43

The day of the fight came and it was dark, miserable and raining – no change there then. I walked out into the area and two groups of prisoners, one group from each wing, were moving seats into a square. They were soaking wet but didn’t seem to care. There was some chi-iking between the two groups but it lacked edge, more fun than fury. The betting I’d heard was that I might last a maximum of five minutes. It wasn’t a case of who would win but how long Pete would take to win and there was no doubt the winner would be Pete Costello. There were 300 bets, as there were 300 seconds in five minutes, and there were three books being run, so 900 bets could be placed. The bookies would take the money for any winning time a bet wasn’t placed; there were ten blanked numbers for each of the bookies. The winner would take all the money laid on in those five minutes. There was a rumour that the bookies weren’t taking any bets on Costello to win as only one person had bet on me. Wow, I had one supporter. Even Harry hadn’t laid a bet. Now that did worry me. Perhaps he thought I wouldn’t win. Me, I just wanted them all to be wrong. Well, not the one who had bet on me.

The rain ran down my neck and soaked my shirt and the rain cascaded off my jacket and soaked through my trousers. Squelches came from my boots as I walked; my socks were soaked. There was an hour to go. The prison staff knew what was happening but they weren’t going to interfere. ‘Too risky,’ as one of them said. This seemed to be the latest catchphrase in the prison.

I went back into the prison building and was walking towards the gym.

‘Best of luck, Jake,’ said a female voice. It was Senior Prison Officer James. ‘I’ve a fiver on you to win at two hundred to one. How they’re going to find a thousand quid to pay me I’ve no idea.’

‘Bit of a risk then, ay, ma’am?’

‘For them, Jake. I’ve watched you for the short time you’ve been here. You’re a winner. This one is a bit close but if you stay out of trouble for six or seven minutes you’ll win.’

‘I best get my running shoes on then.’

‘That’s what I’m guessing you’ll do. You said to me when you came that if any of these bozos picked a fight with you you’d kill them. Don’t kill him, Jake; you won’t get away with it for a fourth time. Just win.’ She smiled and strangely that gave me confidence. Her job here was to understand people.

I went to the gym, stripped, dried and lay on a bench. Harry was there with Doc. Doc had been a doctor and had been struck off for doing some naughties. He had then become a physio, which enabled him to do even more naughties.

Doc worked my arms and legs while Harry talked. Harry talked sense but I wasn’t listening. I knew what I was going to do. Firstly, I would cripple Pete Costello so he was slow. Second, I would tire him so that I could move in and out and weaken him so that I could finish him. Frederick the Great in his instructions to his generals said, ‘Those generals who have had but little experience attempt to protect every point, while those who are better acquainted with their profession, having only the capital object in view, guard against a decisive blow and acquiesce in small misfortunes to avoid greater.’ I’ve only the capital objective in view and I’ll have to take some small misfortunes to get there. No, I wasn’t really listening to Harry.

I watched the crowd gathering from an upstairs window. I watched Harry move through the crowd below. I looked across, ahead of his movement, through the crowd. He was heading for the Peter Jackson group. They were at the front. It’s true that rank has its privileges but Peter Jackson never made a big thing of his power in here. Harry stopped near Peter Jackson’s seat and an underling held up his hand, stopping him. Harry spoke to him, I could tell by the movement, and Peter Jackson just raised a finger, allowing Harry’s approach. Harry had a brief conversation with Bennie that lasted about ten seconds, maybe a little longer, then Harry and Bennie went to Peter and Bennie gave him something. Peter nodded. I had the feeling that he had just received the black spot. Harry spoke. Peter shook his head and then nodded again. There was an acceptance. I knew that was Peter Jackson out of the picture. There was no argument. No point in arguing. When The Family has made a decision you just have to comply: less messy that way. It did concern me that Harry was involved but I knew he wasn’t Family.

Dressed and ready for battle, I walked to the crowded, noisy yard. The crowd had parted to let us through. The rain had stopped and the ground was drying underfoot. The weak sun shone through the weakening blanket of clouds. Good omen, I thought. I had Arthur and big Fred in front, Harry by my side and the rest of my class behind me. We had a bunch of seats in a corner. As we approached the ring I saw another passageway through the crowd, through which Pete Costello and his entourage were walking. I entered the ring with Harry and my group, and sat where Malcolm Tunes, the head of the prisoners’ entertainment committee, directed us. Malcolm had been a disc jockey on some minor TV channel, but had done some naughties with some very willing teenage girls who were, unfortunately for him, under sixteen: a bit like Doc really. Actually, not at all like Doc; his were the wives of patients and when the husbands found out he eliminated them. He fought the case as a straight murder so avoided Rampton or Broadmoor but that’s where he should be; he was as nutty as a fruitcake but at the same time a great healer.

Malcolm called for silence on his megaphone and silence descended. He then called each contestant forward to check for weapons and that they met the requirements: standard prison gear with no protective clothing. Harry represented me. He challenged a belt Pete was wearing and that was removed. Trainer from the gym checked me and missed the cricket box I was wearing. I’m sure he knew it was there.

Malcolm then announced the rules. In short, there weren’t any. If one person capitulates (capitulates was his word), he would declare the other one the winner. He announced the timekeepers; three of them, with stopwatches and the mid-time of Malcolm’s declaration of the end was the recorded time for the betting. The end would come in two ways: a fighter being incapable of continuing or surrendering.

He called us to the centre. His instruction was simple. ‘Go to your corners. When there, I’ll start to run for that gap over there and you two can get on with it.’

We walked back to our corners and Malcolm ran for safety.