by Jack Dickson
An hour later, Jas dunked his mop into a bucket of scummy water. He’d turned down the chance to buy back the biker’s jacket in return for delivering three condomed packages to locations on the other side of the Hall.
But at least he’d got the jumpers. And out of his cell. He squeezed excess water from the mop and continued to wash the corridor.
Occasionally, men in denim strolled past, carrying trays. Or nothing. Or similar buckets and mops.
Barlinnie had never been so clean ...
Occasionally, other men exchanged objects and packages he couldn’t see, but didn’t need to.
... or so dirty.
If visits had been suspended, the mail routinely searched, how were the drugs getting in?
Someone else’s business. Not his. Jas swabbed at the edge of a yellow-brick wall.
Time passed. He took a break, smoked a cigarette.
A group of denimed men walked quickly past. No one talked to him. No one even acknowledged his presence. Knotted muscle began to relax into anonymity.
Jas looked up through the suicide net at the strutted, concave ceiling.
The place was eerie.
Approaching a locked gate, he paused, scowled up at a CCTV camera ...
... a red eye which saw no evil, night or day.
A buzz. Then a scraping. The gate slid ajar.
Jas lifted his bucket and walked through.
Heavy iron slid shut behind him.
Pioneers in Security Solutions?
Hadrian’s presence was shadowy, unreliable.
In the Bar-L, visibility was all. Sophisticated surveillance techniques were for cop shows and science fiction.
Visibility was all. In the reality that was Barlinnie, shows of strength were important.
Like the Gerry Shower-show.
Like Neil’s veiled-shows.
Like ...
... noise shattered thought. Wet, metal noise.
“Oops! Aw, willya look at that – he’s spilled his water!”
Jas glared up from the rolling bucket.
Three well-muscled, denimed torsos. Three unknown faces. Three mouths grinning. One moving: “Whit dae ye say?”
Jas held the stare, then glanced down. “Ah say watch where ye’re puttin’ yer fuckin’ feet!” Water the colour and temperature of fresh sewage formed a pool around his docs. Tutting. Then:
“Wrang answer, polis!” A hand knocked the mop from his.
Jas slowly raised his head, fists balling. Cold seeped from the wall behind, penetrating Telly’s fuzzy acrylic. He stared at a face he didn’t know, but which evidently knew him.
Thin lips twisted further into a sneer. “Right answer: sorry, sir.”
Jas took a step back. “Fuck off!” He bent to lift the mop.
A booted foot on his fingers. “Don’t think you’re gettin’ the hang of this, cunt ...”
Pressure on his fingers. Jas winced, staring at denimed knees ...
... which bent to a crouch.
Breath on his face. “... only wan thing worse than polis ...”
Spittle struck his face. He blinked it away, shivered as the hot bile cooled on his cold skin. The pain in his fingers was hotter.
“... an’ that’s queer polis!”
Every muscle in his body quivered. A vein pulsed in his neck. Jas narrowed his eyes, but didn’t break the gaze. Sweat was another matter.
The booted foot removed, impacting with the bucket.
The corridor sang with the sound of rolling aluminium on concrete. Then: “Clean it up, Queer-boy!”
Jas didn’t move.
Mock sigh. “Ah still don’t think you’ve got the hang of how things work here ...” Parody of a smile.
His eyes raced around the three faces. Where the bodies were muscled and over-exercised, the faces were grey-tinged. Despite the appearance of health, none looked well. The one which talked and mock-smiled looked least well.
“... see, we like to keep everyone happy – an’ we think you’d be happier if ye dae whit we tell ye.”
He felt the knee before his eyes registered movement. Air rushed from his lungs. Jas doubled over, hands clutching at his crotch. Over-cooked bacon filled his mouth, as breakfast passed through his gullet a second time.
“We jist want ye tae be happy, Queer-boy ... an’ here ye are puking all over yer lovely clean floor ...” More tutting.
Jas closed his eyes. His balls were on fire. He tried to breathe through his nose, but could only manage low, liquid moans. Slumping to the ground, the wet floor was comforting against his burning face.
“... now there’s even mair tae clean up ...”
