Abide with Me

by Ian Ayris

  We get exercise twenty minutes a day in the yard. And there's a few jobs what you gotta do, but other than that, it's just keepin your nose clean.

  The screws are fuckin hardcore, and even the Lifers keep their heads down. I get me first dose second night on 'A' Wing. Adie's asleep, and me and Billy's talkin about the Hammers. I try not to think about Dad, but it's so fuckin hard, you know, and I wanna cry. Bite the inside of me lip, like I always do, and everything goes away for a while. Billy reckons he's in the I.C.F. and was on the ferry in seventy-eight fightin the Mancs. Fuckin believe it an all. Hard as they fuckin come, Billy.

  So, we're havin a good old natter, me and Billy, when these two screws come bargin in. Both fuckin huge. One of em tells Billy to fuck off, and the other one drags Adie out the top bunk and throws him clean out the cell. Adie and Billy take off so fuckin quick I don't see em for fuckin dust. One might be hard and the other might be mental, but they both know the fuckin score in here.

  One of the screws keeps a look out while the other one picks me up by the throat and slams me up the back of the cell.

  'You know what's comin to you, Sissons?' he says, so calm it's like he's teachin a class of little kids. 'You know what's fuckin comin?'

  I ain't got a bleedin clue what he's talkin about but I got a fair fuckin idea what's comin. I'm thinkin it's some sort of initiation bollocks all the new lags get, you know, sort of scare the shit of you, let you know who's on top. But then this bastard, this fuckin bastard, calm as you like, pulls his head back and nuts me right in the fuckin face. Feels like I'm all caved in and I got blood and snot comin out everywhere.

  'And that's just for fuckin starters,’ he says, straightenin up his tie.

  Then he leans down to where I'm in a fuckin heap on the floor. His face is all red and his eyes are fuckin burnin. I can tell he's lost it now, and he's growlin more than talkin. He grabs me by me hair and brings his face right in on mine. His breath fuckin reeks and he's breathin out his nose like a bull.

  'I been waitin four fuckin years for you, Sissons,' he says. 'Four fuckin years.'

  But his voice is just a fuckin echo.

  'Think you can try and fuckin stripe my big sister and fuckin get away with it, do you? Cunt.'

  And I'm thinking, shit. What are the fuckin chances of that?

  Then the fucker gobs in me face and kicks me in the bollocks so fuckin hard I'm nearly passin out.

  'Every fuckin day, Sissons, I'm after you,’ he says, walkin out backwards, stickin his fat fuckin finger at me. 'Every fuckin day.'

  Gettin up next mornin, I'm feelin something changin in me. Shiftin. Dyin. Feel it most in me eyes. It's like they're stuck open and gone too wide or something, like they're stuck in concrete.

  And there's this cold air what hurts and blows through em all the fuckin time.

  CHAPTER TWENTY

  And that cunt what caved my face in the first night, he weren't wrong. Name's George Johnson. All the lags hate him. Proper psycho. Whenever he's about, him and his gorilla mate kick the shit right out of me. Not just me, goes on all over the gaff. At night, over the sound of the cockroaches scurryin, and Adie snorin, and Billy talkin to himself, there's these muffled screams and thuds and there's blokes in the breakfast queue in the mornin battered to fuck, and no one sayin a fuckin word.

  Never fight back. That's the rule. That's what they want you to do. Me, I just stand there, eyes wide. And I take it all. And I don't feel none of it. Fight back and they'll have you in the Segregation Wing soon as fuckin look at you. No bastard hears you scream in there. But that ain't why I don't fight. I don't fight cos the standin still's the only thing holdin me together.

  Three months this goes on. And every time they come in, I crawl in me dark place and stay there till it's over. Safe. Untouchable. Pain's pain, see. And when you been hurt like I have, when you see your own fuckin Dad die in front of you, and when you know you've let everyone down who ever loved you, and you know there ain't no way of comin back, well, nothing touches that. Fuckin nothing.

  But that's me one mistake, see. The holdin it in. Cunts like Johnson, they wanna see you suffer, they wanna hear you beggin for your fuckin life. They ain't content with the blood and the poundin. They wanna know you're hurtin inside and out. And if you don't give em that, they'll just keep on till you fuckin hand it to em on a fuckin plate.

