by G. F. Newman
‘S’it gonna be all right, is it?’ she asked. It was her only question about the entire plan. The rest she would do unquestioningly. ‘S’it gonna be all right?’
‘To be honest, Doll, I don’t know: But I gotta try. I mean, what have I got to lose?’
She pulled back slightly to look at him.
‘That’s the truth,’ he said. ‘Prison is hurting, Doll, more than I know. It will go on hurting all the while I’m here.’
‘What d’you want me to do?’ she said.
‘Get Tommy to get us some cars. We’ll need at least two. One to get us away from here, the other for the changeover. We’ll want clothes as well. Some for a big geezer, some for a much smaller one. And a bit of dough, if it can be got. Passports and stuff like that for getting out of the country I can arrange easily enough myself when I’m out.’
‘Is that all you want me to do? It’s not much.’
‘No, but it’s important. Can you do it all right, Doll?’ If he thought for a moment that she couldn’t he wouldn’t have asked her.
She nodded.
With barely time to kiss her again properly, po Walters returned to inform them this little session was over.
#
Both Brian Smith and Bobby Mark grew more and more excited as the plan firmed and the date to try for going out drew nearer. They had decided to go on the first night of the new shift. At times, Lynn wondered if they’d ever reach that point without being tumbled. For his own part, he was able to keep closed up but constantly had to warn the other two. The excited, whispered conferences they often dropped into signalled something was going off.
Then that which Lynn most feared happened. How, he didn’t know, but he assumed it was the work of a grass of some kind. There were so many who dearly loved to carry any piece of information to the screws. Maybe he had been careless with the keys he was minding. Or perhaps an attitude or a chance remark had alerted the screws, who were constantly alert for such things.
Lying in bed after lights out, listening to the quiet on the wing – the quietness there like no other – someone coughing, or ringing a bell; getting up for a leak; striking a match, or muttering in sleep, were all noises which echoed through the building. As he continued to listen he became aware of a more sinister noise: marching feet rather than the usual soft shuffle of the single warder moving along the landing with the eerie squelch of rubber-soled boots. There was more than one of them out there, he realised, and he became more alert when they stopped outside his door. Despite his alertness, the cell light suddenly coming on and the door being thrown open startled him. po Allen stepped into the cell, flanked by two warders, all looking like they meant business, their arms folded and with legs apart in a challenging stance.
‘Up!’ po Allen barked. ‘On your feet, now!’
‘What?’ Lynn tried, recovering himself. ‘What’s it all about?’
‘Outta that bed ’fore we drag you out.’
He didn’t need another warning, but got up, shivering even though the cell wasn’t chilly.
‘Get those off,’ Allen ordered, indicating his baggy vest and pants. ‘Let’s see if you’re concealing anything on your person.’
Straightaway, Lynn knew what was going to happen. ‘M’prick’s about all,’ he said.
‘Watch your lip and do as you’re told.’
The two warders flanking the po eyed him menacingly, ready for any sort of resistance.
He didn’t resist, but slowly removed his vest and pants.
‘Turn round, bend over, legs apart, let’s see if you’re hiding anything up your ass.’
‘Go and fuck yourself,’ he protested. ‘If you want to look up my ass get the MO in here.’
They glared at each other, Lynn feeling a trickle of sweat running down his back. After a moment the po said, ‘Get them back on, and get out on the landing. Don’t so much as scratch your nose unless I tell you it’s okay.’
He obeyed quickly, not in expectation of lessening his predicament, but not wanting to give them any excuse.
‘Turn over every inch,’ the po told his subordinates.
A desperate, sinking feeling came over Lynn as he stood against the balustrade and watched them search. It was as though nothing was worthwhile any more, everything was hopeless and he knew he might as well give up. If he had learned then who the grass was, he would have killed him, but he knew even that was pointless.
