by G. F. Newman
The governor, a picture of self-righteousness, if younger than he expected, sat behind the small desk that was empty apart from the records of prisoners on report. Also present was the chief officer, Robert Carne, who was tall and overweight. Someone had told him that Carne was moderate and liberal in his views. No such word preceded the officer in charge of the punishment block: po Alec McClean, a thin, gaunt-faced Ulsterman, looked like he enjoyed his position. The warders from the MO’s office were there too. Lynn had no one to speak for him. The room was drab, painted in familiar institutional colours, and free of adornment. The line painted on the floor was six feet from the desk.
‘On the line,’ the chief officer barked. ‘Toes touching it.’
The escort warders positioned themselves either side of Lynn as he toed the line, just in front of his shoulders, both facing inwards – even that proximity wouldn’t have prevented him springing the governor if he had chosen to.
The governor, Archie Maudling, looked like he was the best fed man in the prison, heavy with flesh and large jowls, yet his face seemed disproportionate for that body, and pea-shaped. He wore glasses which he had a habit of pushing up onto the bridge of his nose.
‘Not a favourable start;’ he said. ‘It doesn’t bode well that you couldn’t even get through reception.’ He didn’t seem interested in the response Lynn attempted to make. He pushed up his glasses and glanced towards the chief officer, then at the warder from the MO’s office. ‘Mr Maitland?’
‘A4697, sir. Charged under the Rule 47, sections 13, 14 and 20, in that he treated with disrespect the medical officer who was examining him during reception in that he did use abusive and improper language to the medical officer, that he did offend against good order and discipline in that he urinated on the desk and floor of the MO’s office.’
‘How did this come about, through incontinence?’
‘No, sir,’ the warder said. ‘He raised his member, sir, and directed it.’ Lynn glanced at the uniformed man, who looked up from his notes, embarrassed. ‘When the MO asked what he thought he was doing, he replied: This-is-a-fucking-piss-hole. You-are-a-fucking-piss-hole-attendant.’
‘You’d better think again!’ Lynn said.
‘You’ll get your turn, Lynn.’
Lynn snorted down his nostrils, knowing the sort of turn he’d get, that the entire adjudication was pointless as prison governors always accepted the word of screws, while the governor’s word was final. It mattered little for minor offences, but the procedure was no different for the graver offences heard by the Visiting Committee.
When he again protested he was ordered to be silent, and the screw was allowed to continue reading his lies. Afterwards the governor asked, ‘What have you to say in your defence?’
‘I was fitted by the filth,’ Lynn stated. ‘I’ve no intention of doing my bird.’
‘I’m not interested in that.’ The governor was irritated, as if anticipating a troublesome inmate. Lynn knew it wouldn’t matter to this man by what injustice he arrived here, only that now he should abide by the rules. ‘If you’re issuing warnings or statements of intent, let me advise you, for your own good, we cannot accept disruptive behaviour.’
Lynn looked hard at the governor, despising him and all his kind.
‘Why did you urinate in Dr Eynshaw’s office?’
‘It looked like a piss-hole to me,’ Lynn began.
‘Outside!’ the governor ordered.
Before the governor had completed his order the escort about-turned him and marched him out. In the shiny green and cream corridor the older of the two warders shook his head in dismay. ‘Jesus wept,’ he said. ‘You’re not asking for trouble much, son. He won’t put up with it, not this governor. He’ll refer you to the Visiting Committee. If you still act up he’ll have you transferred to somewhere like Broadmoor. That’s the sort of bloke he is. I’m just marking your card.’
Lynn wondered about that as he looked at him, unsure about trusting him.
The governor soon arrived at the result of his adjudication and Lynn was summoned back in. ‘You have been found guilty as charged. Although this case is sufficiently grave to warrant its being referred to the Visiting Committee, I have decided to deal with it. You will be held in solitary confinement for three days, and lose fourteen days’ remission.’ He pushed his glasses up his nose three times in succession. ‘You must understand that I can’t allow you to become a disruptive influence. Any more offending like this will be dealt with by the Committee.’
