Banged Up Read online

  Another frown. “Not getting off to a very good start are we, Anderson?” Low voice, barely audible over engine rumbles.

  Jas flinched. Narrowed eyes met knowing pupils.

  Then Brodie turned away and strode back to the front of the bus. “Fisher?”

  “Aye ...”

  Jas rubbed his face with damp palms.

  “Gordon?”

  “Here ...”

  Jas ran hands over hair in need of a wash and frowned. Did his reputation precede him, even amongst Hadrian officers?

  “Hamilton?”

  His reputation as – what? Threat to order? Trouble-maker? “Hamilton!” Louder.

  The change in tone refocused his attention. Eyes swept the half-full bus, then settled on the back of an oblivious step-cut head.

  “David Hamilton!”

  Jas reached over, tapped a hunched shoulder.

  It stiffened under his touch. Earphones ripped from ears. Bouncing to feet housed in giant trainers.

  The sound of something falling.

  Scared-rabbit eyes darting around.

  Jas nodded to where Brodie was frowning again. He reached down, picked up the plastic consol-game.

  “David Hamilton?”

  “Er, aye – ah mean, here.”

  “Try to stay awake, Hamilton.” Weary sarcasm.

  “Aye – yeah, sorry.”

  The teens sniggered.

  Rabbit-eyes scurrying over the floor. The step-cut head raising itself. Rabbit-eyes running to earth in his.

  Jas met the scared gaze, held out the console.

  The Game-Boy seized by the shaking hands of a very un-game boy. David Hamilton sat down. From the front of the bus:

  “MacIntyre?”

  “Here ...”

  Jas watched the step-cut head re-lower itself. Earphones tucked back beneath step-cut hair. Rabbit-eyes once more directed to the small console. He stared at a pink, rabbit ear and wondered vaguely how old the kid was ...

  The bus slowed. A volley of fists and boots thumped along the side. And voices.

  ... only vaguely. Through the tinted window, Jas recognised the scowling faces of the SPA picket-line.

  He had problems of his own ...

  A last few thumps on the rear bodywork of the ancient bus. Ahead, large metal gates were parting to admit them.

  ... problems which were only just beginning.

  The walls had been re-painted. New carpet. New style ...

  ... new guards.

  In the Processing area, Jas moved closer to the man in front. He could smell his own body and those of others around him. The line inched forward. Overhead, whirring.

  He looked up.

  From the four corners of light grey walls, the red eyes of four CCTV cameras blinked back at him.

  “Abernethy, Adamson, Fisher and Malcolmson.”

  Four shuffling shapes broke ranks and alphabetisation.

  Jas watched. More procedure: prisoners awaiting trial would be separated off at this stage, remand-wing bound. Transferrees and sentenced men would join one of six Halls.

  Behind three more Brodie clones – two with clipboards, one female at a computer terminal – eyes brushed the familiar Hadrian brick-wall insignia. Beneath, one sentence:

  Pioneers in Security Solutions. The legend emblazoned wages-delivery vans throughout Scotland

  “Morrison, O’Brien, Patterson, Pllu.”

  Jas focused on one of those pioneers. As another four shapes moved towards a clip-boarded Brodie-clone, he stared at the officer behind the desk. She couldn’t possibly be as young or small as she looked.

  A gate in the far corner slid noiselessly open.

  The Hadrian officer and his four charges walked through.

  The gate slide noiselessly shut. New style ...

  He inhaled.

  ... old smell. A mixture of generic disinfectant and stale male sweat. He’d interviewed remand prisoners here countless times. The stench of the place stuck to clothes, got into hair, lingered in the mouth and the mind long after the gates closed and the case faded.

  Jas frowned. Hadrian could paint the walls, install computers and oil the gates but they couldn’t hide the tenor of Barlinnie. It was foolish to even try.

  “Redman, Salmon, Travis ...”

  A vague buzz in his ears obliterated the final name. Jas watched the three teens and a middle-aged man head off with a Brodie-clone. Eyes flicked over shoulder.

  A lowered, step-cut head stared into a Kwik-Save box of meagre possessions.

