Borstal Slags

by Graham, Tom

  ‘You’re not kidding,’ said Annie. But her tone was softening. She drew a little nearer. ‘Where do you get all this stuff? Do you make it up?’

  ‘I probably do.’ Sam laughed. He imagined how ridiculous he must look to her. ‘Oh, Annie, my brain’s like scrambled eggs tonight! And I’ve had too much to drink. What I need is to sleep!’

  ‘Excellent plan,’ Annie said, and now she touched his arm and smiled warmly at him. ‘And tomorrow you stay in bed, and you rest.’

  ‘Oh, no. Tomorrow, I get back to work. Best thing for me. You’ll see.’

  ‘But you’re on the sick. Make the most of it, Sam. You’re getting paid to lie in bed and watch telly and that.’

  ‘Just like a DCI!’ He grinned. ‘I’ll see you tomorrow morning, Annie. Bright and breezy.’

  There was no time to waste, not on this case. The stakes were too high. But he couldn’t explain that to Annie.

  ‘Well,’ said Annie, ‘you’re a grown-up lad, you make your own decisions.’

  She kissed him on the cheek. It was all the tonic he needed to get him back on track.

  With her coat back on, she paused in the doorway. ‘Sleep tight, Sam.’

  ‘I’ll be dreaming of you,’ he replied.

  ‘But of course!’ She winked. And then she added, ‘Oh, and Sam?’

  ‘Yes?’

  ‘Get yourself a bottle of mouthwash. You stink of Marmite.’

  And with that she was gone.

  CHAPTER THIRTEEN: OFFICE HUMOUR

  It was morning at CID A-Division. Sam stepped through the doors and saw that the cigarette butts were already piling up in the ashtrays. Gene was lurking in his lair, visible as a looming shape behind frosted glass.

  ‘I thought you was signed off on the sick,’ said Ray, sitting with his feet up on his desk, reading the tit page of the Sun.

  ‘Lucozade, Vicks VapoRub, and plenty of satsumas,’ said Sam. ‘Now I’m right as rain and all up for nicking villains.’

  ‘And talking like a twat,’ smirked Ray. ‘Hey Chris, you still playing with that bloody whiz gig?’

  Chris was hunched over the Xerox, pressing buttons and giggling at the copies he was making. Grinning, he lifted up a crude cut-and-paste job in which Sam’s face had been photostatted onto the body of a naked young man engaged in the vigorous act of sodomy.

  ‘Slapping on plenty of Vicks, is that what you said, Boss?’ Chris sniggered.

  ‘Suck on them satsumas, eh?’ Ray grinned.

  Sam took Chris’s Xerox masterpiece and examined it. ‘I see what you’ve done. You’ve cut out somebody’s face and copied it onto a porno picture. Extraordinary. In all my life, I have never seen that done before, Chris. Ever. You’re a pioneer. How on earth did you think up such an off-the-wall idea? Chris Skelton? I think we should start calling you Chris Morris.’

  ‘Off Animal Magic?’ Chris frowned. ‘I don’t get it, Boss.’

  ‘No, well, my humour’s perhaps not quite sophisticated enough for you,’ said Sam. He grimaced at the intimate details displayed on the photo. ‘Where the hell did you get this awful picture from, anyway?’

  ‘From the files, boss. It’s your official ID mugshot.’

  ‘No, Christopher, I was referring to the homoerotica.’ And, in response to Chris’s utterly blank face, he clarified: ‘The gay porn.’

  ‘Oh, that. From Barton, the lad we nicked in the park,’ said Chris. ‘He were carrying tons of the stuff.’

  ‘Chris is hanging onto it – just for safe keeping, mind,’ Ray said, examining a whopping set of Page 3 knockers. ‘He’s got strangely attached to it.’

  ‘Give over, I’m just using it for me artworks,’ protested Chris.

  ‘Is that what you’re calling this stuff – your “artworks”?’ said Sam, picking up a sheaf of photocopies, all of which were variations on the theme of Sam’s head crudely pasted onto the buggered boy’s body. ‘I hope you’re not thinking of sending it in to Tony Hart.’

  ‘Hey, there’s an idea!’ put in Ray. ‘Send it to Vision On, Chris.’

  Chris giggled. ‘Vision Hard-On, more like.’

  ‘Pure comedy gold, Chris,’ Sam sighed. And then, to no one in particular, he added, ‘Why is it I feel worse at work than when I’m signed off sick?’

