Ben Bracken: Origins (Ben Bracken Books 1 - 5) (14 page)

FROM STEEL

1

It is a horrible sound. That repetitive scrape of plastic against concrete. Over and over again, a solitary fingernail across an infinite blackboard. It has been this way for well over two hours now, but the man who is creating the sound seems as devoted as ever, and shows no sign of abating.

Ben Bracken lies in his bunk, completely swallowed by the infernal sound, but doesn’t cover his ears. He listens to the sound, it’s repetition, and tries to find comfort in it’s routine. He can’t at all, because he knows what it is for. He rolls onto his side, the small bed creaking as he shifts, and he looks to the floor.

A man is crouched by the corner of the small cell, reaching behind the toilet bowl to hide his actions. Ben knows what he is doing - using the concrete walls of the cell to sharpen the handle of a toothbrush into an ugly point. The main hides the scrape marks behind the toilet in an attempt to cover his tracks - so that when this hasty shank is found on the floor by someone bleeding to death, it will not so easily lead back to this very cell.

The man checks the progress of the sharpening handle, and seems pleased. He smiles grimly.

‘Should be good for two or three hits, then will probably break off in the bugger. Perfect.’ he says.

Ben frowns, and then rolls away again, trying to achieve a little rest and calm before the inevitable frantic scenes that will ensue from his cellmate’s preparations.

As Ben turns to face the wall, and the incessant scratch resumes, he sighs. 20 months. That’s how long he has been there, give or take. He doesn’t know exactly in days. When he was locked up for 17 years with no eligibility for appeal until 15 years in, bothering about counting days seems a little hopeful and futile to Ben. He didn’t bother.

He is in Strangeways Prison, Manchester - a mammoth brick hulk cripplingly close to the city centre, but far away enough to remind you that you are no longer part of it. He has been in the same cell all that time, but his cellmate has changed twice. This most recent addition, a local Salford lad doing time for GBH and armed robbery, has been with him 3 weeks, and has scrapped and fought every second of that. He goes by the name of Craggs, and admits his crimes in full - but that doesn’t stop him from believing he shouldn’t be there. He is, Ben firmly asserts, a viscous little twerp lost in a gangster lifestyle he has adopted from rap videos. Ben told him this when he arrived, having kicked off about preferring Ben’s bunk, and threatened to have Ben killed by his ‘mans on the outside, gats blazing’. Ben almost broke down in laughter at hearing that, and reminded Craggs that they aren’t in Compton, and that Ben himself is doing 17 years for murder. Craggs nearly pissed his pants on hearing that, but within a couple of days, he was telling all and sundry how he himself was so ‘hard’ that they had him holed up with the cold killers. Ben didn’t like being spoken of in such a way, but if it gave him a quiet life, he would reluctantly take it.

And now Craggs has a beef with someone elsewhere in this hell-hole, and is fashioning an ugly looking weapon to settle things. Ben can’t help thinking how pathetic it is - how this man chases a life of uncertainty and violence, lost in the perceived glamour of it all. Is it England’s fault for not giving him anything to identify with, or is it MTV for giving him something so over-stylized to latch on to? Who knows, thinks Ben, acknowledging, that really he couldn’t give a shit. Another symptom, that’s all. Besides, Ben has bigger fish to fry.

The last 20 months have been fantastic for Ben, despite obviously being behind bars. Like the toothbrush-dagger, only much less hastily prepared, he too has sharpened in prison. He has cleared his mind, and brushed away the muddled cobwebs of confusion, doubt and self-loathing that dogged him before - not least thanks to the letter he sent to Steven’s wife Kayla. After all this time, setting the record straight felt very good indeed, and has allowed him a new lease of life (well, within the confines of the prison routine). He has diligently kept to a gym routine that has seen his body strengthen also - and of course, he hasn’t touched a drop of alcohol since he crossed the prison threshold. He feels 10 stories tall.

Ben has also, finally, assigned himself a purpose. Society seemed reluctant to give him one, the events prior to his incarceration assigned him one, but now? He has something to believe in, something to fight for. And he is convinced he will get his chance soon.

He has no respect at all for the people or circumstances that placed him there, but he does still believe in good. Remembering Steven taught him that. He firmly believes good exists but it is so rare and hidden at times, and it must be cherished and protected - just like any beautiful, endangered species in the animal kingdom.

