

  Without hesitating I took the bottle from his hand and opened it, taking a swig. The alcohol hit the back of my throat, the only way scotch can.

  “Fuck me, that’s good.” I purred and then finished off the small bottle.

  “Well that didn’t go far” It was Darren again, sticking his nose in.

  “Piss off.” I replied.

  Shamdigger just laughed.

  “Same again tomorrow see.” He chuckled on his way out of the cell.

  “Nice one Shamdigger.” I called back to him.

  I carried on putting my recently bought purchases away. One of the pouches of tobacco was for the guy from the stores, Wentworth, we had agreed on a price for some new clothes for me. I’d made sure he was going to sort out brand new gear and of the right size. The other pouches and Rizla were for emergency use, spares for unforeseen circumstances. The biscuits and chocolate were for pure indulgence. A cup of tea just wasn't the same without a custard cream and chocolate was, well, chocolate and if you are a chocaholic then you will understand where I'm coming from.

  TWELVE

  It was now about three weeks since starting my bird and today something was going to change for me. I was off to another nick and it was well out in the sticks. As I didn’t have any family or anyone special in my life it didn’t make any difference to me where I was going. It was north of London that’s all I knew and that was more than I wanted to know. My supply of scotch would come to an end that was for sure and that irritated me more than anything.

  Admittedly it was only a tiny bottle every day but it had been something I looked forward to. Life without the daily nip seemed very dull. Strange how such a small thing made a big difference to my daily outlook on life. From what I could make out the new nick was going to be a lot better, it was a C cat for a start which meant no more eighteen hour a day bang up. I should get my own cell with a flushing toilet and even a sink. Things just didn't get any better than that. No more sharing with muppets either and if I wanted a dump at eight o'clock in the evening then it wasn't a problem because I had my very own toilet. I was beginning to realize after the few weeks inside that the little things did make all the difference.

  The day started out as any other, the usual delights of breakfast didn't faze me this morning though. I made do with a scoop of beans and the obligatory half dozen slices of bread and dollop of jam from the huge tin at the end of the servery. As I was finishing my breakfast in my cell Smiler unlocked my door and stepped inside. He had his usual smile on his face.

  “Be ready in an hour London.” He beamed. “You’re off to the countryside.”

  “Yippee do.” I replied.

  “Don't be like that London.” He laughed. “You should be glad of the break, no more rushing around for you, you can take a nice break. The pace of life is much slower at Fulwood Hill.”

  “Sarcasm is the lowest form of wit.” I said glumly.

  “Yes,” Smiler replied, “and it's also the best. See you in an hour London, be ready.” He banged the door after him again.

  “At least I can wear my new kit for my new prison.” I said cheerily to Darren.

  “No you won't London.” Darren was quite sober with his reply.

  “Go on then,” I offered, “what's the deal then?”

  “When you leave here today you will be wearing the clothes you wore when you first arrived. In other words all your prison clothing stays here. So it was really a waste of time giving Wentworth all that burn for something you would only be wearing for a few days.” Darren finished his little speech with a sort of, so there, look.

  “Oh well.” I sighed, quite mellow about it and not all that bothered.

  “I'll just have to start again at my new country residence.” I decided.

  It didn't really matter that much. I was learning how things worked inside. It was an inconvenience, no more than that.

  “Huh!” Darren huffed, he was not impressed.

  “Fuck off you little prick.” I swore.

  He would be history within the next hour and I'd become very bored of Darren Sparren. Perhaps it was the realization I wouldn't have to share a cell with him anymore. A more likely reason was because he was a little prick.

  About two hours later Smiler came to my cell once more.

  “Come on London,” he called as he unlocked the door, “let’s go.”

  I picked up my few belongings and followed him without pausing to look back, not even to give the cell a last look. It probably had something to do with the fact that I didn’t want to see Darren’s ugly mug again. This was a part of my life that was being left behind and now it was time to move on. Smiler led me off the wing back to where I was processed three weeks earlier and the fat bloke had knocked me out.

  It was all a reverse procedure of that day, apart from being knocked out by a hairy fat bloke. About another two hours later I was sitting on a coach in my suit handcuffed to a man who had no obvious signs of his skin showing due to the large number of tattoos he had. What was it with tats? I couldn’t work that one out. He told me his name was Angus Broc in his strong Scotts accent.

  There were about a dozen of us on the coach, all handcuffed in pairs. There were four screws in all, one of which was the driver. They all seemed fairly relaxed and at ease. It was a nice sunny Friday, a fine spring morning and we were on our way to a prison where I could hopefully try and settle down to do my bird. It didn’t sit right with me and I was fin
ding it really difficult to accept that I was going to be in prison for three years of my life. The previous 3 weeks had been difficult enough and it had felt as though I was in some kind of horrific nightmare.

  There had been the initial upheaval of being sent to prison followed by the apprehension of what lay ahead. The actual trial itself had been draining enough and following that to be thrust into an environment I had no control over had really been unsettling for me. The biggest disappointment was Marcus not delivering of course. Did he need a hiding when I got out? I had time to think about that. I was finding I didn’t have to make quick decisions now. As long as it didn’t make me go soft, that would be bad news.

  What lie ahead wasn’t what I wanted but I had something solid to grip onto and it was up to me to make the most of it. I needed to get something out of the next three years. This was the beginning bit, there was an end and a big bit in the middle to fill. I knew where I was going for the next three years of my life. Sure there were still uncertainties but not major ones, at least now I could focus on the situation and move on.

  The journey took about 2 hours to Fulwood Hill. The houses and shops of London had soon given way to open fields and rolling hills of the English countryside. A shudder ran down my spine, I'd lived in the city for all of my 26 years and had no desire to start living the country life now.

  As we neared our journeys end the coach started to climb a rather steep hill.

  “This is it!” Announced the tattooed Jock handcuffed to my right wrist. “The final approach to Fulwood Hill.”

  He looked and sounded mad as a fish. As we got to the peak of the hill we took a right turn off of the main road. A couple of minutes after that we were outside Fulwood Hill gates, we had arrived. The gates opened and the coach slowly pulled in and stopped outside what looked like the reception area. After a further wait we were led off the coach and into the building. We ended up in a room where our handcuffs were removed and then the twelve of us were just left to our own devices.