Bird Read online

  There was no retreat to a safe haven, only here and now, which had to be dealt with, now. Was that me screaming or was it in my head? Was I going mental?

  Just then there was a rattle of keys then the cell door opened. It was a screw and he had a massive smile on his face. I recognised him from earlier, he was the one with the clipboard and he had the same smile set on his face.

  “You've plenty of time for sitting around London.” His smile getting even broader across his face as he spoke. “Follow me.” He ordered while still smiling. “We'll sort your plastics out.”

  I hadn't a clue what he was talking about but followed him anyway. What could he be talking about? The slang word for plastic in my world meant a credit or bank card and I didn't think he was about to issue me with a new Barclaycard. What could he mean? Perhaps it was some kind of kinky initiation ceremony. I bet he was a rubber and plastic pervert. I could see it now, but quickly dismissed it. What happened to the positive thinking?

  Anyway, we arrived back near the wing entrance. The first cell along the ground floor had been made into an office for the screws. The smiling screw went in and I followed him, ignoring a white painted line on the floor. He swung round to face me and at the same time his fixed smile instantly dropped.

  “Get back.” He screamed, pointing at the line. He suddenly looked like a nasty piece of work. “You should know better London, that line is there for a reason.” He screeched at me now. “You give me a bad time on my wing and you'll be down the block so quick you won't know what's happening.”

  I kind of got the impression he meant it. I also got the impression he was trying to get a point across. Briggs must have had a word with my new chief.

  “Do I make myself clear London?” He asked.

  “Crystal.” I replied.

  “Crystal, sir.” He smiled.

  “Crystal, sir.” I repeated blankly.

  This all seemed so wrong to me, I should be punching this arsehole repeatedly in the face. St George should be doing overtime on him and wiping the stupid grin from his lips. He really needed to show some respect. This all felt like a horrible nightmare.

  “Right, now then.” He continued. “Plastics.”

  Smiler's smile was back on his lips and broader than ever. This screw was a bit of a psycho and that wasn’t a good thing. You never knew which way a psycho would go and it usually ended up in tears. He led the way to the next cell. So this was it then, initiation time. He swung the cell door fully open to reveal a store cupboard. Over the next couple of minutes Smiler assembled my plastics which turned out to be a bowl, water jug, cup, comb, razor, badger brush with a stick of shaving soap, toothbrush and a plastic potty.

  It was only when I saw this last item that I realised my cell had no toilet. Lastly Smiler handed me a bed sheet and a blanket. So there was no perverse initiation ceremony after all. No plastic perverts lusting over new meat, just bed sheets and plastic potties. It didn't come as a great disappointment but it did come as a huge relief.

  I was marched back to my cell where I started to make my bunk. The top bunk seemed to have a slightly better mattress and I preferred to be on the top anyway. With that done I had a lay down on it. My arms were throbbing from the hiding I’d taken earlier by the screws and my jaw still ached from the fat bloke punch up. I was going to have some bruises in the morning. There was a small window behind me with both horizontal and vertical bars set into the thick walls. I sat up to peer out and divert my thoughts away from my aching body.

  The bars were fixed solid and the walls at 18-24 inches thick meant I wasn't going anywhere fast. Anyway, assuming I did get out of the window that would have put me in what looked like the exercise yard. The hard white floodlights shining down from the yard perimeter covered all angles of the asphalt. That in turn was surrounded by high buildings and a network of steel cables criss-crossed over the open area.

  At regular intervals on the cables large orange plastic spheres were swaying in the evening breeze. No chance of a helicopter rescue then. I pushed my face onto the bars and could feel the chill April wind outside blow onto my face. Security cameras were also dotted around with infra-red lights next to them.

  My thoughts of escape were broken by the sound of keys rattling then my door being partially opened. I jumped down from my bunk and opened the door to see what was going on. I stood there watching a procession of cons walking towards the wing entrance. Looking the length of the wing it was possible to make out a few trollies and half a dozen cons or so behind them wearing white overalls. It must be the dinner trollies. I walked up and grabbed a food tray from a pile by the trollies and joined the queue.

  “You made it then?” Came a voice from over my shoulder. It was the man who had given me the pearls of wisdom about having a lot to learn.

  “Thought they would have put you on another wing.” He continued as we edged our way toward the food being served from the trollies.

  “Oh?” I asked.

  “Yeah, your hairy friend is on this wing and he isn't very happy with you. He was muttering something about pulling your head off and shitting down your neck.”

  Great stuff. Just when things seemed as grim as they could get it suddenly got worse. Not only was I caged up with a bunch of losers and retard screws there was also a crazy fuzz ball intent on separating various parts of me from my body.

  “Do you know much about Grizzly Adams?” I asked while eying up the contents being dished out by the servery cons. It didn’t look good.

  “Not really, he is from my manor though.” He continued. “He hasn't got a lot of friends and lives alone since his mother died. He's a bit dim I think and not one to upset.”

  He carried on staring at me after he finished his sentence and I knew he had more to say.

  “Don’t mess me about mate.” I was getting impatient with this bloke, “Spill the beans.” I pushed.

