by G. F. Newman
‘He jumped the river on his motorbike,’ Mark explained. His confusion was bringing him close to tears. ‘It’s stupid, he could’ve gone on the bridge. I’ll smash that fucking television, I’ll smash it!’
‘Leave off, for fuck sake,’ said a wary prisoner by the tv.
‘They’ll bang him up again, he starts,’ Collins cautioned.
‘Bob! Bobby? Don’t worry about it, son,’ Lynn said. His words seemed to have a calming effect on Mark. He turned towards Lynn, waiting for some direction. ‘Come on, we’ll do another petition to the Home Secretary about getting you a release date. They must’ve tore your other one up.’
Mark hesitated, slowly becoming aware that everyone was watching him. He glanced towards the tv. The motorcyclist had gone. ‘Can I bring m’ pudding?’ he asked.
Lynn winked at him and rose as the danger passed.
As they stepped from the tv room another prisoner came hurrying along the landing.
‘Jack,’ he said breathlessly, ‘we got that new molester trapped on the twos.’ Judging from his excitement, Lynn would have expected him to have been offering an escape route.
‘Where’re the screws?’ he asked.
‘They’re all below. Al’s getting Bayliss to brown him.’
‘Get the others, Davy,’ Lynn said, jerking his thumb back at the tv room. He inclined his head for Mark to follow him as he started down the stairs.
In his cell on the second floor, cons had trapped the newest nonce, whose door had been left unlocked during association, almost certainly on purpose. Mervyn Latimer, an articulate, owl-like man in his mid-twenties, was very scared and was becoming more fearful as more cons crowded into his cell. Veins bulged on his wide forehead as his terrified eyes darted over the implacable faces before him, faces of men consumed with hatred and fear. Lynn wondered briefly, as he pushed into the cell, if it was right to involve Bobby Mark, if he even knew what was going on.
‘I know what you’re thinking. But you’re wrong. You are. I didn’t molest and murder that young boy. I can explain – listen, that’s not how it was, you must believe… I had a relationship with the son of a friend, who I loved very much.’ The words seemed to be slapping against a stone wall, but he persevered. ‘It was no different from loving a woman, just as meaningful. No different. We loved each other, it was an accident.’
None of these men wanted to hear or understand his explanation.
‘How can you condemn me?’ the nonce said. ‘How can you attack me for what I did? It’s no worse than some here have done. Some of you have attacked and robbed old women and murdered innocent people.’
‘Not children, you filthy fucker,’ a con said angrily.
Suddenly, like he wanted to provoke them to do whatever they had planned, he said, ‘Most of you have done worse – at least I loved him. You can’t attack me for that, it’s not fair. I’m no different from you. You’ve done far worse…’
‘Don’t say we’re the same, you filthy scumbag,’ another prisoner said, lunging at him. ‘I never done no boy in, you fucking bastard.’
‘I loved him, you morons, why can’t you understand?’ The words were lost in the hostility he invited. Prisoners surged forwards, landed punches and kicks on him in a frenzy.
Suddenly the attack ceased, and they folded back, leaving Latimer on the floor whimpering and bleeding. The reason wasn’t that they thought the punishment sufficient, but that Alan Parker had arrived with Bayliss, a middle-aged homosexual who was HIV positive. His need for sex was as urgent as any addict’s need for drugs.
‘There you are, Bayliss,’ Alan Parker said, indicating the young man on the floor. ‘Didn’t I promise you something a bit tasty?’
‘What, you lot gonna watch?’ Bayliss said. Parting his lips in anticipation.
Seeing the state Bayliss was in, Lynn guessed he had little to smile about these days.
On the faces of the cons who watched the performance there was both revulsion and fascination. Behind the shudder that went through Lynn was the satisfaction of knowing this nonce was not only being hurt but would be likely to carry that hurt with him for the rest of his life. There was no doubt that he was being hurt physically from his cries of pain as Bayliss anally raped him, while two other prisoners held him.
