by Jack Dickson
One other known fact about his cell-mate. This was Triple-S: the man was either high suicide risk or, like himself, at risk from other quarters.
The officer tried a laugh. “Funny guy!” It didn’t come off.
His eyes travelled up the body to the face.
An angry face. “Funny, am ah?” No lop-sided grin. “Well, let’s see how amusin’ ye find this!” Head lowered, the man charged towards a grey-uniformed figure ...
“Get used to it, McStay!”
... who neatly avoided the bull-run and stepped out onto the walkway.
The cell door banged, then locked shut.
Jas stared up at the face. Where McStay’s body was larger, bulkier than his alter-photo-ego, the features were still angular, well-chiselled. Dark eyes narrowed, looked down at him.
He could hear the man’s breathing, almost feel the breath on his face.
McStay moved back a little.
Jas swung legs onto the floor, grabbed a packet of cigarettes and threw them towards broad hands.
McStay caught the gold rectangle, fist tightening.
“Ah’ll get them tae move me tae the penthouse suite the morra.” Jas examined the face for an area of common ground. He smiled at the large mouth, at present set in a hard line ...
... where it remained. The pack of cigarettes crumpled and thrown against the opposite wall. Hard.
Jas lowered his head, ducked out from under the bunk and stood up.
The space was too small. He was closer to this man than he wanted to be.
McStay was at least 6' 2", pushing two-fifty pounds. Less than an inch between them in height, slightly more in distance.
He groped for an approach: humour had failed, anything more serious was inappropriate. Jas stared at the crumpled packet of cigarettes. “Can ah cadge a light aff ye?” He waited for an answer to his question.
And waited. He focused on the five o’clock shadow which dusted the square chin and wondered how accurate it was.
McStay turned his face towards the small, barred window. Or the piss-pot. It was hard to tell which.
Jas followed the gaze. He could smell the man – an unfamiliar combination of carbolic soap and heated vegetable oil. He could hear his own breathing now, slow and steady where McStay’s lungs seemed to be struggling to breathe at all.
Something else was washing off the man, in great rolling waves. Jas stared at a small vein which pulsed erratically on McStay’s neck.
Then a sigh.
Jas tried to interpret the sound. Resignation? Annoyance? Frustration? He addressed the man’s back. “The name’s Anderson – Jas Anderson.” He considered another off-the-cuff joke, but had a feeling McStay wasn’t the laughing type. He waited for the introduction to be returned ...
His cell-mate turned. “Stay oota ma face, pal, just ...” McStay pushed past him and threw himself onto the top bunk. “... stay oota ma face!”
... three silent hours later, at lights-out, he’d had all the introduction he was going to get.
Ten
HE WOKE UP TO THE SOUND of his cell-mate pissing.
Eyelids sprang open. Semi-darkness. Jas pulled the stiff, damp smelling blanket more tightly around his fully-clothed body and stared.
Legs.
Bare legs.
Liquid splattered against aluminium.
He eased himself up on one elbow. The tail of McStay’s denim shirt hung down over hairy thighs. Jas blinked. Despite the cold in the cell, his clothes stuck to him like a semi-sloughed skin but felt cleaner than the bedding looked.
The pissing stopped. The legs moved closer to the bucket, then turned.
Jas closed his eyes. Damp air was warming with the scent of fresh urine. A bell rang. Jaundiced light flooded his eyelids.
“Ah, fuck!” McStay’s voice was thick with sleep and irritation.
Jas listened to the sounds of dressing, waiting for the springs of the bunk above to creak.
The cell was small enough.
He unwrapped himself from the blanket and stretched. The bruises around his kidneys throbbed a little, but nothing major. He frowned, unhooking toes from beneath the metal rail at the bottom of the bed. His feet had hung over the bottom of the cot all night. Whoever manufactured the frames evidently had 5' 7" slender builds in mind. Jas rubbed his face, running a hand over his bristling chin. His mind returned to the Bic razor still nestling at his groin.
A second bell.