  Jas looked back to the desk. In the corner, a friction-defeating gate was silently sliding open and shut in the wake of the departing fivesome. Brodie peered at the computer terminal with the tiny, grey-clad girl. Peter’s Armani bag sat on the desk beside the monitor, Jas cleared his throat. “Scuse me?”

  Ms Pepperpot glanced up, glanced away.

  Brodie frowned wordlessly.

  Jas moved forward. “Ah’m remand – ah should be wi’ the ...”

  “Get back in line, Anderson!”

  There was no line to get back into. The rat-faced kid was sidling over towards a grey radiator. Wrists cuffed, Zero-crop lounged against a wall, smoking two-handed.

  Jas caught a smile of solidarity. He frowned, eyes noting another two cuffed figures shuffling aimlessly. He registered a white line painted into grey carpeting, walked towards it and away from unwanted camaraderie. “How come ah’m still here?”

  His words ignored. Sounds of frantic keyboard tapping. Brodie delivered a slap to the side of the terminal. Ms Pepperpot chewed her lip.

  Jas pulled a cigarette from the Bensons packet, stuck it in his mouth. “Crashed oan ye, has it?”

  Two lowered heads flicked up. Brodie: “Get back, Anderson!”

  Jas almost smiled. Patting biker’s jacket pockets, he remembered the lighter was still in the bag. One hand reached across.

  The motion registered. “I said back!” Barely concealed panic in the words. “You’ll be dealt with in due course.”

  Overhead, the whirring had stopped. The security gate continued to open and shut, then stuck in the open position. Jas wondered about circuits no longer closed and gates yawning in other parts of the prison.

  Pioneers in Security Solutions?

  Stepping back from the white line, he wandered over to the lounging skinhead. The rat-faced kid with the box was staring straight ahead, eyes inches from a grey wall. Terror radiated off the boy in waves.

  The sight sobered him: somewhere beyond that gate, he’d be dealt with, in more sense than one. Yards away, Brodie thumped the terminal a second time. As if on command, two more Hadrian officers appeared in the gateway, staring blankly at an inch of jammed, visible bars.

  Jas watched a huddled conversation around the computer terminal. Movement at his side. He turned.

  A cuffed figure with a Zero-crop removed two inches of damp roll-up from between lips, held out the glowing end. A grin.

  Jas took in the gesture, then the hard musculature beneath the unzipped Harrington. He was amazed they still made the jackets. Eyes moved downwards to impossibly tight, bleached denims, and the very visible outline at the top of the man’s left thigh. Balls tingled. He shook his head, plucked the unlit cigarette from mouth and shoved it back in the packet: he’d have more use for it later anyway.

  Shrug. Roll-up back between lips.

  Renewed whirring above indicated the system was back on line. As if in sync:

  “Hamilton?”

  The rat-faced boy flinched beneath padded nylon.

  “Get a move on, Hamilton!” The voice of the bus: in command once more.

  Jas watched huge trainered feet bounce across new grey carpet to the waiting grey escort. The boy struggled with the Kwik-Save box, which was seized by a Brodie-clone. Then the sound of the real thing:

  “Adair, Anderson, McCann and Miles.”

  Jas rubbed at one cuffed wrist and followed the skinhead towards another escort.

  Steam filled t
he short leg of the L-shaped shower-room. Jas turned back to the thin, slatted bench. Easing the Bic razor from beneath his curled prick, he peeled off underwear, balling the fabric around the stiff stem.

  He fingered the length of plastic, considering options. Following a shower, the medical: internal storage of the razor wasn’t a good idea. Jas shoved still-warm underwear into the folds of his combat pants and sat down. Slatted wood dug into skin. Although now cuffless, red rings looped his wrists, stinging reminders.

  From the long leg of the L-shaped room, the sound of running water. And low humming.

  Jas stood up. He stared at the heap of Harrington and bleached jeans inches from his own clothes.

  The other two had showered half-heartedly and rapidly ...

  Low humming rose into a burst of tuneless singing.

  ... Zero-crop obviously believed in a thorough wash. At the far end of the L’s short leg, a door opened:

  “Get a move on, man!”

  Jas’s eyes moved to the larger, less-Brodie-like figure making its way towards him. Grabbing the threadbare length of grey towel, he walked in the direction of the singing.