Fingers gripped his cheek, twisting viciously. Jas managed to raise his head.
“... but – as luck wid huv it – ah’ve got the time tae stay here an’ make sure ye dae it properly.”
Jas wrenched away and hauled himself to his feet, teeth clenched again the ache in his groin. He grabbed the mop, sliding in the mixture of vomit and filthy water.
A laugh. “Hope we can develop a guid working relationship ...” “Oi! You lot! What’s going on down ...?” Rich baritone. Bootsteps.
“Nothin’, Mr Dalgleish! We’re jist helpin’ this ...”
“Back to your cells ...” Closer bootsteps. “... you know the rules ...”
“Aye, Mr Dalgleish ...” A change in tone. Bordering on respect. “... just goin’ ...”
Jas mopped, tasting sour bile. Three bodies bumped against him. Kissing sound. One lowered voice:
“Be seein’ you, Queer-boy ...” Three sets of feet retreating. “... mind ye don’t break a nail!”
Jas ignored the pain in his face and the rage in his head as the bucket was kicked a third time. He listened to three sets of footsteps echo down the corridor, waited for the fourth set to take the usual Hadrian path of least resistance.
It didn’t. “Here!”
Jas looked up at the handkerchief held in a large fist, then at the figure behind it.
A big man – more bulk than height – in Hadrian grey. Late fifties, but fit. Darker, iron-grey hair. Gun-metal eyes widening in recognition. “Anderson? Jas Anderson?” Then narrowing.
He took the offered handkerchief, wiping vomit from his lips. Something in the voice. Jas released the mop and nursed his injured fingers.
The large man was staring after the threesome. “You okay?” Said without breaking the stare into the distance.
Jas flinched. The concern was more disconcerting than the antagonism. “Ah’ll live.” He tried to place the profile.
“That’s the difference between you an’ them ...” Rugged face turned to his. Frowning. “... this place is part-time hospice, part-time psychiatric unit – part-time death row an’ general dumping ground ...”
Jas stared into gun-metal eyes. Mists cleared in his brain as the face continued to talk:
“... hundred an’ fifty HIV positive – that we ken aboot ...” Shrug. “... they’ve nothin’ tae lose an’ a lotta anger tae work-aff – they ken they’ll either die in here, or oan the streets. Their families’ll probably no’ take them back, no’ now.”
As voice recognition provided a name, Jas took a step back and surveyed the man. “It’s been a while.” He wiped his lips.
Dalgleish stooped, re-righted the bucket. “It has that.” Words tinged with disappointment.
He looked away as the familiar respect seeped into his brain. “Ye’ve read ma charge-sheet, no doubt.” The years rolled back, exposing memories.
1987: Gorbals division. An eighteen-year-old probationer and a sergeant in his late thirties.
1992: Dumbarton Division. After thirty years illustrious service, Sergeant Ian Dalgleish had retired from Strathclyde Police, amidst hearty good wishes and a clutch of decorations. Secondment to Lothian and Borders Police had prevented a now-CID officer attending the party.
1997: London Road. DS James Anderson had resigned from Strathclyde Police. Not dishonourably, but in an equal glare of pub
licity. And no party.
Jas leant against the wall and took the cigarette offered.
A sigh. “That ah have.”
He dragged nicotine into his lungs, flinching at the disappointment in the voice. “You bin with Hadrian long?”
“Four years ...” Gun-metal eyes brightening. “... best four years of ma life. Maxwell Fulton’s got modern ideas ...” Glancing around. “... look at this place – it’s crazy! Overcrowded, insanitary. We need new prisons, new approaches – there’s eyeways gonny be crime ...” Mock-laugh. “... the new growth industry!”
Jas stared at the man beside him, saw Hadrian grey blur into serge. “Aye, ye were always ambitious!”
Sober baritone “Whit happened tae your ambitions, Anderson – you wur a good cop.”
He stared at the pool of sludge circling his feet. “Me an’ the polis didney see eye-tae-eye oan a coupla issues.”
“Aye, the Force isney whit it used tae be.” Snort. “Budgets are tighter than ever – an’ they’ve even got productivity targets noo ...” Frown. “... nae wonder corruption’s rife.”
