The cell was dark and he wished for morning to arrive so the cries would die down. He clasped both hands over his ears to muffle the sounds as sweat rolled off his brow due to the heat of his dark cell.
When the winter sun eventually brightened the cell, the cries were replaced with shouts as the prisoners waited by their doors to be let out for breakfast.
The familiar screaming and shouting soon brought the wing back to its normal routine as the screws opened the cell doors. ‘Out, out, out,’ the screws shouted as they passed along the landing.
Bell quickly washed and shaved before Bradshaw left his bunk. He joined the rest of the mob as they pushed and shoved their way along the landing towards the food hall.
He was halfway down the corridor when he saw Big Bear coming up the stairs. He had just been released from solitary, along with the other dozen after the brawl in the gym.
‘Hi, Bell, keep me a place in the queue, I’ll be there in five,’ Big Bear shouted.
Bell waved back and picked up two trays as he entered the food hall, pushing his way along the queue, watched by Collins and Watson, two of the most vicious screws on the wing who looked along the line in search of another innocent young victim. They were well-know to use sex on prisoners as a tool in their arsenal.
The repeated rapes on new young intakes were not always the ultimate form of humiliation, but the strongest method in proving their control over them.
They weren’t the only two guards that treated the young lands with sexual abuse, as young controlled inmates were passed around to other out of control guards. The lads always endured their ordeal privately in the cells behind closed doors.
No one spoke out about the abuse and no one reported it, but everyone knew it went on, but they were helpless to intervene due to the severe punishment inflicted on them.
Big Bear passed along the impatient prisoners, stamping their feet as they banged trays on their knees or on the heads of the guy in front, and met up with Bell who had reached the hot plate.
The morning sun did very little to contain the cold wind that whipped around the exercise yard as Bell and Big Bear got their daily walk, wearing their overcoats over their prison issue uniforms, hands shoved in the pockets of their trousers to keep warm against the bitter cold wind.
Even having his mate back on the wing didn’t help to bring Bell out of his recent state of depression. He felt he was being broken down by the prison system, sleeping less than three hours a night, kept awake by the crying and moaning from neighbouring cells. He ate less and had lost interest in the gym and library and went through the routine of his day with shuttered eyes, closed to as much around him as possible.
Young Paddy Crawford pushed in between them as they walked in the bitter cold. He had recently been transferred from Dartmoor after complaining to the governor of the constant beatings and rape he had endured at the hands on one of the guards who had tagged him as his personal pet. He hung around Big Bear as much as he could, feeling safe in his company and looked up to him as a protector in view of his large size and kindly attitude.
Paddy was a thin 22-year-old who had been sent down for eight years for murdering his girlfriend, but he had been saved from a life sentence due to provocation. He walked between the two big guys; his eyes lifeless and stripped of any vibrancy as he held his head low against the cold wind.
Bell, Paddy and Big Bear were among many groups who tried to stick together. The West Indians would congregate in large groups by the telephones and games room, some others stayed on their own with little or no contact with others, like Bradshaw.
They walked back into the building together, standing in line for the pat down before they were allowed to enter.
Rumours were flying around the wing that the guy who got battered in the gym had died in the hospital wing. That explains the tension of the guards, Bell thought.
Bell peered his head around the door of the library. Bradshaw was sitting at a small wooden table in the centre of the room, turning the pages of a magazine. The top of his shaved head shone from the glare of the fluorescent light overhead.
Bell quickly moved down to the shower block with his towel under his arm.
Peeping Tom was in his usual place; sitting at the far end of the metal bench, sweat running down his old wrinkled face, his right hand down the front of his trousers, playing with himself as he watching a group of black kids soaping each other’s bodies.
Bell showered alongside the others as they laughed and joked at peeping Tom, bending forward and slapping their arses in front of him.
The food hall was crowded. Inmates elbowed their way through a pasta and rice supper. He only had twenty minutes to eat the meal, which included the queue to get it. Guards patrolled the room, weaving in and out of the tables with their arms behind their backs, their eyes focused on the tables they had been assigned to watch.
Big Bear looked down at Bell’s meal.
‘What delights are we to eat tonight?’ he asked Bell, with a smile.
‘I don’t know what it is, whatever it is, it’s buried under the gravy,’ Bell replied.
‘All the meals are covered in gravy, even the fried fish,’ he replied.
After the meal, they played a game of cards with the old lifers before returning to their cells for the night. Bradshaw stood at the doorway of the cell, his arms folded across his chest, a crooked smile on his face. His arms were covered in scratches and bite marks from the fight. Bell pushed passed him, undressed and climbed onto his bunk.
Dirty brown water filtered back into the mop bucket as he washed the floors outside the cells, occasionally leaning against the railings as prisoners pushed by on their way to the workshops. He changed the water before he made his way to the guard’s quarters. It smelt of damp clothes and the floors were dusty.
Half a dozen lockers lined the wall; a couple of settees were on the other side with a desk at the far end. Dirty clothes were piled up on one on the three chairs.
Hamilton sat at the desk chewing gum; He looked over his rimless spectacles at Bell as he wiped his mop under the desk.
