On the Brinks Page 8

  The door of the cell slammed behind, stinging my ears and making me jump. But for some inexplicable reason, it also bathed me with relief, as the day’s events seeped away, melting with the metal echo.

  I was in the cell no more than a minute when a voice shouted: “Sam!”

  “What?” I replied through the door’s edge, a sliver of freedom.

  “Get to yer door.”

  “I’m at the bloody door! Who is it?” It was disorientating, speaking in the darkness, my voice boomeranging back, hollow and strange.

  “Finbar,” replied the voice. “Any scéal, mate?”

  Finbar was the present Officer in Command of the protesting prisoners. Even though I had arrived virtually at the embryonic stage of the protest, he, together with eight other volunteers, had been on protest for at least five weeks. I would soon find out that five weeks without visits, reading material, radio or TV felt more like five months. Adding to the monotonous, mundane repetitiveness was the fact that our mail was at the mercy of the screws’ impulses, which were guided by their sectarianism and sadistic forgetfulness.

  I began with the little bit of scéal – news – I could remember from the night before.

  “There was a peeler shot in …” Slowly, I began to relay the war news from the last few weeks that they wouldn’t have heard, hoping this might be a lift for morale. But the icy, cynical voice of McJoke soon taught me what was meant by news on the protest.

  “Fuck that crap! Have ye any news concerning the protest? That’s what we want to hear.”

  I could hear beds creak as bodies lifted, waiting for my response. I had been told what to say by the OC in Crumlin Road jail: Tell ’em it’ll all be over soon. Anything, so long as it keeps them from leaving the protest …

  “The word is that it’ll all be over soon.”

  “How fuckin’ soon?”

  Anything, so long as it keeps them from leaving the protest …

  “Christmas.” I felt my face burn at the lie.

  “Christmas?” said McJoke. I pictured his eyelids tightening with disbelief, smelling something not right. “Christmas?” he repeated, giving me the chance to get out of the hole I had just dug with my tongue.

  “That’s the word. If not Christmas, definitely January at the latest.”

  “Did ye bring any snout with ye?” asked the gruff voice of Teapot.

  Snout was tobacco in Block jargon.

  “No, Teapot. The screw took it from me in the reception.”

  “Bastard.”

  I didn’t know if he meant the screw or me.

  “It’s freezing in this cell, Finbar,” I said, quickly changing the subject. My nerves probably made it feel a lot colder.

  “The screws turn the heat off in the winter,” replied Finbar, “and put it up full blast in summer. Part of their moronic strategy to make us come off the protest. Ye’ll soon get used to it, mate. Wrap one of those hairy blankets on ye. Toughen ye up.” He was laughing his famous contagious laugh.

  I immediately grabbed a blanket and felt its coarse, Brillo-pad hairs bite my skin. It was torturous, but little did I know then how many years it would be my shadow and skin.

  “This blanket’s rough,” I moaned.

  “Not as rough as the protest! Dry yer eyes!” responded a chorus of voices.

  “Who was it told ye Christmas?” McJoke was at it again. A dog refusing to let go of a bone.

  “Well … I don’t really want to mention names out the door. The screws could be listening.” My lie got bigger. My face got hotter.

  “Never mind him, Sam. How’d the Hammers do on Saturday?” asked Finbar, West Ham United’s number one fan.

  “Fuck the Hammers,” said McJoke, oozing with diplomacy. “This is more important than all of that shite.”

  “What do ye mean, fuck the Hammers? Fuck you, McJoke,” said Finbar. “What were we saying, Sam, before we were so rudely interrupted?”

  “Never mind all that auld political nonsense,” complained Teapot, panic in his voice. “Are ye certain ye didn’t even bring a wee bit of snout?”

  “Never mind snout,” cut in McJoke. “Get one answer at a time.”

  “What d’ye mean, never mind snout?” Teapot replied, full of indignation. “Ye don’t smoke. So shut yer mouth. And anyway, this protest is never gonna end. So dry yer eyes.”

  The verbal jousting went on unabated, like table tennis, back and forth. I left the door, walked to the bars attached to the window and gazed at the night sky. It was beautiful, peopled with infinitely numerous, lucid stars and washed in God’s shadow. Screeching conquistador starlings flew to the safety of the enormous, mushroom-shaped orbs of the security lights. The lights splashed a pyrite-coloured web over the Block, animating it in charcoal and cheese.