Jas looked up, remembering a sergeant in Gorbals division who had taught him the rule he’d tried to live by: one law for all.
Criminals carrying warrant cards were still criminals.
“... an’ whit is there fur ex-polis, these days?”
He almost smiled. “Retirement no’ whit ye thought it wid be? Moira git fed up o’ ye hangin’ around aw’ day?”
Frown. “We ... separated two years ago.”
“Sorry tae hear that.” A thirty-year marriage ending hot on the heels of what should have been Moira and Ian Dalgleish’s twilight years.
Shrug.
Jas watched Ian Dalgleish smoke the cigarette, recalling their brief partnering during his probationary period ...
The same period during which his personal life had been a mass of unresolved questions and tensions
... and the number of times the man’s wife had cooked dinner for an eighteen-year-old probationer who had been too clueless and confused to even feed himself.
“You keep up yer game?”
Jas raised an eyebrow. Another memory pushed itself forward. “Ah’m probably a bit rusty, but ah could still gie yer queen a run fur her money!”
A laugh. The sound was at odds with high yellow walls and low spirits. “Away! Yer pawn defence wis like a string vest!”
Jas felt tension start to ebb from his limbs. “Ah beat ye – how many times?”
“Wance. In eighteen months ye beat me wance ...” Rugged face creasing and recreasing. “Christ. Jas Anderson – the last man on earth ah expected tae see in here.”
He returned the grin ...
... then frowned.
Two ex-polis ...
One in combat pants and a scratchy jumper.
The other in Hadrian grey.
More than his own brain became acutely aware of where they were having this conversation. Authoritative, baritone voice. “Ye’ll be treated like ony other prisoner ...” Cigarette stubbed out under size twelve boot. “... nae special privileges.”
He nodded: he didn’t expect anything less from Ian Dalgleish. Bootsteps.
Frown. Lowered baritone. “Keep yer nose clean an’ yer heid doon ...”
Bootsteps. Closer.
“... now get this mess cleaned up, Anderson! Ah’ll no’ tell ye again!” Voice raised.
He grabbed the mop, lowered his head and watched a ramrod figure stride off down the corridor.
Another set of legs came into view. “He giein’ ye hassle?”
Jas’s head flipped up.
Telly sighed. “Telt ye, ye shouldda taken the smack, Mr Anderson ...” Eyes on his cheek.
Jas touched throbbing skin, then leant on his mop.
Telly produced a packet of Bensons, held them out. “How come bastards like Dalgleish got a job wi’ Hadrian, that’s whit ah wanna ken?”
The ex-polis’ flawless record and good references would stand him in excellent stead. Jas took a cigarette and held his tongue.
Telly lit it for him, sighed again. “The ainly qualifications ye seem tae need is wantin’ the job ...” He blew a perfectly formed smoke ring. “... half of them is kids, wi’ no’ a clue between them.”
Jas thought of Brodie and Ms Pepperpot, of other slight figures in grey who looked inexperienced, to put it mildly.
“... the other hauf is ex-polis, ex-army, ex-fuck kens whit!”
Jas drew hard on the cigarette. At least the last couple had training. But he knew better than to argue the toss. In the Bar-L, there were only two sides. He changed the subject. “You said ah’d be safer oot here, man!” The pain in his groin was a dull roar.
Telly inhaled deeply. “Aye, Mr Anderson: safer – no’ safe. Naewan’s really safe in here.”
Jas exhaled, remembering three gaunt men.
Nothing to lose ...
... he shared the memory.
Telly frowned, eyes lowered to the bucket, then back to Jas. “If ye’ve got onythin’ tae buy them aff with, use it. Mr Anderson. If no’, just keep oota their way – an’ pray they dinny come lookin’ fur ye.” Telly dropped the dog-end into the bucket and padded away.
Jas watched him go. A throbbing in his head overtook the ache in his balls.
Thirteen
HE ATE HIS EVENING MEAL in the canteen, with a dozen other cleaning workers. Each had a table to themselves. No one talked.
Behind the serving hatch, the sullen outline of his cell-mate came into and disappeared from view.
Jas drained his coffee cup and lit a cigarette. Face and balls tingled.