Also, like the animal kingdom, he has decided, within reason, to apply his own law. This is borne out of his complete lack of faith in the execution of laws today. The pliability of law is something that always bothered him, the varieties of it’s interpretation unsettling, allowing the wrong-doers leeway via red-tape and bureaucracy. Ben has decided that where good is concerned, he will be it’s judge. And he will decide what happens next with a clear conscious. He intends to right wrongs as and when the occasions provide. He has no interest in looking for trouble, but he is well aware that trouble cannot be ignored. He also has no penchant for seeking violence, but he knows in this area, he is proficient. And if violence can be used in the protection of such wrongs? Ben will damn well commit it.

The problem for Ben, is his predicament. In prison, his ability to protect good is somewhat limited, granted. But he does not agree at all with being there.

The trial itself was as quick and brutal as the death of Markland Masters, which had seen Ben arrested. Factor into that the death of Keith Sinfield in Manchester (who Ben certainly did kill, throwing him out of Beetham Tower to rain down onto Deansgate), and a Molly Cleverson in Llanberris (who he threw on a bonfire) and a pretty damning picture emerges. But the only charges that they could completely pin on Ben were relating to Markland’s death, as he was caught in the act. Ben’s involvement in the other deaths was acknowledged by almost all, but there was no evidence. Ben’s defense lawyer, Mr Selwyn Barraclough, had rightly pointed out there was not a shred of evidence to prove he had done any of those things, never mind the one that he actually didn’t do, which was Markland. Nevertheless, by this point Ben had quickly accepted that his lack of trust and faith in the justice system was chronic and permanent, and suggested he would plead guilty to the one charge and get a lesser sentence - rather than fight all 3 charges, lose the case and be faced with a life sentence - or multiple life sentences, if they drudged up too much of his past and had to factor in Steven’s death in that Afghan sewer all those years ago.

The prosecution quickly accepted, seeing another win tucked swiftly under it’s belt - justice prevails again. Ben again feeling the pointed end of a compromised society’s morality stick. At that point, Ben just wanted to escape it all, feeling disillusioned with the England he had come back to and foolish for the haphazard nature of his arrest. Plus, frankly, he felt he deserved punishment. And away he went.

Craggs interrupts Ben’s thoughts. ‘I think it’s ready. Just in time for rec hour’.

Now, Ben’s mind - piqued and lucid from his time off - is ready, and his body readier. He has a plan to get out. It’s almost time to put it into action - and recreation hour is where it all starts.

2

A bleak, droning buzzer emanates for somewhere in the bowels of the prison, echoing through the halls and permeating Ben and Craggs’ cell. Craggs almost leaps out of his skin at the sound, while Ben merely sits up. Off to the main mess hall, to watch the pointless prison ecosystem at work. There is an obvious hierarchy, a nasty order of life in this prison, where those in trusted to upholding the law are as serpentine as those they are paid to keep in line. Ben has no respect for the prison, nor the people that run it - he has seen so much corruption in here, that every drop of faith he had was slowly squeezed away. He doesn’t believe in this place, and conversely, he gets the feeling this place doesn’t believe in him either. All Ben’s rehabilitation (if that’s what you can call it) was undertaken by himself. Ben has tried to be a model prisoner at times, if only to keep his nose out of trouble - never because he was encouraged.

Craggs is at the door, toothbrush shank in hand, waiting for the door to be opened. Usually takes within 2 minutes for the door to unlocked remotely, and then they are ushered down to the main mess hall, by two guards. Ben and Craggs, despite their violent pasts, are not classed as violent risks - there are others in the prison of far higher priority in those terms and budget cuts and austerity measures had seen Ben and Craggs fall down the pecking order in terms of priority. This pleases Ben no end, as far as his plan is concerned. The doors open with an earthy crunch, and Craggs steps forward.

‘Conceal it, for crying out loud’, spits Ben. Despite himself, Ben finds himself having to instruct Craggs - after all, if Craggs marches out of here weapon in hand, it makes both of them look bad. And Ben is hoping that today, like all days, his own behaviour will be looked on favourably. Well, especially today.

As the door opens, and the familiar harsh smell of industrial cleaning products fills the men’s noses and scratches the back of their throats, Ben hops up and follows Craggs into the hallway - and while doing so he shoves the makeshift shank up his sleeve. They turn left, and immediately walk directly up the dark hallway, were two burly wardens wait for them. Ben knows them both, but he knows that they rotate. Today is Thursday, and Thursday means they get the pleasure of Ronson and Dunn to escort them through the prison. They beckon them forward with batons. Craggs walks with not so much a spring in his step but an entire pilled-up jack-in-a-box, energy rippling out of every pore. Ben ribs him.