  ***

  Was only a matter of time in the end. Just a matter of time. Johnson‘s off all week, then he‘s on nights, so I’m all right for a few days. I know his shifts back to front. Make it my business, you know, cos then I can set me mind when I get up, set it for whatever’s comin.

  Adie’s still asleep, and me and Billy’s talkin about what a fuckin scandal it was Pop Robson never played for England, when the cell door opens.

  Two screws. Never seen em before. Skinny bastards, and their eyes are gleamin and they’re grinnin like a couple of kids just broke into a fuckin sweet shop. Me and Billy’s lookin at each other. The both of us know these two cunts have come to play.

  ‘Right you two,’ one of em says, talkin to Billy and Adie, even though Adie‘s still asleep, ‘fuck off out of here.’

  But I ain’t takin it off these scrawny fucks. No fuckin way. Johnson, fair enough, I mean if someone did that to my Becky, I’d probably be the fuckin same. But not these two. They ain’t got the fuckin right. Billy knows it an all, and he ain’t movin.

  The two screws move in. One of em goes over to Adie and tries draggin him out of bed. The other one comes over to Billy. Gets right in his face. Billy looks at me, winks, and stands up. And as he reaches the height of this little screw, he nuts him right in the face and walks out the cell.

  The other screw's still tryin to drag Adie out of bed, but Adie ain't havin none of it. Must be holdin on to the fuckin sides or something. Mind you, we've all been doin that for years.

  And that does it for me. Like I says, they ain’t got the fuckin right. The screw with his face mashed in, he’s out of it, can‘t hardly stand up. But I’m on him anyway. I got me arm across his throat, smashin me fist into his ribs. And I keep poundin till I feel one crack. And another. And another.

  I’ve really fuckin lost it now, dunno what the fuck I’m doin. It's like all that darkness inside's comin out all at once, all on this cunt. And I can't fuckin stop.

  Don’t take long till the other cunt's leggin it out the cell, tryin to blow his whistle. But I know there ain’t no one comin. They fucked up, see. This is Johnson’s business and no other screw‘s gonna fuck with him.

  Billy and Adie’s shifted out to another cell that afternoon. Don't take a fuckin genius to know what I got comin.

  ***

  But I can’t do it no more. The standin still. You can only do that sort of shit so long before something goes. Something deep. It’s like all the world outside – Mum, Becks, all of em – none of em matter no more. Cos all I got in me head's this cunt Johnson, and how I'm gonna have him out of here in a box. Dunno how I'm gonna do it yet. Fuckin no idea. But I gotta start fightin back before it's me dragged out this shit-hole by me feet.

  Next day, I'm in the wood shop, and I get this idea. Ain't no way I'm walkin out here with a Stanley blade or a fuckin claw hammer, they're all tagged. So I pick myself up a couple of nails and slip em in me socks.

  Back in me cell, I'll knock me up a little something. Slip the nails between me fingers, tear off a bit of sheet and strap me hand up, like a boxer, and push the nails through. Bob's your uncle, a tasty little knuckle-duster. I'm closin me eyes, and I can feel the nails goin in through that bastard's throat and I'm grindin em in and his blood’s splattin me face but I don't care a fuck. And I'm gonna make him look at me as I'm rippin his throat out, make sure I'm the last person he ever fuckin sees. I don't care no more what happens, long as I can see that look in his eyes. Fear and panic and fuckin death.

  ***

  I'm still in a right fuckin state from the last beatin I got from Johnson, when out the blue I hears a vo
ice from the past.

  'Fuck me, Johnny Sissons!'

  A slimy, greasy sort of voice. The sort that'll promise you the earth and give you fuck all in return.

  Long time since I heard someone halfway friendly, though. Ain’t fuckin seen hide nor hair of Adie and Billy since they was shifted. Reckon they’re gettin it right bad somewhere. But there’s only one rule in here, one rule that wipes out all the others. And that rule is simple: 'Look out for your fuckin self'.

  So I hears this voice. Not that it's friendly, like I says. More, familiar. Terry Wilkins. Terry fuckin Wilkins. Harry Wilkins’ slitherin shit of a big brother. He's runnin down the steps from the landin above, two at a time and I meet him halfway down. He steps back when he sees the state I'm in.

