Borstal Slags (4 page)

‘I’m not really fussed about all that.’

‘They take ’em in one of the flats on the Hayfield estate. Dirty pictures, sir. I just deliver ’em. They pay me a couple of bob, I need the cash, but I don’t get involved or nuffing ’coz I’m not like that, honest I’m not, sir! Please, sir, please, you gotta let me out of here!’

‘Barton, take it easy. There’s nothing they can charge you with except some trumped-up nonsense about resisting arrest. And if you cooperate with me I can see that charge is completely dropped.’

‘Really? Really, sir?’ Barton pressed his face hard against the spyhole. ‘You’ll let me go? You mean it?’

‘Of course I mean it. But in return, I want to ask you a few questions.’

‘Oh thank you, thank you!’ grovelled Barton, thrusting his fingers through the spyhole and waggling them. ‘I knew you’d help me! I could see you were different, you’re not like the others. You’ve got kind eyes.’

‘I have?’ said Sam, suppressing a grin.

‘Yes, yes, sir, you have, very kind eyes! And a kind face, sir! A very, very kind face.’

Sam laughed.

‘I mean it!’ Barton cried. ‘I know, I know, you think I’m a nonce talking like that. They
all
thought I was nonce, back in Friar’s. That’s why I don’t ever want to go back there. They gave me a hard time. A
hard
time, sir!’

‘Friar’s Brook is what I wanted to ask you about. What’s it like?’

‘Terrible, sir! They nearly killed me! It was awful. They said I was a nancy, they said I’d got my dick out in the showers and tried to – they said I wanted to – that I … It weren’t true, I swear it, sir! I never did nothing! I’m no poofter I like big tits and that!’

‘When were you at Friar’s Brook?’ asked Sam.

‘Last year.’

‘Rubbish. It’s a borstal. You’re way too old.’

‘Too old? I’m seventeen.’

Sam was taken aback. The heavy features, the skin roughed by cold shaves and alcohol aftershave and a diet of instant mash and fish fingers – could that really be the face of a teenager?

No moisturizers for men in the seventies. No skincare regimes, no fruit juice, no five-a-day. It’s all harsh winds and fag smoke and chips cooked in dripping for lads like this.

‘I can’t never go back to Friar’s,’ Barton hissed. ‘It’s hell on earth.’

‘The other inmates pretty rough, are they?’

‘Not the inmates, sir.’

‘What, then?’

‘If I tell you what’s so terrible about that place, sir, will you promise to get me out of here?’ Barton pleaded.

‘Sure. I promise.’

‘Okay. Since you’re kind.’

‘I’m all ears,’ said Sam. ‘
And
kind eyes. Go ahead, tell me what’s so terrible about Friar’s Brook.’

Barton dropped his voice to a hoarse whisper. He pressed his mouth against the spyhole and breathed a single word, ‘
McClintock
.’

And with that, he fell silent.

Sam waited for something more, but he got nothing.

‘Is that it? “McClintock”?’

Barton nodded. He glanced about in terror, as if by uttering the name he was at risk of summoning the devil.

‘And who is this “McClintock”?’ asked Sam. ‘An inmate? One of the warders?’

‘Go and find out for yourself, sir,’ Barton whispered. ‘Then you’ll see.
Then
you’ll see.’

‘Barton, I promised to help you, and I will. But in return you promised to give me information.’

‘And that’s what I did, sir!’

‘A single name and some veiled hints isn’t much for me to go on.’

Barton crept forward again and peered out through the spyhole. ‘Just remember that name, sir.
McClintock.
Go to Friar’s Brook, sir. See what you will see.’

Sam shrugged. ‘Well, what can I say? Thanks for your cooperation. Now – you get yourself some rest. I’ll make sure you’re out of here as soon as I can.’

‘You mean that, sir? You won’t be sending me back there?’

‘We’ve got bigger fish to fry, Barton. Now go to sleep. And don’t have nightmares.’

Still anxious, but less so than before, Barton crept back to the mean little seat that ran along the cell’s back wall and settled himself on it. He folded his legs primly, and gave Sam a coquettish smile.

‘Thank you, sir,’ he said. ‘You’re different. I can see that.’ And, just as Sam closed up the spyhole once more, he caught Barton’s voice, ‘Be dreaming of you, PC Brown Eyes.’

Alone in his flat, Sam dumped a set of dirty plates into the sink and left the washing-up for tomorrow. It would take half the night to get enough hot water to fill the basin, and he was in no mood to sit up, not after the day he’d had. All he wanted was beer and a doze in front of the telly.