When it was over, Lynn tried to cling to that deep sense of disgust, the loathing that had driven him to want such punishment meted out to people like this, telling himself the nonce had got what he deserved, but it didn’t shake loose his feeling of unease. Part of his revulsion was for that which he feared might be in himself. Finally, he turned out of the cell with other prisoners and almost ran back to his own cell to hide, not wanting to talk to anyone about what had happened.
Having had a nice result, weighing off a nonce without anyone being nicked, without the screws even showing up to investigate the noise, Lynn couldn’t quite understand why he didn’t feel particularly good about it.
There were no reprisals over the attack, no one went on governor’s report, or was even questioned about the incident. The truth was the warders were probably more pleased than anyone that a nonce had got some stick as there was no way they couldn’t have known what happened, if not from the prisoner himself, then from one of the grasses on the wing. Instinctively, Lynn came to realise that other prisoners probably felt the same way he did, for none of them discussed what had happened. He wondered if any of them regretted it as much as he did, but he didn’t attempt to ask them. What worried him slightly was whether he would let himself be involved in something like that again, given the opportunity. He didn’t know the answer, but felt disturbed for days after. Maybe he was changing, for more and more he was questioning if that sort of response was the answer. Probably it wasn’t, any more than him or other men being banged up was the answer for what they had done. Slowly, it began to dawn on him that imprisonment was a short-term answer that satisfied some need in society to punish, rather than address the problems. What he didn’t know was where that left him.
‘You know,’ he began on an uncertain note as he finally came to speak about it, ‘that nonce we got hold of the other night. Would you say that was right, Al?’ They were in the workshop, Lynn talking out of the side of his mouth and giving an eye to the discipline screw.
‘Don’t talk silly, Jack,’ Alan Parker replied, like he was never more sure of anything. ‘Look what he done to that young boy he was s’posed to have thought so much of. You wouldn’t think. He’s got a lot more coming too.’
The reply made him uneasy. ‘I dunno,’ – stopping abruptly as the screw in the booth looked up from his newspaper to admit another screw to the workshop. ‘Look at the wicked strokes Steve’s pulled. I mean, I done people with axe handles. He did an Old Bill,’ – indicating Bob Mark. ‘You done security guards.’
‘Be fair,’ Parker said. ‘I mean, they expect that, don’t they?’
‘They’re still people, Al.’
‘What? Not once they put a uniform on! Anyway, they didn’t do what that wicked fucker did. You think about your own kids, Jack, think about nonces getting hold of one of them. It don’t bear thinking about, does it?’
Lynn knew he was right, but still his unease remained.
A white-coated warder approached the bench. ‘There are some police officers to see you.’
‘Oh yeah? What do they want?’ Lynn replied. He panicked for a moment, thinking it might be di Pyle calling about something else in the frame, now his appeal looked like going well. Alan Parker echoed his fears.
‘S’pect there’s another fitting, Jack, ’you get a result.’
‘Fuck ’em. Tell them there’s nothing I want to see them about.’ It was his prerogative.
‘Watch your language,’ the screw admonished, ‘or you’ll be on governor’s. You’d better see them. They’re CIB.’
‘Oh, why didn’t you say so in the first place?
Yeah, I’ll see those filth all right.’ There was only one thing the Complaints Investigation Bureau could be coming to interview him about: his ruck about the cid arising out of his fitting. ‘They’ve certainly taken their fucking time.’
The two plain-clothes police officers were sitting at the table in the legal visiting room when Lynn was escorted in, their standard black briefcases before them on the table, along with a folder of papers. One of the detectives was a chief inspector, a thin-lipped, thin-faced man with a blond moustache, and thinning hair. The other, a sergeant, was thinner, and had round shoulders. Lynn cared for neither, doubting they were there to help him get his result.
‘Sit down, Lynn,’ the sergeant said.
Lynn didn’t move from just inside the door. ‘You want my co-operation, pal, try being a bit civil.’
Taking immediate control of the situation, the chief inspector said, ‘Don’t let’s be difficult, Mr Lynn.’ His tone was civil. ‘You made a complaint against the police. If you don’t wish to proceed with it, we can as easily go back to London.’
Lynn stood looking at the two men, trying to get a better purchase on the situation but couldn’t. Finally he sat opposite them.
‘We’ll be outside if you need us, sir,’ said one of the escort warders.