‘Keep cool,’ Ben whispers.

‘I can’t, I’m fucking jacked’ Craggs replies. Ben knows this could mean either he is less inclined to bottle it, and will go for it all in, or he may, in a jittery fit, botch the whole thing. Either way, it’s too late for team talks. Ben is still confident that his plan is solid, but he needs Craggs to play his part - and what a part it is.

‘Come on you two’ bellows Dunn. ‘Queer-baits this way’. Ben can’t really disguise his dislike for these two, but he knows just how pathetic they are, and how little they are worth his time. Getting one over these two is not key to his plan, but a happy side-effect if all comes off well. They are two who would just as easily be on Ben’s side of the iron bars, if it weren’t for their position here in Strangeways. Their behaviour in here alone should have seen them charged and imprisoned long ago, but the fact that they are not only proves Ben’s assertions and strengthens his resolve to beat this godforsaken system.

As they walk past the two guards, Ronson slaps Ben’s arse. Ben froths at the affront, but only inwardly. It only makes Ben hope he sees these two twits’ faces with figurative egg all over them later, when they witness what he has done and what it means for them.

Ben also knows that the sexual element of the banter is only to exert power over them, as they test how far they can take the exercising of their power. It’s designed to objectify and put them down, much like archaic societies would do to their women. Reduce individuality and personality from them, and sabotage their footing so that they can never gain proper societal hold. And it only makes Ben pity them more.

Over his period of incarceration, he has seen many different examples of the staff’s abuse of their position, ranging from the minute (kind of like what Ben just experienced) and the pretty grand (beatings, framings, you name it - anything to keep the power where it is). It took Ben about 2 minutes to realize he didn’t care about this at all - to care would only dilute his resolve to leave this place, and leave he must. So he never argued with the injustice, never took umbrage when the staff’s whims affected his own comfort and wellbeing. He just kept his head down, waited and planned - simmering.

Ben has become all too used to sorting out problems with violence - so much so that when he decided that he was going to do something about his predicament, he was faced with the stumbling block of acknowledgement that, on this occasion, if he really wanted out of here, he was going to have to do so with cold intelligence and foresight. Ben found the process of doing so extremely informative and liberating, and has concocted a plan that - now the wheels are in motion - would have one of two very possible outcomes. Namely that it would either see Ben offered the door to freedom with no questions asked and a slap on the back, or would see the entire prison rocked to its corrupt foundations and instigate real fundamental change in its governance. Either way, Ben is happy that the wind is going to change one way or the other - and only for the better where his well-being is concerned.

He just needs to keep an eye on Craggs, who is marching next to Ben a little too quickly.

‘You look like a man who has got some serious business to attend to’ whispers Ben. ‘If you want to get this done, you have to keep cooler than this.’

‘What’s it matter to you?’ Craggs fires back.

‘You are not going to get close to him at this rate, you’ll end up back in the cell with me and I’ll have to listen to you pissing and moaning every night while you work out how you screwed your chance up. Keep it together and you’ll have your shot.’

Craggs reluctantly slows a touch, and drops into the same stride pattern as Ben. To be associated with a deluded scumbag like Craggs would ordinarily bother Ben greatly, but today, if he has to take Craggs by the hand, he’ll damn well do it. They approach the central mess facility, it’s hulking blue safety door manned by another warden.

The door is opened for them, and the dense din of the prison ecology wafts out immediately, an airborne audio mulch that clangs towards the approaching men. They cross through the doorway, and survey the scene. About 35 inmates sit dotted across 10 rows of tables, little groups of men already formed rows apart. Recreation time is staggered to allow for smaller groups of 30-40 inmates to circulate, with a different mix everyday. Ben thinks it is actually quite sensible - it’s theory is to stop resentment boiling and frictions emerging. It would work perfectly, if it weren’t for the fact that the staff are too wrapped up in their own thing, drunk on their own power, to really commit to the planning of a system that would appear unpredictable to the inmates. Everyone has worked it out long before today. Factions have emerged and bonded, and they know what days and sessions they will see each other again. It’s become as organized and as routine-friendly as weekly village book club get togethers.