by Jack Dickson
... never men he had just fought with.
Stevie leaned forward, chasing a sliver of soap along the wet floor.
Jas stared at the dark crevice between slick mounds of flesh. His cock twitched, remembering the frustration of last night.
Stevie straightened up, turned. He began to rinse his body, closed eyes raised to the streaming faucet.
Men moved past him and around him. Jas ignored the activity, continued to watch his cell-mate. He thought of other intimacies, of friendships, working relationships ...
... rubbing Stevie’s towel between thumb and forefinger, he frowned. “Christ, get oota there! Ye’ll use aw’ the hot water!”
Brown eyes flicked open.
Jas threw the towel.
Stevie caught it easily, began to dry himself.
Jas strolled to where his cell-mate’s clothes lay in a crumpled heap. He stood silently, watching Stevie dress.
The other side of status ...?
Jas stared, noting his cell-mate’s small, shrivelled cock.
... control. A response he could handle. He waited until Stevie was fully clothed, then caught a brown eye.
Stevie returned the stare. “Seeya at breakfast.” Fingers securing still-damp hair in ponytail, then turning.
His eyes followed the man to the corner of the block.
Stevie lifted the aluminium bucket, looked back once, then walked from the steam-filled room.
Jas smiled, resumed his place in the queue. Voice in his ear:
“Yer loony bum-chum canny be with ya aw’ the time, Anderson ...”
He shivered. Breath against his lobe.
“... Neil sez tae tell ye he’ll be in touch.”
He stared at the tiled wall ahead.
Stevie: one threat down ...
... a multitude to go. He stood motionless. The faucet was still free, unused after Stevie. Jas knew the vacant shower was implicitly his for the taking – there would be no argument. He undressed quickly, then stepped under lukewarm water.
An extra slice of bacon was piled on his plate.
Jas glanced from his tray to the pale face.
Tangled ponytail hidden beneath a white, hygiene cap. Brown, friendly eyes.
Behind, the breakfast queue waited impatiently. He nodded.
Stevie winked. “Fancy a spell in the kitchen?”
Jas stared over a white-clad shoulder, through a serving-hatch into a hot, steam-filled room.
“Ah can get ye in – if ye want.”
Jas returned his gaze to Stevie.. “We’ll talk aboot it later.” Nod. “Sure. Enjoy yer breakfast ...”
He filled his coffee cup from the urn and headed for Telly’s table.
The familiar chair was pushed out in anticipation, with more gusto than usual. Jas blinked. The other three men at the table fed on his presence, his new status: he knew Telly would trade on it, later.
“Mornin’, Mr Anderson!” Cheerful.
Jas sat down.
Telly leant forward. “Ah see ya’ve dealt with McStay.”
The acknowledgment took him in a direction he didn’t want to go. Jas tucked into his breakfast, surprised at his appetite.
“Ah ...” Disappointment badly hidden at the lack of details.
Information was highly prized. But some things were private. Jas continued to eat.
The desire to flex his newly acquired muscle was tempting. He paused, set down his knife and fork and turned to Telly. “Ken that jacket ah traded ye?”
The ruddy face was eager to please. “Ah huvney selt it on yet, Mr Anderson – kent you’d be wantin’ it again.”
Jas recalled the man he’d spotted two days ago, the biker’s jacket slumping badly on thin shoulders. “That wiz nice o’ ye, Telly. Gie it tae ...” Eyes flicking to the serving-hatch. “... Stevie. He’ll see it gets tae me.”
Eager nod. “Ah’ll dae that, Mr Anderson.” Telly did a fair impression of an over-enthusiastic, if badly trained, puppy.
Jas almost smiled, then remembered the whispered threat in the showers.
Neil Johnstone. At the moment, in another block, but with contacts everywhere.
He resumed his meal.
Shouting. A buzz of conversation sank to a low hum, then evaporated.
His head flicked up, then left.
Over by the wall. At the table, five denimed men pretending to eat with gusto. The sixth hidden by a large, grey shape.
Jas cocked an ear. The low, baritone was audible. Ian Dalgleish’s words escaped him, as did the voice of the prisoner under intimidation. He continued to stare.
Telly lived up to his name: relayer of messages. “That stupid wee nyaff’s rubbin’ too many folk up the wrang way ...”
