Kicking Off

by Jan Needle

  ‘De Sallis?’

  ‘My oppo over there. US Customs. We’ve been working on this together for three months, and believe me, John de Sallis ain’t going to be polite. We’ve been screwed, my friend. Comprehensively.’

  Forbes, who had lighted a cigarette and drawn on it, made a face and stubbed it out on the edge of the ashtray. It tasted ghastly.

  ‘Talking of which,’ he said, ‘which side of the bed do you want? There’s nothing we can do now, is there? Until we find out where he is? Let’s sleep.’

  Jackson raised a smile. He yawned.

  ‘If you dream I’m Alice Grogan,’ he said, getting up, ‘remember I’m a virgin. If I wake up with your dick in my pyjamas, Andy-boy, I’ll cut it off. OK?’

  Later that day, as Forbes and Jackson still searched fruitlessly, Charles Lister, much to his surprise, ended up in Bowscar Jail. The order to pack his plastic bag and shift out of a police cell in deepest Hertfordshire neither interested nor disturbed him, as he had been told to expect to shift around a bit, mainly to local, easy nicks, sort of rest rooms on his way. But when the gigantic gates of Bowscar were shut and locked behind him, a small seed of discomfort was planted.

  ‘Say, what the Jesus shit?’ began Charles Lister. Two prison officers, burly men with kindly English faces, had just requested him to remove his clothes.

  ‘Now now,’ said one of them, the smile broadening at the unexpected accent. ‘None of that here, Yankee Doodle Dandy. You’ll get your clothes back when you’ve had a shower. You’re only on remand.’

  ‘You’re innocent,’ said the other, his eyes lost in a fat, satiric smile. ‘Until proved guilty. Get your clothes off, mate. Let’s see what an American one looks like.’

  Charles Lister stripped in silence. Inside him, he could feel murder growing. Somebody was going to pay for this.

  Kingsborough Gardens. Rosanna Nixon.

  Rosanna was in the bath when the telephone rang. Normally, she would not have bothered to answer, but her taxi was due fairly shortly, to take her to the station. She counted twelve rings before she stood and stomped into the kitchen, wrapping a towel round her, skimpily. If one of her high-minded Hyndland neighbours happened to look through the window, she’d be in trouble with the residents’ association yet again, but what the hell? She was off to London, and for all she cared she need never return.

  Even the sound of Adrian Rafferty’s voice was not enough to upset her mood. So what she’d soaked the kitchen floor? So what the old drunk was probably going to proposition her, or ask for money, or something equally ridiculous. She didn’t give a toss.

  ‘Is that you, hen? Rosanna? Listen, I phoned to say I’m sorry, so I am.’

  ‘Don’t give it another thought, Adrian,’ she said. ‘If I’d thought you were a gentleman, I’d never have talked to you in the first place, would I? Anyway – you gave me what I wanted, so we’re quits.’

  ‘Well, better than that in actual fact,’ said Rafferty. ‘You see yon Animal, McGregor? I telt you he went tae England, right? Well he went via Durham, then Hull, got that? Durham and Hull, somewhere to start lookin’. Then the trail’s gone cold.’

  ‘Hey, that’s terrific! Ach, thanks Adrian, I really mean that.’

  ‘Listen, hen,’ he said. ‘If I can help in any other way, all right? You’ve got my number. Ring me. From England. Reverse the charges. Maurice told me you were gangin’ off.’

  She laughed aloud.

  ‘You’re raving, man! If I need to ring you, I’ll let some other bugger pay, like a good wee journalist. You only insulted me, you know; nothing bad.’

  ‘Aye, right,’ he agreed, sounding more cheerful. ‘But seriously – I’m sorry for last night. It was the Irish in me.’

  This time Rosanna hooted.

  ‘Funny that,’ she said: ‘I thought it was the bloody Scotch!’

  Two minutes later, towelling her hair, she heard the phone again. Still naked, she strode into the kitchen. She guessed it was Adrian with a good reply.

  ‘Go on,’ she said. ‘But for God’s sake hurry up!’

  There was silence. Then an English voice said quietly:

  ‘Did you ask about Jimmy McGregor yet? Did they tell you anything? Except a pack of lies?’

  Rosanna swallowed. She gripped her towel, hard. Her heart was pounding.

