Banged Up

by Jack Dickson

  Jas thought of the showers: Coat-hanger and co. had opportunity and means. Their motive had been something other than physical violence.

  “... relieves the boredom, what wi’ twenty-two hour lock-up an’ ...”

  Jas stared.

  Telly elaborated. “Cos of the strike. Nae reccy, nae exercise, nae visits, nae further education classes – an’ ah wiz daein’ that well wi’ ma conversational Italian!” Disappointment fading into a cough. “They goat ye in Isolation?”

  Jas shook his head.

  Surprise. “Who’re ye sharin’ wi’?”

  “Some clown wi’ a ponytail an’ an attitude problem – McStay?”

  The ruddy face stared at him.

  He clarified. “Works in the kitchen. Whit’s he in fur?”

  “Why ye wanna ken that, Mr Anderson?”

  Jas stubbed out his cigarette on the pile of phlegm. “Cos ah’m in Triple-S wi’ him an’ ah need tae ken whit ah’m dealin’ wi !”

  Small hands covered the ruddy face, obliterating a yawn. “McStay’s no’ a bad guy, Mr Anderson ...”

  Jas stared at wrinkled knuckles. A voice from the other side of the table:

  “... mair o’ a danger tae himsel’ than onywan else, far as ah kin see.”

  A bell rang.

  “He in Triple-S fur the usual reasons?” The scraping of hundred of chair legs almost drowned his words. The more he knew about his cell-mate, the better things would be for both of them.

  “McStay jumped a coupla poofs in Strathclyde Park, Mr Anderson – that’s how come he’s in here. Then tried tae aff himsel’.” Uncomprehending head-shake.

  “File out!”

  Telly stood up, as did the other three.

  A gay-basher: out of all the cells in all the world, he had to ...

  ... Jas continued to sit until small, surprisingly strong fingers hauled him upright and pushed him towards the already forming line of men:

  “Ye got onythin’ tae trade wi’, Mr Anderson?” Eager.

  Jas turned his mind to the cigarettes, then the Bic razor, now more precious than anything Telly could offer. Then he thought about the one friendly face he’d encountered so far, and the need to keep it that way. As they walked from the canteen, he leant forward and aimed for a red ear. “Maybe.”

  Telly’s head moved slightly. “Ah’ll seeya later – git ye sorted oot.”

  Eleven

  DOING TIME.

  Jas sat on the bottom bunk, staring at three walls and a metal door. For the first time, the phrase sank in.

  Doing time.

  Doing a stretch ...

  ... struggling with seconds, working with minutes which elongated and refused to turn into hours. The only accurate gauge was night and day – and perhaps the bells, which seemed to be still programmed to mark the start and finish of activities no longer permitted.

  He stared at the door. There had been a brief period – he had no idea how long – when it was open, following his return after breakfast. Then a grey arm had stretched in, fingers clutching keys. The door had been locked ever since. He turned his head and stared at the wall opposite.

  Twenty-two hours a day.

  Twenty-two hours doing nothing.

  Correction – doing time.

  ‘On Remand’ ceased to have any meaning, apart from the dubious privilege of wearing his own clothes and standing out as such.

  He lay back on the bunk, staring at the underside of the bed above. Activities like building scale models of the Cutty Sark from spent matches suddenly made sense. Jas focused on the pattern of springs, at the sections of mattress which bulged down between metal coils. He tried to immerse himself in the design, see beyond the surface into the distance. Unblinking eyes bored up at the bedsprings, then began to water.

  Jas frowned. Maybe he should have paid more attention, when the physio-consultant at the Royal had suggested yoga. Somewhere transcendental to retreat to would be welcome ...

  He stretched up his right arm, tracing the outline of one of the metal spirals with a forefinger.

  ... but the Bar-L was all too real, all too concrete. Meditation was an escape he couldn’t attempt ...

  The rounded edge of the bed-spring dug into the soft pad of his finger.

  ... couldn’t risk the damage which might be done to his body when his mind was otherwise engaged. He reached up with the other hand, curling eight digits around eight metal ellipses. Gripping tightly, he relaxed the muscles in his arms.

  Then tensed.

  And pulled.

  A sharp crack. He paused, relaxed, then tensed again.

  No sound.

  He did ten pull-ups. The cot above began groaning before he did. Jas released the springs and ducked out from beneath the bunk.