Jas watched as Dalgleish’s bulky form moved back, exposing his victim.
A small rodent-face poked up from black nylon padding. It was hard to tell if David Hamilton’s head shook in denial or fear.
Jas frowned: the boy’s refusal to fit in would cause ripples in every direction.
Telly snorted. “Fuckin’ kids – shouldney be fuckin’ in here at aw’. That wan’s ainly just turned eighteen ...” A head shake, disbelief the motivator. “... if he disney git himself sorted oot soon ...”
Jas turned, an eyebrow raised in encouragement.
Telly blinked. “Me?” Coughing laugh. “... too much trouble, Mr Anderson.”
A squeak of panic refocused Jas’s eyes beyond the ruddy face.
Dalgleish blotted out David completely.
His table-mates ate furiously.
Jas sighed. Trouble followed the kid like a bad smell. The panicked squeak echoed in his head and brought back the screams of two nights ago. He scowled, did the only thing he could and swept his breakfast plate onto the floor. Clattering echoed in silence.
Abruptly, the bulky grey figure released a now-bobbing Adam’s apple and turned.
“Sorry, Mr Dalgleish ...” Jas stood up. “... ma hand slipped.” He stared past quizzical gunmetal eyes to where a rodent-hand was rubbing a rodent-neck.
Professional baritone growl. “Accident-prone, are ye, Anderson?”
On the edge of his vision, Jas saw looming grey. Dead ahead, a rodent face managed a smile of thanks.
“Pick it up!”
Jas ducked down. Large boots planted inches from his face. Fingers collected shards of shattered plate. He stood up. “Sorry, Mr Dalgleish, it’ll no’ ...”
“Ye’re right it’ll no’ happen again!” Ian Dalgleish shook his head and strode back towards a group of Hadrian grey.
Wisps of conversation rose, condensing into a thin mist of whispers.
Jas looked across to David Hamilton’s table. The rodent-face was wet, blotchy. He moved his gaze to the back of Dalgleish’s outline.
A bell rang. Around him, men rose reluctantly to their feet. Jas joined them. Lifting the broken plate and cup, he filed towards the serving hatch behind Telly. With two hundred other men, he placed his breakfast dishes on one of three trolleys, then turned to file out.
As he approached the barred gate, he caught sight of a tear-stained rodent-face.
David Hamilton scurried towards him.
Two grey uniforms ignored the motion.
Padded nylon closed the gap. The step-cut head flicked up to meet his frown with a wan smile.
Jas nodded to beyond the gate, paused. He wondered about his own motivation ...
The kid scuttled into a space in the queue.
... then gave up wondering. Jas watched the attempt to shrink into the mass of denim. David was new, fresh, young and unattached.
At least one of those attributes needed changing.
Beyond the gate, the slender shape in the padded jacket waited against a yellow brick wall.
Jas raised his eyes to the CCTV and walked on.
David fell in step with him. “Fierce, man ...”
“You okay?” Said without turning.
“Aye, ah’m fine.” Sniff. “Yersel’?”
&nbs
p; Normality kept up at all costs. Jas glanced ahead. Grey uniforms were chatting idly. He steered the kid to one side, down towards the area where the cleaning-materials were kept. One last chance – after this, it wasn’t his problem.
Away from the crowd, David began to sob.
Jas flinched. The kid’s misery twisted at his guts. “Look, ye ...”
“Oh, man, this is fierce – ah canny stand much mair an ...”
“Who ye in wi’?”
Head raised. Quizzical look.
“Who ye sharin’ a cell wi’?”
Understanding. “Ah’m no’ sharin’ – no’ ony more! Ah’m gettin’ a cell tae masel’.”
“Since when?” Cells were doubled up, even in Triple-S. The Bar-L was too overcrowded to permit such luxuries ...
... free of charge.
Sniff. “Since this mornin’ – Mr Dalgleish is arrangin’ it.”
Maybe it was worth it, for the smoother running of good ship Barlinnie – damage limitation? Jas remembered the roughly fashioned key which had facilitated entry to his own cell.
“Fierce, this is wan scarey place!”
A single cell would cut down on daytime harassment. Nights were another matter. “Listen David ...”