Patterson was down to his underpants as he put his uniform on and fastened his keys and radio to his belt.
Belling was washing his hands, already dressed in uniform and ready to start his rounds of the corridors. Bell listened in at their conversation as he cleaned around the furniture.
‘The transfer list has just been sent up from the office,’ Hamilton said to the others.
‘Is it this week or next week?’ Belling asked, drying his hands.
‘Next week, no movement this week,’ he replied.
‘We’ve got six coming over from Strangeways and four from Brixton,’ Hamilton said, flicking through the sheets on his clipboard.
‘Who’s going then?’ Patterson said, as he hooked his tie over the neck of his shirt.
Hamilton read the names from the clipboard. ‘Atkinson, Butcher, Batchelor, Bradshaw, Duckworth, Franks, Jones, Kingston, Nelson and Parker,’ he told them, in alphabetical order.
Bells heart raced as Bradshaw’s name was read out. He was only aware of one Bradshaw on the wing.
Hamilton took a cigarette out of his packet and lit it with a closed book of matches. He breathed in a large draw of smoke, and let it out slowly through his nose, his closed jaw still chewing the gum.
‘You finished in here, Bell?’ he said, his eyes looking around the floor.
‘All done,’ Bell answered, as he left the room, closing the door behind him. He took a deep breath, letting air out through his mouth. His recent state of depression was beginning to lift at the thought of Bradshaw being transferred, hoping for the worst fate for him… Dartmoor.
He went to the food hall, grabbed a tray and held it over the counter while some big black guy piled it with something unrecognisable, covering it with gravy.
The hall was crowded and the noise unbearable. He took his tray back to his cell and ate his food sitting on his lower bunk. The wind
ow giving off only hints of the night-time sky.
He looked over at the sink and toilet, which he had cleaned to a sparkle before he started work. The small sink was now stained with Bradshaw’s snot and piss stains on the rim. It didn’t bother him, as he only had to endure this animal’s filthy habits and violent temper for the next two weeks.
Bell couldn’t sleep that night, anxious for the transfer of Bradshaw, now snoring and farting above him. The early morning offered little more than blades of light filtering into the cell from the small window.
Jennifer thought George had a destination in mind, but after a while it seemed they were just heading aimlessly along the coast road, taking in the scenery.
He parked briefly and helped Jennifer up to the sea wall in Knott End to see the truly magnificent view of the coastline and waves breaking thunderously on the rocky shore. Jennifer stood, letting the cold sea spray wet her face.
They drove a few more miles along the coast road and George pulled in to a small pub situated on the rise of a slipway that led down to the sea. The Smugglers Inn was crowded with a mixture of businessmen and walkers.
Five leather booths faced the bar; each positioned next to a window and lit by lanterns hanging overhead. The views from the windows looked directly out to sea.
A waitress in her early twenties, wearing a short black mini-skirt served them roast beef and Yorkshire pudding, followed by apple pie and custard.
Outside, a crisp winter wind rattled the window. The overhead sky was dark and threatened rain.
Jennifer looked out to sea throughout lunch. She had always loved the ocean, particularly when it was at its highest and roughest. They huddled in the doorway of the pub as the rain lashed down, deciding when to make a run for the car which was parked at the far side of the car park.
Once inside, they wiped the rain off each other’s faces and laughed like naughty children.
George drove back along the same route as Jennifer peered endlessly out to sea. It was after four when they arrived back at Jennifer’s.
The sitting room was cold and dark, lit only by the amber street lamps shining through from the esplanade. George quickly laid a fire as Jennifer prepared the evening supper.
She brought a tray of tea and put it beside him as he fanned a piece of newspaper in front of the fire in an attempt to raise a flame. Jennifer sat back in the chair, pleasantly tired from another enjoyable day with George.
By the time they had finished supper, the fire was well ablaze and soon warmed the room. They left the unwashed dishes and relaxed by the fire watching television, sipping port with their cheese and biscuits.
George stayed until ‘News at Ten’ ended and drove back home.
Jennifer washed the supper dishes, cleaned around the lounge and went to bed about midnight. She didn’t sleep well. George had given her plenty to think about.
As they felt comfortable in each other’s company, George had suggested Jennifer could sell her house, or rent it, and live in his house on the Promenade. It was an interesting offer and worth considering as they both rattled around in large houses.
Her lodger had now found other accommodation, she only worked two afternoons a week and that was coming to an end as Gladys was now recovering and able to walk.
She would definitely be a lot better off financially and she didn’t have any commitments, apart from John. Whatever she decides to do, John didn’t have a choice with his accommodation.
Bradshaw had now been transferred to Dartmoor along with the others.
Big Bear and Bell hung over the railings, looking at the new arrivals that were being showered and de-loused below them.
Four more West Indians, two Polish, three English and an African.
Paddy O’Leary had been transferred to Brixton, which left two vacant beds in his cell.
His request to share with Big Bear had been refused and Big Bears application had also been denied.
The screws marched the new intakes along the landing, each carrying their prison issues as one by one they were pushed through the open cell doors to meet their new cellmates.