  'Fuckin hell, Johnny. What happened to you?'

  He's talkin like he's me best mate or something. Like he really fuckin cares. Gives me the fuckin creeps, he does. But it's a face I know, and that's something after what I been through.

  I give him the old line.

  'Fell down the stairs.'

  He looks at me like he's really fuckin concerned, you know, genuine, like. But I know him. Born arse-licker. Always fuckin was.

  'Hear you went down for the Granny job,' he says, as we're walkin along.

  Ain't got the energy to tell him she weren't no older than me mum, so I let it slide.

  Seems a fuckin lifetime ago. Anyway, what the fuck's he want me to say? He knows why I'm here.

  'What you in for?' I says. Not that I'm really fuckin bothered.

  'Ah, just some shit, you know, Johnny. Be out in six months.'

  He puts his arm round me. I wanna tell him to fuck off, but all this pushin people away fuckin takes it out of you in the end.

  'Look, Johnny. Whatever grief you're gettin in here, I can get it sorted.'

  He's pretendin he don't know nothing about it, about Johnson. But cunts like Terry Wilkins make it their business to know every fuckin thing from here to fuckin bedtime.

  Same as at school. Always had his ear to the ground and his nose where it shouldn't. Reckoned he could get you anything an all. Football stickers, chocolate, fags, chocolate fags if you want em. Fuckin anything. Never come through though. Always some bleedin story, like he's had a rush on, or Jacko's nabbed his stash, or his fence has turned him over, you know, some such bollocks. Far as I know, no one ever saw fuck all. That's Terry Wilkins for you. All fuckin talk.

  Still, might as well humour the cunt. Got fuck all else to do.

  'What do you mean, “sorted”?’ I says.

  'I got . . . connections, mate. You know? People.'

  Here we go. Same old fuckin bollocks. I tell him I can sort me own shit out, but thanks anyway. He knows I don't believe a word he's fuckin sayin.

  'No, really, Johnny, I'm . . . there's this bloke I work for. He's proper fuckin kosher, John, you know? The real fuckin deal. He can really fuckin help you out, mate.'

  I just wanna be on me own now. Had enough of this cunt.

  'Remember you was pretty quick with your hands as a kid, Johnny. Always thought I'd end up seein you at the York Hall one of these days. Still got the old one-two?' And he throws a couple of jabs as he says it.

  Scrap I had with them two screws was the first I had in years, not since I first got in the J.D.C., But I know I ain't lost it. I can see it in their faces – the other lags. I know they think I'm a right proper headcase. But what I lost is the fire. The focus, you know. That's what I lost.

  Till I had this idea of rippin George Johnson’s fuckin throat out.

  And I dunno why I'm even talkin to this cunt, of all fuckin people. Always was a tosser. Just like his little shit of a brother. Terry blows out his cheeks and walks away scratchin his chin, like he's makin a show of makin his mind up about something. Thinks it makes him look like he's got some sort of fuckin influence in the matter, you know.

  'You ever heard of Ronnie Swordfish?' he says, turnin round.

  Now what sort of a fuckin name is that? I'm thinkin he's probably made it up on the fuckin spot. But he's dead serious, and I tighten me face up.

  ‘Course,' he says, 'you been out the scene a while, John. Forgot that.'

  Scene? What fuckin scene? Cunt thinks he's in the fuckin Godfather.

  He pulls me to one side as we're makin our way to the next landin. Starts talkin really low so I can't hardly hear him.

  'Ronnie's been round for fuckin ages, mate. Got the whole fuckin manor sewed up. Thing is, John, we got a couple lads inside, you know, long term bird. We could do with a geezer like you on the Firm. I can put in a good word for Ronnie, if you're interested?'

  He's really gettin on me fuckin nerves now. All this gangster shit.

  'Told you, Terry,' I says, shruggin his arm off me shoulder. 'I'm sortin this out myself.'

  ***

  I forget about Terry Wilkins soon as I'm back in me cell. Johnson ain't back for a couple of days, so I'm lookin forward to gettin me head down for a bit, but I got two screws outside me cell the whole fuckin time. It's like they're keepin an eye on me special or something. And it ain't never been like that before. That night, Johnson comes in mob-handed a day fuckin early.

