As a dream trigger, Cartwright’s ID picture had worked amazingly well. My fallback plan if it had not worked had been to swallow a rolled-up ball of weed that I had held back from the stash that I gave to Butler, but that would have left me spaced out and probably vomiting for the next couple of days. Thankfully, such drastic action was not required and after getting my bearings, it had turned out that I was just a ten-minute drive from the Westvale Park estate. That had been more than two hours ago and since then I have bought myself a new shirt to cover my prison issue white t-shirt and ‘borrowed’ a pizza delivery boy’s moped and helmet
For the last hour or so, I have been driving around the estate trying to spot any clues as to which house might be Cartwright’s. However, other than different colored front doors, the houses are pretty much a copy and paste of each other, so now I am parked up opposite the main entrance to the estate to try to spot him on the way home from work.
I know already that, as a senior officer, Cartwright never works a night shift and rarely works weekends, so I am relying on him getting home soon. It’s a quarter past six on a Friday evening and he doesn’t strike me as the kind that hits the pub straight after work.
In the end, I watch for more than an hour as a steady stream of cars enter and leave the estate. Without exception, the quality of the cars speaks volumes about the status and financial standing of the estate’s residents and no doubt Westvale Park has a disproportionate number of doctors, lawyers, bankers and city traders.
Billy was also right about the MILFS. The number of well-heeled yummy mummies in the obligatory Range Rover or other urban 4 x 4 is both staggering and distracting. I am concentrating so hard on one particularly attractive MILF leaving the estate in a Black Mercedes G Wagon that I nearly miss a silver 2017 model Jaguar XJ coming through the gate.
Cartwright is instantly recognizable, though, and so is his sidekick Officer Taylor in the passenger seat. As they pass, I pull out of my parking spot and keep a safe distance behind as they weave their way through the estate and then pull onto the driveway of a detached house at the very end of a cul-de-sac.
I watch as they get out of the car. Judging by the body language, it is clear that they must be friends outside of work. Taylor is carrying some kind of holdall or overnight bag and Cartwright takes a suit carrier out of the boot of the car before they head inside the house.
I don’t see any other car on the driveway, but it’s only 7.20 pm, so if he does have a wife, she could feasibly still be at work if she is a doctor, lawyer or some other kind of well-paid professional.
Another possibility is that he shares the house with Taylor; between them they might just have enough of a salary to cover the mortgage — but why then the overnight bag?
I dismiss that possibility and continue to watch the house from a safe distance but move off for a lap around the estate every ten minutes so that I don’t attract too much attention. It’s been more than three hours since I ‘borrowed’ the moped and the longer I keep it, the higher the risk of being spotted by a police patrol.
The Barry’s Beautiful Pizza branding on the helmet and the moped top-box is hardly inconspicuous, but I need to be able to follow them if they head out and waiting around for a taxi is not an option. They would be long gone by the time I managed to find one.
By 9.45 I am starting to think that I have wasted my time and that they may be staying in for the night, but then a taxi passes me and pulls up on the road outside Cartwright’s house. Two minutes later the lights go on at the front of the house and Cartwright is first out of the door, closely followed by Officer Taylor.
It’s dark, but the street is very well lit and even from where I am parked, I can see them clearly. To say that I am seeing a completely different side of them would be a massive understatement and, for a second, I think that I may be mistaken.
Cartwright is wearing a long rain mac, but the bottom of his tight black-leather trousers and his highly polished black Cuban heels are still visible. His moustache has been oiled and shaped in the style of the ringmaster from ‘Moulin Rouge’ and my first inclination is to assume that they are heading off to a fancy-dress party, but Taylor’s outfit completely dispels that thought.
I would say that normally Taylor is around five feet ten inches tall, but in stiletto heels he is well over six feet. The biggest shockers, though, are the fishnet stockings underneath the tight leather shorts, the fishnet sleeveless top, and the studded dog collar around his neck.