  “He is a bit twisted with the death of his mother.” He finally announced. “Anyone who says or does anything against her goes on his special list.”

  “Go on.” I encouraged.

  “It's a list of people that have upset her memory and it's Darwin’s job to make sure that they are punished correctly.”

  “Just peachy.” I sighed. “And this fat bloke is called Darwin?” I laughed.

  “His old man was quite a clever bloke, I’ve heard he was a bit of an explorer or something. I guess that’s why he named him Darwin.”

  “Well it looks as if Darwin’s dad has discovered the missing link.” I interrupted.

  Just then a warm sloppy mess was dumped onto my food tray. That was the end of the conversation as far as I was concerned. I took the excuse for a dinner back to my cell and banged the door shut. It would suit me to do my bird in solitary.

  SIX

  I poked the brown mess on my tray with my recently acquired plastic fork. It was stringy beef with orange and yellow lumps which were probably carrots and sweet corn. It didn't look very nice. In my haste to get back to my cell I hadn't bothered with the other delicacies on offer. Perhaps they were more edible than this. Having not eaten since the previous evening I was starving and knew the sticky brown goo would have to be eaten.

  It was undeniably tasteless, not unpleasant and quite bland in fact which was probably for the best to be fair. I didn't realise just how hungry I was and within 30 seconds my tray was empty. A nice mug of tea would have gone down a treat but it wasn’t to be. Yet more waiting followed my meal. Then after what must have been at least half an hour there was a jingle of keys in the lock and the cell door opened. In came a tall black guy.

  “Bloodclot.” He drawled toward the screw standing in the doorway in a strong African accent. The door slammed shut again and we were left staring at each other.

  “Alright bruv?” He chirped to me but this time with a broad cockney accent. He jumped on the lower bunk and made himself comfortable.

  “You got any burn bruv?” Again it was the voice of a cheeky cockney.

/>   “Nope.” I answered. “Don't smoke.”

  “Any gear?”

  “Don't do drugs.” I snapped. This bloke was starting to wind me up already.

  There was a pause and I could hear the bloodclot bloke breathing in followed by a long sigh.

  “What a fucking party this is going to be.” He concluded.

  “If you can't do the time don't do the crime.” I advised, leaning over my bunk to face him lying on the bunk below me.

  “Bumbaclot.” The African accent was back once more.

  “Have a day off mate.” I snapped back at the arsehole. “I don't want to be here anymore than you and don't give me that patois bollocks.” We were staring at each other now, I could really have done without another punch up but I just couldn’t let this one go.

  “Sorry bruv,” he smiled now and his attitude changed instantly. “I've had a pig of a day. Shall we start again? My name’s Ricky, Ricky Starling.”

  “Okay mate, I’m Jack London. Just call me London. So what's all this bloodclot, bumbaclot bollocks and the accent then?” I asked my new cellmate.

  “Don't worry about it.” Came the reply. “It's jerst a black ting innit.”

  “So you’re a comedian as well as a villain then?” I asked. “You’re in here for killing a good joke, is that right? Anyway I'm colour blind so don't give me that 'black ting' bollocks either.”

  “It's just my way of getting back at people in charge so don’t stress yourself out bruv.” Ricky continued. “ I've got 200 years of incarceration and oppression in my history to take out on these people.”

  “You’re talking about slavery now?” I asked.

  “Slavery? Fuck no. I come from a long line of career criminals. My father was a villain and his father and his father before him.”

  “Nice to see you can trace your roots so well.” I laughed.

  “Yeah, like a bad Alex Haley. But make no mistake London I've a great knowledge and understanding of the criminal world.”

  “So you're a master criminal then?” I asked.

  “Absolutely London.”

  “You know all the tricks then?” I continued.

  “What I don't know about my profession ain't worth knowing bruv.”

  “So how come...” I asked. “You got caught and you're doing bird?”

  Ricky took a deep breath before continuing.

  “There are risks in every job I do, you know that as well as me London. It’s a calculated risk and it is my planning that makes that risk as small as possible. The risk of capture is something that has to be accepted as a part of the profession. This is now a time for thought and reflection.”

  “How long did you get?” I ventured.

  “Six years.” Came the steady reply.

  “Six years! Bloody hell Ricky you’re going to have to do a lot of thinking and reflecting to fill up that stretch. What went wrong this particular time then?” I enquired. “And what about minimising the risk?”

  “Don't want to talk about it now London, except to say the gain by far outweighed the risk involved, at the time.”

  “It would have to if you were up against that kind of sentence.” I agreed.

  After that the conversation pretty much fizzled out and we sank into our own thoughts. The day had been very long and emotional. Now it was a time to wind down. My path had been chosen for me and it was up to me to find the strength to get through and keep focused.

  About a couple of hours later we were let out of our cell just long enough for me to clean my plastics from dinner time and fill my plastic water jug with fresh water. Then we were all locked up again for about another hour and then the screws did the rounds with a tea urn on a trolley, stopping at every cell in turn and that was it for the night.