Each piece of bedding, and furniture, and all his personal effects were searched and brought out of the cell onto the landing. Night-time searches were something screws often did when they wanted to upset prisoners and put extra pressure on them. Instinctively, Lynn knew that this wasn’t what was going on here as they were searching with purpose and method.
Finally, the cell was empty apart from the half-full pot that stood in the corner. One of the screws was pointlessly checking the walls for loose bricks. It was a waste of time as the black and white stippling on the walls was designed to make the removal of bricks immediately apparent. po Allen stopped his search and pointed to the pot on the floor. Lynn had purposely used it to dump in rather than go to the recess before he had been banged up, so the warder seemed somewhat reluctant to lift it. When he did there was nothing beneath it.
For a moment, hope spluttered through him as the po swivelled on his heels and came out of the cell. Maybe they didn’t know and wouldn’t find what he was hiding after all. He tried to keep his pleasure off his face as Allen stood and looked at him. But then the principal officer reached past him and took the plastic spoon from the tray on the table and went back into the cell.
Hope suddenly died in Lynn and he knew it was on top.
With the spoon, po Allen raised the two homemade keys from the pot. His face – which up until that point wrinkled with disgust – now broke into a satisfied grin.
54
HE SPENT EIGHT DAYS ON the punishment block awaiting the arrival of the Visiting Committee as attempting to escape was a sufficiently grave offence to be dealt with by them. Meanwhile, he had been questioned several times about the proposed escape, the prison authorities wanting to know how he came by the keys, who he planned to escape with, who was helping him on the outside. Lynn told them nothing. There was a chance Brian Smith and Bobby Mark would try to make it out, though how far would those two get on their own, even if they got outside the prison? Probably both would prove equally lost and easily be recaptured, but that wasn’t any reason they should be denied their chance.
The evidence presented to the Committee was short and to the point. He was caught bang to rights, and he saw no point in denying his intention. On the back of the charge form, he simply stated his original case that he was innocent and was fitted up, with nothing further to add. He wasn’t expecting a result, but before he was barely out of the room he heard the new chairman say, ‘The evidence against the man is overwhelming, I think you’ll all agree.’
What chance did you have when they didn’t even bother to give the appearance of going through the motions? Whatever his sentence was, he was resolved to try to escape wherever and however the opportunity presented itself.
#
No flicker of surprise passed Lynn as he heard his sentence: fifty-six days cellular confinement; forfeiture of all privileges; one hundred and eighty days’ loss of remission. As far as he was concerned, he might as well do his time on the block, and privileges weren’t such that he missed them. As for the loss of six months’ remission, it was meaningless in the context of the seventeen interminable years.
He settled easily into his solitary routine of exercising, eating, reading, masturbating and sleeping, with the light on the whole while. At night, he had to put his clothes outside the cell to be returned to him at morning slop out. This was to prevent him escaping, but the thinking there was wonky as his only way out was via the door, and the clothes were left in a
neat pile on the other side of same door.
After about a week on the block, he was in bed reading a couple of hours after lights out in the rest of the prison when there was a sudden commotion, shouting and alarm bells, accompanied by dogs barking and running feet. Immediately, he knew the break out was off and he felt elated before disappointment followed from noises suggesting they didn’t get far.
He sprang out of bed and jumped to the window, catching hold of the bars and pulling himself up to look out. Every prisoner whose cell overlooked the yard was doing the same. Even though he couldn’t see most of them, he heard their shouts of protest hurtling down from the wings.
‘Leave them alone, you dirty slags!’
‘They was only exercising.’
‘Leave ’em be, you dogs!’
‘Go home and catch your old woman at it.’
‘Get down from them windows!’ a voice boomed from across the yard, ‘or you’ll all be on governor’s.’
‘Go and fuck yourself, you dog!’ came the reply.
What followed was a game the screws played, trying to catch whoever called out the insult. They’d accuse someone of it, expecting him to answer with a denial or the name of the real culprit.