A bell rang. He looked at his fellow diners.
No one stirred.
He stayed with the herd, resting an elbow on the table. Thoughts coagulated in his brain.
There was a system within a system here, a wheel within a wheel.
Jas flicked his cigarette into the vegetable compartment of his tray.
Each system had its own rules.
Each system acknowledged the other system.
He thought about Ian Dalgleish’s unnecessary warning ...
... and his own position as a rogue cog, trying to function within one system while joined by implication to the other ...
... then he thought about Brodie. Ms Pepperpot ... Dalgleish.
He could visualise Hadrian’s selection procedure: you, you and you – off wages delivery, go run a prison! The company had a so-so record in the private-security sector ...
... but patrolling building-sites for £1.50 an hour was no preparation for guarding more organic cargo.
His mind lingered on Ian Dalgleish ...
... and chess. Slow nights in the Gorbals. Custody duty. Jas smiled at the memory. Two years’ probation had taught him a lot ...
... including the art of strategy, planning ahead, second-guessing ...
... and eventually beating the man who had taught him chess. But only once.
Another bell rang, pushing another name into his brain.
Alan Somerville. The memory was distant but vivid. Staring at his tray, he heard the scraping of chair legs through thoughts of an incident far from forgotten. Jas stood up with the rest of the canteen.
The informal discipline system he was working out ...
... the bells would take slightly longer.
“Can ah use the library?” He paused in the cell doorway, head cocked towards a Brodie-clone. It was worth a try.
“Library’s closed until further notice.” The Hadrian Officer parrotted the answer.
Jas stared at a mere mouthpiece. No physical bulk, no presence, no real authority. The uniform was a sham, and they both knew it. He glanced into the cell.
An empty two litre Pepsi bottle sat at the foot of his bunk: Telly-delivery.
“Can ah fill this, then?” Jas stepped inside, reached out for the bottle.
The cell door slammed behind him.
Jas stared, then turned. He sat dow
n on the lower bunk, tossed the Pepsi bottle into the air and caught it. He looked at the nine-foot by three-foot section of bare floor.
A work-out would bring back the thirst.
Inactivity would bring back the day.
He slipped the plastic bottle under his bunk, pulled off the scratchy jumper and the T-shirt. Jas dropped to his knees, then stretched out on the floor. Press-ups ...
You could never be too rich – or too fit ...
Alan Somerville.
... you could, however, think too much.
He’d just finished fifty stomach-curls when the cell door opened.
McStay stepped wordlessly over him and headed for the piss-pot.
Jas hugged his knees, listening as the trickle became a torrent. He could smell the man over the stink of his own sweat and the cold, damp November air which somehow permeated the unpainted brick. He released his knees, stood up and stretched warm muscle. Pressure in his groin.
“Get oot ma way!”
Jas sighed.
“Move!”
Flattening himself against the wall, he turned, just as McStay hauled himself onto the top bunk. Jas didn’t look up, didn’t need to. He walked to the piss-pot and unzipped. Fingers brushed sore balls.
Flinching, he gripped his prick and tried to piss.
The first few drops were painless enough. Then burning. Jas clenched his teeth, studying the urine through narrowed eyes for any trace of pink or red.
Nothing. Only more burning. His balls felt bigger, harder. Jas focused on bare brick a foot from his nose and finished the job.
As he shook the last few dribbles from his slit, his urethra resembled post-eruption Krakatoa. Jas shoved his prick back in his combat pants and walked slowly to his bunk.
The strip-light had developed a stutter. Yellow flickers strobed on his eyelids. Buzzing in his ears. Jas propped himself up on one elbow and opened his eyes.
At the foot of the bunk, his cell-mate was undressing.
Jas looked away. On the periphery of his vision, slashes of yellow illuminated then hid the half-naked body. He stared at the worn floor.
Over the buzzing, the sounds of unzipping.
He frowned, moved onto his back and gazed up at the bedsprings. He could still hear the drag of clothing from skin, the rub of denim against denim. A trickle of sweat leaked from one pit and made its way down onto his stomach. Jas stared at metal spirals, which faded then refocused with each shimmer of the light.