‘I don’t intend serving my sentence,’ Lynn restated.
‘Address the prison governor with respect!’ the chief snapped.
Maudling’s lips tightened. ‘You’ll only succeed in making life uncomfortable for yourself.’
‘That’s bollocks. The filth fitted me up,’ Lynn said, ignoring the warnings.
‘Sir, I think the prisoner should be further charged under Rule 47,’ po McClean said. ‘Treating an officer with disrespect, namely yourself, sir.’
Maudling smiled. ‘Very well, Mr McClean. You are so charged, Lynn,’ he said, and then announced without further deliberation, ‘I find the prisoner guilty as charged, an additional fourteen days’ loss of remission. Take him away.’
‘This is a fucking kangaroo court,’ Lynn protested as he was taken out.
His adjudication found him guilty before he got to say his piece; a prison officer saying he did it made it an indisputable fact. Lynn knew all screws were liars, they felt compelled to lie as the truth would show them up for the petty bastards they were.
The eight by fourteen foot cell in the punishment block was larger than a normal, and when the door banged on him Lynn leaned back against the cold, damp wall to take stock. He told himself he could cope with solitary and was determined not to crack. Over the past few months on remand he’d got used to isolation. It was imprisonment itself he couldn’t reconcile, not the varying degrees within the regime.
In the end wall was a barred window too high to see out of, with no furniture as such to stand on and get a view. The cell held only a low cot bed with a thin mattress, duck-cotton sheets and three blankets, and a plastic pot for relieving himself. The green and cream walls were stipple-painted so any attempts to remove the mortar from between bricks would be apparent, the graffiti often moronic. Thinking about his prospects caused a sense of dismay to close in on him and he knew the only way to prevent it was by not thinking. Distracted by muffled sounds beyond the cell, he stood off the wall to listen concentratedly, but couldn’t identify what they were. The noise made him anxious and he wasn’t sure why.
Boredom was the rock on which prisoners perished, and in solitary, boredom ate at you unless you had a formula for coping with it. When he lay down on the bed he knew that if he allowed himself to sleep, he wouldn’t sleep at night when thoughts and regrets would send him mad. He became aware of a screw watching him through the Judas hole. That would be part of the routine. Exercise was how some prisoners coped, and soon he discovered how unfit he was. After sixteen press-ups his arms began to shake and he crashed on to the stone floor.
The punishment block was a single-storey building with a central thoroughfare, intersected from the entrance by inner barred gates. There were cells along either side of the corridor, and an office for the po, and another that the warders used. A cupboard with the word LIBRARY stencilled on the door held about a dozen books. Lynn wondered if his privileges extended to a visit there.
A cheerful trusty brought a supper tray to Lynn’s door and introduced himself as Brian Lang – after the fat warder unlocked and waddled back along the corridor.
‘How’s it going, Jack?’ Lang whispered across the threshold. ‘Heard you’d arrived.’
‘Not for fucking long, Bri’!’ Lynn replied, realising what a stupid statement that was.
‘Mind how you go.’ Lang spoke from the side of his mou
th, his eyes darting back along the corridor the whole while. ‘They got a special punishment routine here, s’murder.’ He checked the corridor again. ‘Fucking slaughtering that poor bastard, they are.’
‘Who’s that?’
‘Bobby Mark – the fella in the next cell but one. Watch out for the blond screw – Cyril Jordan.’ As the warder turned in their direction he cut short the conversation.
‘C’mon, what you after, a fucking tip?’
‘Just taking Mr Lynn’s wine order, Mr Jordan,’ Lang said in a cringing tone.
After the door slammed, Lynn considered the tray. On it was a pint mug of tea, four slices of white bread, a small pat of marge, a dollop of what looked and smelt like cat food, and vegetables that were potatoes and carrots in name only. The cutlery was plastic. He raised the plate and smelled the main dish and wrinkled his nostrils in disgust, but he knew he’d eat it. He had a similar reaction with the first mouthful of tea he tried. He spat into the piss-pot. Extra bromide was put in the tea which came down to the block, he was sure of it.