  The next morning I woke with a sore head. It had been a rough night for me without much sleep. The events of the previous day had been replaying over and over in my head. I kept going over the trial as well and dissecting it. I was trying to figure out a loophole or some fact that was flawed. I just needed one piece of evidence that was wrong, anything to get me a retrial or get the case thrown out. I instinctively looked at my wrist where my Breitling would have been. A white patch stared back at me.

  “You wake Ricky?” I asked.

  “Yeah bruv.” Came the reply.

  “Sleep much?” I continued.

  “Nah bruv not great. The first few days always do my head in, you know how it is London.”

  “No, I don't Ricky.”

  “You telling me you ain't done bird before bruv?”

  “You got it in one.” I answered.

  “Can't see you having any problems London. You seem clued up, sharp enough. You don't smoke or do drugs so you shouldn't have any worries. The boredom and pettiness of it all might get to you though. How long you doing?” He was talking to me but was still only half awake.

  “Three years.” I replied. “But I’m not staying, my brief will get me out of here soon enough.”

  “Sure.” He answered, but not convincingly enough for my liking.

  “Three year's is a long time when every day counts.” He continued.

  “Well that's really made me feel better I may as well cut my wrists now.” That wasn’t really what I wanted to hear from Ricky.

  “You have got to find something to focus on London I'm telling you now.” Ricky now advised. “You will end up going off the rails if you don't. Trust me I've seen it happen many times. You need to find that thing to make you want to get yourself out of bed in the morning. Don't let the bastards grind you down bruv.”

  So after thinking about the wise words of Ricky for a full nanosecond I got on with my day. It started with slop out and that meant emptying my little plastic potty which was half full of wee, down the toilet. Nice. There was a toilet block in the middle of each level on the wing and we took turns to slop out our potty. As well as no toilet in my cell there was no running water so my next task was to fetch a bowl of hot water back so the screws could lock us up again to wash and shave.

  This process was repeated along the whole wing in batches of about ten cells. After each set of ten were finished and locked up again in their cells the screws moved on to the next lot of lags. It took a long time to work around the whole wing which of course meant more waiting.

  After all the lags were washed and cleaned up there followed another long wait for breakfast and boy was I hungry by now. So there I was again, in a queue waiting for food. Ricky was standing next to me doing his sucky teeth thing at the screws and mumbling ‘bloodclot’ under his breath every time a screw looked in his direction. The smell of eggs, bacon and sausages was making my stomach rumble. A fry up for breakfast, didn't eat this well on the out.

  As my turn gradually got nearer it started to become clear all was not going to be as expected. Watching the lags walk away from the queue it was obvious something wasn’t right. Instead of each con walking away with a hearty fried breakfast the trays they were carrying looked pretty empty. The reality of it all was laid before me when it was my turn to be served.

  The choice was mine, a scoop of beans or a fried egg or a sausage or two rashers of the streakiest bacon I'd ever seen in my life. If none of that appealed to me I could always have the porridge. The only worrying thing about the porridge was that no one else and that was not one person was going for it. I went for the sausage. On the last servery trolley was a pile of bread and a monster sized tin of jam, it was as big as a bucket. I took half a dozen slices of bread and a scoop of jam. I filled my cup from the tea urn and made my way back to my cell, followed by the cussing Ricky.

  “Food not fit for a dog man.” He expressed to any screws that happened to be within earshot.

  Once in the cell he gave the door an almighty push with his foot and it crashed to a close.

  “Wankers ain’t gonna lock me in.” He laughed to himself.

  I ignored him and just got on with the business of eating. One sausage sandwich and several jam sandwi
ches later I was starting to feel a little bit better about myself and the mug of tea finished the meal off nicely.

  “What happens now?” I finally asked Ricky.

  “They'll give it an hour then let us out for association.” Came his reply.

  “Association?” I ventured.

  “There word for it London, they unlock the cell doors for a couple of hours and let the inmates mingle, play table tennis, that sort of thing.

  “Everything is going to be pretty much routine from now on bruv.” Ricky continued. “Your day is going to be slop out, bang up, breakfast, bang-up, association, bang-up, lunch, bang-up, association, bang-up, dinner, bang-up.”

  Ricky's voice was steady but his eyes were wide open and staring into space. Was he trying to come to terms with the long stretch ahead?

  “Just peachy.” Was all I could think to say. We both sank into silence after that.

  An hour is a long time when you've absolutely nothing else to do. I didn't have anything to read and so the only option left was to just lay there thinking. Normally I was okay with thinking as planning a job always involved a lot of thought and every second had to be accounted for.

  There had to be back up plans in case something went wonky and the backup plan needed a backup plan as well. I liked things to be really well thought through and a good plan B and C and even a D for that matter was always a part of any good bank job. It was tough now because my normal line of thought would be how much money I would make out of a job, the shooters, the cars, the escape route, the car switch. It really made me realise how much I loved my job, armed robbery you just couldn’t beat it.

  The buzz from a job was better than any drug Ricky could offer me. I couldn’t just lay here thinking about bank jobs all the time that would do my nut in and there was no chance of a conversation from the quiet Ricky. I guess this was the shape of things to come, self-reliance and isolation. So my thoughts wandered, taking me wherever they wanted to go. It was all a jumbled confused mess in my head, recent events were clouding and confusing everything else.