  He confiscated Chris’s portfolio of works in progress and ordered him to get back to policing the city. Sam headed over to Annie’s desk.

  ‘I hope you’re not going to show that stuff to me,’ she warned him, looking up from her work.

  ‘I wouldn’t dream of it. I’m just looking for a big enough waste bin. Or an incinerator.’ He stuck the sheaf of grotesque copies under his arm. ‘And, before you ask, the answer is yes, I’m feeling totally fine, and a lot better than last night.’

  ‘I’ll take your word for it. Just so long as you don’t start talking daft again.’

  He smiled at her. ‘You look like you’ve been busy. What are you up to?’

  ‘I’ve been digging up all the records I can on House Master McClintock.’

  ‘And what have you found?’ asked Sam eagerly. ‘Anything we can use against him?’

  ‘Nothing incriminating. He’s pretty strait-laced. He were a regular copper back in the sixties, in uniform.’

  A cowardly, treacherous, disloyal one at that, Sam thought, thinking how McClintock had sold out his colleague to Clive Gould. But he kept his mouth shut.

  ‘What made him quit the force and join the prison service?’ Sam asked.

  ‘He got injured in a fire and was invalided out.’

  ‘That makes sense. I saw his hands. They were burned. Any information on what happened?’

  ‘It’s all a bit vague,’ said Annie. ‘The records aren’t very complete. It’s like somebody’s deliberately mucked about with them.’

  Could it have been McClintock himself, covering his tracks for something? Or were police records from that time so corrupted by officers on the Clive Gould payroll that there was no way of disentangling the truth from the lies?

  ‘Anyway,’ Annie went on, ‘after McClintock was discharged from the police he joined the prison service and ended up house master at Friar’s Brook.’

  ‘He runs that place like his own private empire,’ said Sam. ‘He’s a cruel bastard, Annie. But we’re going to nail him.’

  ‘You’ve really got it in for him, haven’t you? You don’t think you might be letting personal animosity cloud your judgement, do you?’

  ‘This isn’t personal, Annie,’ Sam lied. ‘It’s strictly business.’

  ‘Are you sure about that, Sam?’

  ‘McClintock’s rotten to the core, believe me. He’s like some sort of bad parody of a Nazi, all black uniform and shiny shoes.’

  ‘But that don’t make him a killer,’ Annie said. ‘He’s a suspect, sure – but no more than that.’

  Sam wanted to tell her what he knew. That bastard sold out your father to gangsters, Annie – to murderers! But he kept himself in check.

  ‘If there is a case to be made against McClintock, we’re going to need first-hand witnesses who are prepared to go on record,’ said Sam. ‘That’s where we’re in luck. We’ve got one already. Donner.’

  ‘You think he’ll testify?’

  ‘I know he will. He just needs the right inducement. If we guarantee his transfer from Friar’s Brook, he’ll talk. And he’s articulate, Annie. He’s smart. If we prime him right, he’ll make a fantastic prosecution witness in court.’

  ‘But is he reliable?’ asked Annie. ‘How can we be sure he’s not just stringing us along to see what he can blag out of us?’

  ‘I trust him,’ said Sam firmly. ‘And he’ll repay that trust, you’ll see. He’s a key witness to what’s been happening at Friar’s Brook. If we treat him right, if we’re careful and smart and—’

  At that moment, the sheaf of photocopied porn slipped from under Sam’s arm and spilled all over the floor. He reached down and started to gather it up – then paused, his attentio
n caught by one of the boys in a photo. Sam peered closer.

  ‘Having new and unsettling urges, Boss?’ asked Annie.

  ‘Don’t you start an’ all.’ Sam turned the photo towards her. ‘Look!’

  Annie at once grimaced and turned away.

  ‘No, no, not the bottoms and what have you – the face,’ said Sam. ‘It’s Barton. It’s the boy Chris and Ray banged up for … whatever it was they banged him up for. He’s the one who tipped me off about McClintock in the first place!’

  Gingerly, Annie pushed the photo away so that she couldn’t see it. ‘You think he’ll give us a statement?’

  ‘He might. He took a bit of a shine to me. Maybe he’ll talk.’

  ‘And where is he now? He’s certainly not in the cells any more.’

  ‘I know where to start looking,’ said Sam. ‘He mentioned the Hayfield estate to me, said it was where they photograph all this stuff. I’ll go there, ask around, see if I can pick up his trail. Don’t tell the Guv about it, though. Let’s keep it low-key. With Gene around, there’ll just be trouble and shouting and things’ll get broken.’

