25
I was teaching when Boy Pritchard stuck his head round the door of my classroom.
‘Can I have a word, Captain?’ Boy was a very pretty homosexual who sold oral sex.
‘Hey hey, Captain! We didn’t know you were into that!’ said one of my class members.
‘Silence or I’ll sit you in the corner on the naughty stool wearing a pointy hat. Now finish the exercise,’ I told them and left the room.
‘Captain,’ Boy began, his voice quivering, ‘they’re going to rape you today to take you down.’
‘Tell me more, Boy.’
‘I don’t know but, well, they’ll do you in the showers.’
‘Who are they?’
‘Mr Wharton and Tug Wilson. Mr Wharton will do you first and then Tug Wilson. It’s horrible.’
I didn’t ask how he knew, but the message was interesting. He said ‘Tug Wilson’; normally only first names were used here in conversation. I didn’t know what it meant but it was different.
‘Will you go and tell Sergeant, please?’
‘Okay, Captain.’
It’s amazing how power and respect grows. I’m sure that two weeks ago Boy would never have told me, let alone run a message for me.
Ten minutes later, Harry slipped into the room and sat at the back. You could feel a change in the room.
‘Are you in trouble, Captain?’
‘I don’t know, Arty, but I could be.’ He looked around the room. There was no oral communication but a series of nods.
Maniac spoke. ‘If it comes to trouble, Captain, we’re with you.’ His voice was as it normally was but sane with purpose. Were the psychiatrists right and he really was sane?
‘Thank you, fellas. If I need help Sergeant will enrol you.’
‘I can spell that,’ said George. ‘E-N-R-O-L – enrol.’
‘Thank you, George.’
George wasn’t the sharpest knife in the drawer. He was big and soft like a teddy bear and usually missed what was going on around him, but he was a trier. He’d avoided being used as a bitch for some of the experienced prisoners because somebody with a conscience and some muscle would always step in and protect him. He should never have been in prison; he needed care and guidance not confinement. He’d been tortured and goaded for months. Then one day he’d exploded and killed four younger boys who were bullying him. He went into hiding or rather somebody hid him but he was seen and he was frightened and killed two women and a policeman. In fact, he was as gentle as a lamb but he was just scared by threat, and threat made him violent. I’m sure with appropriate psychiatric treatment he would recover and be okay in some form of sheltered accommodation. I’d once heard a recording of a woman who I think was named Joyce Grenfell. I found myself doing her thing with him: ‘George, don’t do that’. George used to smile, a shy smile, and stop doing whatever it was, usually with his hand in his pocket.
Dad, who was well over seventy, knew all about Joyce Grenfell. He thought I was a magician. He’d been trying to learn to read for about ten years and he was now nearly through Book 1 after only a few weeks with me. It’s funny really. I don’t know what I did but whatever it was had unblocked something that was stopping him learning to read and the Arthur thing, I was sure, had helped.
As we walked along the landing, Officer Moorby was waiting.
‘Jake, you’ve a medical this afternoon. Go for a shower now,’ he said.
I didn’t like Moorby, or Manson come to that, but I’d be hard-pressed to explain why. On the face of it they were like any other prison officers but my sixth sense said these men were slippery. When they told you something it was as if they were doing you a personal favour for which you should be grateful and their utterances were full of innuendo. When they gave you information it often lacked clarity or a vital piece of information so you were pushed into a position of seeking clarification.
‘Senior Officer James didn’t tell me.’
Harry had slipped into our cell while I was talking to Moorby.
‘She’s off today so I’m telling you.’
‘What time?’
‘In half an hour.’ He still gave no time and no answer to my question.
‘Okay, I’ll be at the blue room in ten minutes.’
That was another odd thing about this place; the bath and shower rooms were called the blue rooms.
When I walked into the cell Harry said, ‘Sit. Listen good now. Go into the shower room, B-Wing doorway and straight down the first leg. Turn the fifth or sixth shower on, on the right side. Go to the end of the row and along the back row to the fifth shower. Get stripped, turn the shower on and leave your gear there. Go back to the first shower that you put on. Here’s a chiv and a shank.’ He handed me a cutthroat razor; the blade was taped open. The shank was a five-inch ice pick. ‘When they come at you do your best. When you’re successful go to the shower on the back row. Have a shower. Make sure there’s no blood on you. Leave the showers, get dressed and come down the far side past the baths to the A-Wing side door so you don’t pass the damage you’ve done.’
I loved the ‘when’ and not ‘if’; he left the unsuccessful unsaid.
‘What about the blades?’
‘Yes, the upper window at the end of the first line of showers is always open. Drop the blades out of there. Wash them first, no blood, no prints; The Brothers will pick them up. Oh, and turn the first shower off before you leave it. No prints, though.’