“Aw, it’s Hammy, man ...”
Jas raised an eyebrow.
“Hamster.” Shadow of a smile. “Cos ah look like a wee rat!” The name echoed in his mind.
The smile waned. Whining. “Whit am ah gonny dae?” A hand through step-cut hair.
Jas closed his ears. The plea resounded in his head. He thought about the screams, three cells down, two days earlier. There would have been a build-up to that final, desperate act: had indications of that build-up fallen on equally closed ears?
The rat-mouth was moving, babbling on, rising in volume.
“Keep it doon!” Jas glanced behind, then moved closer. He tried to think. Nothing for nothing, in the Bar-L: single cells meant many things.
Trouble-maker.
Favouritism.
Patronage ...
“If Mr Dalgleish is bein’ nice tae ye, it’s no’ cos he’s wantin’ yer arse, Hamster.” Jas stared at the pale face, watched the implication sink in.
Step-cut hair whipped from side to side across the pale face. “No way, man – no’ fuckin’ way!”
Jas almost smiled: barely eighteen, but the kid already knew which side he was on. As Dalgleish’s snitch, Hamster would have the officer’s implicit protection. But if implicit knowledge became explicit, the kid would have no chance amongst the other men.
Screws were hated, par-for-the-course.
Grasses were despised ...
... a hand gripping the sleeve of the scratchy jumper:
“Help me ...”
“Shut it, will ya?” Jas scowled.
Lips clamped together, mid-syllable, eyes making up for lack of words.
He scanned the pale face, then the rest of the body, shrouded in padded nylon and over-sized jeans. He didn’t need this – he didn’t need the responsibility, in a world where taking charge of his own survival was difficult enough.
He didn’t need the hassle of treading on Ian Dalgleish’s toes.
Jas moved his eyes from a terrified face and stared at the yellow brick wall behind the step-cut head. Through the thoughts, rushed words:
“... yeah, man? Whit aboot it?”
Jas refocused.
Hamster was staring hopefully up at him, the rodent face scarlet. “How’s aboot it?”
Jas blinked.
Hammy glanced down at huge trainers. “Ye want me?” Words barely audible.
Jas frowned. He had been wrong. Telly had been wrong. David Hamilton knew the ropes all too well. The boy had misinterpreted a few meagre shreds of humanity. He ignored the offer ...
Hands on the belt of his combat pants, inexperienced fingers unzipping him.
... and felt his cock stiffen. Arms rose to push the boy away. Eager words:
“Ah’m guid, man – aw’ the boays in Longriggend said so ...”
Jas stared down at the top of a step-cut head. Cold air brushed thighs. Nimble fingers wrenched Telly’s contraband briefs further down. The waistband dug in beneath his balls.
Hamster knelt on cold stone.
Then experienced, lip-sheathed teeth over the head of his half-hard shaft.
Jas gripped padded nylon-clad shoulders and pulled the boy to his feet. This was getting complicated. “Ah’ve goat a cunt, and ah’m no’ in the market fur another.”
Bemused expression.
Jas tried to keep his mind off his hardening prick. He stared into the childish, high-cheekboned face: Hamster had already received two offers – powerful offers.
A step-cut head against the arm of the scratchy jumper. “Tell me whit ye like ...”
Jas flinched, lowered his voice. “If ye dinny want tae be a guy’s cunt, ye gotta buy him aff – ye got onythin’ tae dae that wi’?”
A negating sniff against his sleeve.
Bootsteps.
Moving instinctively in front of the smaller figure, Jas turned, hands pushing cock back beneath Telly’s contraband underwear.
Stevie. Wearing the biker’s jacket. Narrowed eyes registering his open fly.
Jas zipped, moved back.
Stevie approached. The biker’s jacket fitted him well – almost as well as its owner.
Jas nodded. “Ah see Telly got it tae ye?”
Laugh. A broad hand rubbing the worn leather sleeve. “Aye, it’s the gemme ...” Laugh cut short. Stevie stared beyond him. “... he botherin’ you?”
Jas shook his head. “Hamster’s no’ botherin’ onywan.” He looked at the once-more shivering kid, remembered the last gram of Mhairi’s H.
The path of least resistance ...
