Our Vinnie (30 page)

Vinnie went to take his slash. ‘You know what I say, Gordon. If your face fits an’ all that. I can’t help it that you’ve been tarred with the ugly brush, can I?’

‘You cheeky cunt!’ Gordon replied, laughing as he jumped down onto the floor. ‘I’ll be out freezing my bollocks off, as per,’ he moaned. ‘While you’re nice and warm in there, doing your sissy girl’s job, pretending like you can fucking read or something.’

‘Oh, shut up mithering,’ Vinnie said, playfully punching Gordon’s muscular arm. ‘I don’t hear you moaning when I nick you all those picture books you like, do I?’

Gordon was right though, Vinnie thought, as they both pulled on their trousers and waited for the cell door to be opened, mugs in hand. He did have it good at Thorp Arch. He’d found his feet quickly, making a smooth transition from remand prisoner to full-time inmate, and had soon learned how to manipulate his way into a coveted job at the library. It had involved a bit of intimidation and a lot of his precious baccy – bless his mother – but it had paid off: he now spent his days exactly where he wanted to be.

No such luck for Gordon. He spent most of his time in the prison gardens, and was currently busy cutting back trees and big shrubs in preparation for the long, biting winter that would soon begin to set in. Rather him than me, Vinnie thought. Though, in fact, Gordon loved it – he just liked taking the mick.

Titch had been as good as her word. He’d written to her – a long impassioned letter, trying hard to make things right between them (if that were even possible, which Vinnie doubted). And, as she’d promised, a letter soon came winging back. But for all his excitement at receiving it, it was a dry, unemotional two pages. A series of ‘I’ve been here’, and ‘I’ve gone there’, interwoven with bland commentary about who was doing what and where back in Bradford. Of what he’d done and what had been done to her there wasn’t a single mention. When it came to the subject that burned so fiercely still inside him, she could just as easily have written ‘no entry’.

Her second letter, in response to another lengthy one from him, was no less lacking in anything that really mattered. He wanted to know how she was coping – he couldn’t stop thinking about how being violated like that must have hurt her, and he wanted to know she was going to be okay. But she was absent – she might as well have been writing to a fucking pen friend. It was all school – her coming CSEs and O Levels, her plans to stay on and actually fucking take some – and Caz, and her problems, about which Vinnie didn’t give a fuck. He wasn’t stupid, though. His sister’s real message was obvious. He’d failed her and now she’d shut him out. And he knew there was only one way he could earn the right to be let in again.

And that wasn’t going to be happening anytime soon. Right now, it was a case of getting up and getting on with it, day after boring prison day. Not that all days at Thorp Arch were as boring as others. Some, it had to be said, were positively entertaining.

He and Gordon had made their way to the canteen for breakfast and were now ‘enjoying’ what passed for a fry-up from the serving counter, but only saw the inside of a decent frying pan in its dreams. The atmosphere had been jovial to start with. The usual cacophony of sounds synonymous with prisons everywhere – the clanging of trays onto tables, the random shouts of the inmates, the odd whistle to maintain order and the scuffle of chairs being scraped back and forth.

As a long-term prisoner, Gordon was tuned into all these sounds, and with an acuity that was better than most. And Vinnie was learning from him all the time, becoming better at reading him; tuning in himself to those times when Gordon’s demeanour signalled that things might be a little off-key. Today was no exception. So when Gordon leaned across the table to whisper to him, he was unsurprised by his expression. It looked like something was kicking off.

‘Vinnie!’ he hissed, nodding towards a table to the side and a couple of rows back, to where a black guy was sitting by himself. ‘See that cunt over there?’ he asked.

Vinnie half turned and nodded.

‘There’s gonna be some bother, mate,’ Gordon continued calmly. ‘And I think it’s going to happen today. He’s in for raping some lass, and apparently she was nine months pregnant. Almost ready to drop, by all accounts. Anyway, Martin Healey – well, turns out he knows her.’

Vinnie knew Martin Healey. He’d had an encounter with him too. He’d tipped Vinnie the wink only a couple of weeks ago, in the washroom. Said he’d been watching him, and had liked what he’d seen and heard about him. Vinnie didn’t know what that was but he’d felt puffed up with pride that such an established older con had singled him out for praise. He felt a surge of adrenalin. A rapist. A rapist
cunt
. A man who deserved a fucking battering. Which he’d be only too happy to dispense fucking personally. One that would
surely
impress Martin Healey.

