Bird Page 2

  FOUR

  I had to go and see the doctor next and was taken by surprise here. Briggs took me along a corridor and pointed me into another room while he waited outside. As I walked into the room the strong smell of alcohol nearly knocked me over. We’re not talking medical alcohol either, this was the smell of brandy.

  The woman doctor behind the desk could have been in her fifties, it was difficult to tell. Her bright red nose and the vacant look about her were more clues to her addiction. She asked a few simple questions and wrote the answers on a form she had on the desk in front of her. They were easy enough to answer.

  “Do you take drugs.” She slurred.

  “Nah.” was my reply.

  One thing I wasn’t into was drugs but there was no need for this boozy bird to know that. Besides, I was bored with the way things were panning out. It was time for a wind up.

  “I've never taken them, I usually ask first. Most of the time I have to pay for them and on occasion they have been given to me...”

  “Alright!” She interrupted. “I get the picture.”

  “Do you have a habit?” She continued.

  “Nah.” Was my solemn answer. “Not since being bitten by one when I was a kid.”

  “What?” She shrieked.

  “Rabbit.” I explained. “It savaged my finger, I had to have stitches and everything.”

  “No,no,no.” She shouted “I said habit not rabbit.”

  “Fluffy never had a serious habit,” I insisted, “sure she liked her carrots but what self-respecting rabbit doesn't?”

  “Get out.” She shrilled.

  The pen she was holding in her right hand was shaking. I was hoping the poor doctor must need a top up of alcohol by now. She pointed toward the door.

  “Go, get out.” She was still pointing with her left hand towards the door and stooping at the same time opening the right hand desk drawer.

  It seemed like a good time to leave. As I entered the corridor I could hear the unmistakable sound of a lid being unscrewed from a spirit bottle. In the corridor Briggs was waiting for me.

  “Tut, tut.” He uttered. “You're not getting off to a very good start with us are you London?”

  “I wouldn't say that Briggs.” Was my smiling reply. “You've probably got such a dull and monotonous life here that my visit will bring some purpose to it.”

  He didn't really seem to appreciate my comment and raised his eyebrows in a ridiculous fashion. He probably went to amateur dramatics in his spare time.

  “First,” he finally announced, “you call me Mr Briggs, or Sir, if you prefer. You obviously didn't have any sense knocked into that brain cell of yours earlier.” Was his sad reply.

  “Move it.” He finally ordered while pointing up the corridor.

  Couldn't see the point in dwelling on things now, it was still early days and this Briggs was obviously an arsehole. I would have to sort him out at some point, he definitely had it coming to him.

  “When’s dinner then?” I asked Briggs.

  “You’re ready to go down to the wing now and dinner…..” said Briggs looking at his Timex, “will be in about half an hour or so if you’re lucky.”

  The journey to D wing, my new home for a few days until Marcus worked his magic, took about 10 minutes. We passed through a series of locked gates. Every gate had the same lock fitted to it and Briggs used the same key every time. He never uttered a word the whole time which was fine by me. There was nothing I wanted from him he was a screw after all, the lowest life form known to mankind.

  I was having trouble in coping with my own demons at the moment anyway with what lay ahead. My life had taken a turn for the worse over the last few months and I was beginning to feel like I was slowly drowning. There was a little voice inside my head screaming in protest to the events unfolding in front of me. I had chosen my path in life a long time ago and had made a pretty good go of it up until now. This was a bit of a temporary setback, something I could most definitely have done without.

  Funny really, even though I had chosen to take a career in professional crime I didn’t really see myself as a criminal. In fact that would also go for most of my mates in the outside world as well. In reality for us there was no legal or illegal just what you could get away with without being captured. Minimising the chances of getting caught, that’s what it was all about.

  Don’t get me wrong now, there was still a sense of right and wrong. You wouldn’t want to mug a little old lady of her pension would you? But having no regard for the law it was only a matter of time before plod actually caught up with some of my work mates. If you wanted something then you just took it. Working out a way to not get caught and thereby outsmarting the law was just an occupational hazard.

