Cat O'Nine Tales: And Other Stories (14 page)

Pat remained
unusually silent as they proceeded down the yellow brick road, as the old lags
call the last few yards before you climb the steps and enter the back door of
the court. Pat ended up standing in the dock, with a bailiff by his side.

Pat stared up
at the bench and looked at the three magistrates who made up this morning’s
panel. Something was wrong. He had been expecting to see Mr. Perkins, who had
been bald this time last year, almost
Pickwickian
.
Now, suddenly, he seemed to have sprouted a head of fair hair. On his right was
Councillor
Steadman, a liberal, who was much too
lenient for Pat’s liking. On the chairman’s left sat a middle-aged lady whom
Pat had never seen before; her thin lips and piggy eyes gave Pat a little
confidence that the liberal could be outvoted two to one, especially if he
played his cards right. Miss Piggy looked as if she would have happily
supported capital punishment for shoplifters.

Sergeant
Webster stepped into the witness box and took the oath.

“What can you
tell us about this case, Sergeant?” Mr. Perkins asked, once the oath had been
administered.

“May I refer to
my notes, your honor?” asked Sergeant Webster, turning to face the chairman of
the panel. Mr. Perkins nodded, and the sergeant turned over the cover of his
notepad.

“I apprehended
the defendant at two o’clock this morning, after he had thrown a brick at the
window of H. Samuel, the jeweler’s, on Mason Street.”

“Did you see
him throw the brick, Sergeant?”

“No, I did not,”
admitted Webster, “but he was standing on the pavement with the brick in his
hand when I apprehended him.”

“And had he
managed to gain entry?” asked Perkins.

“No, sir,” said
the sergeant, “but he was about to throw the brick again when I arrested him.”

“The same brick?”

“I think so.”

“And had he
done any damage?”

“He had
shattered the glass, but a security grille prevented him from removing
anything.”

“How valuable
were the goods in the window?” asked Mr. Perkins.

“There were no
goods in the window,” replied the sergeant, “because the manager always locks
them up in the safe, before going home at night.”

Mr. Perkins
looked puzzled and, glancing down at the charge sheet, said, “I see you have
charged
O’Flynn
with attempting to break and enter.”

“That is correct,
sir,” said Sergeant Webster, returning his notebook to a back pocket of his
trousers.

Mr. Perkins
turned his attention to Pat. “I note that you have entered a plea of guilty on
the charge sheet,
O’Flynn
.”

“Yes,
m’lord
.”

“Then I’ll have
to sentence you to three months, unless you can offer some explanation.” He
paused and looked down at Pat over the top of his half-moon spectacles. “Do you
wish to make a statement?” he asked.

“Three months
is not enough,
m’lord
.”

“I am not a
lord,” said Mr. Perkins firmly.

“Oh, aren’t
you?” said Pat. “It’s just that I thought as you were wearing a wig, which you
didn’t have this time last year, you must be a lord.”

“Watch your
tongue,” said Mr. Perkins, “or I may have to consider putting your sentence up
to six months.”

“That’s more
like it,
m’lord
,” said Pat.

“If that’s more
like it,” said Mr. Perkins, barely able to control his temper, “then I sentence
you to six months. Take the prisoner down.”

“Thank you,
m’lord
,” said Pat, and added under his breath, “see you
this time next year.”

The bailiff
hustled Pat out of the dock and quickly down the stairs to the basement.

“Nice one,
Pat,” he said before locking him back up in a holding cell.

Pat remained in
the holding cell while he waited for all the necessary forms to be filled in.
Several hours passed before the cell door was finally opened and he was
escorted out of the courthouse to his waiting transport; not on this occasion a
panda car driven by Sergeant Webster, but a long blue-
andwhite
van with a dozen tiny cubicles inside, known as the sweat box.

 
“Where are they taking me this time?” Pat
asked a not very communicative officer whom he’d never seen before.

“You’ll find
out when you get there, Paddy,” was all he got in reply.

“Have I ever
told you about the time I tried to get a job on a building site in Liverpool?”

“No,” replied
the officer, “and I don’t want to ‘ear...”

“...and the
foreman, a bloody Englishman, had the nerve to ask me if I knew the difference
between a...” Pat was shoved up the steps of the van and pushed into a little
cubicle that resembled a lavatory on a plane. He fell onto the plastic seat as
the door was slammed behind him.

Pat stared out of the tiny square window, and when the vehicle turned south
onto Baker Street, realized it had to be
Belmarsh
.
Pat sighed. At least they’ve got a half-decent library, he thought, and I may
even be able to get back my old job in the kitchen.

When the Black
Maria pulled up outside the prison gates, his guess was confirmed. A large
green board attached to the prison gate announced BELMARSH, and some wag had
replaced BEL with HELL. The van proceeded through one set of double-barred
gates, and then another, before finally coming to a halt in a barren yard.