Shouts from Bobby Mark and a muffled crash of the tray interrupted Lynn’s meal. ‘I’m not fucking well eating it, I’m not,’ he heard. He pressed his ear to the door, trying to make out more. ‘Keep it up, you silly bastard, you’ll get some more,’ he heard someone say. There was more shouting from Mark asking to be let out, then silence. Lynn listened throughout his meal, feeling increasingly disturbed by the silence that followed.
The only reading material in the cell was a mutilated Gideon Bible. He wasn’t that desperate to read, rather would use the pages in the same way most prisoners did as there was never enough toilet paper issued. His-pot had to serve him throughout the night, having been told he wouldn’t be let out of his cell to the lavatory.
#
A sudden cry awakened Lynn from a shallow sleep in his lighted cell. Prisoners crying out at night was a familiar occurrence, some did so out of fear, or from conscience, or getting an unexpected visit from screws. It took him a few moments to locate from where the wail was coming. Out of bed, he sprang up to the window and hung on the bars listening – conversations were often held that way. His arms tired so he dropped down and stabbed the bell push near the door. He couldn’t avoid getting involved, even though he didn’t know Bobby Mark. Someone needed to do something.
There was no answer to his leaning on the bell, nor any indication it was summoning a warder. He didn’t attempt to go back to bed. After a while Bobby Mark fell silent, and a little later Lynn’s door was unlocked. Screw Jordan stooped in the doorway.
‘D’you ring your bell?’
‘Half an hour ago, I did.’
‘Oh, I’ll have a word with management about the slow service. What d’you want, a sleeping pill?’ Jordan was six feet, with very blond hair like it was bleached atop his rigid back and neck, which helped him to see with his pink eyes from under the acute angle of the slashed peak of his cap. He was a Geordie with a youngish, fleshy face and thick lips.
‘What’s wrong with that lad, screaming like he did?’
Jordan listened. ‘I don’t hear no screaming. You had a bad dream. Get back to bed and don’t ring that bell.’ He waited as if challenging him, before stepping back and slamming the door.
#
With perseverance, the press-ups came easier. Lynn exercised in that way in his cell both before and after breakfast, looking forward to when he could do fifty or a hundred press-ups. Right now twenty left him breathless and sweating.
He was that way on the floor, recovering, when a screw called Reg Allison unlocked the cell and bent through the low doorway. He was tall with a pronounced stoop, a long-termer who hadn’t much time to do.
‘Time for a bit of outdoor exercise, son,’ he said as Lynn rolled over and looked at him.
‘They letting me out?’ Lynn asked, reaching for his towel.
‘You’ll do all right, son, you keep a sense of humour.’
‘The easiest thing in the world, banged up in here like this.’
The older man offered a careworn smile that suggested he had seen everything and learned to live longer by smiling. He winked and checked outside in the corridor, before turning back. ‘I’ll give you a piece of advice, for what it’s worth, son. Watch your step, they’re looking for an excuse with you, any will do.’ He winked again. ‘Come on,’ changing his tone, ‘outside.’
Lynn hesitated, suspecting this was a trick to get him to toe the line. It would make him dig his heels in more.
The exercise yard was oblong and enclosed by a sixteen-foot chain-link fence topped with rolls of razor wire sitting in ‘Y’ brackets and itself enclosed within a razor wire-topped wall. Being maximum-security there were more video cameras than at a cup final match. A warder with a dog was outside the wire, another inside the exercise yard. Four prisoners were let out by a door from the wing – the only way in or out. Reg Allison locked the wing door after them. Walking six paces in front of Lynn, stumbling and sobbing as they moved around in single file, was a young man who he assumed was Bobby Mark.
