Bang Up: Prison walls don't just keep criminals in, the keep the outside world at bay (4 page)

His wife Tracey came into the front room, stressing. She was a right moaning cow and it always seemed to be somebody else’s fault that she was in a mood each morning; a right hormonal bitch she was. His wife tapped him on the shoulder as she rushed past him. “Mark, have you seen my bleeding car keys. I’m going to be late. I put them on the table last night. Have you shifted them again? You know what you’re like for moving things about?” Wow, this woman was a right nagging bitch, nag nag nag, non-stop. This guy was henpecked.

Mark and Tracey had been married for three years and the honeymoon period had ended years ago. Sex was crap and he had to make a date with his missus for a leg-over weeks in advance. He was lucky if he got her to spread her legs once a month, an ice maiden she was. Mark was living like a monk, tiptoeing around her, doing anything to stop her yapping at him all the time. Tracey had been gorgeous in her day and all the men queued up to take her out, she had been a prize catch. But once Mark put a ring on her finger she stopped looking after herself and had let herself go. Her once slimline figure had gone from a comfortable size ten to at least two sizes bigger. She was a cake addict and never stopped eating. Mark had only mentioned that she should curb the bread in future and that had caused World War Three. He would never be straight with her again. He left her to her own devices and just sat back watching her get bigger by the day. He was actually starting to hate his life with her, she was a misery and every day she had some drama going on in her life. There was never enough money coming into the house, everything was such a big effort with her. “Make sure you put the money in the bank Mark, the mortgage is due at the end of the month. Don’t forget, we don’t want to be charged for a late payment again do we?” She stressed her words and made sure he got the message.

Mark pulled a black jumper over his white shirt. He wanted a peaceful morning but that was never going to happen while she was in the same room. She never let up. Mark kept his calm and snarled over at her. He could have strangled her, ended her life at that second, she made his blood boil. He gasped his breath and raised his eyes. “I’ll do it for fucks sake. I told you last time it was a mistake on their part. It’s not my fault if the bank fuck things up is it? Just go to work anyway. I’ll sort it out, like I always do.”

Tracey bent over slightly and kissed the side of his cheek. She knew she’d rattled his cage and tried to make amends but he just pushed her away and wiped the cherry coloured lipstick from his cheek. Heading to the door she shouted back at him. “What time are you home tonight, is it a late shift?”

Mark didn’t even look at her as he carried on reading his newspaper. “Yep, I’m on a double shift so I’ll see you when I see you.”

Tracey casually slung her handbag over her shoulder. “I wish you would find another job with normal working hours. I hate sleeping on my own at night. You need to switch jobs and work sociable hours like I do.”

Mark picked his cup of coffee up and sipped the last bit of it. He rammed two fingers in the air behind her and let out a laboured breath. “Don’t come back home then! Suits me fine,” he growled. The front door slammed shut and he threw the newspaper down on the table. He dropped his head into his fanned fingers and sighed. Something was troubling him. Pulling his wallet out from his trouser pocket he opened it and looked at the cash there. Mark spread the notes out on the table and sat staring at them, his finger touching the notes and slowly gliding across them. He was short again, one hundred and fifty pounds short. This was all getting out of control. What a prick he was, would he ever learn? Mark liked to gamble. He loved to chase his money, he was addicted to gambling and had been for a few years now. Scratch cards, roulette, anything that he thought could win him the jackpot. Ragging his hands through his hair he sat looking at the notes on the table again. Something had to give, his luck needed to change somehow, someway. Just a few grand would land him back on his feet and clear the debts he’d accrued.