Twelve
prisoners were herded out of the van and marched up the steps to an induction
area, where they waited in line.

Pat smiled when
he reached the front of the queue and saw who was behind the desk, checking
them all in.

“And how are we
this fine pleasant evening, Mr. Jenkins?” Pat asked.

The Senior
Officer looked up from behind his desk and said, “It can’t be October already.”

“It most
certainly is, Mr. Jenkins,”

Pat confirmed,
“
and
may I offer my commiserations on your recent
loss.”

“My recent
loss,” repeated Mr. Jenkins. “What are you talking about, Pat?”

“Those fifteen Welshmen who appeared in Dublin earlier this year,
passing themselves off as a rugby team.”

“Don’t push
your luck, Pat.”

“Would I, Mr.
Jenkins, when I was hoping that you would allocate me my old cell?”

The SO ran his
finger down the list of available cells.
“ ‘
Fraid
not, Pat,” he said with an exaggerated sigh,
“it’s already double-booked. But I’ve got just the person for you to spend your
first night with,” he added, before turning to the night officer. “Why don’t
you escort
O’Flynn
to cell one nineteen.”

The night
officer looked uncertain, but after a further look from Mr. Jenkins, all he
said was, “Follow me, Pat.”

“So who has Mr.
Jenkins selected to be my pad mate on this occasion?” inquired Pat, as the
night officer accompanied him down the long, gray-brick corridor before coming
to a halt at the first set of double-barred gates. “Is it to be Jack the
Ripper, or Michael Jackson?”

“You’ll find
out soon enough,” responded the night officer as the second of the barred gates
slid open.

“Have I ever
told you,” asked Pat, as they walked out on to the ground floor of B block,
“about the time I tried to get a job on a building site in Liverpool, and the
foreman, a bloody Englishman, had the nerve to ask me if I knew the difference
between a joist and a girder?”

Pat waited for
the officer to respond, as they came to a halt outside cell number 119. He
placed a large key in the lock.

“No, Pat, you
haven’t,” the night officer said as he pulled open the heavy door. “So what is
the difference between a joist and a girder?” he demanded.

Pat was about
to reply, but when he looked into the cell was momentarily silenced.

“Good evening,
m’lord
,” said Pat, for the second time that day
The
night officer didn’t wait for a reply. He slammed the
door closed, and turned the key in the lock.

Pat spent the
rest of the evening telling me, in graphic detail, all that had taken place
since two o’clock that morning.

When he had
finally come to the end of his tale, I simply asked, “Why October?”

“Once the
clocks go back,” said Pat, “I prefer to be inside, where I’m guaranteed three
meals a day and a cell with central heating. Sleeping rough is all very well in
the summer, but it’s not so clever during an English winter.”

“But what would
you have done if Mr. Perkins had sentenced you to a year?” I asked.

“I’d have been
on my best behavior from day one,” said Pat, “and they would have released me
in six months. They have a real problem with overcrowding at the moment,” he
explained.

“But if Mr.
Perkins had stuck to his original sentence of just three months, you would have
been released in January, mid-winter.”

“Not a hope,”
said Pat. “Just before I was due to be let out, I would have been found with a bottle
of Guinness in my cell. A misdemeanor for which the governor is obliged to
automatically add a further three months to your sentence, and that would have
taken me comfortably through to April.”

I laughed. “And
is that how you intend to spend the rest of your life?” I asked.

“I don’t think
that far ahead,” admitted Pat. “Six months is quite enough to be going on
with,” he added, as he climbed on to the top bunk and switched off the light.

“Goodnight,
Pat,” I said, as I rested my head on the pillow.

“Have I ever
told you about the time I tried to get a job on a building site in Liverpool?”
asked Pat, just as I was falling asleep.

“No, you
haven’t,” I replied.

“Well, the
foreman, a bloody Englishman, no offense intended...”

I smiled...”had
the nerve to ask me if I knew the difference between a joist and a girder.”

“And do you?” I
asked.

“I most
certainly do. Joyce wrote
Ulysses,
and
Goethe wrote
Faust.”

Patrick
O’Flynn
died of hypothermia on 23 November 2005, while sleeping under the arches on
Victoria Embankment in central London.

His body was discovered by a young
constable, just a hundred yards away from the Savoy Hotel.

“
T
hey
charged me with the wrong offense, and
sen-I
tenced
me for the wrong
crime,” Max said as he lay in the bunk below me, rolling another cigarette.

While I was in
prison, I heard this claim voiced by inmates on several occasions, but in the
case of Max Glover it turned out to be true.

Max was serving
a three-year sentence for obtaining money by false pretenses. Not his game.
Max’s
speciality
was removing small items from large
homes. He once told me, with considerable professional pride, that it could be
years before an owner became aware that a family heirloom has gone missing,
especially, Max added, if you take one small, but valuable, object from a
cluttered room.