The significance of their departure wasn’t lost on Lynn.
Anyone of his own visitors and the screws stayed in. ‘Care for a cigarette?’ The dci offered.
‘What’s that, an inducement to have me go easy?’
‘If you like,’ the chief inspector said. ‘You know this is no easier for us.’
A note of laughter spun out of Lynn and skidded across the table. ‘Don’t talk like a prick!’ he said angrily, not pleasing the man. ‘I’m doing twenty years. You’re outside. You talk about it being no easier for you! What do you take me for, a mug? That slag Pyle, the dirty no-good slag – he fitted me. He ought to be in here.’
‘The complaint against him has yet to be proven. That’s what this interview is about, to try and establish the truth.’
‘He fitted me all right. He told me himself, he did. Said I was well overdue. That’s what he said. Without any conscience at all that wicked fucker nicked twenty years off me in cold blood – just to keep his numbers up. Fucking robbery, it is. He’s robbed my children of their father, s’what he’s done. Ruined my family. I’ve had to sell m’ house and everything else. They’re on Social Security, my family are. What a no-good fucker, that one. He manufactured all the evidence, he did, and what he didn’t fit me up with, he went and left out in court so it wouldn’t support my story.’ He stopped abruptly, suddenly feeling that he was talking too much, as what he was saying was making no impression on these two.
There was a pause. Then the dci said, ‘We’d like a full statement, Mr Lynn. Whatever details you can give us, however apparently trivial they might seem.’
Lynn wondered if he should say anything. These men were, after all, policemen, colleagues of di Pyle. Would they want to see one of their own nicked?
‘Oh yeah, I got details, if your lot would take any notice.’ He intended leaving it at that, but, having started, his grievances poured out. ‘Where was I at the time that robbery took place? I’ll tell you, I was in bed with my missus, that’s where. But she’s the wife of a villain so why would anyone believe her? Pyle didn’t arrange that, of course – for me to have that sort of alibi. But what he did arrange was for a villain called Cliff Harding to go and lolly me right up. He had nicked that slag previous with a shooter and held the charge over him. You see if he subsequently nicked Harding with that shooter. ’Course he didn’t – the no-good slags had a deal. The best is yet to come – my bit of dough, the money I was s’posed to have had out of that Gas Board – fifteen hundred quid, right? What Pyle put up in court. What he didn’t tell the court was that the missing money from the robbery had already been recovered by the Bill out at Abbey Wood, the whole lot, intact, all in the money sacks. It’s down in black and white, proving that my dough didn’t come from the Gas Board, that I wasn’t involved. See if you can wash over that little lot.’
Having stated his case, he panicked, fearing he had revealed too much, and wondered now if they wouldn’t simply slip out to Abbey Wood and remove the evidence.
The two policemen remained stone-faced.
‘We’ll need a statement, Mr Lynn,’ the dci said, like he hadn’t told them anything worthy of note. ‘Perhaps you’d take it all down, Tom,’ he said to his colleague, like this was routine and he’d heard it all before.
52
THE DATE OF HIS APPEAL approached like Christmas for a child, never seeming to arrive; then when at last it was on at the Appeal Court in the Strand, it seemed like it would never be concluded, as if he would never hear the result. He was distracted while waiting for word, and convinced at times that he had got his result but it was being kept from him by the screws. A sense of impatience was building up in him, and he was beginning to feel frustrated again. Christmas had arrived without any presents.
Coming down for his midday meal after being unlocked, Lynn was a little late, others were ahead of him waiting to get their food. Automatically, he went to the front of the queue. No one protested about the move which he accepted as his natural right.
‘What’s the word, Jack?’ a prisoner who was waiting asked. ‘D’you hear how it’s s’posed to be going?’
‘No, not a fucking word,’ he replied despondently, taking the food away on his tray.
On the first floor landing he met po Allen. ‘D’you hear anything, Mr Allen?’ he said.
‘The governor’ll call you down when the result comes through. He’ll put you out of your misery as soon as he can.’