He listened beyond its echoes for evidence of doors unlocking.
The bunk above creaked.
Jas opened his eyes.
A pair of bony ankles were attempting to cram themselves into work-boots, above his head.
He swung legs over the edge of the cot and stood up.
Harsh fluorescent lighting did nothing to improve the accommodation. Limbs stiff and tense, Jas glanced at his cell-mate’s lowered head as the man laced up boots.
Dark, tangled hair tied back in a pony-tail. Last night’s five o’clock shadow etched the jaw-line like a sketcher’s smudge.
Jas cleared dawn sludge from his throat. Good morning was inappropriate.
The head snapped up. “Whit you lookin’ at?” Narrowed eyes nailed him, then returned to the laces.
Jas sighed. He crouched, reaching under the lower bunk for his own boots.
Keys scraping.
The door ricocheted against his shoulder as it swung inwards. He was still registering the shudder in his arm as a pair of booted feet landed beside him. Then sloshing sounds. Crouching, Jas moved back against the bunks.
McStay grabbed the piss-pot and a towel which had appeared from somewhere. Large feet stepped over him.
“You too, Anderson!” Something crisp and rough hit his head.
Jas got up, grabbed the grey towel and a pair of Peter’s cellophane-wrapped underwear, moved out onto the landing.
He had no idea what time it was, but BST told him he was about to meet his fellow inmates.
He shuffled along the walkway, behind a figure dressed in denim and in front of a figure dressed the same. Three in front, he recognised the back of his cell-mate’s head.
Every second man held a piss-pot.
On the walkway opposite, a mirror-image line of denimed men shuffled in sync. Below, the landings and stairs teamed with a sea of blue, punctuated by the occasional Hadrian-identified grey serge.
Dry men and full piss-pots moving west.
Damp men with empty piss-pots moving east.
Jas slung the stiff, grey towel over one shoulder. He scanned the lines for a break in the denim, for other remand prisoners ...
... and spotted one. T-shirt, bleached jeans. No Harrington. Large hands hugging goose-bumped, wiry arms and blotting out the St Andrew’s cross tattoo. Gerry from the showers was laughing and joking with the denimed men around him, zero-crop bobbing cockily.
He frowned, eyes moving away to ...
... on the other side of the walkway, at the far end of the block, a smaller figure. Still wearing the padded Puffa jacket. And earphones.
He walked on, watching the rodent-faced boy. The only sound was the thump of boots on metal. The boy kept his head down, ignoring all glances.
Jas did likewise.
Steam from the shower block leaked out into the corridor. He stared through a haze of condensation and a mist of murmured conversation.
In front, men were starting to undress. Over the low hum of words, water and the occasional shout from an officer.
The Bic razor dug into his thigh. Jas ran a hand over his chin. He felt like using it. but knew one would be provided. He watched a pale, pockmarked back appear from under the denim shirt in front. He’d lost track of Gerry and the rodent-faced boy from the bus.
The line inched forward.
Jas peered into a tiled area, identical to the one in which he’d showered yesterday. He thought vaguely of a St Andrew’s cross and the sharing of a slim bar of carbolic soap.
Then killed the thought.
In front, man after man emptied his piss-pot, rinsed it then moved on.
Another thing they took away from you: privacy.
By the time the line reached a long wooden bench, most men were naked. Jas began to unbutton combat pants. The line was remarkable well-behaved. A few were still talking in low voices.
Most stood silently, anonymous cogs in the machine.
Anonymity was the desired state. Jas glanced behind.
Half a dozen men. And one grey, Hadrian uniform, who closed and locked the door from the outside.
He turned his attention back to the shower faucets and those washing beneath them.
Ages spanned late teens to early sixties. Mainly white. Mainly late-teens to mid-twenties. Jas thought about statistics: the main perpetrators of crime were ages 17 to 26. As were the main victims.
The sound of drumming water filled his ears. He filtered out the noise of twenty shower-faucets.
The very old knew the ropes: the very young were too scared to even acknowledge ropes existed.