  The average plod wasn’t that bright but then again neither was your average tea leaf. Now take Little Arthur as a prime example. Little Arthur chose his own handle which was fine except that no one else called him by it. We all just called him Half Pint, amongst other things. Now if he was a big bloke and thought it might be clever to add some irony to his image by giving himself a nickname that meant the opposite then I could understand it a bit more. Or even if he had a big personality or big booming voice, but he didn’t. In fact he was a wet blanket. He wasn't the smaller brother in his family. He was just small.

  Anyway, Half Pint or should I say Little Arthur, brought a car. Yes he actually paid for it. It never occurred to him that he could have nicked a decent one for nothing and just ringed it. I could have shown him how easy it was. Anyway, he never bothered to tax or insure it either. What was even more stupid was that he decided a personal number plate would look good and so he made one up, LA 23. Twenty three year old Little Arthur thought it was a good number plate and said I was jealous when I pointed out that he couldn't just invent one and stick it on his car.

  The car was an old French car, a Renault I think. It wasn’t even a decent marque and Arthur thought a respray would smarten it up. Being a handy sort of bloke, or so he thought, decided to do it himself with canary yellow paint. He’d burgled a local council depot the week before and for some reason he’d nicked a load of paint. It was probably the same stuff they used to paint yellow lines on the road. Why anyone would risk doing bird for some tins of yellow paint is beyond me but that’s the sort of idiot he was.

  “It's the same as car cellulose paint but they just use a different solvent and it takes a bit longer to dry.” He assured me at the time.

  The trouble started when Arthur sprayed his pride and joy outside the squat where he lived one warm summer evening. In the following hours it took to dry on that balmy night, every insect with wings in a five mile radius saw this bright yellow heap as a beacon of desire and headed straight for it. The slowly drying paint had much the same effect as a large piece of flypaper. There were flies, gnats, and ladybirds all stuck in the insect equivalent of quicksand. The odd wasp had also got stuck too and its death hum could be heard all around.

  As if that wasn't bad enough when the paint finally dried quite a few days later Arthur decided the car needed something else to complement it even more. He scoured the local car breakers yards in search of two electric motors to convert his windy up windows into electric ones that opened at the flick of a switch. A car phone completed the image. This of course was no ordinary car phone but it was however an ordinary phone. Unbelievably he had taken a house phone and chopped the cord off so that he had the receiver and a length of curly cable. He then screwed the bare end to the dashboard and used the car cassette player to play the sound of a telephone ringing.

  So with the image complete Little Arthur would drive around town very slowly while chatting to himself on his fake car phone. He always wore a pair of dark glasses, whatever the weather. One of the reasons was to look cool but the main reason was to prevent the headaches from the glare of the canary yellow bonnet.

  One of his favourite tricks was to pull up at a set of traffic lights in a queue of traffic and push the button to
wind the window down. Then he pushed another button on his car stereo so the tape started to play the sound of the ringing phone. Obviously the people in the car next to Arthur had to be paying attention and he would let the phone ring long enough just to get their undivided attention. Then Arthur would answer the call. The one sided conversation went something like this.

  “Hello, yes.... What, God almighty, sell, sell, sell. Buy zinc, sell tin and buy all the zinc you can. What’s coffee? Okay buy 50 000 shares, you hear me? 50k.”

  By this time the lights would have turned green and Arthur would zoom off. So this would be the type of person I'd expect to get caught and end up doing time. It was no surprise when Arthur ended up with a six month sentence for driving without a licence, road tax, insurance, valid mot certificate and for using false number plates.

  Arthur actually got caught because he was trying to look like he had style, however misguided. He didn’t think about the most important rule, can I get away with it. He was doing his normal routine at a set of traffic lights one day and was in fine form this particular morning. He felt sure the two men in the new, dark blue Vauxhall Cavalier next to him had his full attention.