  ‘I hear what you’re saying.’ Annie winked at him. ‘Tell you what – while you’re looking for Barton, why don’t I do some homework on Donner. If he’s going to be our star witness, we need to know who he is and where he comes from.’

  ‘That would be brilliant, Annie. Oh, and could you do me a favour?’

  ‘Yes, Sam?’

  ‘Could you find somewhere safe to stash this lot?’ He thrust the pages of porn at her. Annie acted as if he’d handed her a rat. ‘Much appreciated!’

  ‘Don’t mention it, Boss,’ she said, wrinkling her nose. ‘And what shall I say if the Guv asks where you’ve got to?’

  ‘Tell him …’ He paused, thinking for a moment. ‘Tell him I’ve gone looking for a dishy young lad.’

  Arriving at the Hayfield estate, Sam was confronted by stained concrete, smashed windows, graffiti, desolation. Music played from an open window – the slow, lugubrious beat of Gary Glitter’s ‘I Love You Love Me Love’. Somewhere, a furious dog barked and howled.

  Sam headed up a stinking stairwell that led to a bleak, concrete balcony, along which stood a row of identical front doors, each with a mean, square, unwashed window beside it.

  What should he do? Knock on a few doors, ask if anyone knew where the gay porn was being manufactured round here?

  ‘What am I getting myself into here?’ Sam muttered.

  His attention was caught by a sudden flash of light from the window of one of the flats. Moments later, there was another. Then another. Sam sidled up to the window and peered through the filthy glass. Ranged along the windowsill was a grubby pair of Y-fronts, a tangle of unidentifiable leather straps, and a tub of Vaseline with hairs stuck to it. In the room itself he saw a man dressed in green corduroy trousers and a leather jacket adjusting a camera, giving muffled instructions, and taking another set of flash photographs. And then, just visible through the caked dirt on the window, Sam glimpsed very pale male flesh.

  Sam barged at the front door. It came off its rotten hinges without putting up a fight. The photographer in the green corduroys jumped and spun round, revealing a narrow, beak-nosed face and unkempt greasy hair. Two naked boys, no more than eighteen, instantly disengaged themselves from one another and scrambled frantically to get away. One of the lads sported a curly mop of ginger locks, while the other had shoulder-length hair, well overdue for a wash, and a rough-skinned face that Sam recognized at once.

  Bingo, he thought, and he flourished his CID badge.

  ‘It’s okay. Keep calm. I’m a copper, but this ain’t a raid,’ he declared.

  But nobody was listening to him. The photographer grabbed a camera tripod and lunged with it as if it were a spear. Sam fell back against a wall, batting the tripod away, and caught a glimpse of green corduroy racing out of the door. Moments later, the boy with red curls dashed past, a T-shirt held over his crotch, skittering away frantically along the balcony, his bare feet slapping on the concrete.

  And then Barton tried to get by. Sam leapt up and grabbed him, clamping both arms around that lad’s naked waist. They crashed to the floor, and Burton struggled furiously, lashing out at Sam with surprising strength.

  ‘Pack it in!’ Sam yelled. ‘It’s me!’

  The boy caught him a blow across the jaw, but Sam held tight.

  ‘Barton, for God’s sake, it’s me, the copper with the kind eyes!’

  But Barton was like a frantic animal, fighting tooth and nail to get away. Sam managed to clamp the boy face down in a half-Nelson, pinning his free hand to the floor by kneeling on it. And, even so, Barton kicked wildly with his pale, hairy legs.

  From the open doorway came the sound of rough, childish laughter, ‘’Ere, look out, that bloke’s sticking it up his bum!’

  ‘I’m a police officer!’ Sam barked over his shoulder at the estate kids shrieking and hooting at him.

  ‘You’re a dirty ol’ bugger!’

  ‘No, I’m not! Now sling your hooks or I nick the lot of you!’

  The kids went rampaging away along the balcony, yelling, ‘He likes bums and arses’ as they went.

  Starting to lose patience with this situation, Sam got his arm around Barton’s neck and clamped him in a fierce hold. Barton clawed helplessly at him.

  ‘I’ve had enough of this, Barton!’ he panted. ‘I don’t want to nick you and I’m not trying it on. I just want to talk! Now bloody well pack it in before them scallies come back here with a couple dozen more of their mates!’

