‘Jake, he’s pissed off with you but he won’t want to kill you, just beat you to a pulp, cripple you a bit, maybe. You won’t be pretty when he’s finished with you.’
‘Why won’t he want to kill me?’
‘He wants to get out of here one day, as you said. Let me give you an overview of what I think will happen.’ He walked to the window, looked out and then came back and sat down on his bunk. I was sitting on the chair. ‘It’ll be fast and explosive. He’ll just go for you. No feeling you out like in boxing. It’ll be unpredictable, ugly and brutal, and there’s likely to be a lot of blood. I know you like blood.’ He smiled at his reversal of my dislike. ‘He’ll target your head and in particular your face. He’s unlikely to use kicks; it isn’t the way he fights. He’s a fist man. Street fighters tend not to use kicks. Well, not the way you use them. They just swing a boot in an arc, and kicks are your main weapons. You’ve an advantage there with your ability to kick. If you go down he’ll come down on you. He’s more experienced than you at fighting on the ground and he outweighs you, so he has a double advantage there. How we doing?’
‘Can I go home now, please?’
‘No, you bloody can’t.’ Harry smiled. ‘Remember there are no rules. You’re used to using Eastern, unarmed combat techniques and boxing. Both these can be useful but remember there are no rules here.’ He paused to let me understand his message. ‘He goes down you kick him in any vulnerable place you can. Not once, but as many times as you can and hope, just hope, he can’t get up.’ He stopped to let what he’d said sink in.
‘You know all about the centre-line theory: on which are some of the most vital targets that you must protect, like your eyes, nose, chin, throat, solar plexus and groin. They’re also the areas you must attack. Use a stance that best protects your centre-line. Create an even balance that will enable you to move in any direction and will give you the stability to withstand and defend against strikes. Speed is another advantage you have. Carry your hands high. Okay, anything there you need more information on?’
‘I don’t think so, Harry. A good reminder so far.’
‘Now: range. He’ll not be used to fighting anybody who can use kicks. So keep your distance from him. This will do three things. One: it will keep his punches out of range. Two: it will cause him to come to you so increasing the power of your punches. Three: enable you to use kicks. If he closes into punching range move in close to again nullify his punches or skip back out of range. Up close, you must use elbow and knee strikes, head butts, gouging and biting; biting is a fantastically good weapon.
‘You’re fitter and faster than him so mobility is important. Move quickly and freely and stay balanced. This will require using your footwork skills and will set you up to be able to use the unarmed combat stuff. Evading his attacks will be much better than parrying them. He’s big, strong and knows how to punch from a whole range of angles – hooks, crosses, straights, uppercuts used in a variety of patterns – but he’s slow and when you’re in doubt attack. You get no points for defending in this game.
Tomorrow we’ll start training and I’ll get some little helpers like Arthur and Big Fred. Okay?’
‘As long as neither of those two little helpers hit me I’ll be fine.’
42
I had been working my socks off training all day when I got a message from Mo to take Dad and Arty in the classroom that evening. So I did. When Mo arrived we were expectant but as usual we expected the worst; it was just the norm for prisoners. We sat in a circle. We waited. Mo started.
‘The chances of getting both of you out are slim to nonexistent, but you have a good chance, Dad, if your daughter will look after you.’
‘Is that it?’ asked Dad.
‘Well, let me give you the background.’ He waited and we nodded. ‘Okay, the power to grant early release is up to the Secretary of State for Justice. But they don’t do it very often; only about fifty people were granted permanent early release in the last five years.’
‘How many requested release?’ I asked.
‘It’s one of those things you can’t find out. I’ve obtained Prison Service Order six thousand and that tells me how it can be done but the conditions are strict. It may be considered if a prisoner is suffering from a terminal illness and death is likely to occur soon. You may fit that, Dad.’
‘May?’ I intervened.
