Banged Up Read online

  Then darkness.

  His body began to relax. He never thought he’d be glad to be blind.

  Springs creaked, then fell silent.

  He sat up, unlaced boots and kicked them free of his feet. Combat pants went the same way. The blanket prickled skin which had suddenly become hypersensitive. He stretched out a hand, reached under the mattress and located the razor-blade. Curling fingers around the slim length of plastic, Jas closed his eyes. Sleep was a heartbeat away, kept at bay the previous night by the last beats of a younger heart, two cells down.

  Creaking.

  Eyelids shot open.

  Jas stared up, listening to the rhythmic movement of bed springs. Fingers tightening around the blade ...

  More creaking. Faster creaking.

  ... then untightening, to be replaced by a different tension. He bit back a moan as his prick twitched.

  McStay’s wank was almost silent, but in the noiseless cell every sound and movement filled his ears.

  Jas rolled over onto his stomach.

  The creaking stopped.

  Shallow breathing. His, or McStay’s?

  The creaking resumed.

  His prick tried to uncurl inside the too-tight Calvins. Foreskin caught in pubic hair, pulling at the roots as the shaft stretched itself in response to the creaks. He moved onto his side, drew up legs against the dull ache in his balls.

  His ears strained through the creaks, listening to the drag of flesh on flesh, the urgent caress of damp fist around damper shaft.

  Unrelated thoughts darted into his mind. The photograph ... a wife ... kids ... McStay’s permanently furrowed brow furrowing further as he jerked himself towards orgasm ... the faceless kid last night ... Ian Dalgleish ...

  Jas frowned, drew his knees up further. Thighs brushed balls. He shivered and turned onto his back.

  ... tomorrow. The day after. The day after that. Neil Johnstone. Mhairi. Small packages of white powder ...

  His hand lay over his half-hard prick.

  ... McStay’s hard shoulders. The smell of McStay’s piss, his sweat and ...

  Jas felt the outline of the razor’s guard press itself into his palm as a quiet sigh ended the creaking. He sniffed the air, trying to draw comfort from the warm stench of life which drifted down from the bunk above. The dull ache in his balls had subsided into a pulsating discomfort.

  Tiredness and arousal fought a battle in his groin.

  Rustling.

  Then silence.

  Sometime later, snoring.

  Sometime after that, tiredness won.

  Jas stuffed the too-tight Calvins under his bunk and pulled on Telly’s red contraband underwear. The roomier briefs felt better against his balls. Scooping combat pants from the floor, he stepped into them, listening to the sounds of his cell-mate’s breathing.

  No bells ...

  ... dawn had woken him, rays of greying light puncturing the darkness and poking his mind from an uncomfortable doze.

  His body was cold and stiff, despite yesterday’s work-out. His brain refused to function.

  Jas straightened up. He leant back against bare brick and stared at his cell-mate’s blanket-muffled outline. Breath condensed in the cold air. Beneath his bare feet, Victorian stone chilled the soles. He struggled into socks, boots then reached for cigarettes, sparking a match in the dim gloom.

  The brick was a block of ice behind his shoulders as he smoked the cigarette and stared at McStay’s inert form.

  Even in sleep, the antagonism was there, radiating up through the thin blanket. Jas thought about the razor blade, back between mattress and bed-springs.

  Two men. One cell. A power balance begged to be established.

  As he flicked the glowing cigarette-end into the piss-pot, artificial gloom flickered then burst into light above his head.

  A bell.

  Seconds later, keys scraped at a lock.

  Jas grabbed his towel and the piss-pot, brushing past the grey Hadrian uniform and out onto the walk-way. Most prisoners were still in their cells. Glancing across the suicide net, he watched a rodent-faced figure scurry parallel. He wasn’t the only one to want to wash early. Frowning, he made his way down metal stairs towards the shower block.

  Gerry the Skinhead was nowhere in sight.

  Deja vu ...

  ... but the routine was reassuring. Jas undressed in line, staring across the freezing room to where a skinny figure was washing step-cut hair. Leaving his clothes to mark his place in the queue, he ducked into one of the stalls to empty the piss-pot.