Lynn paused and watched the warder go on down the stairs, doubting if this man cared one way or the other. He felt like throwing his food over him, suspecting he was part of the conspiracy. If he did lose it and throw the tray he knew they would make him serve his chokey before giving him his result. That would further delay his reunion with Dolly and the girls.
The slop-out bell sounded. When Westbury unlocked the cell door, Lynn was waiting with his pot. The gross, muttonchop-faced warder seemed to be grinning at him like he had a secret that he wasn’t about to share.
‘No word yet, Jack?’ Brian Smith asked as he came along the landing with his pot.
‘Those bastards’re just keeping me on the hook.’
‘I wouldn’t be surprised,’ the younger man replied. ‘It’s not an experience I’ve had myself. I never bothered with an appeal, but I can guess what it must be doing to you.’
Lynn smiled and put his free arm around Smith’s shoulder, counting him a real friend. Smith was honest enough to say what his feelings were about the appeal – as a friend he wanted him to succeed, but as a prisoner facing an indeterminate sentence he saw him as a light at the end of a long tunnel, a possible means of escape, so didn’t want to lose him. Lynn had promised they wouldn’t lose contact whatever happened.
Just before stopping work that afternoon, the escort warder came to collect him for the governor, his movement book going with him. This would be the last time, Lynn decided, as he was marched into the governor’s office by his escort in the same manner as he was taken into the adjudication room. They stood close to him should he not get his result and attack the governor. Their presence didn’t bode well, he thought fleetingly, and a feeling of panic struggled to surface. He forced it back down as he tried to shut out the negative thoughts. He would get a result, he had to. Apart from the governor, Carne was the only other officer present.
‘You know why you’re here,’ the governor said, avoiding his eyes and glancing down at his papers, as if to remind himself.
‘No. No..!’ Instinctively Lynn knew the result and started to tense his muscles until they were rigid and causing him pain. Pressure was coming down on him lik
e a heavy weight, bringing pain first behind his eyes, then in his shoulders and neck. His breathing became more shallow until he wasn’t sure if he was breathing at all.
‘We’ve had notice of your result on appeal,’ Maudling stated. ‘There’s some good news for you, I’m pleased to say.’
Relief washed through Lynn, wave after wave, and he started to breathe again. The air tasted so good as it washed through his lungs, and he started to laugh.
He almost didn’t hear the governor as he said, ‘The appeal court judges have reduced your sentence by three years to seventeen years. It was thought the original sentence was too harsh –’
‘Seventeen?’ The laughter died in his throat, his muscles began to cramp again.
‘However, they could find insufficient grounds to justify reversing the original decision of the lower court, therefore the conviction stands. Further, you have been denied leave to appeal to the House of Lords.’
‘They can’t, they can’t!’ – burst out of him on a wave of emotion. ‘Those dirty cunts, they’re in it together, beaks an’ filth! Those other dirty cunts fitted me up.’
‘Watch your language!’ the chief officer warned him as the escort tensed themselves.
‘Seventeen years. I can’t believe it.’ The magnitude of this numbed him, his thoughts in turmoil. Where was the result the new evidence would deliver? He wasn’t dead, but they had just buried him.
‘I realise this must be a disappointment,’ the governor said, squaring the papers on his desk, still avoiding eye contact. ‘The Appeal Court’s decision is final, so I want you to settle down now and accept it. A simple adjustment is all that’s required. You can be out in twelve years’ time, still a relatively young man.’ Maudling squared the papers once more. ‘Make life difficult for us, and we will respond by making life very difficult for you. So keep your nose clean and earn maximum remission. Time will soon pass, you’ll find, provided you settle down to it.’
This man was mocking him, Lynn decided. He had no real idea what life behind bars did to you, both physically and mentally. Seventeen years – out in twelve – behave yourself – he was reeling and having difficulty staying in control. Thoughts of his wife and children swam through his head. This news would break their hearts. They were as wound up as he was about him getting out. He could barely grasp the significance of the length of the separation. The girls would be gone by then, they’d have forgotten him, likely Dolly would take up with someone else, while all he could do was wank his life away. The prospect of doing seventeen was sickening and he knew he couldn’t do it, couldn’t sit here and do his time. Too many people were going to get hurt.