‘Yes, the time limit is probably about three months. This is not an exact science, but they do expect the prisoner to be bedridden. The second kind of compassionate leave (note leave not release) is for family circumstances. I don’t think you can swing that one but it may be that things will change. Two issues are in the favour of compassionate release. The first is we’re in a rapidly aging general population and that applies equally to the prison population and applies to you, Dad. The other thing is the pressure on prisons as space is now at a premium and at the same time, the general population want criminals locked up.’
‘So what do we do?’
‘No, what do I do? I’m going to make the applications. I will forward two cases: this one and Old Man Peter’s. His is a dementia case.’
‘What do you need, Mo?’
‘Money.’
‘For what and how much?’
‘I need money for a barrister, and I have one in mind.’
‘How much?’
‘Not sure but it’ll be bloody expensive.’
‘How much?’
‘I reckon about fifty K.’
‘Okay, Mo, I’ll find that.’
They just looked at me.
‘Where from?’ said Arty. There was surprise in his voice.
‘I’ll just rob a bank.’
Dad started to laugh then stopped. ‘You will find the money, Jake?’
‘I’ll find the money, Dad.’
‘Mo, I want Arty out of here to look after Dad. It may require some clause that when Dad dies Arty comes back in and some bureaucratic rubbish like reporting to the police each day or a curfew, a tag, but I want Arty with Dad. I want you to write me two brilliant cases. I want the first one, not for a legal brain, but for a powerful politician who is also a businessman. It should contain the political arguments that are difficult to argue against and will appeal to the voters of both sides. I want a different case written for a barrister, a legal argument you know: issue, rule, application and conclusion. There’s two men I may be able to get to help us behind the scenes but they’ll be invisible so your guy won’t know.’
Mo gave me an inquisitive look.
‘Mo, I know some people who know some people, but I need the right tools for them and the tools are well-written briefs and these are not the briefs Officer Pretty Legs wears.’
They smiled; they had all watched Pretty Legs climb the stairs. Her skirts were shorter than they should be and her legs were longer than they had any right to be and the prisoners just watched her walk through the prison, hoping she would climb the stairs. She knew it so she teased us all.
43
The day of the fight came and it was dark, miserable and raining – no change there then. I walked out into the area and two groups of prisoners, one group from each wing, were moving seats into a square. They were soaking wet but didn’t seem to care. There was some chi-iking between the two groups but it lacked edge, more fun than fury. The betting I’d heard was that I might last a maximum of five minutes. It wasn’t a case of who would win but how long Pete would take to win and there was no doubt the winner would be Pete Costello. There were 300 bets, as there were 300 seconds in five minutes, and there were three books being run, so 900 bets could be placed. The bookies would take the money for any winning time a bet wasn’t placed; there were ten blanked numbers for each of the bookies. The winner would take all the money laid on in those five minutes. There was a rumour that the bookies weren’t taking any bets on Costello to win as only one person had bet on me. Wow, I had one supporter. Even Harry hadn’t laid a bet. Now that did worry me. Perhaps he thoug
ht I wouldn’t win. Me, I just wanted them all to be wrong. Well, not the one who had bet on me.
The rain ran down my neck and soaked my shirt and the rain cascaded off my jacket and soaked through my trousers. Squelches came from my boots as I walked; my socks were soaked. There was an hour to go. The prison staff knew what was happening but they weren’t going to interfere. ‘Too risky,’ as one of them said. This seemed to be the latest catchphrase in the prison.
I went back into the prison building and was walking towards the gym.
‘Best of luck, Jake,’ said a female voice. It was Senior Prison Officer James. ‘I’ve a fiver on you to win at two hundred to one. How they’re going to find a thousand quid to pay me I’ve no idea.’
‘Bit of a risk then, ay, ma’am?’
‘For them, Jake. I’ve watched you for the short time you’ve been here. You’re a winner. This one is a bit close but if you stay out of trouble for six or seven minutes you’ll win.’
‘I best get my running shoes on then.’