  “Aw’right, pal?”

  Pal: the automatic title, one of an assortment predicated on automatic, meaningless assumptions. Jas nodded wordlessly, braced arms against tiles and let the water do more than its job. Heat seeped into bruised flesh and tensed muscle.

  The sounds of soaping and more singing. The smell of coal tar drifted over, erasing the the odour of sweat. Eyes swept the wet floor to another pair of bare, wet feet. Then up thickly haired legs.

  The proximity was unavoidable: he’d tried four other faucets before finding one that didn’t merely dribble. Raising his head, he let water pour down chest, matting hair. A sour odour rose over the smell of carbolic. Jas rubbed at armpits. Eyes flicked to a curved, built-in soap-holder. Empty.

  The out-of-tune singing changed to out-of-tune whistling.

  Jas lowered his head, looked left.

  Knees bent, skull skimming tiled wall, Zero-Crop ran a block of mushy red over hard white buttocks.

  Jas watched the skinhead soap the dark crack between the two solid mounds.

  One leg raised itself. Fingers moved down the dark crevice, spreading pinkish suds over small, tight balls.

  Jas frowned, moved away and continued his own, soapless wash. He pushed his mind onwards and inwards.

  Remand.

  Segregated from convicted prisoners.

  Safety – of a sort.

  Isolation, he knew, would be at the discretion of the governor ...

  He gripped his prick, hauling back foreskin to rinse beneath.

  ... Jas wondered vaguely if Hadrian had appointed their own administrator, or if the Scottish Office maintained a presence.

  “Want it?” Hoarse voice in this ear.

  Jas spun round.

  A faded St. Andrew’s Cross rippled on a leanly-muscled arm. One large hand gripped a bony knee. Mouthful of water onto the already-swimming floor.

  Jas blinked at the seven inches of hardening flesh which swung beneath Zero-Crop’s sopping pubic bush. Water ran into his eyes.

  “Eh?” Broader grin

  He focused on the sallow face.

  On the outside ...

  Those grinning lips stretching wordlessly, his own lips tight around that hardening prick.

  Those hair-covered thighs spread and waiting.

  Those hard pale arse-cheeks wrenched apart ...

  ... those knuckles white with mounting desire..

  A large hand held out a mushy bar of soap. “Afore it fuckin’ disintegrates completely!” Watery laugh.

  “Thanks.” Jas seized the soap and smiled wryly at his own susceptibility. A cluster of curled hairs adhered to the soft, red surface.

  The naked man turned back to the faucet. “Gerry – Gerry Adair.”

  Pink carbolic mushed further between his fingers. He didn’t want to know. Jas lathered palms and tried to increase the already yawning distant between them.

  “Whit ye in fur?”

  Jas soaped pit hair. Gerry’s question answered an unspoken enquiry of his own. First-timer: only a novice would ask. In prison, a man made his own reputation, if he had any sense. “Remand.” The outside meant nothing ...

  ... inside. Soap slipped from between rigid fingers.

  Two hands scooped to retrieve it.

  “Me tae – aggravated assault. Fuckin’ polis stitched me up ...” Gerry got there first, lobbed the bar left.

  Jas caught it one-handed. More in common than he’d thought?

  “... ah wis oota ma heid, man – too fucked tae assault onywan!” Gerry leant against the wall, one hand scratching at tight balls. “But gimme hauf an oor alone wi’ wanna them noo an ...” Threat retreating into a grin.

  The thought ricocheted back. Jas stared at water-gleamed stubble. On the outside. Those hands ...

  ... beating the living shite out of him. Gaze moved downwards, glancing to the scratching. Jas tore his eyes away and soaped thighs.

  The glance registered.

  Jas felt his own body scanned.

  Hoarse laugh. “Missin’ it awready?”

  He continued to wash. If this man knew he was polis – ex or otherwise – he’d never make it to the medical. If this man knew his choice of sleeping-partner?

  “Man, ah wis like a fuckin’ rock, on that bus!”

  The unwarranted, unwanted intimacy rained onto his skin, a less soothing deluge. Jas turned.

  Large fingers wrapped around shaft. “Must be the motion, eh?” Head thrown back, eyes upwards. The length slowly stroked. “Whit ah widney give fur a paira open legs right noo!”