‘So he’s going after him?’ Vinnie asked Gordon. ‘Like,
now
? Just like that?’

Gordon tipped his head a quarter of an inch. ‘Oh, he’s been planning it awhile. I’ve been keeping an eye, lad. He’s been having some tools made up.’ He picked up his fork and scooped some beans into his mouth. ‘That cunt’s going to get it,’ he said, scanning the room as he swallowed. ‘And it looks like it’s happening today.’ He leaned forwards again and waggled his fork in Vinnie’s direction. ‘Just keep your nose out and your head down and you’ll be alright, lad.’

Vinnie scanned the room as well, trying to pinpoint the key players, aware of a dull thudding starting up in his chest. It was almost an unconscious thing with him these days, he realised. He’d see some cunt – like this black bastard sitting just down the way – and he’d have this physical thing, this blood lust, take him over. So far he’d controlled it, but it was like the word ‘rapist’ threw this switch in his head. The
cunt
. It was taking over now, as he checked out where all the screws were – thought they seemed oblivious – and honing in on the individuals that were now beginning to identify themselves, albeit unwittingly, because they were acting out of character. Martin Healey, for instance, who was sitting way across the other side of the canteen, away from all his usual cronies – prisoners who were stationed in odd locations themselves.

Keep my nose out and my head down?
Vinnie thought for a moment.
Yeah, of course I fucking will
.

He turned back to Gordon. ‘What’s the blacky’s name?’

His friend considered him for a little while then shrugged, almost imperceptibly. ‘What, you after a ruck, lad?’ he asked Vinnie quietly.

Vinnie met Gordon’s eye and nodded, equally imperceptibly. Upon which Gordon carefully put his knife and fork into his trouser pocket and slowly tipped his remaining sausage and beans onto the table. ‘He’s called Claude,’ Gordon said. ‘And I’m told he’s a hard bastard. So you best be carrying if you’re after getting into Healey’s good books.’

It was in that moment that Vinnie recognised an inescapable truth. This wasn’t just about reputation building, about getting Healey on side. Perhaps it never had been. Perhaps it wasn’t about that at all. All he knew was that, right then, he wanted to hammer that rapist bastard, and to hell with the consequences.

‘I’m only interested in myself really, Gordon,’ he whispered. ‘And I don’t need no tools.’ He nodded towards Gordon’s empty plate, which he held in his hands. ‘That your weapon of choice, mate?’ he said, beginning to be conscious that the mess on the table was attracting the attention of the nearby lads, if not the screws.

Gordon smiled. ‘I could take out that black cunt with one punch,’ he told him. ‘Nah, lad,’ he said, ‘this is to give a couple of the screws a slap with when they go after you. Which you know they will, too.’

Vinnie laughed. ‘On three then, okay? Three!’

And before Gordon had even had a chance to stand up, he’d leapt up, jumped the two tables that separated him from the bastard rapist, and had him on the floor before Healey could so much as hoick his jaw back up. He might not be able to do a great deal about the rapist back home, but he was clear-sighted and confident about what he
could
do. He could nuke this fucking cunt or die trying.

Claude fought back. Fought back hard, but had been caught by surprise and Vinnie knew he had the advantage. And he planned on capitalising on it, as well. He had space, too, the other prisoners instantly grouping to form a solid barrier between the screws – who were suddenly a lot more observant – and their batons, and the unexpected turn of this morning’s entertainment.

Claude was a big bloke, and at least three stones heavier than Vinnie. He was older too – maybe mid-twenties – and Vinnie guessed he was the veteran of a fair few fights already. But that was less a problem than a challenge. And Vinnie did love a challenge, wrestling hard to keep Claude on the ground – though face down, eating shit was what he really deserved.

Fuck tooling up for a lark
, he thought as he succeeded in clambering astride Claude’s chest – teeth were generally his weapon of choice. In fact, his mouth was now practically watering at the thought of taking a bite out of the guy’s ebony skin.

The crowd were closing in, now, tightening the barricade to stop the screws breaking through, and Vinnie was aware he only had a few seconds left. He deftly manoeuvred his body, shook his hair back out of his eyes and leaned in towards the cunt’s face.

‘One shot, mate,’ Claude taunted, wriggling and defiant and grinning. ‘And you’d better make it a fucking good one, cos after this is over, I’m taking your fucking head right off.’ He spat, then. ‘You got that, Bradford boy?’