  The toilet bowl was filled to the brim, grey, stinking sludge spilling over the rim.

  Jas tried the other three doorless cubicles.

  All similar.

  He returned to the queue, glanced around for an officer.

  The room was denim and flesh-toned. No grey.

  Jas scowled. Even the plumbing couldn’t handle the amount of shite which was circulating in the Bar-L these days. He tossed his clothes onto a bench, then picked up the piss-pot and stood patiently with a dozen other naked men, all holding piss-pots.

  The smell in the room turned his stomach. Jas focused on the floor in front.

  A low whistle.

  Fingers tightened, digging into palm. The piss-pot trembled in his fist.

  Another whistle, two-note, this time. Laughing. Then pleading.

  Jas raised his head.

  At the end of the shower area, four figures where there should be one.

  Deja vu.

  Three dry and dressed. One wet and naked.

  The rodent-faced kid backed further into a corner, frantically shielding shrivelled genitals.

  Jas moved up the queue as the two men ahead of him slipped under newly vacated faucets.

  One of the dressed figures stretched out a hand and lightly slapped the dripping rodent-face.

  The kid knocked the hand away and shrank further into the corner.

  Someone laughed.

  Jas looked over his shoulder.

  At least a dozen pairs of eyes were watching. Deja vu. No one moved.

  He looked back at the kid.

  All three were slapping him now, arms and legs more than face. With each impact of dry flesh on wet, the kid yelped.

  No hard slaps.

  Force wasn’t necessary.

  Pain wasn’t the object.

  Jas took a step forward, remembering the previous morning. Rodent-face had already been on the receiving end of a more polite, less demonstrative offer, which he had stupidly turned down. He remembered Gerry, then Telly’s words:

  ... the wee, pretty ones get it the worst ... when they could huv it the best ...

  Yelps were fading into sobs, low laughs increasing in volume. Face buried in hands, the kid had turned to the wall.

  Jas watched two clothed figures grab a skinny wrist each, pinning the arms high above the head. The teenage body had a limp, defeated look about it, step-cut hair plastered to a soaking, lowered skull. He sighed: none of his business ...

  Then a howl of surprise.

  A bare foot kicked backward a second time, catching the largest of the three dressed men neatly in the shin.

  Another howl. Rage, this time.

  The rat-faced kid was spun round, before his heels could do any more damage.

  Jas wanted to look away. Couldn’t. He stared as the kid was dragged from the wet to the dry, one denimed arm around his scrawny neck, another twisting his wrist behind his back.

  The third dressed figure straightened up from rubbing his shin, balled a fist and aimed it at the kid’s cheek.

  “Lea’ him alone, eh?” The words were out before he could stop them.

  Hard knuckles contacted with soft skin.

  “Ah said, lea’ him alone!” Jas hurled the piss-pot at the far wall.

  The sound obliterated the kid’s gasp of pain. The faecal matter which drenched the skinny body and two of the clothed ones raised gasps of disgust.

  ”Aw’, fur fuck’s
sake!” The third figure leapt back. The other two released the shite-slimed kid and plucked at their soiled clothing.

  Terrified eyes darted around the tiled room.

  Jas strode forward, reclaimed the piss-pot with one hand, a skinny white arm with the other. He shoved the kid in the direction of what looked like the kids’ clothes.

  “Whit’s your fuckin’ game, pal?”

  Angry eyes glared at him.

  Behind, scurrying noises told him the boy was making another hasty exit. Okay, so he’d stink like a shithouse all day, but smells faded.

  Jas glared back. “Sorry – ma hand slipped.” He dangled the empty piss-pot from two fingers in mock apology.

  The door at the far end of the showers opened. Two grey-clad figures, noses wrinkling at the stench.

  “What’s goin’ on here?”

  No response.

  Jas glanced from the two screws to three piss-stained men and back again. “Ma fault – a wee accident.”

  Another, bulkier grey figure pushed through. “What the fuck’s all this?” Gun-metal eyes bore down on them.