  The small window was set high in the wall opposite the door.

  He gripped the bars, pulled himself up. In his right biceps, a tremor. Jas glimpsed the roofs of a row of houses, before fingers cramped and he was forced to let go.

  Back on terra firma, he rubbed his arms and waited for his heart to slow.

  Seeing the outside was worse than imagining it. At least in the realms of imagination, there was distance.

  In reality, Riddrie was less than five hundred yards away. Barlinnie wasn’t the Shotts: no new, modern prison set appropriately in the middle of nowhere.

  The Bar-L was a grim. Victorian reality, yards from normality.

  He sank to a crouch. An odour drifted into his nostrils. Jas glanced at the newly washed and as-yet-unused piss-pot, and moved away.

  Reality pressed in. And reality had to be dealt with. Jas eased himself to his feet, stripped off the Adidas T-shirt and began to exercise.

  A bell rang.

  He completed one hundred press-ups, flipped onto his back and rested for ten breaths. He breathed out for longer than he breathed in, slowing his heart rate.

  Sit-ups. He moved back, hooking boots under the rail of the lower bunk. Forehead blistered with sweat, after forty.

  After sixty, the concrete beneath his back was both warm and wet.

  After one hundred, he could taste sour, black, instant coffee. Jas unhooked his feet and stared at the ceiling. Pounding in his ears, which slowly subsided as he watched a spider tramp its way around the fluorescent light’s blackened sparker.

  The sour coffee taste was burning his throat. No way to put out the fire. Suddenly, running water had become a luxury.

  Jas rubbed his face and scowled. Last he’d heard, there had been plans to install plumbing in all Barlinnie’s cells ...

  ... and that was probably the last anyone had heard of it. Stomach muscles throbbed as he rolled on his side.

  No cell sanitation.

  No running water.

  No telephone calls.

  No letters.

  No visits ...

  He levered himself up onto his left elbow.

  ... no basic human rights. Jas tried to smile.

  No big deal.

  But it was, and he knew it.

  The first thud made him jump.

  Jas stared at the heavy metal door. From outside:

  “Room service!” Low laughter.

  The second thud made him angry:

  “Settlin’ in, polis?” Louder laughter. The door hatch opened.

  Jas stared at the grinning face which appeared and tried not to rise to the bait.

  “Need onythin’?” Two more thuds ...

  ... then a volley.

  Jas clenched his fists. The cell shrank around him.

  “Change yer bed, polis? Change yer ...” Guffaws. “... face?”

  He bit back a retort. Twelve years in Strathclyde police and thirty-five as a gay man had taught him threats hurt but didn’t mark.

  Boots marked.

  Knives marked ...

  ... he slipped a hand into the pocket of the combat pants and fingered the disposable razor.

  “No’ gonny open yer door, polis?”

  The thudding had become rh
ythmic, beating in sync with his heart. Jas frowned. Where the fuck were Hadrian? Twenty-two hour lock-up usually extended to all prisoners. He watched heavy metal shudder under the impact of at least four sets of shoulders.

  The grinning face disappeared from the hatch-space.

  Then silence. Then:

  “Well, we’ll jist huv tae use oor pass key!”

  The words turned his blood to ice-water.

  Instinct kicked in. He moved towards the door, fingers tight around the Bic razor.

  Metal scraping ...

  Adrenalin careered around his body.

  ... a bell rang ...

  ... and the door heaved inwards.

  Jas stared at five men.

  Men he didn’t know, had never seen before ...

  ... but who knew him as one thing only. Three pushed past him, the other two blocking the doorway. One held a crudely-fashioned sliver of metal. “An’ how ye findin’ the accommodation, polis?”

  Jas frowned. “Ah’m no’ polis ...” A laugh behind.

  “... no’ noo, maybe, but wance polis always polis – eh, boys?”

  “An’ ah don’t want ony trouble.” He moved to the side wall, eyes flicking between the doorway and the three men at present rifling through the Armani bag. “Get oota ma cell!”

  Chuckles. “Ye’re no very hospitable, ur ye?”

  “Get oot!” He knew it was a test. He knew five against one was no competition.

  Shrug. “Jist goin’ ...”

  He focused on the denimed figure doing most of the talking. Late twenties. Shoulder-length red hair. Skinny – no presence. No beard.

  Long-termers were more settled, less antagonistic. New boys had something to prove. To other new boys.