  ‘They said...they—’

  ‘Shut up and listen. Ask them what knocked him out. Ask them about the drug. Ask them how it got there. Ask them about the gun.’

  Rosanna’s mouth was open. She tried to force her mind to work. She heard the phone go down. The line went dead.

  When she went to catch her train to London, there was a British Telecom van parked opposite her Renault, beside the residents’ private park.

  She did not notice it.

  SEVEN

  Bowscar. Masters, Jerrold, Hughes.

  Michael Masters was in his bed when Alan Hughes was returned by the prison officers from his Board of Visitors ‘trial’. He had covered himself with a blanket, and he was thinking of Sarah Williams. His memories of her were so specific that his desire had become almost a pain. He saw, with brilliant perfection, her body, naked, on the canal boat’s double bunk, and he groaned.

  Immediately, a grunting laugh came from the bunk above him, snapping Masters’ consciousness to the present. He realised that he must have made a noise, and irrational shame flooded him. There was a heavy creak as Matthew Jerrold rolled onto his side.

  ‘Go on, do it, man,’ he said. ‘You’ll have to do it sometime, won’t you? Nobody mind in here. Somebody do it for you, if you want.’

  Masters did not reply, but he was surprised. This was the first time that Matthew Jerrold had actually spoken to him. Before, he had glowered, had muttered threateningly, had made rapid, violent movements designed, quite clearly, to intimidate. He was not a very large man, but he had an air of power in his body, and an aura of barely suppressed rage. He was very black, almost ebony, with a bony, skull-like face that could have been especially designed to make him feared and hated by a white man.

  Masters knew that he had killed a policeman with a fireman’s axe and that he was prone to fits of screaming rage. The prison officers had told him this, with glee. It was why they’d put the two together.

  The voice from above him, though, had sounded less than threatening, almost friendly. It was a softish voice, with the accent of a London-born West Indian. But for Christ’s sake, Masters thought – am I really going to have a conversation about sex! About Sarah’s body?

  ‘I been here for thirteen months. Thirteen months down, twenty-four years to go. Before I come in here, man, I was a pussy freak, know what I mean? I used to eat it, and drink it, and work it, and sleep it, and fuck it. You go ahead and do your bit for England, guy,’ said Jerrold.

  Masters was lying on his back, the wire bed-springs and the dusty white ticking less than a metre from his face. Jerrold was on his back too, presumably, staring at the yellow-painted ceiling. An absurd picture, Masters thought. An absurd set-up. The millionaire and the monster, staring upwards, talking sex. Except that he had not yet spoken.

  Michael Masters had never really understood racism, perhaps because he’d never had to. In his meteoric rise through the world of money, he’d treated blacks as he had treated everybody else – if they could do it they were fine, and if they couldn’t he despised them. He’d fucked a black girl once, at a party. It had been very pleasant, but hardly very different.

  ‘Look,’ he said. ‘It’s nice of you to worry about it, mate, but when it comes to wanking, I can handle it myself.’

  The man above him gave a cough of amusement. There was another creak as he rolled sideways. A pair of naked black legs appeared over the edge of the bed, then two hands, beside the thighs. Jerrold leaned forward, bending at the waist, and jumped to the floor. He was wearing only boxers. He grinned at Masters, and sat facing him on the bed on the other side of the cell.

  ‘How come you talk like th
at? How come you ain’t got no accent? You a millionaire, ain’t you? You a rich twat.’

  Masters smiled. He pulled the blanket aside, and sat up. They had to offset themselves, there was not room enough to sit face-to-face.

  ‘I got rich, I wasn’t born rich,’ he said. ‘I went to a comprehensive, just like you I expect. And I’m not a millionaire for starters…’

  Jerrold laughed again, a solid, fruity laugh. He thrust his hand across the narrow gap, to shake; Masters, half-surprised at the formality, took it.

  ‘Matthew Jerrold,’ said Matthew Jerrold. ‘The Beast of Buckingham Estate. If you haven’t heard of me, I can show you my cuttings. The Sun’s the best. They wanted to castrate me, then send me back to where I come from. Up my mother’s birth canal, I guess. In Wandsworth High Street!’