‘What’s the problem, pal?’ Lynn hissed as they moved farther away from the warder. There was no response. He glanced around, checking where the warders were, before closing the gap. ‘Is it bad news from home?’ That was the single biggest cause of upsets, always made worse by the fact that the prisoner could do nothing to help.
Still there was no response. Mark was big, thickset, in his late twenties, his height disguised as he was hunched over as he shuffled along in a world of his own.
Lynn dropped back to the con behind him. ‘What’s wrong with him in front?’ he asked, lengthening his stride as they came past the warders.
‘You Jack Lynn?’ the con asked when they closed the gap again.
‘Who are you?’ Lynn asked.
‘Frank Timper. Heard you was down. How long d’you get?’
‘Three days s’all. What about him?’
‘Poor bastard,’ Timper said. ‘S’bit simple.’
‘S’that all?’
‘Naw, he ain’t that simple. They give him some stick.’
‘Oi, no talking, or you’ll be on report,’ the warder accompanying Allison said. ‘Space yourselves out, come on.’
As they continued round, Bobby Mark tripped and fell without trying to prevent himself. Lynn went to help him where he lay on the ground and saw his face was cut and bruised. He’d been in enough fights to know these marks were caused by fists.
‘All right, leave him,’ the warder said.
Lynn withdrew, feeling helpless, wanting to do something without knowing what.
Lying on his bed after lights out he listened for any sound from Bobby Mark, reacting at once to the first scream that came through the wall along with muffled shouts of protest. Springing off the bed in his vest and pants, Lynn rang the bell. When he got no reply he searched for something to bang the wall with. There was only his shoe.
‘Bobby! Bobby Mark, you all right?’
Still there was no response, but the shouting stopped. There was an eerie silence along the block. A sudden cry from Bobby Mark startled him and Lynn stabbed at the bell push, holding his finger against it.
‘Take your finger off that fucking bell!’ a voice ordered. He ignored it until the shutter in the door flew open, revealing Jordan’s sweaty face.
‘What is your fucking problem?’ he demanded.
‘What’s going on with that lad along there?’
‘What’s it gotta do with you?’
‘I broke the fucker’s glasses,’ a fatter, shorter warder called Oliver Dorman said as though it was a major achievement.
The shutter slammed, cutting Lynn off from this conversation.
When Bobby Mark failed to appear for exercise the following day, Lynn decided he would try to do something, speculating that he was getting more stick
than he deserved. He tried several times to get some information but without success.
‘Cook’s run off with the gardener again, Jack,’ Lang, the block trusty, said as he brought round the familiar tea, bread and marge, meat stew and pudding.
‘Fuck it, I’m thinking of finding another hotel, Bri’.’
Catching Lynn’s eye, the trusty winked and said, ‘Don’t stuff yourself.’
Preoccupied with Bobby Mark, Lynn thought little of the statement as the warder went to close the door. ‘Mr Allison?’ The warder waited. ‘What happened to Bobby Mark last night?’
Allison hesitated. ‘I don’t know. I wasn’t on duty.’
‘They beat him shitless! How fucking bad? Come on.’
‘Watch it, son. That sort of talk’ll get you in trouble.’
‘Fine, put me on report. See if silly bollocks wants to know about what’s happening.’
The warder shook his head, and then stepped into the cell. Lynn backed away, sizing him up and deciding he’d have no trouble handling this old screw.
‘What good will that do you?’ Allison said. ‘They’ll charge you with groundless complaints. You’ll wind up doing fourteen days down here.’
‘What about Bobby Mark?’ He was committed now.
‘He had a fit. S’what I heard. He has ’em all the time. He shouldn’t be here really. Look, leave it with me, son, I’ll find out how he is and let you know.’
Reluctant to give ground, Lynn said, ‘He didn’t look like he got hurt from a fit.’
‘He had to be restrained,’ po McClean announced from the doorway. Neither Lynn nor Allison heard him approach. ‘He was doing gross personal violence to an officer.’
Lynn looked at this man with the contempt he deserved. ‘I heard the ruck.’