Having a homosexual relationship with a fellow officer is not a crime, but after this revelation, I wonder what else they might have lurking in the closet.
I follow them as the taxi leaves the estate. We drive for around fifteen minutes, and then the taxi pulls up outside Lulu’s nightclub in Heston. I wait to make sure that they get out and then I park the bike in a nearby alley, put the helmet into the top-box, and join the queue to get into the club.
Cartwright and Taylor don’t need to bother with such trivialities as queuing as they are greeted by the bouncer like old friends. After a couple of minutes of small talk, the bouncer removes one of the ropes and ushers them into the club. It takes me another thirty minutes to get to the front of the queue and when I do, the huge but obviously gay bouncer looks me up and down suspiciously.
“You do know that this is a gay club, don’t you?”
I hadn’t been a hundred per cent sure, but I knew it was likely to be.
“Yes, of course I do. Is there a problem?”
He points to a poster on the door that says, Back to the Eighties. “It’s an eighties theme night — you could have made more of an effort with your outfit.”
He’s right: prison-issue sweat pants, shoes, and a plain blue shirt is a bit of a letdown compared to everyone else I have seen tonight. He would have every right to refuse me entry, but before he can turn me away, I am saved by an unexpected fan club.
“Oooh, don’t send him away, Duncan, he’s cute, and we need a bit of new talent in here. We’re getting bored of the same old queens week after week.”
“Oh yeh, look at the buns on him. I spotted him first, bitch,” another voice adds.
There is an explosion of laughter behind me and, as I turn, there are two extremely camp-looking guys in there fifties and sixties checking me out. I don’t know whether to be embarrassed or flattered, but in the end I am grateful for the attention when Duncan pulls back the rope and lets me in.
“It’s lucky you’re cute, but next time make more of a fucking effort.”
As you would expect for a Friday night, the club is absolutely packed, but as a stranger to gay clubs, I find Lulu’s an assault on my senses. The Communards ‘Don’t leave me this way’ is pumping out of the speakers and the dance floor is filled with lookalikes of Boy George, Jimmy Somerville, and George Michael enthusiastically throwing themselves around to the beat of eighties classics. Cartwright and Taylor are in the thick of the action and now that Cartwright has removed his rain mac, I can see that he is wearing the same kind of fishnet top as Taylor.
Unlike Taylor, who still has a young man’s toned body, Cartwright is carrying a few extra pounds and as he dances the tight-fitting top resembles a fishing net dangerously overfilled with fish in their final death throes. This doesn’t seem to bother Taylor, though, who is quite happy for Cartwright to lead him around the dance floor on the end of a dog lead.
They are obviously not going anywhere for a while, so I find myself a place at the bar where I can keep any eye on them and order myself a beer, much to the disgust of the overtly transgender barman.
“Oh no, that’s far too masculine. Why don’t you have one of our lovely cocktails, my love? The Pina Coladas and the Cosmopolitans are on a two-for-one special tonight.”
Before I can answer, the two old queens who were eyeing me up outside sit down next to me and one of them interrupts the conversation to answer the barman.
“Two on one, did you say, Alice? That sounds perfect, we like those kind o
f odds, particularly when they are as cute as this one.” They both piss themselves laughing again and I find myself blushing like mad.
The second queen squeezes my knee and smiles as he says to his friend, “Aww, you’ve embarrassed him now.” Then, turning back to the barman, “Alice, get us two Cosmos and a beer for our new friend, please.”
I don’t always plan to meet other people on my trips, but when it does happen, it usually helps to make me less conspicuous, so I am happy to make conversation with my two unexpected benefactors. When Alice places a beer on the bar in front of me, I thank the two guys for the beer, “There really was no need, guys, but thanks anyway.”
We chat for around twenty minutes and as I keep my eyes on Cartwright and Butler, I introduce myself simply as Sean and the guys introduce themselves as Benny and George. Both are divorced bankers and have been together for ten years after finally admitting to themselves that they were gay. When Benny tells me that they are looking to introduce a bit of extra spice into their relationship, I know exactly where the conversation is leading and my face shows it.