  “... but we’ll be back.” Wink.

  A finger jabbed at his chest:

  “... an’ we’ll expect a friendlier welcome.”

  Jas noticed three packets of Peter’s Bensons slipped into denim pockets. He let them go. “Tell me when ye’re comin’ an’ ah’ll bake a fuckin’ cake!”

  More laughter – some of it genuine-sounding.

  The skinny red-head pulled the door behind him, then paused: “Have a nice day, noo.”

  Then slamming. And the sound of makeshift key scraping.

  Sweat trickled from his pits, tracking a rapidly cooling trail down his sides. Grabbing a damp-smelling blanket, he pulled the fabric around himself and sat down on the lower bunk.

  Some things you never got used to ...

  Adrenalin slowly receded.

  ... like fear, and what it did to your body.

  A couple of bells later, more scraping.

  He unwrapped himself from the blanket and stood up, well back from the door ...

  ... which swung gently inwards.

  Jas looked at Telly.

  Telly looked back, then placed the tray of food on the bottom bunk.

  Jas peered beyond, out onto the walkway. Nothing. No one. “Settlin’ in, Mr Anderson?”

  Jas looked from the walkway to the food, then at Telly: action replay?

  Offended. “Prepared it masel’, Mr Anderson. Ye can eat it.” Jas remained where he was. Suspicion was a dangerous friend to lose.

  Telly poked his head out into the corridor, looked both ways, then slowly shut the door. The ruddy face regarded his. Deft fingers unbuttoning the denim shirt.

  Jas tensed.

  “Okay, Mr Anderson ...” Beneath the work shirt, fingers unfastening a large bag, suspended from neck. “... whit ye got tae trade?”

  Jas laughed. “Telly, don’t do that!”

  Confusion, then a shrug.

  Jas lifted a fish-cake from the food tray and began to chew. “Ah’ve goat fags – that’s aboot it.” He wondered which part of a fish was the cake.

  Telly eyed the heavy leather biker’s jacket, at present draped across the pillow of the lower cot. “Whit aboot that?”

  Jas shook his head.

  “Sure?”

  Jas repeated the gesture.

  Grin. “Okay – it’s Supermarket Sweep time!” The contents of the bag emptied onto the mattress.

  Jas regarded the cache. Four sample-size bottles of cologne, complimentary books of matches, a variety of underwear, a toothbrush, a trial-size Head and Shoulders, a small tub of petroleum jelly and numerous knotted condoms containing smaller, cellophane-wrapped packages. His throat burned. “Got ony water?”

  Telly shook his head. “Naw, but ah kin get ye an empty bottle. Fill it up at slop-oot.”

  Jas pulled the toothbrush, two books of matches and a pair of red briefs towards him. “How much fur this lot?” He stared at the broken veins as Telly’s brain began to work. A pause. Then:

  “Forty.”

  Jas leant down, scooped the Armani bag from under his bunk. “It’s Bensons ...” He pulled two gold packets from the larger carton, then rummaged. “... an’ ah’ll trade these ...” He pushed two pairs of cellophane-wrapped Calvins towards Telly. “... if those ...” He pointed to the red briefs. “... ur a bigger size.”

  Liver-spotted fingers seized the underwear, turning them over, examining the label. “New?”

  “Of course they’re ...” He stared at the red briefs, then plucked them from the bunk and searched for the waist size.

  L.

  “Fur new drawers an’ the carrier-bag ah’ll throw in a quarter gram o’ whitever gets ye through the night. Mr Anderson!”

  Jas stared at the condomed packages. “No thanks. But ah’ll huv the other knickers.”

  They exchanged underwear. Telly seemed pleased with his part of the deal. Jas smiled. “Ye missed yer vocation, shouldda gone intae retail!”

  Smile returned. “Ony orders, Mr Anderson? Ah kin get ma hauns on maist stuff.” The bizarre Tupperware party continued.

  Jas shook his head.

  “Take the smack, Mr Anderson – trade it oan, if ye dinny want it yersel’.”

  Jas scowled. “Thanks but no thanks.” Bad enough he was on remand for possession: caught with heroin in here would only add to the prosecution’s case.

  Sigh. “Ah well, you ken best, Mr Anderson. Noo ...” Rummaging in trouser pockets. “... ah kin spare ye a couple, but it’ll cost ye another forty Bensons.”

  Jas stared at the two foil-wrapped condoms.