‘That’s what I’m guessing you’ll do. You said to me when you came that if any of these bozos picked a fight with you you’d kill them. Don’t kill him, Jake; you won’t get away with it for a fourth time. Just win.’ She smiled and strangely that gave me confidence. Her job here was to understand people.
I went to the gym, stripped, dried and lay on a bench. Harry was there with Doc. Doc had been a doctor and had been struck off for doing some naughties. He had then become a physio, which enabled him to do even more naughties.
Doc worked my arms and legs while Harry talked. Harry talked sense but I wasn’t listening. I knew what I was going to do. Firstly, I would cripple Pete Costello so he was slow. Second, I would tire him so that I could move in and out and weaken him so that I could finish him. Frederick the Great in his instructions to his generals said, ‘Those generals who have had but little experience attempt to protect every point, while those who are better acquainted with their profession, having only the capital object in view, guard against a decisive blow and acquiesce in small misfortunes to avoid greater.’ I’ve only the capital objective in view and I’ll have to take some small misfortunes to get there. No, I wasn’t really listening to Harry.
I watched the crowd gathering from an upstairs window. I watched Harry move through the crowd below. I looked across, ahead of his movement, through the crowd. He was heading for the Peter Jackson group. They were at the front. It’s true that rank has its privileges but Peter Jackson never made a big thing of his power in here. Harry stopped near Peter Jackson’s seat and an underling held up his hand, stopping him. Harry spoke to him, I could tell by the movement, and Peter Jackson just raised a finger, allowing Harry’s approach. Harry had a brief conversation with Bennie that lasted about ten seconds, maybe a little longer, then Harry and Bennie went to Peter and Bennie gave him something. Peter nodded. I had the feeling that he had just received the black spot. Harry spoke. Peter shook his head and then nodded again. There was an acceptance. I knew that was Peter Jackson out of the picture. There was no argument. No point in arguing. When The Family has made a decision you just have to comply: less messy that way. It did concern me that Harry was involved but I knew he wasn’t Family.
Dressed and ready for battle, I walked to the crowded, noisy yard. The crowd had parted to let us through. The rain had stopped and the ground was drying underfoot. The weak sun shone through the weakening blanket of clouds. Good omen, I thought. I had Arthur and big Fred in front, Harry by my side and the rest of my class behind me. We had a bunch of seats in a corner. As we approached the ring I saw another passageway through the crowd, through which Pete Costello and his entourage were walking. I entered the ring with Harry and my group, and sat where Malcolm Tunes, the head of the prisoners’ entertainment committee, directed us. Malcolm had been a disc jockey on some minor TV channel, but had done some naughties with some very willing teenage girls who were, unfortunately for him, under sixteen: a bit like Doc really. Actually, not at all like Doc; his were the wives of patients and when the husbands found out he eliminated them. He fought the case as a straight murder so avoided Rampton or Broadmoor but that’s where he should be; he was as nutty as a fruitcake but at the same time a great healer.
Malcolm called for silence on his megaphone and silence descended. He then called each contestant forward to check for weapons and that they met the requirements: standard prison gear with no protective clothing. Harry represented me. He challenged a belt Pete was wearing and that was removed. Trainer from the gym checked me and missed the cricket box I was wearing. I’m sure he knew it was there.
Malcolm then announced the rules. In short, there weren’t any. If one person capitulates (capitulates was his word), he would declare the other one the winner. He announced the timekeepers; three of them, with stopwatches and the mid-time of Malcolm’s declaration of the end was the recorded time for the betting. The end would come in two ways: a fighter being incapable of continuing or surrendering.
He called us to the centre. His instruction was simple. ‘Go to your corners. When there, I’ll start to run for that gap over there and you two can get on with it.’
We walked back to our corners and Malcolm ran for safety.