“I don’t think he is fully out of the closet yet, George. Is that it — are you still a bit confused, Sean? Well, don’t worry, George and I are experts, we can show you the way. Nothing heavy on the first date. George is a bit of a spooge stooge and it would be nice to have someone extra to join in the fun.”
Now, I count myself as being broadminded and a man of the world, but I have no idea what a ‘spooge stooge’ is, so rather than making an exit right away, I ask the question and they both start laughing again. Benny calls Alice over.
“Alice dear, would you be so kind as to explain to our new friend what a ‘spooge stooge’ is?”
Alice chuckles and leans over to whisper in my ear, “A spooge stooge is a man or a woman who loves to have copious amounts of jizz plastered all over their body or face.”
As he moves back down the bar to serve another customer, my embarrassment has reached an all-time record level and the expectant looks from Benny and George are not helping. I am so embarrassed that I don’t spot that Cartwright and Butler have left the dance floor until they are nearly disappearing through a door into the back-of-house area. I get up quickly from my seat to follow them.
Benny tries to take hold of my hand to pull me back, but I pull away and call back to them as I head for the door.
“Um, sorry guys, it’s a lovely offer, but I need to get going.”
“Okay, next time, Sean. Enjoy your night, hot stuff.”
I never imagined myself as being the object of lust for a couple of old gay guys and I make a mental note to do something with my look as soon as I can. It’s flattering, but clearly, there is something about me that they find attractive that worries me slightly. Maybe, though, I am just being sensitive or overthinking it and as I step through the door to find my targets, I put it out of my mind and concentrate on the job at hand.
In front of me, there is a short corridor with two doors either side, a staircase leading to an upper level to the right and a fire exit door at the end. If I am caught back here, I am planning to say that I got lost looking for the bathroom.
The rooms either side of the corridor turn out to be storerooms and offices, but the first three are deserted. The fourth room is also an office. The door is open and I can clearly see Cartwright and Butler reflected in a mirror on the wall opposite the office door. The view from the mirror means that I don’t need to risk looking directly into the office, but it also means that they will be able to see me if they turn around, so I carefully move to the edge of the door so that I can hear what is being said inside the office.
My targets are sitting opposite a shady-looking guy in his late forties who reminds me a lot of Al Pacino’s character, Tony Montana, in the film ‘Scarface’. His look is more Mediterranean, though, perhaps Turkish or Greek Cypriot, and unlike Cartwright and Butler, I doubt very much if this guy is homosexual.
His look says professional thug and the conversation I am hearing has nothing to do with any kind of homosexual tryst and everything to do with the supply of drugs and other contraband. I have to strain to hear, but I hear enough to know that Scarface and Cartwright are running some kind of smuggling operation into Meerholt Prison.
Over the course of ten minutes, I hear them discussing and agreeing on price, quantity, and methods for getting pills, cocaine, heroin, alcohol, mobile phones, and tobacco into Meerholt. It’s hardly earth-shattering stuff as this kind of thing is rampant across UK prisons, but it might just be enough information to give me an advantage over Cartwright if I get into any kind of trouble with him.
Satisfied that I am not going to find out anything else of interest, I turn to leave, but I have been so engrossed in listening to the conversation that I am taken completely by surprise when I see Benny and George standing behind me. I fall back slightly and Benny grabs hold of my hand to steady me.
“Oooh, didn’t mean to scare you, Sean. So is voyeurism your thing? We saw you follow the gimps into here and we didn’t want to miss out on the fun.”
He said it so loudly that it would have been impossible for the guys in the office not to know we were outside and I am pushing Benny to one side and running for the door before Cartwright, Taylor, or Scarface can get a look at me.
As I reach the door, I can hear the queens arguing with Scarface about why they are there, but Cartwright is past them and calling for me to stop.
“Oy, fucking stop! I just want to talk to you.”