  Jas moved closer to the denimed men.

  Dalgleish responded on cue. Practised eyes read the situation, then switched to the other three prisoners.

  A voice from the denim. “Like he sez, an accident, Mister Dalgleish.”

  Hoarse laugh. “Get this stinkin’ mess cleaned up, Anderson ...”

  Jas looked at the brown smears which slid down the tiled wall.

  “... now!” Dalgleish turned on his heel and walked from the shower room.

  Seconds later, the two other screws followed.

  Jas stared at the rodent-faced kid’s three admirers, then back at the line of naked men waiting to wash. He didn’t risk a smile of solidarity.

  He knew how his actions would be interpreted: self-interest. Every action had a reaction.

  He also knew there were other times, other places. Jas moved under a faucet and began to wash.

  The first repercussion came an hour later.

  Today’s cleaning duties augmented by shower-block work, he was wiping the last traces of shite from greying tiles.

  Eyes. The pressure of a stare.

  He spun round.

  The boy huddled deeper into the padded jacket and tried to smile.

  It didn’t work.

  Jas frowned. “Whit dae you want?”

  A blush spread over rodent-features. “Er ... fierce, man – thanks.”

  Jas scanned the almost childish body. “Forget it!” He turned back to the tiles.

  Silence. Then:

  “Ah’m David – David Hamilton.”

  “That meant tae dae somethin’ fur me?” He scrubbed at the wall, manufacturing a hardness he didn’t feel.

  Confusion. “Er ... no, but ah ...” Fading into embarrassment.

  Jas stopped scrubbing and turned. He stared at the kid.

  Neither physical ...

  ... nor brain-muscle. Pale, nipped-in face. At the front of the queue when they were handing out cheekbones and lips. The padded jacket quivered. At the end of the line, when it came to suss.

  Jas tried a smile.

  The expression reciprocated. Feelings gushed out. “Oh, man, ah owe ye – dunno whit ah wid huv ...”

  Jas dammed up the torrent before it swept him away. “Get a clue, yeah?”

  Confusion back in the rodent eyes.

  Jas looked away. “Whit ye in fur?” No transferree would be this green.

  “Joy-ridin’, man, an ...”

  “Ye’re oan remand, yeah? Coupla months?” At eighteen, they were moved from Remand Homes to adult institutions.

  “Aye, but ...”

  “Ken how things work in here ... David?” For some reason, using the name made it less personal.

  “Naw, no’ really – in Longriggend ah ...”

  “Don’t gimme yer life story. You need protection – right?” Nothing.

  “Right?” Jas glowered.

  Obedient nod.

  “A guy comes oan tae ye, you let him – git ma meanin’?” Understanding glimmered, sensed but not yet admitted.

  “Play fair by him, an’ he’ll look after ye, yeah?”

  The eyes were filling up. A slow nod. Sniff. “Christ, Longriggend wiz a dawdle compared tae this!” A sob caught in a throat barely adult enough to merit the bobbing Adam’s apple.

  Jas frowned. He didn’t need this ...

  ... didn’t need any of it. But something made him reach over and ruffle the kid’s thick, step-cut hair. “Ye’ll be okay, David – jist watch yersel’, yeah?”

  Obedient nod.

  His hand lingered, feeling slight tremors from David’s scalp.

  “Anderson?” The shout echoed in the tiled room.

  His hand snapped back. He looked over his shoulder. Another Brodie-clone.

  “Visitor! Get cleaned up an’ wait at the gates ...” Frown. “... an’ you, back tae yer cell.”

  Scurrying behind cut into his surprise. But an order was an order. Jas washed his hands under a faucet, moved the bucket into a corner and headed for the door.

  Fourteen

  HE WAITED IN HIS GROUP OF SIX.

  Waited while the six in front were body-searched.

  What could they smuggle out? Letters? Complaints? Jas shoved hands deeper into pockets and tried not to think about the identity of his visitor, tried not to think about Peter’s last words to him, in the holding cells under the Sheriff Court.