  It had been one of the summer riots, Masters remembered. Two days of mayhem, three people killed. Firebombs, baton charges, the policeman cut off from his unit and set on by the mob. He’d read about it from his house in Tuscany.

  He said politely: ‘Wasn’t there some doubt about the evidence? Weren’t the police accused of some dubious practices?’

  Jerrold’s ebony face split in amusement.

  ‘You can talk posh! Dubious practices, I like that! They was lying through their fucking teeth, man. I wasn’t even in the same street!’

  ‘You would say that though, wouldn’t you?’

  For a moment, the smiling face opposite him clouded, and Masters felt a touch of apprehension. Because Jerrold acted normal didn’t mean he was, and to take the piss out of a psychopath was a pretty stupid thing to do in any circumstances. A prickle of sweat started in his armpits. If Jerrold jumped him, what would happen? Size meant nothing. Madmen killed.

  But Jerrold only sighed. He made a dismissive gesture.

  ‘Suit yourself. Every other bastard did. But I tell you this, guy – if I was really mad, I’d’ve gone insane in here, know what I mean? You’ll find out soon enough.’

  I won’t though, Masters thought. If Sir Cyril France doesn’t shift me soon, there’ll be hell to pay. But before either of them spoke again, the spyhole jerked open to reveal Chris Abbey’s face, the narrowed eyes searching for signs of ambush. The key turned in the lock and the door swung open. Alan Hughes stood between two officers, with Abbey to one side. The prisoner was smiling.

  Abbey, looking from Masters to Jerrold in some surprise, stepped halfway in.

  ‘Well well,’ he said. ‘What a touching little scene. Who was underneath? Jerrold, what is it about you that turns nice white men into nigger-lovers? Have you got two dicks?’

  As he said it, he stepped backwards. The other two officers propelled Hughes into the cell with a shove in his back so that Jerrold, rising, was forced to catch him.

  ‘And you too, Masters,’ Abbey said. ‘As you’re so fond of shit, you can do a little job for me in the morning. Goon Squad. I’ll call you early with a nice cup of tea, shall I?’

  The door slammed shut, and the spyhole cracked across. The three men sorted their limbs out. The plastic bucket had gone flying, and the lid was in the corner. Hughes motioned Masters to shift along the bed a little, and pushed Jerrold down with a hand on his shoulder. He sat beside him. Jerrold’s face had become tight and hard and dangerous. He was breathing swiftly through his nose. Hughes smiled at Masters.

  ‘Charming lads, when you get to know them,’ he said. ‘Chris Abbey’s got a wife and two lovely kids, would you believe? Caravan in Scarborough, nice old dog. Even Hitler loved his dog, until he poisoned it. Are you a nigger-lover?’

  Masters glanced at Jerrold. The black man’s face was loosening, becoming more relaxed. Hughes’ smile grew broader.

  ‘Sorry, friend. Bit unfair to put you through it, isn’t it? It’s the amateur psychologist in me, I can’t switch off. I’m like most psychologists, I suppose. Mental.’

  ‘What’s the Goon Squad?’

  ‘Change the subject, eh? Very wise. You pick up shit.’

  Since he’d been in the cell, Masters had hardly communicated with Hughes, who had been away a lot having treatment for his broken tooth, then conducting his unsuccessful defence before the Board of Visitors.

  ‘What d’you mean, I pick up shit?’

  ‘Will you tell him or shall I?’ Hughes said to Jerrold. Jerrold shook his head.

  ‘You,’ he said. ‘You got a better turn of phrase. Alan got education, see, guy? Not like you’n me. He go to grammar school. A university.’

  ‘I taught there, too,’ said Alan Hughes. It was not a lie, or a boast. He found it quite amusing, apparently. ‘Now, the Goon Squad lecture. I’ll give you the shortened version as we’re not bored today. I can go on for hours if need be.’

  He pointed at the yellow plastic bucket. He had replaced it on its spot and put the lid back on.

  ‘Our lavatory, okay? Officially, slopping out and buckets full of piss and shit were phased out years ago, correct date on a postcard for five points. Like most things in the prison system it lasted till the time they needed more men in, which coincided with the latest cuts, like the fact of four cons in a one-con cell. The other way to save on funding is on quality, which means that our grub makes you shit a lot – fat mince and soya extract, sprouts boiled to a mush, dried onions fried in oil, that sort of idea. Ten minutes after any meal, the inmates of this glorious institution start to fart. A thousand men and more, with windows that don’t open wide enough to let an anorexic mouse crawl through. The hot air saves on heating, I suppose.’