For a second, Vinnie felt a moment of pride that this prick even knew where he came from. But then he got straight to the task in hand. ‘You’ll take my head off, will you, you cockney cunt?’ he spat back. ‘Well, not till I’ve got myself a bit of you first,
you fucking rapist
!’

He howled like an animal as he went in for the kill, a blood-curdling sound that was the result of all his anger filtering down into this one intensely charged moment. He lunged forward and the gasps of the other inmates were audible as he clamped his teeth together around Claude’s left ear. He bit down hard, till his mouth flooded with the metallic tang of warm blood, then, tasting it, bit down even harder. He kept on ragging at the ear, tearing it away from the side of the bastard’s head, and then, just as he thought he had a decent chunk free, the crowds parted and the batons rained down.

He was done. Shielding his head from the blows with crossed arms, Vinnie opened his mouth and, trying to stand now, spat a pool of blood onto the floor. He could barely feel the pain because the adrenalin was coursing through his veins now, as he looked at Claude writhing in agony on the canteen floor.

He knew things would be bad now, but he still felt triumphant. And a kind of release – a blessed release – from a tension he hadn’t realised had been as bad as it clearly had. It wouldn’t last. He knew that. Till the day he dealt with Melvin it would always be there, coiling ever tighter till he released it again. But for now he felt good. Good for him, good for that poor fucking girl, righteous. And good knowing he’d sent out a very important message to his housemates:
go on, try me if you like. Fucking bring it on!

They dragged him from the canteen, still raining blows over his back and shoulders, while a bemused Martin Healey looked on. Vinnie didn’t care. He couldn’t feel them – he was cushioned by elation. Bolstered by the response of his fellow inmates as he passed them, by the cheers, by the clapping, by the respect.

Charles Rawson, the prison governor, listened intently. Listened without commenting as his senior officer, Robert Malvern, read out the background report. Pausing before putting the file onto Rawson’s desk, Malvern cleared his throat. ‘I know it looks bad, sir, and it is, no doubt about it. All I’m saying is that McKellan must have been provoked. Or,’ he paused, ‘put up to it. That’s a distinct possibility. Because I can honestly tell you that in all the time he was on remand – and it was a good six months, sir – we never had a peep out of him. Not one. Model prisoner, really. A bit of a lad, yes. But not a bad ’un. I think his heart’s in the right place.’

The governor pinched two fingers at the bridge of his nose and looked at Malvern through metal-framed reading glasses. ‘I hear what you are saying, Robert. And I’ve also seen the background file on this young man. And I’m afraid to tell you that, with respect, you’re wrong. The lad’s an out and out thug and always has been. Granted, you’re right, he did behave himself on remand, but so would any half-intelligent kid hoping to get off lightly, wouldn’t they? No, I’m afraid he showed his true colours in the canteen last week – and my only question, if indeed I even had one about this lad, would be quite why it took him so
long
.’ He closed the file. ‘Robert, we have to be firm here. It’s important we send out the right message. We said a fortnight on the block and we must stick to a fortnight. We can’t be seen to capitulate, can we?’

Malvern couldn’t hide his sigh of frustration, although he tried to. He didn’t even fully understand why he felt the need to defend Vinnie, he just knew that he liked the lad – always had, in fact – and knew how much this solitary spell would be harming him. He was a book lover, a free spirit, and clearly a bit of a party animal. And, okay, so he was a criminal – they all were, in here – but not, as far as he could see, the sort of animal the governor had him pegged as. ‘No, sir,’ he said. ‘I get that. I just wanted to put it to you as an option, now that I’ve seen him. He’s done a week now, and we could always put him on another landing, if you thought that might help. I just can’t see what good it’s doing keeping him down there. The lad’s a reader, sir – a bit of an intellectual, which is the thing that most worries me. He’s got fuck all down there except the Bible to fill his time and, from what I’ve heard, he’s using that to wipe his arse with. I just think that if we leave him any longer we’re asking for more trouble, not less; that we’ll have a riot to deal with on top of everything else. I have to tell you, the other lags are doing their nuts, sir. It’s getting volatile. They are saying McKellan was provoked and tormented, for one thing, and that this attack wasn’t a case of empire building. Sir, if you’ve read the whole file then perhaps you already know that apparently his own sister was attacked in similar circumstances. That she was raped – and, under those circumstances, I don’t know many men who
wouldn’t
have done what he did, do you?’