  Before I fell asleep, wondering if I should admit I had made the date up, Teapot’s voice grumbled in the dark: “Bastard. No snout. Probably made that date up as well.”

  Tonight would be a long day’s journey that I couldn’t wait to finish. I would remember forever that things we do not know make us speculate. Information, no matter how delightful at the time, is always dangerous in the aftermath.

  CHAPTER FOURTEEN

  Footprints in History Aren’t Made Sitting Down

  I am pent up in frowzy lodgings, where there is not room enough to swing a cat.

  Tobias Smollett, Humphrey Clinker vol. 1

  To tell the secrets of my prison-house, I could a tale unfold whose lightest word Would harrow up the soul, freeze thy young blood.

  Shakespeare, Hamlet

  Next morning, reveille was announced with the screws’ orchestral ensemble of baton and boots against the cell doors. The screws stood, their grinning eyes peering through the security-flap, bang bang banging in staccato until each prisoner got out of bed.

  “A beautiful morning like that and still in yer bed! Naughty, naughty. Up! Keys in the door, feet on the floor!” The screw rattled the keys, hoping to aggravate.

  Occasionally, a prisoner would rise to the bait. “Work the keys up yer arse, ye wanker!”

  Unperturbed, the screw continued his woodpecker tap tap tapping. “How do ye want yer eggs done, lads? Sunny-side up? Bacon? Well done? What about a sausage?”

  “Ask yer wife,” shouted a gruff voice. “She was gettin’ one last night while ye were on the night-shift!”

  “Ooooohhh, Teapot. I’m shocked at yer language. And ye a good Catholic boy.”

  Outside, the starlings had left to search for food, but a posse of synchronous homing pigeons skimmed the air, riding the surf that oozed from the sun. Its golden rays were barely melting the early morning darkness. Suddenly, without warning, the birds dropped like blue crashing waves, disappearing behind the horizon of my window.

  There was no bacon for breakfast, of course. Nor a sausage. Just bland porridge without milk or sugar, and suspicious-looking bread, freckled with blue dots of mould.

  Shortly after breakfast, Finbar provided me with a brief rundown from his cell.

  “The screw’s comin’ to slop us out soon. Go, even if ye don’t need to. It gets ye out of the cell, if only for a few minutes. Always remember that we go nowhere naked, or with the gear on. Stick the tiny towel on ye.”

  The screw was getting closer for slop out, so I sat on the bed waiting.

  Without warning, the flap went up and a pair of eyes glared in at me. They resembled concentric gob-stoppers that had been sucked and dipped in varnish.

  He said nothing. Simply stared. I stared back, disregarding the disconcerting effect of staring at a green door with bulging eyes. I’d be damned if I would give him the satisfaction of looking away, intimidated.

  The flap slammed down!

  Slowly it opened again. Bulging eyes. Lids closing. Opening …

  What an annoying bastard, I thought, as we began our staring contest again.

  “Ye know the rules, Millar. Keys in the door – feet on the floor! Don’t have me call for reinforcements.”
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  I didn’t budge, but my stomach tightened at the threat.

  Slam! went the flap.

  I could no longer see him, but he was there. I could hear him breathing.

  The flap opened again. “Peek-a-boo!” said his annoying voice. “I can seeeeee yeeeeeeee. Do ye see meeeeeeeeeeeeeeeee?”

  Sick bastard.

  “Last chance, Millar. Four officers are on the way. We’ll teach ye a thing or two if ye don’t stand.”

  He began a countdown. “Ten. Nine. Eight. Seveeennnn. Six … wise up and save us all the bother, will ye?”

  I refused to answer, but my stomach was churning with nerves. I needed to take a shit.

  “Four. Threeeeeeeeee! Last chance. Here come the officers now. Two and a half …”

  His voice was torture. I wanted the beating over with.

  “One!” The door gave a terrible rattle and I held tight to the bed, my knuckles popping.

  For the longest time, the door remained closed. Nothing but a sly silence. Then a crazy laugh screamed: “Ha-ha! Got ye there, Sam! Caught ye lovely! Thought I was the screw, didn’t ye! Ha-ha!”