  Behind, conversation buzzed. Jas considered asking one of the grey uniforms what had happened to the no-visits-for-the-first-fortnight rule, then remembered gift-horses ...

  ... and his solicitor. Maybe the basic right to time with legal representation was still his.

  Maybe he wouldn’t need to sit opposite Peter’s tanned, handsome face and feel ten times worse about returning to his cell.

  Maybe he’d actually feel better. Jas glanced up at the CCTV camera, then glanced away. Maybe not: solicitors could only do so much.

  The sound of metal on metal. A gate slid open. Six denimed figures slouched through.

  Metal on metal. The gate slid shut. Jas frowned. The half-dozen on their way through to the visiting suite looked anything but enthusiastic.

  Steeling themselves for an hour opposite their own Peters?

  He watched as the body searches began again. He watched two grey uniforms tentatively pat down men twice their age, light years apart from them.

  A small man with dark curly hair resisted the search halfheartedly. The rest stood passively.

  The clever caught on quick.

  His mind flashed back to rodent-faced David, then the faceless screaming kid three cells down. He knew it wasn’t lack of intelligence which stopped either catching on to the way of the world ...

  ... the Bar-L world.

  Parents, girlfriends, wives, mates: no one understood. You had to be here, feel here, and survive here ...

  Jas raised his arms and spread his legs. Stick-like fingers gave him a cursory search, then moved on.

  ... and the authorities wondered why prisoners were always harder to control after a visit.

  A closed world. In every sense ...

  ... which made nonsense of every other relationship in a prisoner’s life.

  And when two worlds collide ...?

  ... the sound of metal on metal. The gate slid open.

  Jas and five other men filed through, following a Hadrian officer down one corridor, then another.

  Peter ...

  The six paused at a gate. Distant voices.

  ... his solicitor ...

  The officer waved his arms at a CCTV camera.

  ... Peter ...

  Nothing happened. “Yer batteries ur flat, son!” Laughter. Jas smiled at the joke.

  ... his solicitor ...

  The officer turned, glared, then waved less vigorously at the camera.

  ... Peter ...

  The half dozen exchanged similar, less a
musing remarks.

  ... his solicitor ...

  Metal on metal. Distant voices becoming louder. Heart pounded. He made his way through the open gate.

  Peter. His solicitor. Peter. His solicitor ...

  Fifteen yards ahead, the dull hum of adult chatter and children’s voices leaked out from between the bars of the last gate.

  Turn back.

  Walk away ...

  ... he couldn’t face Peter, didn’t want to hear more bad news from Andrew Ainslie.

  No sound of metal on metal. Just the scraping of keys in a lock.

  Jas walked stiffly through, scanning the large room of tables and chairs and people.

  Brown eyes careered into his. The first face he recognised was McStay’s. He glanced away.

  The second face he recognised was painted porcelain, with a large crack running lip to eye.

  “Jas! Darlin’!”

  Everyone turned. Everyone stared. Mhairi was on her feet, arms windmilling. He picked his way between tabled islands of families.

  Hands grabbed his, dragging him into a kiss.

  Jas flinched, tensing as a tongue prised his lips apart. Then something else entered his mouth ...

  ... something other than her saliva. He pulled away, tasting metal. Foil.

  Someone whistled. Then cheering. Then uniformed attempts to subdue the cheering.

  Jas gazed past Mhairi’s grinning face and met McStay’s eyes a second time. He looked away, down to the child in his cell-mate’s lap.

  Hissing. “Shove it under yer tongue, Big Man!”

  His eyes flicked back to the china-doll face. He sat, noticing Mhairi was still holding one of his hands, tiny fingers wrapped round his own. “Whit ye ...?” His mouth sounded full.

  “Shut it an’ listen!” Head lowered, a curtain of brown hair falling across the damaged face. “Ah had a hellova job gettin’ it in here, Big Man. Keep it under yer tongue.”

  Jas stared, then did as he was told.

  It was becoming a habit.

  The small, foil-wrapped package nestling behind his front teeth, he frowned.

  Mhairi squeezed his hand.

  “Ma solicitor’s bin in touch?” The words were muffled.