He carried a bottle of brown ale over to the TV. The screen glowed. Cash registers clinked and clanged. A funky bass guitar started up. A woman’s voice intoned flatly:

‘A bottle, a chair, and a few old gags about Mrs Slocombe’s pussy,’ Sam said to himself, cracking open the beer. ‘That’ll do me. That’ll do me just grand.’

He swilled back a warm mouthful of brown ale and let his mind drift. But at once he was disturbed by the memory of a voice – a man’s voice, very harsh and brutal, issuing incongruously from the mouth of an immature young scally.

‘I’ll keep coming at you, you cheating bastard. I’ll keep coming at you until I’ve got my wife back –
my
wife –
mine
.’

‘Just ignore it,’ he muttered to himself, trying hard to relax. ‘It’s just mind games. Annie’s never been married.’

Annie. Married.

The image floated into his mind of Annie dressed all in white, with a lace veil, appearing in the aisle of a crowded church. The organ struck up the Wedding March. Sam pictured himself, all togged up in his morning suit, getting to his feet and turning to watch her walk slowly towards him.

This beautiful fantasy made his heart turn over. But then, unexpectedly, his dream was invaded by interlopers. Horribly familiar faces appeared amid the assembled guests. First he caught sight of Chris Skelton, uncomfortable in his cheap suit, a wilting flower hanging limply from his button hole as he pulled a leering, Sid James-ish face at Annie:
ooh ’eck, cop a load of that!

Beside him, with his collar un-ironed and fag burns on his shirt, stood Ray Carling. He nudged Chris with his elbow –
when the boss gets tired of her, he can always chuck her over my way –
and swigged flagrantly from a pewter hip flask.

Just across from them was Phyllis, all made up and kitted out in her finest glad rags, but looking as scowly faced and unimpressed as ever. She shot Sam a sour look that said
a girl like that – settling for a no-good little ’Erbert like you.

‘Give me a break guys,’ Sam whispered to himself, emerging from his fantasy and taking another swig of beer. Then he settled back again, let sleep tug at his eyelids and the emanations from the TV wash over him like a lullaby.

INT: GRACE BROTHER’S DEPARTMENT STORE – DAY

With her bright orange hair and thick multi-coloured make-up, Mrs Slocombe folds her arms and looks disapproving.

MRS SLOCOMBE: That new girl who’s started – Miss Belfridge, she calls herself. Nothing but a floozy! She’s in line for a promotion already, and all because she wiggles her hips and flutters her eyelashes!

Captain Peacock looks at her across the top of his glasses.

CAPTAIN PEACOCK: Do
you
feel ready for a promotion, Mrs Slocombe?

MRS SLOCOMBE: I do! I’m totally up for it, Mr Peacock! If only someone would give me one!

CAPTAIN PEACOCK: If I had the power, Mrs Slocombe, I’d happily give you one right now.

Mrs Slocombe simpers and pats her orange hair.

Nearby, Mr Spooner and Mr Humphreys overhear their conversation.

MR SPOONER: Promotion? Personally, I’m not much interested in climbing the corporate ladder. What about you, Mr Humphreys? Would you rather be on top?

MR HUMPHREYS: Ooh, I’m quite happy near the bottom.

The TV burbled on.

Slipping back into his wedding fantasy, Sam tried to ignore the faces of his colleagues amid the pews. Damn it all, this was
his
dream! Those bastards had no right to gatecrash it!

He tried to fill his imagination with the image of Annie in her bridal gown. She looked – and how could she not? – wonderful. He allowed a pale aura of light to shimmer around her, a soft-focus haze that gave her an almost ethereal radiance. Subtly – perhaps a little tackily – he made her eyes glint alluringly beneath her veil as she turned to smile at him.

The priest stepped forward to read the wedding service. But Sam’s imagination decided on a cruel casting decision.

‘Oh no, not you!’

There was a panatela smouldering unashamedly in the priest’s gob. He tugged at his dog collar to loosen it, sniffed, glanced about, and reached under his cassock to flagrantly shepherd a wayward bollock.

‘Shall we crack on with and adjourn to the bar?’ grunted Father Hunt. ‘The padre is parched.’

‘You’re just bloody spoiling it, Guv. You’re always bloody spoiling it.’

INT: GRACE BROTHER’S DEPARTMENT STORE – EVENING

Later that evening, everyone’s working late.