  I bounced quickly off the bed just in time to see a prisoner known as Polar Bear, zigzagging up the wing, going from cell to cell, shouting: “Got ’im, lads. Should’ve seen Millar’s gob! Ha-ha! He was shittin’ himself!”

  Then he stopped outside Finbar’s cell. “Hey, Finbar? Millar put his feet on the floor. He thought I was the screw.”

  That’s a load of bollocks, I was about to shout, when I realised he was trying to wind me up.

  “I thought he was gonna shite himself,” continued Polar Bear loudly for everyone to hear. “Wee hard man from the New Lodge, my balls. Ha-ha!” He was wiping the tears from his bearded face as he walked back to my cell. “I’m surprised at ye, Sam. Falling fer that auld one.”

  “I’m too wise to your tricks, Polar Bear,” I lied. “You’re played out.”

  He threw his head back laughing, as if caught in an invisible hook.

  Polar Bear was infamous for his mixes – pranks – on unsuspecting prisoners. In Crumlin Road Gaol, he masqueraded as a doctor or social worker, alternating as the moods took him. But his forte was perfected in the parody of a fire-and-brimstone priest by the name of Foxx, whose weekend antics brought “converts” from every landing in the jail. Each Saturday night, with a line of new arrivals, he’d transform his cell into a confessional, partitioning it with a bed-sheet replete with a spy-hole to watch the sinner’s reaction.

  “Come in, my son,” said Father Polar’s sacerdotal voice behind the sheet.

  A carrot-top prisoner, his anxious face a map of freckles the size and colour of rusted nail-heads, entered and sat down.

  “Yes, my son?”

  The young man coughed to clear his throat. “It’s been almost …” his voice trailed off as he noticed the solo eye in the white sheet beaming at him.

  “C’mon! I don’t have all day, ye know!” declared Father Polar.

  “It’s … it’s been almost three … months since my last …”

  “Three months! What kinda Catholic are ye with no sins in three months? Eh? Eh?”

  “I’m truly sorry, Father, but this is the first chance I’ve –”

  “Cut the bloody martyr crap, for heaven’s sake! Get down to the nitty-gritty!”

  Carrot Top’s hands were damp and he wiped them on his jeans, leaving dark snail-stains on them.

  “I’ve had … impure thoughts … actions. Also –”

  “Hold it!” screamed Father Polar. “Who the hell’s in charge here? Take it easy. What kinda impure action?”

  Carrot Top licked his dry lips. “Ye know … wanked.”

  “Wanked? What’s that?” Father Polar was biting his lips, suppressing a laugh-bubble in his chest.

  “Well, master … bate, Father …” The young man shifted nervously on the chair. “Ye know what I mean …”

  “Know? Know? How the hell would I know a thing like that? Disgusting! What did yer impure thoughts consist of?”

  You could hear an audible sucking in of air as Carrot Top prepared for the plunge.

  “Well … I’ve … had these terrible thoughts about my best mate’s girlfriend, ye know?”

  “As God is my witness, if you have the cheek to say ye know to me again, ye’ll feel the hand of God across the back of yer gingey head! I’m a priest, ye big eejit! How am I supposed to know ’bout stuff like that?”

  “Sss … sorry, Father. It’s just –”

  “Details! Give me some details about yer best friend’s girl, ye Judas ye.”

  “I … well, she’s lovely.”

  “Lovely?” mimicked Father Polar, sarcastically. “Lovely? Never mind that. How’s she built?”

  “Built? Oh! Great. She’s built really great. Powerful,” gushed Carrot Top.

  “Good pair of knockers, eh?” asked Father Polar.

  “Unbelievable!” enthused the young man, warming, loving this liberal-minded priest. “She makes Dolly Parton look flat! Hee-hee!”

  Polar couldn’t help but smile at that one.

  “Really? What about the rest of her? Her face?”

  “Ach, she’s gorgeous, Father,” boasted Carrot Top, elevating her from lovely. “And the arse on her! Powerful! Ye know?”

  In a split second, Father Polar’s hand came from behind the sheet, crashing down on Carrot Top’s head, spiralling him to the ground.