44
Pete came at me as if he were in a sprint, fists as high as his temples on either side of his head and eyes glaring at me. I felt the crowd behind me move back, such was his aspect. I ran towards him, two steps to give me momentum to launch myself into a flying kick. My left foot hit his chest and my right leg straightened to smash the sole of my boot into his face. We both went down and I rolled clear and onto my feet. Pete staggered to his feet as silence hit the crowd. This wasn’t expected. Then my supporters exploded into a wall of sound. I could see the blood streaming from his smashed nose and split lips. There was a heel mark on his left cheek and that eye was closing. I was so keyed up I could have seen a pimple on his ear. Pete was made of stern stuff and was moving as I attacked with a stabbing kick to the side of his right knee. He was damaged and from his left side I threw a left hook that found his left eye as the target.
With terrific speed and the whole weight of his shoulder behind the blow, he whipped his right fist into my solar plexus. I was moving backwards so that reduced the impact but not enough. I felt my knees go and the pain racked through my body. More than pain – agony. I couldn’t breathe and my body wanted to just stop and lie down, but my head wouldn’t let it. I was fighting for my life here. I was on my feet and went to my right, desperately trying to breathe as instinct pushed me to avoid the right upper-cut that just touched the very tip of my nose. Contact would have finished me for good.
Frantically, I buried my left fist into his left eye and back-pedalled like mad to gain a picture of the situation and get my breath back. This was no fight; this was a battle. Blood streamed into his eye so he didn’t have much sight to his left and he was limping like he was crippled. His right eye glared at me through the bloody mask of his smashed face.
I moved to his left and around him so that he was turning to see me. I delivered a sidekick so the sole of my right boot slammed into the side of his undamaged left knee. He went down on his knees and I delivered a roundhouse kick so the toe of my boot hit the base of his skull. I thought that would be it, but it just seemed to enrage him. He staggered to his feet, lowered his head and charged me. I got my avoidance wrong and his head slammed into the left side of my ribs as I tried to twist away. I was sure they were broken but Pete Costello was on his hands and knees. I was behind him and I took a penalty kick aimed at his crotch. It was a goal. He let out a yelp and clutched himself as he writhed on the ground. I kicked him twice more in the body before a pair of strong arms grabbed me from behind and a voice said, ‘Enough, Jake.’ It was Harry and I collapsed. I think I was crying with pain and exhaustion.
The announcement was made as fifty-two seconds and I was the winner. I didn’t feel like a winner. I felt that I had been run over by a steamroller.
Doc was working on Pete and shouting for an ambulance. He was thumping Pete’s chest to get his heart going. He stopped and gave artificial respiration by holding Pete’s nose and blowing into his mouth. Somebody then arrived with a stretcher and I was put on it and taken at what seemed to be a trot to the sick bay. I can remember Nurse Carstairs passing me, heading for the ring with an oxygen cylinder and an assistant with the portable defibrillator. This was serious then.
I came to my senses in hospital. It was morning. Senior Prison Officer James was there and a uniformed policeman.
‘Okay, Jake?’ she said.
‘How’s Pete?’
‘He’s okay, Jake. He’s resting at the moment, having been bandaged up, but they’ll have to operate on his right knee and do some repairs to his face. He’ll live though, but it’s probably good we don’t have conjugal visits because I don’t think he could function.’ It was only then I remembered scoring a goal.
A man in plain clothes came into view. ‘I’m Detective Constable Carstairs,’ he said waving a card at me that I couldn’t read. ‘Tell me what happened.’
‘Oh, we were just sparring, trying out stuff and as you can see, it worked.’
He stopped making the notes. ‘Sparring you say?’
‘Yes, sparring.’
‘A bit violent for sparring wasn’t it?’
‘Well, if you’re going to learn anything you best do it for real, Detective Constable Carstairs. Are you related to Nurse Carstairs?’
‘Yes, she’s my –’
‘Enough, DC Carstairs. Let’s wait until tomorrow when we can talk to both of them.’
‘Yes, Sergeant.’
I didn’t see the speaker but he was a smart cop, saving time on something that he sussed was going nowhere. I was pleased that Pete was okay; well, as okay as could be expected. If he had had a coach like mine it would have been a very different story and probably I wouldn’t have been able to write it.
Staying Alive Page 21