The line of the new guys got smaller and smaller as they reached Bell’s cell. As he leaned on the railings, he looked over his shoulder to see the guard push a young white guy into his cell.
He let him unpack his stuff and settle in before he went back in to meet him.
He was Mick Scott, a good-looking 23-year-old muscular teenager. This was his first time inside. Bell looked over at him as Scott looked around the small cell with tears in his terrified blue eyes.
‘Hi, I’m John Bell, I’m your cellmate,’ he said to the guy as he walked into the cell.
‘I’m Mick, Mick Scott,’ he replied, as he shook Bell’s hand.
‘Which is your bunk?’ he asked.
‘You’re the top, I prefer the bottom, so it’s all yours,’ Bell replied.
He looked around the stained cement walls of the small cell, his new home for three years after a string of car thefts across the country.
Bell looked at the guy’s young, innocent face thinking to himself, this guy will need protection from the sex-crazed cons as he was just the type they liked, unless Collins and Watson, the sex starved guards got in first.
‘What’s it like in this place, Bell?’ he asked.
‘Well, it’s not the Hilton,’ Bell replied. ‘The foods cold and tasteless, the sleeping conditions dismal, as you can see, the atmosphere in the gym and the yard is well charged and there is always a sense of impending danger, so watch your back.’
‘Sounds great,’ the lad answered, reaching to look out of the small window.
‘When you’re ready, I’ll take you down to the food hall and show you around,’ Bell said.
‘Thanks mate, I’d appreciate that,’ he replied, offering Bell a cigarette.
They left the claustrophobic cell and walked down the landing and onto the main corridor towards the food hall. Bell pointed out the gym, library, shower block and the door to the closed exercise yard.
The food hall was packed and the noise overpowering.
Mick Scott took his meal to the table and elbowed his way in alongside Bell. He didn’t eat his meal. He looked around at the hard prisoners as they shovelled food into their mouths. The guy looked frightened and close to tears.
‘You’ll soon get used to it,’ Bell said to him, reassuringly.
Lock up was at 9 o’clock, lights out five minutes later.
Mick Scott laid on his top bunk for his first night inside. He put a pillow over his head to muffle the sounds of moans and groans, the constant coughs, the occasional scream, the flushing toilets and the music from hidden radios, none of it ceased until daylight.
Bell listened to him sobbing in his pillow, but he was unable to remove the sounds. Maybe he would get used to it. Bell never could.
Warm breath against his neck and strong legs wrapped around his, woke Bell from his light sleep. His back was wet with the sweat of Mick Scott’s body. His arm was around Bell’s waist as he snored lightly in his ear.
The young guy had found the sounds of the night too frightening and had crept into Bell’s bed for companionship and a sense of safety and protection.
The rattle of guard’s keys woke Scott from his sleep. He sprinted out of bed, realising the embarrassing situation he had put himself in.
‘Wow, sorry mate,’ he said to Bell, stepping back from the bunk.
‘No worries, I understand, you’re a kid and the night sounds in this place would break the hardest of men. I’d have done the same with my ex-cellmate,’ Bell said.
‘So why didn’t you?’ young Scott asked.
‘You didn’t see the ex-cellmate,’ Bell replied.
The lights came on and the guard unlocked the cell door. The daily clatter and clambering of inmates soon filled the landing as they piled into the showers and the food hall. Bell was working in the kitchen this week. Scott had not been given a work detail so he spent the day hanging a
round the yard, meeting up with the younger prisoners.
It was midday when Bell was sent off kitchen duties as he was coughing and sneezing over the food. He had a high temperature and spent the rest of the day in his bunk. His nose was stuffed and his eyes watered as he tried to sweat it out in the hot cell.
With the prisoners either on work detail or in the yard, the wing was relatively quiet.
He lay there clutching his blanket up to his chin, thinking to when he was in the same condition after getting soaking wet while doing Jennifer’s garden. She would try everything to take away the aches and chills and fussed over him like a mother more than a sister, filling a large jug of hot water where she would throw slices of oranges and lemons and two spoonfuls of honey in, then boiled everything down until the contents were reduced and ready for him to sip gently.
The heat on the wing and in the kitchen was intense, and the extreme cold in the yard resulted in many inmates coming down with the same, which would easily spread from cell to cell.
By the following day the fever had passed but he remained in his cell feeling tired and weak.
Mick Scott lingered around the cell making sure he was all right, bringing him food on a tray like a son looking after his sick father.
He was bed-bound for a couple of days until Scott and Big Bear wrapped him up well, and took him out to the exercise yard for fresh air.
The older lifer’s had been transferred to a separate wing, leaving the wing population composed of the toughest of kids from some of the poorest and more dangerous towns in the country. Some of the harder teenagers didn’t seem worried about what they had done or appeared to be on the brink of any rehabilitation.
Many had come from a family of offenders and seemed to fall into groups or gangs with little trouble and appeared to enjoy their stay, viewing it as an opportunity to gain information on drug-related crime on the outside.
Inseparable Bond Page 31