Bald, jug-eared Mr Rumbold appears dressed in an overcoat and carrying an umbrella. With him is an extremely attractive young new employee, Miss Belfridge. Mr Rumbold is clearly excited by her company.

MR RUMBOLD: Since we’re finishing late tonight, I promised to accompany the lovely Miss Belfridge safely to her front door.

CAPTAIN PEACOCK: Isn’t that rather out of your way, Mr Rumbold? You don’t live anywhere near Miss Belfridge.

MR HUMPHREYS:
I
can give you a lift home, Miss Belfridge. I’ve got my mother’s motorbike and sidecar.

MISS BELFRIDGE: But Mr Humphreys, I thought you were completely the other way.

MR HUMPHREYS:
(Purses his lips)
That’s a wicked rumour.

Drifting on the outskirts of sleep, Sam tried to rearrange his fantasy. He blotted out Gene and Ray and the others and tried to replace them. But who with? He wanted to imagine Annie’s father proudly escorting his beautiful daughter up the aisle, but Sam had no image of the man.

I don’t really know anything about Annie’s father,
he thought, sleepily sipping more beer, and sliding further into the warm bath of sleep.
In fact, I don’t know much about her past life at all. Bits and pieces. She may have mentioned something about brothers. Are they in the Force too? Does she come from a police family? And what about her childhood, all those years before I met her?

He began to imagine old boyfriends she might have had over the years. There would have been no shortage of willing candidates. Spotty, callow-faced youths, trying to impress her at the disco, or deep-voice uniformed coppers with little intelligence and even less imagination, offering her a future of child-rearing and domestic servitude.

Sam felt waves of jealousy lap at the edge of his dozing mind. To think that he could so easily have missed his chance with Annie, that he might have lost her to some schoolyard boyfriend or dull-as-ditchwater lug in uniform. Just to
imagine
her with somebody else made his muscles tighten and his stomach clench.

But she’s
not
with somebody else – she’s with
me
. More or less. Pretty much. In a manner of speaking.

There
was
no husband, emerging from the shadows to reclaim his runaway bride. Whatever the Devil in the Dark may be, it was not Annie’s husband. It was impossible. It was unthinkable!

MR HUMPHREYS: Wait there, Miss Belfridge, while I get my motorcycle things. I stuck my helmet round the back.

CAPTAIN PEACOCK: Stuck it round the back, Mr Humphreys? I hope you haven’t put it anywhere that might cause a blockage.

MR HUMPHREYS: It’s only a small one, Captain Peacock. I could probably stick it anywhere and nobody would notice.

MRS SLOCOMBE: Well I hope you don’t try sticking it under my ladies’ counter, Mr Humphreys!
I’d
certainly notice! There’s no room down there to accommodate your helmet.

MR HUMPHREYS: Are you giving me backchat, you orange-haired bitch? Jesus Christ, you need to learn some bloody manners!

Since when did Quentin Tarantino start directing
Are You Being Served?, Sam thought. He forced his eyes open and looked at the TV screen, and was disturbed to see Mr Humphreys stride furiously across to Mrs Slocombe’s counter and lay into her with both fists. As Mrs Slocombe went down, curling into a foetal position, Mr Humphreys slammed his foot into her, over and over again, aiming kicks at her back, her legs, her head.

MR HUMPHREYS: Still feel like showing me up in front of people, do you? I can’t hear you, you cheap little bitch!
Do you still feel like showing me up!
Answer me, you filthy whore!

I don’t remember this episode,
Sam thought dopily.
I must be dreaming. This can’t be real – this must all be some sort of—

‘No, Sam – it’s very real,’ said a horribly familiar voice. The Test Card Girl was standing right beside his chair, clutching her blank-eyed dolly. ‘Can’t you see who the lady is – the one lying on the ground, being hurt?’

His voice thick and slow with sleep, Sam muttered, ‘It’s Mrs Slocombe.’

‘Is it, Sam? Or is it really somebody else …?’

Forcing his eyelids apart, Sam peered at the screen. Mr Humphreys – not that it looked at all like Mr Humphreys any more – was still kicking the hell out of a woman on the ground. But, where there had been orange hair and a frilly blouse and frumpy shoes, there was a much younger woman, with dark hair and a paisley-pattern one-piece jumpsuit and platform boots.

‘I – can’t see her face …’ Sam slurred sleepily.

‘She keeps it covered when he beats her,’ the Test Card Girl said. ‘But you don’t need to see her face to know who she is. Come on, Sam – you’re asleep, but you’re still a policeman. Work it out. The answer’s obvious.’