  “Didn’t I warn ye about that ye know business? Didn’t I?”

  “Hey!” shouted Carrot Top indignantly. “No need to fuckin’ hit me, Father!”

  “What? What the fuck did ye say? What kinda fuckin’ language is that to use in front of a priest? Eh, ye dirty-mouth bastard?” Whack! Whack! Whack! More slaps administered to Carrot Top’s head.

  “Hey! Hey!” screamed Carrot Top, getting back to his feet as Polar administered a swift kick to his arse.

  “Now get the fuck out of here before I tell yer mate about Dolly fuckin’ Parton!”

  The unfortunate Carrot Top tumbled out of the cell, passing a line of sinners. He couldn’t help but give advice.

  “Whatever ye do, don’t curse in front of that priest. He’s a fuckin’ maniac!”

  Admittedly, Polar Bear’s pranks were puerile, but without the likes of him, time in prison stretched into an infinite duration; a never-ending shadow lost in its own abyss.

  He leaned against my cell door, and in a conspiratorial voice whispered: “I heard what ye said ’bout the protest ending in three months. A load of bollocks, wasn’t it?”

  Before I could answer, he walked away, grinning, but not before he got a last dig in: “Hate to be ye on Christmas morning, mate. A selective memory can only marshal ye so far down the path. Ye should never fuck with people’s minds, especially on the Blanket.”

  CHAPTER FIFTEEN

  The Volunteer

  NOVEMBER 1976

  How many things I can do without.

  Socrates

  He’s an oul butty o’ mine – oh, he’s a darlin’ man, a darlin’ man.

  Sean O’Casey, Juno and the Paycock

  “Hey, Sam? Get to yer door a minute,” Teapot said, early one morning.

  I was standing at the window, daydreaming. It was a pleasant daydream of walking in the Water Works on a summer day, watching girls in tight, washed-out jeans the colour of the sky. I was wearing a white Ben Sherman, Levis and a pair of Dr Martens gleaming with ox-blood polish. I was about to touch for a girl I had had my eye on for weeks when Teapot’s growl broke the trance.

  “What, Teapot? What is it?”

  “Can ye see that screw outside Cell Four?”

  I looked through the slit in the door and could just about see the screw. He was opening the doors for slop-out.

  “Yes. And what?”

  “We call him the Volunteer. Watch and ye’ll see why.”

  I watched as the screw neared Teapot’s cell. He opened it, releasing Teapot, who strolled by and
winked at me as he walked by the slit in my cell, singing, “Hi ho, hi ho, it’s off to work we go …”

  Usually the screw would have a sour look on his face at that sarcastic song. Part of our protest was refusal to work, and they took it personally. However, this particular screw wore a grin. Very unusual for our environment.

  He was rocking back and forth on the balls of his feet, scanning the wing to his left. I was about to walk away, bored, when suddenly he bent down to tie his lace. The only problem was it didn’t need tied. In fact, for some strange reason, he loosened both laces, then began to re-tie them. Had I not been watching closely, I wouldn’t have spotted the sleight-of-hand as his fingers touched the edge of the cell’s mat, flush to the cell door entrance. This was unusual also, as we normally keep the remnant in the centre of the cell to walk on.

  The screw, still trying to tie his lace, was now peeping under his armpit as if looking for sweat-stains. What he was actually doing, I found out later, was watching the other screw behind the security grille, whose job it was to monitor the wings on either side of him. Finally, having learned to tie his laces, the screw stood up, stretched, yawned and with the tip of his boot edged the mat back into the cell.

  On cue, Teapot returned, singing, “Oh, what a beautiful morning …”

  Before the screw closed the door, I could see him winking, no doubt at Teapot: operation completed.

  Later that morning, Teapot explained the strange behaviour. The screw had placed ten cigarettes under the mat. “Does it every Saturday and Sunday morning when he’s on the wing.”

  The cigarettes were worth their weight in gold to the men who smoked, more so because as part of the punishment for refusing to wear prison uniforms or do prison work, all so-called privileges were denied us.

  Each real cigarette would be crushed, rerolled into ten needle-thin Blanket cigarettes, and then evenly distributed among the smokers – Teapot taking a tiny extra commission for his work, of course.