Distilled to its essentials, only two things mattered in Bar-L life.
Getting through it – and getting out.
Beyond the line of now-showering bodies, at the far end of the shower-block, two Hadrian officers were chatting, backs to the queue. A huddle of dripping men were drying themselves or dressing. An elbow in his ribs:
“Get a move on, pal.”
Jas moved towards the vacant faucet without turning. He pulled off the rest of his clothes, slipping the Bic into the pocket of the combat pants. He looked for a dry spot on the swimming floor, then gave up and stepped into the shower.
At least the water was warm. He closed his eyes, tilting his face towards the faucet.
’Anderson!”
He flinched. Eyes shot open. He looked for the grey Hadrian uniform.
Both officers had left the block.
Jas glanced around.
No one glanced back.
He continued to wash. Something slimy stuck to the soles of his feet.
At least the water was clean. He scooped up the slimy remnants of a bar of carbolic from the floor and began to soap his body. The bruising on his stomach had faded to an insipid yellow. Hands skimmed the area, reaching down to groin.
“Jas Anderson!”
He spat a mouthful of water and turned.
A man stood a yard away, arms folded. Clothed and staring.
Eyes flicked to the other faucets.
Thorough, heads-down ablutions were taking place in each. At the far end, two other men stood, watching. They walked towards his facet.
Jas stared at his starer.
5' 10"-ish. Shoulder-length hair. Full beard, enhancing probably twenty-odd years. Prison denims hung on a coat-hanger of a body ...
... a long-stayer. Jas watched the two other men join the first. Water ran into his eyes. He blinked it away, stepped forward.
Coat-hanger grinned at his two companions, then looked back at Jas. “Got a message fur you!” The voice was almost friendly.
He looked down at three sets of booted feet, one of which was standing on his towel and clothes, and knew better than to trust an almost. “So gimme the message!”
“Neil sez hello –” Grin. “... an’ he’ll seeya later ... polis!” With a mock bow, Coat-hanger laughed then walked away, messages delivered. His two companions grinned, then trailed after their leader.
Jas followed them with his eyes, water cooling on colder skin.
No threat.
Nothing you could put a finger on.
Nothing that couldn’t have been said in front of an officer ...
... or a crowd of officers.
A shiver swept his naked body. The shower block was emptying, apart from a drying straggler or two.
They could have had him then and there ...
Jas moved out of the shower, picked up a boot-printed towel and tried to dry himself.
... but that would have been too easy.
The visit had delivered two messages: one to Jas, and another to the rest of the prison.
He picked up damp clothes and moved to the other end of the shower area.
Ex-polis.
Ex-polis and disliked by Neil Johnstone, who evidently had acquired clout with the years.
Jas dragged a pair of too-tight Calvins over wet thighs. He thought briefly of Peter and almost smiled.
The smell of over-cooked food churned his stomach.
As he held out his breakfast tray, a man in kitchen whites dumped a portion of beans on top of two greasy rashers of bacon. Then a grinning mouthful of phlegm.
Jas stared at the smear of greenish mucus: the Bar-L grapevine was as efficient as ever. He moved on. As he filled his coffee cup at the urn, his cell-mate’s eyes flicked from beyond the serving hatch, then flicked away.
He turned to the dining-hall and searched for a vacant place.
Three then four empty seats drawn into the closest tables.
On the periphery, one Hadrian uniform strode up and down, a solitary guard over four hundred men: seeing everything and taking in nothing.
Jas walked on, drinking black instant coffee as he walked. Every head turned away. Every spare seat was studiously pulled in. He scowled.
“Mr Anderson?” Questioning half-whisper.
The tray shook in his grip. Jas walked on.
“Mr Anderson!” Insistent.
He turned to the direction of the voice.
Head and shoulders above the seated masses, a stocky, bald man with the familiar full beard of the long-stay prisoner who had better things to do with a razor. Unfamiliar smile. Beckoning.
Jas shrugged, weaving his way over to the figure.
This table was half-empty.