  Some cunt’s tipped him off, and him and three other fuckers rip into me till they can't hardly fuckin stand up. Gets so bad, I start passin out, but every time I do, when it starts goin black and feels like I'm fallin, one of em slaps me in the face till I wake up and they start on me again. In the end, when me eyes are closin over and I can't even feel any fuckin part of me, they fuck off. George Johnson says something to me before he goes, but he can't hardly fuckin breathe he's so fucked, and I don't get a fuckin word of it. When he's finished sayin whatever it is he's sayin, I lean back against the wall and let myself go.

  And I'm floatin and sinkin and swirlin and meltin. The black's movin round me and through me and I don't know where I stop and the outside starts. I'm spinnin round and round and round and in and out and deep, so deep. I'm sinkin into meself, right into nowhere, to the place where nothing ever stops.

  I'm in a room. It's dark. But there's a light. And there's a boy sittin on a bed. He's got his head bent and he ain't seen me yet. I've been here before. This room. This dark. A long time ago. There's a sadness and there's a hurt in this room and so many tears. I'm standin up and I'm walkin round, and still he don't look up. There's nothing here but so much fuckin pain. It's like I gotta tear through it all just to put one foot in front of another. I'm lookin for something but the light outside the window starts buzzin, and goes out. Flicker. Flicker. Out. On again. And it's Kenny's room. But it ain't Kenny on the bed. It's me. Lookin at the light. The light outside his window.

  'Mr Sissons? Mr Sissons?'

  The light gets bigger till that's all there is. And the back of me eyes are fuckin killin me.

  'What?'

  Fuck me. Never felt so much fuckin pain. Feels like me head’s in a fuckin vice and I got ten geezers stampin on me bollocks.

  'Thought we'd lost you there, Mr Sissons. For a moment.'

  I'd been in the prison hospital three fuckin weeks and didn't know fuck all about it. One of the five ribs George Johnson and his fuckin mates done went straight through one of me lungs. Doctor reckons I was lucky to make it through the first night. Said that'd teach me for assaultin a warder. Assaultin a fuckin warder. Bastards. Story goes I jumped Johnson when he popped his head round to say hello, and I tried to rip his fuckin eyes out with me fingers. Said it took six screws to pull me off the cunt.

  ***

  I'm headin up the steps to me landin when me collar gets felt. Fuck me. Ain't been out more than fuckin twenty minutes.

  'Governor wants to see you, Sissons.' The screw spits the words out like I make him fuckin sick just to look at.

  And every screw I pass is lookin just the fuckin same.

  ***

  Governor's office is wood all over. Big fuck-off desk, all panelled walls. Half a fuckin library behind this glass case. He stands up
when I come in. Little bloke. Face like a beetroot. Ain't hard to tell he's fuckin steamin. The two screws what brought me here ain't said a word since they come and got me. Something's up. Fuckin know that.

  'Sit down, Sissons,' the Governor says, and stays standin, just like that cunt Jacko used to at school before he caned your fuckin arse off.

  I sit down and the two screws move in behind me.

  Governor puts his hands on the desk and leans into me face. I fuckin ain't havin this. I've had too many years of this shit. No more Mister fuckin Nice Guy.

  I try and stand up but the two screws push me straight back down.

  'What?' I says. 'What d'you fuckin want?'

  Governor smacks me round the face and the two screws hold me in the chair, bendin me arms back and pushin me forward so me head goes down.

  'Let him up, lads.'

  Bastards let me up, but they ain't lettin go. The Governor shoves a newspaper under me nose. Big headlines.

  'Car Bomb Outside South London School'

  I keep readin.

  'Yesterday afternoon, a car bomb exploded outside Wandsworth Junior and Infants school on Church Road, killing two adults and a child. The victims were named as Mr George Johnson (45), his wife Angela (37), and their five year old daughter, Lilly.'

  Can't read no more.

  And the blood’s poolin in me shoe where the nails are diggin in me foot.

  ***

  First lag I see when I come out the Governor's Office is Terry Wilkins. Smilin. Goes to shake me hand.

  I bang the cunt right in the face.

  He's lookin up at me from the floor, like he dunno why I done it. Like blowin up a little fuckin five year old ain't enough. I ain't got nothing more to say to this cunt.