  “I don't care what Jenkins says or how long he's been in the business.” Arthur ranted.

  “I'm the boss, I pay your wages and your fat bonuses so when I say jump not only do you jump you bloody well ask me how high. Do I make myself clear? Right, now we've sorted that out I want you to buy copper.”

  Arthur knew he had impressed his audience as the lights had turned green and the two men in the Cavalier were still watching. While he was reaching the climax of his masterpiece he couldn't but help notice the passenger of the Cavalier lean out of his window towards him. The man held a Metropolitan Police I.D in front of Arthur’s nose.

  “Pull up over there sonny, there's a good lad.” Said the plain clothed Plod.

  So that was the end of Arthur the stockbroker. He had played his game with an unmarked police car and lost.

  Apparently one of the coppers told Arthur it was a shame they hadn't bought out a law for being a total dickhead, because they would have charged him with that too. The copper was totally right. It’s not often I agree with a pig but on this occasion it was deserved. When Arthur was telling me his story in great detail I had found it very difficult to stop him and ask what planet he was from.

  So as you can imagine, Arthur had spent a lot time inside over the years. It was highly likely that blokes like Arthur would spend their life in and out of nick. They just weren’t bright enough for a life of jail free crime. At some point they would most definitely have to spend time at Her Majesty's Pleasure. Fortunately for me prison had been a place I hadn't had to visit. Although my career of serious crime on the out was high profile, to the press and the law anyway, I had been lucky enough to avoid nick.

  Until now at least, which could have been the reason for the screaming in my head. I really shouldn’t have been facing a three stretch. I was a clever bloke, that’s not me being big headed, I was good at what I did it was a simple fact. Some of my blags had bought in a lot of money. I was at a point in my life where I could pick and choose who I worked with and what jobs I wanted to do. If the risk outweighed the gain then I walked away from it. Nothing was worth a stretch inside because my freedom was worth a lot more.

  But here I was being led by some lowlife scum to my waiting prison cell. Every gate locked behind me was a door closing on my life. Marcus really had to sort something out, there was no way I could stick three hours of this let alone three years of bird. I was going to be out of here soon, this place was full of losers and wasters. I shouldn’t be here, shouldn’t have been sent down. I was too smart to do bird, I was always one step ahead of the law, I was Jack London.

  FIVE

  When it started to look like there was no avoiding the fact I would probably get sent down I did ask Half Pint what to expect. This just went to show how desperate I was feeling about the whole situation.

  “Don't take any shit London.” He advised me. “Show them who the boss is.” He went on.

  “Show who, the screws or the cons?” I asked.

  “Both.” He replied. “You've got to get there respect or they will walk all over you.”

  “Yeah right.” I was hardly convinced.

  “Straight up London.” He persisted. “Just remember, not many people are going to know you. You’ve always played your cards close to your chest. On the other side of those gates you can be whoever or whatever you want to be. You just need to be convincing and believe in yourself.

  A bloke like you shouldn't have a problem with that London.” He continued. “You've got that air of confidence about you already and you just need to take it one step further. Prison won't be a problem for you, you'll take it in your stride.”

  I still wasn't convinced and as for believing in myself that bit was easy, I was Mr Confident. Prison for me conjured up a different picture. Thinking back to my younger days I always used to The Sweeny. Jack Regan played the tough copper and now and again he would visit some hardened criminal in prison.

  I have to say it didn't create a very pleasant image. The convict was either one of three types. The first type was scared and very nervous. He thought that he shouldn't really have been inside and was sure that at any moment he was going to have several barrels of shit knocked out of him. You couldn't help but feel sorry for him.

  On the other hand was type two. He wasn't scared of anyone but you just knew that at any moment he was also going to have several barrels of shit knocked out of him. He was a slimy piece of work and he knew it. He would sell his own grandmother for a price, normally a very low price. He made you feel you would like to be the one knocking the barrels of shit out of him.