  Barton’s wide, frightened eyes swivelled round and stared into Sam’s face – and then, slowly, he recognized him. The struggling subsided. Sam released him.

  ‘PC Brown Eyes,’ Barton muttered.

  ‘If you like. Here – get some trousers on and let’s talk.’

  Sam handed him a pair of unwashed jeans that lay discarded on the floor. Barton slipped them on, but delayed doing up the fly. He stood there for a moment, still exposed, and gave Sam a sly look. Sam shook his head. Barton shrugged, and zipped himself up.

  ‘I never done this before,’ Barton said. ‘The photos, I mean. I just deliver ’em. But the regular lad didn’t show up, see? And the fella needed to get the shots done, and – well – you know—’

  ‘Barton, I’m not here because of that.’

  ‘I’m not a fairy. I like birds and big tits and all that.’

  Barton fished about for his T-shirt and slipped it on. It was adorned with a gaudy image of the Bay City Rollers, and at once it made Barton look very young, very childish, and – despite everything – strangely innocent.

  What chance has this lad ever had? Sam thought, looking at him in his boy-band T-shirt, standing here in this concrete hellhole, making ends meet by selling his body to lowlife pornographers? I bet he’s never known anything else but this. Shitty flats, crime, being exploited to earn a couple of quid. No education, no future, and the fear of going back inside hanging over him like a black cloud. For lads like him, it’s like the Dark Ages never ended.

  ‘I’m normal,’ Barton said pathetically.

  ‘I know you are.’

  ‘Honest. I just need the money.’

  ‘Barton, listen to me, I don’t care what you do, I’m only interested in what you can tell me about Friar’s Brook and what goes on there.’

  ‘Friar’s Brook? You’re not – you’re not thinking of—’

  ‘Sending you back there? Of course not. I’ve been there. I’ve seen what goes on.’

  ‘You have?’

  I’ve seen the punishment block.’

  ‘The Black Hole!’

  ‘Yes. Did they put you in there?’

  Barton went over to the vile kitchen area and poured himself a glass of water. He downed it in one, holding the glass in both hands, like a small child. Water ran down his chin. He wiped it away with the hem of his T-shirt.

  ‘I need you to tell me the truth,’ said Sam, gent
ly but firmly. ‘I need you to tell me about McClintock.’

  Hesitantly, Barton said, ‘What – do you want to know?’

  ‘Boys have died in Friar’s Brook.’

  Barton nodded.

  ‘Why did they die? Do you know why?’

  ‘McClintock,’ Barton said vaguely.

  ‘What does he do? Barton, I need to know. Do boys die because of McClintock’s regime? Do they die, and does he cover it up so it looks like suicide or an accident?’

  ‘Are you – trying to arrest him?’

  ‘If he’s guilty of something, then yes,’ said Sam. ‘And that’s why I need you to tell me what you know.’

  Barton thought for a moment, then said very quietly, ‘Sometimes boys died because of the punishments. And sometimes – sometimes they died because they gave McClintock too much grief.’

  ‘Too much grief? You mean that they upset his precious System?’

  Barton nodded. ‘Some of them lads, they’d stand up to him. Not me, I was too frit. And the ones who stood up, the ones who answered back, the ones who took him on, they paid for it. McClintock would put them in the Hole – for weeks on end, or even longer. He’d have the screws beat the daylights out of them. Or worse.’

  ‘In what way worse?’

  Barton glanced anxiously round the gloomy flat. He stared at a plug socket above the filthy Formica worktop for a moment, then said, ‘Electric shocks.’

  ‘Electric shocks? You mean, like in Abu Ghraib?’

  ‘Not just in the Abu Ghraibs, sir, but all over the body – face, hands, you name it. And there were other things too, sir, like when they’d – they’d …’ He ran himself another glass of water. ‘They’d get a rubber pipe and stick it down your throat and pour water down it. Boys have drowned like that, sir.’

  ‘McClintock has had boys drowned? Barton, I need to be one hundred per cent sure you’re telling me the truth.’

  ‘I am!’ Barton exclaimed. ‘Honest, sir, I’m helping you, I’m being good!’

  ‘You’re being good if you tell me the truth,’ Sam insisted.

  ‘That McClintock, sir, he’s one of them psychos!’ Barton exclaimed, his eyes wide and imploring. ‘He can do what he likes in there, and nobody knows! And if a lad dies, he just puts it down as something else – he hanged himself, he got into a fight, he got burned—’