Mark quickly checked the time on his wristwatch and sprang to his feet. He couldn’t be late again, he’d already had his collar felt about his time keeping. He just didn’t have the get up and go anymore, he had no motivation whatsoever. Mark worked as a prison officer in a jail not too far from where he lived. The role of a screw had made him see life in a different light. There were some bad people living in this world, dangerous sick bastards who were not right in the head. When he first started working at HMP Lancaster Farms he was a bit wet behind the ears. He knew nothing about prison life and how cunning some people really were. He’d learned the hard way. Nobody could ever be trusted in the big house. He was wise to this now. Every day he worked there he was living on borrowed time. Screws were being stabbed, attacked, fighting for their lives in a hospital bed the moment their backs were turned. The job was hardcore and very stressful. Every night he lay in bed thinking about what had gone down on his latest shift. There were lads stringing themselves up, inmates self-harming, bullying, and then, there was the dark side of the jail: the paedophiles. He’d always struggled on the high-risk wings. He could never look the kiddy-fiddlers in the eye without wanting to punch their lights out. They were dirty bastards, lowlifes. And yes, he’d turned a blind eye on a few occasions to let them take a good beating from the other prisoners in the jail. They deserved it; they were the scum of the earth.

So, why did he still work there? Why did he put himself through this rigmarole every single day when he could have had a nice office job, a cushy number with no idiots wanting to end his life every minute of every day? Deep down Mark was a control freak, he liked to rule his wing with a firm hand, he liked the power he held over the inmates. His father was the same and he hated that sometimes when he looked at his reflection in the mirror he could see his old man staring right back at him; a fierce, controlling bully who intimidated everyone he saw a weakness in. When Mark first started the job, he had sympathised with the convicts on his wing and thought he would give them a clean break, never judging them. But, after a sneaky attack that led to a large scar on his left cheek, he never trusted any of them again. His head was always in the game now, he never let any of them get close to him. Once bitten, twice shy. The good Mark had gone and all that was left was a moody, grumpy screw with no time for anyone anymore. Every shift he worked he would never let his guard down, never turn a blind eye. He had to be on the ball twenty-four-seven.

Mark picked his car keys up from the table and shoved the money back in his wallet. There was just enough time to nip to the bookies before his shift began. He’d had a tip from his pal about a horse that was running and he’d already checked the form on the horse, it was easy money. In fact, it was his last hope of getting the money back he’d already lost.

*

Mark pulled up in the car park outside the prison and dropped his head onto the steering wheel, banging it slowly. Small beads of sweat were forming on his brow and he looked like he was going to burst out crying. His luck had run out and he’d lost every penny. The crumpled betting slip on the seat next to him had been spat at and cursed all the way to work. Why did he listen to his mate, the four-legged donkey came last and didn’t even put up a fight for a place! If he’d have had a gun at that moment he would have found the horse and shot the lazy fucker right in the head! He was up shit street now, he had nowhere else to turn. The minute he walked through the door his missus would be on at him and it was only a matter of time before she found out he’d done the mortgage money in again. He was a bad liar and she could always see right through him, his eyes blinked rapidly when he was telling porkies, he fidgeted about and he could never look her in the eye when he was trying to pull a fast one.

Turning his head slightly, he could see the prison gates facing him. It was a modern jail and not like some of the other joints he’d worked in the past but it was still a jail and behind its walls were the rejects of life. The Artful Dodgers of the world, men nobody would ever trust. Smithy banged his palm onto the window and made Mark jump. “Are you ready for the shift lad, come on, the sooner we get in, the sooner we finish!” he chuckled. Mark grabbed his holdall from the passenger seat and opened the car door. There could be no more tears now, it was work time. He had to be the confident, happy-go-lucky man everybody thought he was.

Smithy had been his pal for as long as he could remember and they’d both started working in the prison service at about the same time. Smithy loved his job and he always did his best to work alongside the inmates. He’d gained the respect of the offenders on his wing and it was very rare he ever got any trouble from them. B-wing had always been a black spot inside the jail and each screw dodged it like the plague. It was full of youths who didn’t like rules, lads who had chips on their shoulders, cocky fuckers who would bow down to nobody. Men who would stick a blade in you the moment your back was turned. Mark stood back from the path as a white van drove past them both. Smithy smirked over at him and punched him playfully in the arm. “Some new prisoners for the jail, fucking shoot me now! More head the balls to deal with, more pricks who think the world owes them a favour!”