  Jas looked away, began to rinse. Carbolic receded in the face of raging testosterone. He tried to will himself soft ...

  ... and failed. Face raised to the faucet, water washed the last suds from his glowing body. Somewhere around the kidney area, another unwelcome glow helped refocus his mind.

  “Ma lassie’d better no’ think aboot gettin’ it elsewhere, while ah’m in here!” Suddenly worried.

  Where Gerry’s lassie intended to slake her desire was the least of his problems. And should be the least of Gerry’s. Jas moved out from under the shower-head.

  A voice from beyond: “Get a move oan, you two!”

  Sudden burst of aggression. “Enjoyin’ the show, pal?” A wet, naked shape strutted forward, prick waggled between cocky fingers.

  “Shut it, Adair.” Weary tolerance

  Jas groped for his threadbare scrap of fabric.

  The sting of a towel flicked against his arse. Jas grabbed it, spun round.

  Stubbly head lowered, then cocked towards the source of the voice. “Watch yersel’, pal – these places ur fulla fuckin’ poofs an’ perverts.” Bonding whisper.

  Assumptions ...

  Assumptions ...

  ... the words dissolved what little glue cemented himself and Gerry.

  Inside, a single-sex environment.

  Inside mirrored outside in the only way it could.

  Inside, there was no ‘straight’, no ‘gay’.

  Merely ‘active’ and ‘passive’.

  ‘Men’, who enjoyed the privileges at the top of prison hierarchy ...

  ... and ‘cunts’, who were used and abused, in return – if they were lucky – for reflected kudos and protection from their ‘man’.

  A too-simple over-simplification, governing everything which happened ‘inside’.

  Jas released the towel, found his own and tied the grey rectangle around his waist.

  Ex-polis ... poof ... pervert..

  ... one of three attributes was his main problem, at the moment. As he hurriedly dried his bruised body, other bruises formed mentally, in anticipation of injuries yet received.

  “Epilepsy or any other form of seizure?”

  The Examination Room was old. A wilting begonia drooped forlornly on top of an ancient filing cabinet. “No.” Jas returned his
attention to the crown of a white-haired head.

  The duty GP was older. “Any history of mental illness?”

  “No.” Jas watched fingers well past retirement age continue to write.

  “Any chronic medical condition of which Hadrian Security should be aware?” A slight tremor shivered over the back of a liver-spotted hand.

  Jas registered the shake, thought about his own, mainly healed right arm. “No.”

  “Any special dietary requirements?”

  The question made him grin. “Ah’m allergic tae porridge.”

  The joke unappreciated. The head raised itself, spectacled eyes flicking between the form-in-process and what Jas knew was his chargesheet. “Hepatitis B or C?”

  He sobered: Hep-A, yes, but that was years ago. “No.”

  Spectacled eyes raised further. “Have you been tested for HIV in the past twelve months?”

  Jas registered the cursory glance over his naked body. “None o’ your business!”

  Spectacles removed. “You are here for possession with intent to ...”

  “Ah’m oan remand ...” Jas clenched fists against naked thighs. “... nothin’s been proved!” He scowled in the face of assumptions more professional than Gerry-in-the-shower’s.

  Sceptical, unspectacled eyes. “Have you been tested for HIV in the past twelve months?” Professional repetition.

  A muscle twitched in his calf. Jas inhaled slowly: no point in lying. “Aye.”

  Happier. “Do you know your result?”

  “Negative.” He had a standing appointment at the Royal’s drop-in clinic.

  “Good ...” The doctor wrote something on the sheet. “... now, I’m sorry we can no longer offer you any detox treatment, while you are in here, but the way things are at the moment, with the ... er, strike ...”

  “Ah don’t dae drugs!” Irritation throbbed in his stomach. “Wanna check between ma toes? My prick?”

  Myopic eyes blinked.

  Jas took a deep breath. The man had probably heard it all a hundred times before. More protestations would only add to the scepticism. He exhaled slowly.

  Spectacles replaced, eyes to a liver-spotted wrist. Then a pair of thin latex gloves eased from a box beside the wilting begonia, snapped on. “Stand on the line, please.”