  He paused, to assess the audience reaction. Masters was still smiling.

  ‘So farting, eructation,’ Alan Hughes went on. ‘That’s bad enough, believe me, but it leads to worse. You probably won’t have had the pleasure yet, because the first few days are usually blessed with constipation, but there comes a time, friend, when the farting has to stop. You have to shit. How does that grab at you?’

  Alan Hughes had a thin, intelligent face. His hair was greying at the sides, bald on top. Masters guessed his age at fiftyish, maybe considerably younger. He never doubted for a moment that this man had taught at university. There was a bizarre element of the tutorial even in this disgusting conversation. He responded almost as a student might have done.

  ‘It doesn’t sound too good,’ he said. ‘But does it happen very often? In the cell, I mean? Aren’t we allowed to ring the bell?’

  Jerrold, his eyes closed, grunted.

  ‘Oh, of course,’ said Alan Hughes. ‘And the screws are allowed to answer, there’s no rule against it. But they don’t like disturbing people on the landings, you can understand that, can’t you? Those heavy boots, the rattling of the locks. How long can you hold it, by the way? When it’s touching cloth? You learn all sorts in the Scar, for sure. Sphincter control is one of them, but you can’t keep it shut forever.’

  The smell in the cell was revolting. Masters looked about him. Two double bunks – one top bed unmade – a chair and two small stools, a tiny table. The bucket stood alone, but he could hardly see how one could use it. To stand and hold it up, to piss, fair enough. He hadn’t done it yet, but he thought he’d be able to, when the need arose. But to squat over it? Feet from people’s faces? With the smell already thick with sweat, and warmed up, breathed out, non-circulated air? And after meals, as Hughes had so lovingly elucidated, the farts. Which he, alone of the three men, so far tried to save for bed, to filter through the blankets, to hide the point of origin.

  ‘Look,’ he said. ‘Thanks for keeping it short, but I’ve had enough. What if I throw up? Would they come for that, if I rang the bell?’

  ‘He think he in the Ritz,’ Jerrold murmured. ‘Alan, finish now. He goin’ be sick, the man say.’

  ‘The Goon Squad,’ said Hughes, incisively, ‘is the detail that picks up the bags of shit. Some people, sensitive souls like you, can’t bear to do it in a bucket, so they do it in their underpants, or failing that a copy of The Sun, appropriately. They chuck the parcel through the wi
ndow, through that little slot up there, so it splatters on the ground below. The Goon Squad picks it up. Some jails it’s called the Barmy Army, the Shit Shovellers, you name it. Chris Abbey doesn’t like you, does he? So tomorrow you pick up shit. Incidentally, if you do decide to let go of it in your pants, remember you only get one pair a week, and you don’t get talcum powder after your shower, however well brought up your balls are! You don’t get a shower if you don’t apply in writing, either – did they tell you that? Get a docket from the office.’

  There was silence for a while. Then Jerrold pulled himself upright on the bed, and shook his head to clear the drowsiness away.

  ‘The best way, Michael,’ he said, ‘is if you has to, just go ahead and shit. First few times is terrible, I ain’t denying that. But you get used to it, you got to. Your own shit you don’t mind the smell of, right? No one does. You got to look on us as if we was you, your sort of brothers, right? That man’s stink, that man Hughesy, – l can take it like my own, although I ain’t up to enjoying it, yet! Look Michael, do I call you Michael, Mike? Look, man, we your friends, OK? We your fucking friends.’

  Jesus Christ, thought Michael Masters, this can’t be happening. He thought of the agreement that he’d come to, the agreement that was cast in stone. He would serve three months in an open prison, with a phone, a room, a bed. He thought of his friends, the men he was protecting, one man in particular. He thought of Sarah Williams. Jesus Christ, I’ve died and gone to hell. I’ve gone insane.

  ‘You see,’ said Hughes, ‘outside this cell there’s people want to grind you down, destroy you. You’ve either got to take all this, or you go under. Shape up or ship out, as they used to say. Except you can’t ship out. You’re stuck.’