Smithy sniggered and zipped his coat up tightly as they continued to walk to their place of work. Mark shot a look over at the sweat box and snarled at it. He knew each inmate inside was another reason why his job was so hard these days. These prisoners were a new breed of criminal; ruthless and not afraid of anything. Most of them were in for violent crimes and they didn’t think twice about taking a man down. Prison didn’t scare them, it just made them stronger. The days had long gone when a young offender came through the prison door who had made one silly mistake. These inmates were full of attitude and had respect for nobody. Yes, there was the odd one who wanted to turn their lives around but they were few and far between. For most of the men behind these walls, this was part of their everyday life.

The men stood at the entrance to the jail. Smithy punched his digits into the silver key pad. Once they stepped inside, everywhere they went the process was more or less the same. Everything was under lock and key. Mark followed Smithy into the reception area and they went straight to the lockers to put their personal belongings away. Nothing of any value was ever taken into the main prison.

Jerry, the man in charge, was chewing the end of his blue biro and sat at his desk watching the CCTV with concern. He was around fifty-five years of age and most of his working career had been spent in the jails around the country. Jerry had been in the army before this job and he knew how hard it was to make sure rules were followed. The army had turned him from a boy to a man, he always said, and every chance he got he was telling his co-workers about his days in the forces. They were the best days of his life and he recommended that every man should join the army as soon as they were old enough too. Lifting his head up from the screen, he chuckled as he spoke to Mark and Smithy. “Right lads, I need you both to muck in and help out in reception with these new prisoners. I’ve got two staff who have phoned in sick and we’re short-staffed on that side. We need to pull together and get this lot settled without any hassle.”

Smithy rubbed his hands together and sniggered. “Yep boss, no worries. Glad to help in your hour of need. You know me, I don’t mind getting my hands dirty.”

Jerry smirked over at him and knew he was being sarcastic. This man was always so happy and nothing ever seemed to bother him. He was the life and soul of the party, never negative and always ready to put his neck on the line for others. Mark raised his eyes and sucked hard on his gums. All he wanted to do was to get onto his wing and do a day’s work. This was not what he needed on a day like today.

*

The van doors opened and Smithy stood there with a black clipboard in his hands. He rolled the pencil around in his fingers, looking at the names on his sheet. Here they were, the new recruits. One by one they started to come out of the van. Smithy smiled at the prisoners and tried to make this as easy as possible. He had a big heart really and knew for some of these lads it was going to be hard. Yes, they’d broken the law but he always saw the good in the men, he always gave them a chance, unlike his workmate. Mark opened the doors inside the van and guided each prisoner into position. He was in a mood, slamming doors left, right and centre. There were eight prisoners in total landing at the jail. Brendan Mellor appeared from the doors and he looked like he was going to fold in two. His legs buckled beneath him and he had to hold onto the side of van to steady himself. His head was spinning and he looked like he was going to spew his ring up. Prisoners stood talking to each other and each of them was disclosing why they were in the jail. Most of the sentences were for the same kind of stuff; drug charges, robbery and violence. The last door of the sweat box opened and a young male walked out. This kid was so young, he was thin and small and looked like he was going to break down crying. Surely he wasn’t old enough to be inside this jail? Mikey clocked him instantly and nudged one of the other inmates in the waist. “Check fucking Harry Potter out over there. Wow, doesn’t he look like him?” They were all looking at the young offender now and his eyes were wide with fear. He was the double of Harry Potter and all he was missing was the black cape and magic wand in his hand.

Mikey knew the crack in the jails and knew the next few hours would involve sitting about in the reception area waiting, filling out forms, picking up uniforms and learning a bit about how the jail ran. Mikey edged closer to the young lad and made eye contact with him. “What you in for Potter?” The offender wiped his round black rimmed glasses on his white shirt and placed them back on the end of his nose trying to focus. Mikey hated waiting for an answer and spat near his feet. This kid was getting a dig if he didn’t answer him any second soon. He asked him again and his ears pinned back. “Oi, fucking deaf lugs. I said what are you in for?” All the others were waiting on his answer now. If he was a kiddy-fiddler or a wrong-un he was getting sorted out the moment the screws turned their backs. They would kick the living daylights out of him, mark him for life, brand him. That was the rule of any jail. Any crimes against children were frowned upon and they were sitting ducks every second they walked about the landings.