Yeh right, of course, you just want to talk to me, talk to me with your fists no doubt. I ignore him completely and barrel through the door, straight into the arms of one of the bouncers, who tells me to slow down and then asks what I was doing in the back-of-house area.
His hand is on my shoulder to stop me from running and by the time I have blurted out my story about looking for the bathroom, Cartwright is through the door and shouts to the bouncer to keep hold of me. He is no more than three feet away and as he looks me up and down, he gets a good look at my face and is about to ask me something, but then he freezes and I know instantly why.
“What the fuck, those shoes and sweats are prison issue!”
Cartwright’s comment is enough to distract the bouncer’s attention, who is not quick enough to dodge me as I slam the heel of my shoe down on his toes as hard as I can. No matter how tough you are, a well-placed toe stamp is fucking excruciating even for the hardest of men. This guy is no exception and as he cries out, he releases his grip on me and I run through the club towards the exit. Duncan is still busy managing the queue and has his back to me as I crash through the main door and back out onto the street with two other bouncers in pursuit. Cartwright is not with them, but that is hardly surprising given the fact that he is wearing Cuban heels, leather trousers, and a fishnet top.
I quickly reach the alley and turn down it to retrieve the moped, confident that I am losing my pursuers, only to be met with my next surprise. Three police officers are standing next to the moped making notes. Before I can turn away, they spot me and tell me to stop where I am.
As I start to run again, two of them chase me back out onto the main street where the bouncers are waiting for me. I am now caught between the cops to the right, the bouncers to the left, and a main road bustling with Friday night traffic in front of me. It’s an obvious and easy choice, but as I step into the street to begin my trip back to prison, I do feel a bit guilty at the driver’s look of horror as I disappear under the wheels of his number 14 bus.
My chest and my skull are crushed completely under the weight of the massive wheels, but as I die I console myself in the knowledge that by the time anyone looks under the bus for my body I will already be gone. There will, of course, be an investigation, but eventually the driver will be exonerated and the whole incident will be put down to an unexplained near miss.
Present Day – Saturday, 17th February 2018
“McMillan … hey, McMillan, stop with the fucking mumbl
ing. Oy! McMillan, give it a fucking rest, will ya? It’s still the middle of the fucking night!”
It takes me a few seconds to register that it is Billy talking to me.
“Sorry, what did you say?”
“I said shut your fucking pie hole! You were talking in your fucking sleep. Something about mobile phones and tobacco and some other shit that I couldn’t understand. You were making a right bleeding racket.”
It’s still dark but the hands on the watch are luminous and I can see that the time is around 4.40 in the morning.
Cartwright recognizing my prison uniform could be a big problem, but it was five months ago and he literally only saw my face for a couple of seconds. I may be okay, but it’s bothering me enough to know that I won’t be able to sleep again tonight.
“Yeh, sorry, Billy. I was having a bad dream. Go back to sleep,” I tell him.
“Okay, well try and keep the noise down. It’s the weekend and we get a better breakfast on a Saturday. I want to enjoy it, not fall asleep in it.”
I apologize again and I hear Billy roll over above me to get himself comfortable. Then I hear him roll the other way again and his face appears over the side of his bunk.
“What’s a ‘spooge stooge’?”
“Billy, you really don’t want to know. Now go back to sleep and dream of your breakfast.”
A few minutes later, I can hear Billy snoring, and it’s almost as if he is doing it deliberately to get back at me for my night-time mumblings. I can’t sleep anyway and It’s just as well that I have my next move to plan; I would have no chance of sleeping with Billy doing his best impression of a dying walrus.
Straight after slop-out and a shower, I head to the canteen where the atmosphere seems better than I have experienced on my previous visits. I think perhaps that Billy was right about the weekend breakfast. This nicer atmosphere won’t last, though. The number of options and the food quality seem vastly better than anything I have had so far, but as soon as Cartwright spots Billy, the party will be over. With this in mind, I change my routine and make my trip to fill my mug before taking a seat.
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