  “Ma supply’s sorta dried up, since they stopped hame visits.” Laugh. “The doctor used tae gie the boays dozens o’ johnnies, fur weekend leave ...” The laugh fading. “... as if hame leave wiz wan long shag!” Eyes from the bunk to Jas. “... but you’re new, Mr Anderson. Ye’ll ...” Gnarled fingers gripped the tub of petroleum jelly and pushed it towards him. “... need this tae.”

  “Ah’m oan remand, member?” Jas stared into baggy eyes. “Ah’m no’ plannin’ on any romance, pal.”

  Baggy eyes narrowed. “Who’s talkin’ romance, Mr Anderson?”

  Jas blinked, picked up the condoms and shoved them in his pocket.

  All sorts of power ...

  He swept the petroleum jelly over to his own cache. Protection took on an extra meaning: power came in as many forms as muscle did. Tipping a cigarette from one of the remaining packets, he stuck it in his mouth.

  The sound of flint on flint, then roaring.

  Jas lowered the cigarette’s end to the flame of the lighter, then inhaled.

  The smoke scorched his already-burning throat. He drew the nicotine deep into his lungs, coughed.

  “A dirty habit, Mr Anderson – ye should give it up fore it kills ye.”

  “Ah’ve already had the safe-sex lecture. Telly – gie it a rest, eh?” The first nicotine hit always made him irritable.

  Telly shrugged. “Huv it your way. Mr Anderson ...” Baggy eyes again on the jacket. “... sure ye’ll no’ trade that?”

  Jas almost laughed, then remembered the past day of endless bells and no sense of time. “Maybe – kin ye get me a watch? Or a clock?”

  The bald head shook slowly. “Naw, but ah’ve got the next best
thing ...”

  Jas stared.

  Telly winked. “... trade the jaicket an’ ah’ll git ye a job!”

  Jas looked at the biker’s jacket: they’d been through a lot together.

  “... an’ ah’ll throw in a coupla jumpers, if it’s the cold yer worried aboot.”

  It wasn’t. The jacket was a link to the outside. “Whit dae ah want wi’ a job?”

  A rasping, racking laugh. “Six weeks ’til yer trial?”

  Jas’s head flicked up.

  “... it’s a long time, Mr Anderson ...” Baggy eyes held his. “... the mind diz weird things, when it’s left tae its own devices ...”

  He blinked. He could deal with his mind.

  “... an’, tae be honest, Mr Anderson, ah dinny fancy yer chances, hangin’ aboot in here. Yer odds are goin’ doon by the minute.”

  Jas lifted another fish-cake, smeared it in congealing beans and took a bite. As he ate, he glanced at the unlocked door, then back. He met Telly’s eyes:

  “Ah’ve no’ got half the clout some people huv, Mr Anderson. A wee nod the right direction an’ yer aw’ theirs ...”

  He chewed the last of the fish-cake.

  “... keep on the move – that’s ma advice. If ye’re no’ in the wan place fur long enough, they canny find ya.” Eyes narrowing. “But jobs ur hard tae come by ...” Glance to the biker’s jacket. “... an’ they cost.”

  He swallowed, still tasting sour coffee.

  “... Big Tim owes me – he’ll gie up the cleaning fur, say, four weeks. How’s that sound, Mr Anderson?”

  Like the strangest job interview and offer he’d ever attended. Jas grabbed a slice of cake from the other plate. He glanced around the cell, munching on surprisingly light sponge.

  The surprise registered. “Yer cell-mate made that!”

  Jas choked on a fragment of cake.

  Telly thumped his back. “Whitever else he is, McStay’s a guid cook, eh?”

  Jas flinched, swallowed the sliver. He coughed. “Aye, a regular Delia Smith!” He wiped his mouth. “Why’s he in Triple-S onyway?” Last time he’d looked, kicking the shite out of gay men didn’t merit special treatment.

  “Nae room in Solitary.” Frown. “Ah don’t like laggin’ oan guys, Mr Anderson, but..” Pause. “... Stevie got intae a bitta trouble, a wee while back ...” Sigh. “... ah’d offer ye a weapon, but ah doubt it wid dae ony good ...” Slow head shake. “... chib the bastard when he’s in wanna yon tempers an’ he disney feel a thing!” Telly lifted a morsel of cake. “His ain recipe tae – guid, isn’t it?” Munching.