  Then there was the third type. He was a really nasty bastard and the last thing you would want to do with type three is upset him. He would be the one knocking the several barrels of shit out of someone and what’s more he enjoyed doing it. If you did upset type three he would more than likely pull your head off, stick his hand down your neck and pull your intestines out. If it came to it he would eat them and then shit down your neck if he felt so inclined. One not to make enemies of.

  I couldn't help but dwell on all the bad things I remembered about nick which was why my head was full of screaming. All I could think of was the jokes about not bending over to pick up the soap in the shower. Or how easy it was to end up in the hospital wing, or the psychopaths that should really be in a nuthouse. Or how I could end up sharing my cell with a twenty five stone pervert.

  That would be just my luck, I'd be banged up in more ways than one. Some huge bloke who in the small hours wants to call me his little sweet cheeks. Mrs Palm and her five little sisters have gone on a little holiday, he would say. Will you be my special friend?

  Finally we arrived at what looked like a central hub with wings going off in four directions, making a star formation. I had to get a grip on myself or I would end up in the nuthouse.

  I wasn’t going to stay here for long anyway. We headed toward an entrance with ‘D Wing’ written on a white board above the gate in large black letters. Upon entering D wing Briggs gave my name to a screw who in turn looked at a clip-board for a few moments.

  “Cell 48.” He announced with a huge smile on his face.

  48 was on the ground floor and I followed Briggs to the far end of the wing. All the cell doors were securely bolted with the inmates on the inside. My cell was on the right hand side. As I followed Briggs to my new lodgings it gave me a chance to look around the place. There was the ground floor then three levels above that. A central staircase went up to each level with a narrow walkway going the length of each side of the cells and what looked like some kind of mezzanine floor at the end of each level.

  You could see all the way to the roof from the ground floor. The only thing restricting my view were the nets swung across each level, presumably there to catch anyone trying to take a shortcut from t
he top floor to ground level. The numbers on the cell doors were increasing singly. Finally we arrived outside my cell. There were another two cells after mine so presumably there were 50 cells to each side. Over 4 levels and 2 to a cell that was a lot of cons. There were also A, B and C wings of course which added up to a prison with a lot of angry villains.

  “In you go London.” Announced Briggs as he opened the door. “Someone will be along in a while to sort out your plastics.” He continued. “Have a pleasant stay.” He smiled as he slammed the hard steel door on me.

  So here I finally was and my mind was full of dread and foreboding. I was normally in control and not fazed by anything. Seeing my way through a situation was usually quite an easy task. The screaming in my head was still there, getting louder and clouding my mind. I found myself sitting on the edge of the lower bunk in a very small cell, probably 8' x 10'. The double fluorescent tubes illuminated the magnolia walls. A small desk in a corner next to the head of the bunk beds had various initials carved in them from previous cons.

  At least for the time being, perched alone on the edge of the bunk, it was safe to wallow in my own self-pity and absolute despair. How could I have been so stupid. The bank job that had got me into this situation had seemed such a great idea at the time but now looking back I could see it was full of holes. That just wasn’t like me, I’d always been really fussy over the details. Rule number one again, can I get away with it.

  Things could have been worse for me now I suppose. I could have been thrown in a cell with a total nutter. I could picture a religious version of the Tasmanian Devil. Pointing his spindly finger at me, chanting, ‘You are the anti-Christ, you must die.’

  Or failing that I'd be stuck with a raging poof. His idea of a good time would be to give the cell a really good clean and then have a nice game of hide the banana. I hung my head in my hands. I had to get a more positive outlook otherwise the men in white coats would be coming to take me away. Normally in a stressful situation I could have just gone home or made myself comfortable in one of my favourite clubs and got on the outside of a large whisky to unwind. That wasn't going to happen now.