... and the other, ever-stable currency in the Bar-L. Digging a hand into the side pocket of the combat-pants, he located the foil wrapped package. Stevie’s disapproving eyes bored into his back. Jas held out his hand.
Hammy stared at the closed fist.
Jas frowned. “Take it ...” His voice was low.
Step-cut head raised. Eyes met his.
Jas sighed. “Take it, pal! Buy yersel’ some protection.”
Hammy looked confused, shuffled his feet. “Ah thought you an’ me wur ...?”
“Ken Telly?”
Slow nod.
“Go find him. Tell him ah sent ye ...” Jas seized a scrawny wrist, prised open fingers and crammed the H into Hammy’s hand. “... he’ll help ye oot.”
Telly knew the ropes.
Telly knew who was in the market for a cunt.
Telly knew who would ask least and provide the most, if the H failed to cut it.
He watched a small hand disappear into the pocket of oversized jeans:
“Fierce, man, ah ...”
“Ye owe me – ah ken ...” Jas smiled: nothing for nothing..
“Oi!”
Jas stiffened. Inches behind, he felt Stevie’s broad form flinch.
“McStay! Anderson!”
He stepped out from behind Stevie, shoved Hamster in the direction of the dining-hall. “Whit?”
Over-sized trainers slapped along the corridor and out sight.
He stared at the four officers. Jas hoped the transaction had passed unnoticed. Half-heard words:
“Cell search ...”
Stevie. Protesting. “Why? Whit ye think ...?”
“Come on, lads ...”
Two grey uniforms moved behind, trying to herd.
Stevie Still protesting. “There’s nothin’ in oor cell – why dae ye ...?”
Jas found himself walking.
Flanked by grey, they were marched back to B-Hall.
As he climbed the stairs to the second floor walkway, Jas thought about Hamster, and the H, and the unwitting favour the kid had just done him.
Seventeen
A CELL BUILT TO HOUSE ONE now held four.
Jas stood on one side of the doorway,
a grey uniformed hand gripping his arm.
On the other side, Stevie was a surly reflection. Noise: metal on metal, fabric ripping and tearing, boots on stone, laboured breathing. The sounds of frustration.
Jas clenched his fists.
Stevie’s anger wasn’t as easily contained. “Whit ye lookin’ fur?” The two screws flanking them didn’t answer. A third appeared from inside the cell. Eyes to Jas, then Stevie:
“We have reason to believe Class A drugs are secreted in this cell. You’re in for dealing, Anderson. Thought you could do a bit more while ...?”
“Ah’m only accused o’ dealin’, pal! Nothin’s bin proved.” He stared past the officer into the bomb-site of a cell.
Stevie: “There’s nae drugs in there! Lea’ oor stuff alain!”
Jas glanced at his cell-mate.
Anger didn’t come anywhere near the expression on the furious features.
Jas sighed.
The officer stared at him. “Well, Anderson? I don’t hear you denying the charge ...” Blink. “... make it easy on yersel’, lad. Tell us ...”
“Bingo!” Voice from inside the cell. A grey figure. One hand holding two halves of the disposable razor. The other gripped condoms and the jar of Vaseline.
Jas glanced across at Stevie, met confused brown eyes.
“Who does this belong to?”
“Smine!”
Two voices. Jas watched Stevie’s face redden.
The officer frowned. “This is a fuckin’ first! Ye both want put oan a charge?”
“The blade’s mine ...” Jas continued to meet Stevie’s eyes. “... the johnnies ur his.”
“Right – come on, the paira you!” Hands gripped his arms.
Jas bucked against the movement, watched his reaction mirrored in Stevie. “Ah said the blade’s mine! He’s got nothin’ tae dae wi’ it – there’s nae law against johnnies, is there?”
Unamused laugh. “If yer usin’ them tae spread drugs around this prison, there’s lotsa laws against it!”
Three officers focused on Stevie. One spoke. “Whit ur the condoms fur, McStay? You’ve no hame visits scheduled ...”
Jas blinked.
A low laugh. “... an’ even if ye did, ye’ve nae wuman tae fuck, isn’t that right, McStay?”
Another voice, taunting. “Walked oot on ye, didn’t she? Widney stay wi’ a fuckin’ loony an’ his two loony kids ...”