The bald man pointed to one of the vacant chairs.
Jas eyed the face. More a type than a face. The broken veins of a heavy drinker tracked cheeks like B roads.
“Ah thought it wis you.” An edge of urgency. “Sit doon, eh?” Jas sat.
The balding man resumed eating. “Whit you doin’ here?” Said between munches.
Jas gripped the coffee cup. The question sounded strangely casual ...
... like meeting a vague acquaintance, on holiday. He sat his cup down on the table. “Takin’ a rest cure!”
Choking laugh. “Ach, Mr Anderson – that sense of humour of yours!”
Jas drained his coffee cup.
The choking subsided into a cough. Then subsided into seriousness. “Ye don’t remember me, dae ye?” Hurt.
Jas stared. “Ten oota ten, pal! Gimme a clue.”
The offended face smiled. “1989. Easterhoose Polis station.”
Years ago. Jas blinked, then shook his head. He’d processed hundreds in his three years with E division: why did they always expect their face to remain with you? “Bigger clue, pal!”
Small, yellowed fingers extended a packet of cigarettes.
Jas accepted.
Yellow fingers lit it, then his own. “Disney matter, ah suppose ...”
Jas stared at the face. It did. This man obviously remembered him, and he was down far enough already, in the information stakes. He tried to think, waited for a bell to ring. The nicotine helped. Drawing the smoke into his lungs, he smiled. “Telephone, right?”
Coughing laugh. “Ye dae remember!”
Jas re-examined A. Graham Bell. In for petty theft, handling on top of breach of the peace. A drunk who’d made the mistake of throwing up over his arresting officers. A drunk who’d narrowly avoided a beating. Jas remembered his first realisation that ‘enforcing the law’ was a phrase with many meanings.
“You saved ma bacon, Mr Anderson – the only polis tae ever dae that. Ah still owe ye.”
Jas frowned. It was a debt he may need to call in.
Telly continued to talk. “Ah kept tabs oan
ye, Mr Anderson - knew ye were a good’un, even back then ...”
Jas looked up from the table. Three sets of eyes stared at him. Eyes bordering on friendly.
“... ah followed the court case, afore they took away ma library privileges. Grassin’ up another polis canny have bin easy ...”
One of the easiest things he’d ever done. Jas rubbed his face. The consequences of the action were another matter.
“... there canny be wan rule fur them, an’ another fur us – right, Mr Anderson?”
Jas felt himself wilting under the weight of the spontaneous tribute to his moral righteousness. “Right, Telly.” He flicked cigarette ash onto the pile of snot. “Now tell me aboot the rules in here!”
The ruddy face stared at him, paling beneath the broken veins. “Only wan rule, noo that lot ur in charge ...” Puffy eyes darted to an oblivious grey uniform and back to Jas. “... keep yer heid doon, Mr Anderson, an ...”
“Cut the chat, lads!”
Jas looked up.
The grey uniform stared down at him.
Jas frowned. “Ah want tae see the governor!”
Impassive face. “Your request will be passed on and ...”
“Ah wiz telt that last night! Ah need tae see whoever’s in charge - an’ ah want a single cell.”
“Your request will be passed on! Now eat!”
Jas stared at his ruined food. Ah’m no’ hungry.” His eyes flicked back to the impassive face. The lump of snot was obvious.
So was the silence that now surrounded their exchange.
The officer shrugged. “Suit yourself! Now, keep the chat down.” He strolled away.
Jas stared after him. Tugging on his arm:
“Lea’ it, Mr Anderson. Ye’ll get no sense oota that lot.” The voice lower.
Jas turned
Telly took a deep breath. “When’s yer trial?”
“December 4th.” That was the least of his worries.
Telly worried for him. “Things ur bad in here, Mr Anderson.”
Jas laughed. “Tell me something ah don’t know!”
“There’s a book sez ye’ll no’ last the week.”
Jas sobered. Odds on, it was a distinct possibility.
A sigh. “The things some people’ll bet oan ...”