Lynn couldn’t see either Brian Smith or Bobby Mark, but knew they must have been captured for things quietened outside. Then he knew for certain they were caught by the noise that swept through the block as they were brought in. He dropped down from the window and went to the door. There he could hear the warders coming along the central corridor like a swarm of angry wasps, driving Brian Smith and Bobby Mark ahead of them. Both of the prisoners were shouting and sounded scared. He wondered if they had been beaten. Realistically, he knew if they hadn’t been they would be. They must have hurt at least two guards in the escape bid, and that was all the excuse the screws needed to hurt them back.
The sound that came out of Brian Smith chilled him. It was the sort of terrified scream that Lynn hadn’t experienced since he was a child, when he had learned to live with his fears and overcome his need to scream, knowing no one, certainly not his parents, would ever answer them,.
Angry, scrabbling noises passed his cell door, then a door along the corridor was thrown open and Bobby Mark screamed as he was hurtled in. It sounded to him like Bobby struck the wall and was then hit by a gang of warders as he rebounded. The noises increased Lynn’s frustration.
‘Thought you’d make one out, did you?’ he heard Dorman shout. No reply. The silence which followed worried him more than the sounds of violence. He pressed his ear to the door, then to the wall, before going back to the door. Finally, like a slap in the face, he heard a deep cry of pain from Bobby. Lynn held his breath.
‘You probably killed that officer you hit,’ someone shouted.
Another voice screamed, ‘You ought to be topped for killing that prison officer.’
‘You fucking maniac, that would be too good for you.’
‘You’re a monster. A fucking monster.’
Fear spread through him as the words pierced his cell like metal-jacketed bullets. He was terrified for Bobby Mark and Brian Smith in case they had killed one of the warders. He heard more cries from Bobby Mark. It sounded like fists, feet, and sticks were being used. He could almost feel the anger coming through the wall. Feeling helpless and angry by turn, Lynn found waves of nausea washing over him and there was nothing he could do.
A prisoner getting some stick was an inevitable consequence for hurting a screw, but Lynn didn’t expect it to go on for so long. Hours passed and still there was toing and froing along the corridor and shouts of abuse. There was no response when he rang his bell. He couldn’t sleep and kept a wakeful vigil, as if that could help either Bobby Mark or Brian Smith. With the arrival of the morning wake-up bell, he felt an illogical sense of relief, half-believing nothing more could happen to those two in the daylight. He could get no information from the warder who unlocked his cell for him to slop out. Nor from the trusty who brought his food.
The first sign of anything that gave him any true relief was during exercise with the three other prisoners on the block. They were in the yard for about five minutes when Brian Smith was brought out. He fell in line with them, shuffling along six paces behind Lynn.
The first opportunity he got, Lynn turned and said, ‘Sorry you didn’t make it, Bri’.’ He didn’t comment about his condition, there was no point. Brian Smith would know how bad it was from the way he must have felt.
‘At least we had a go,’ he mumbled through his swollen lips.
‘Yeah, you done all right.’
‘Eyes front!’ a warder yelled. ‘Keep moving.’
They walked on in silence for a while, but Lynn couldn’t keep his peace; there was too much he wanted to know, not least why Bobby Mark hadn’t been brought out. Exercise was their only point of contact.
‘Where’s the other fella, Bri’?’ he asked, dropping back to shorten the gap between them. Then, as though Brian Smith hadn’t heard the question, ‘What happened to Bobby?’
‘I didn’t see him after they separated us,’ Smith said haltingly. ‘They gave him a lot of stick, Jack.’
Despite all his misgivings from what he’d heard, that information disturbed him more.
Throughout the whole day, he was unable to get word on Bobby Mark. Even Brian Lang, the block trusty, wasn’t able to tell him anything about his condition, having been kept out of his cell. That was ominous. The following night again there was a lot of noise along the block corridor and Lynn imagined it was the sound of people hurrying anxiously, but he tried to allay his unease by telling himself this was only a reflection of his own anxiety. A door banged. Someone said something in a muted tone, ‘What the fuck is going on?’ Another door banged. His unease increased, especially at the cry he was certain came from Bobby Mark. It was like that of an animal before it finally gave up its struggle. There was fear and desperation in the noise.
With no means of telling the time, other than by the natural succession of day and night, or the bells which meant the commencement of something, everything was a between-times for him, but Lynn learned to judge sections of time with a fair degree of accuracy. After the waking-up bell, he knew exactly how long it was before slop out. This morning it was late, and he wondered why. There was a lot of activity that wasn’t involving him. Sounds of the comings and goings of various parties. The uneasy feeling from last night recurred. Jamming his finger against the bell-push produced nothing. Next he tried kicking the door, but his bare feet made little impression, and there was nothing in his cell with which he could effectively bang. He tried the bell-push again. His finger was aching by the time the shutter was eventually opened. It was Warder Allison there.
‘Why you ringing this bell?’ he demanded.
‘My pot’s full,’ Lynn said. ‘Why ain’t we slopped out?’
‘You think you’re the only one on this block? Just be patient. There’re more important things going on this morning.’ He was about to close the shutter.
‘Mr Allison?’ he appealed. ‘Is Bobby Mark all right? He was going on a bit last night.’
The warder hesitated, and glanced back along the corridor, before saying quietly, ‘He topped himself last night. Hung himself in his cell.’
That was like a brick in his face. The words turned his stomach and left him breathless when he tried to speak. Finally, he managed, ‘What the fuck you talking about?’
‘Found him this morning, Jack,’ the old screw said gently. ‘Just be patient, son, don’t add to our problems.’ He closed the shutter.
‘Wait!’ Lynn shouted. ‘Wait a minute,’ he pleaded, but got no response. He stood at the door, pain fighting disbelief and making his world spin. He tried blocking the information, telling himself this wasn’t true, that the screws were getting at him, to crack him, but each obstacle to belief was soon ripped awa
y and he knew all that he heard last night, all that he felt, confirmed that Bobby Mark was dead. What he was convinced of was that it hadn’t happened like they said. ‘They murdered him,’ he concluded quietly. ‘You fucking bastards!’ – this wasn’t enough for him. ‘You fucking bastards, you murdered him!’ he said over and over again, the words rattling ineffectually around his cell as anger surged through him, demanding greater release. Rage mushroomed and he turned it loose on his cell rather than himself, hurling his pot at the door and watching the stains spread like blood before his eyes. Next he wrecked his bed and, using a broken spar, smashed first the window then the protected light fitting and finally he pounded the door with the same piece of wood.
By the time his cell was eventually unlocked, he was hoarse and exhausted and could offer no resistance to the screws who grabbed him and dragged him out and into another cell. This was a stripped cell with not a single item of furniture or furnishing apart from a plastic pot. This he was informed was how he would serve the rest of his chokey. He sat with his back against the wall, and his forearms resting on his knees, his head slumped forward. A screw chancing to look through the Judas hole might have believed he was asleep, but he wasn’t, despite the closed eyes. He was crying, but trying to hide his tears. He liked Bobby Mark and was missing him more than he wanted to acknowledge, and he was wondering how he could pay back these bastards for what they had done. But then other thoughts began creeping into his head, more worrying thoughts, suggesting that perhaps he couldn’t pay them back, couldn’t win, that this dangerously corrosive system was slowly breaking him down, despite his resolve that it never would.
55
FOR THE WHOLE OF THE two months he was on the block he nursed his hurt, and cried with regret over the death of Bobby Mark; nurtured his hatred for the system, and pumped up his anger at those responsible, but all the while looking to reconcile his feelings with some practical course of action. There was none he could take for as long as he remained in solitary. Protests would go no further than the governor, and if he made accusations against the warders on the block, accusations he couldn’t substantiate, this would result in more trouble for him. So too would any physical attacks. All he could do was bide his time and await his opportunity.