The Boys from Binjiwunyawunya (28 page)

Bernie noticed the curious look on Norton's face. ‘Like to join the lads for an afternoon stroll?' Norton smiled and shook his head. ‘Righto. Well come on and I'll show you to your motel room.'

They went into another reception area full of guards, through a doorway and out into the warrants section.

The warrants section, or wing, consisted of about twenty yellow washed cells running off to the right, with an open area in front of them and a covered area supported by poles in front of that. Bernie pointed out the white-tiled shower area at the far end and behind them a servery where you
got your food. There were about fifteen men of all shapes and ages milling around, trying to get a bit of sun in front of their cells or standing under the covered area. Some were potting balls on a pool table while others were drinking coffee from a hot water machine next to the servery. All looked fairly bored and listless except for one long-haired bloke tunelessly banging on a cheap guitar; he was getting stuck into it like he was Jimi Hendrix. Raised above them in the covered area was a colour TV, blaring loud enough to drown out Jimi Hendrix, and a book-case full of books stood underneath this. Rocking slightly in the light wind was an almost-new black Ring-Master punching bag hanging on chains from a beam in front of the shower area.

‘Can you still thump as hard as you used to Les?' asked Bernie, noticing Norton eyeing the punching bag.

‘I hope so,' replied Norton. ‘I might end up losing my cherry in here if I can't.'

‘I think you'll be pretty safe mate,' chuckled Bernie. ‘You're too ugly anyway — even for some of these desperates. Come on, I'll show you your room. I mean cell.'

They moved across the yard to the row of cells. Norton's was about four from the servery end. Number 602. The door was open and in one of two brackets above it was a piece of paper saying: Gatenby, 20 days. Bernie took another slip of paper and slid it in the bracket. It said: Norton, 2 days.

‘After you Les,' smiled Bernie, motioning to the open cell door.

Des Smith at Waverley Police Station was right when he said Long Bay wasn't the Sebel Town House. Apart from being musty and dirty the cell didn't have anything going for it at all. It was around ten feet by eight with a toilet bowl in the corner and two narrow beds almost alongside each other. The light came from the open door and from an enclosed fluorescent tube that played dim shadows of a mug, a jar of coffee and a few other odds and ends across the top of an ancient wooden cabinet in front of one of the beds. The cell's one outstanding feature was the graffiti. There was hardly a square inch of wall or ceiling that didn't have something scrawled or drawn on it.

‘Like your new digs, do you Les?'

‘Yeah,' muttered Norton. ‘It's just peachy.' He nodded towards the mug and the jar of coffee. ‘Who's in with me? Some axe murderer I suppose.'

‘No. His name's Max. He's a truck driver.'

‘What's he in for?'

‘Warrants. The same as you. That's all this wing is. In fact Max is one of our regular customers. It's weird really. He doesn't mind it here at all. Sometimes I even think he likes it.'

Norton continued to gaze round the cell, shaking his head. ‘He must be weird if he likes this. I've only been here five minutes and I can't stand it already.'

‘Well, you know the old saying Les,' smiled Bernie. ‘If you can't spend the time, don't do the crime.' The prison officer glanced at his watch. ‘Anyway I've got to get going. I'm knocking off in a few minutes and they'll be mustering you for dinner shortly. I'll probably see you tomorrow.' He paused at the door for a moment. ‘And a bit of advice, Les. Take it easy. It's a different ball game in here and if you get into any strife there's not much I can do for you.'

‘Strife? Jesus Bernie, I'm only in here for two days and one's nearly over already. What could happen?'

‘Not much I suppose. But in here, you never know Les. You just never know. I'll see you tomorrow.'

‘Yeah. See you Bernie.'

The bed closest to the door was half made, Les tossed his stuff on the other and tested the springs with his hand. It wasn't the best, but it wasn't all that bad. Any more than two days, though, and you'd need to know a good chiropractor. He spread his blankets over it, gave the pillow a scrunch, then sat down on the edge and looked around him. So this is it eh. Long Bay Gaol. His eyes wandered from the graffiti to the chipped walls and ceiling to the chipped floor. Christ they must've built this joint in 1800. I wonder where those pricks on the radio and in the papers get all those ideas about motel-like accommodation. I don't see any colour TV or stereo in here. I'd like to stick some of them in here for a few days — see what they think. Especially that flip in Melbourne with the beard. No wonder he was crying when he looked like going in for six weeks. Oh well, Norton smiled to himself, maybe it's not all that bad and it's not as if there's nothing to do. I can go outside and watch TV if I want to. I can join the lads for a nice stroll in the square. I can have a game of pool or read a book. I can even have a workout on a punching bag if I want. Or I can spend two days reading all this graffiti. He picked up his yellow information booklet. I think I might just see what this says instead. Norton started flicking over the pages.

Introduction. You are in the Central Industrial Prison. Well I certainly bloody know that, Norton smiled to himself. If you have been sentenced in court you will be held in the CIP until you are classified and transferred to another gaol. There are also some prisoners here who are appealing against their sentences and others serving sentences for non-payment of fines. Hey that's me. Well what do you know? I'm on page one already. Norton read on about Reception Tobacco. Passing Information With Care. Daily Routine. Vegetarians. Library. He was smiling at the section on Visits when in walked his cell mate, who looked like he'd just come from the shower.

‘G'day mate,' he said breezily, tossing his towel on the bed. ‘How's things?'

‘Not too bad,' replied Norton, looking up from his pamphlet. ‘What about yourself?'

‘Can't complain.' He looked at Norton evenly for a moment. ‘My name's Max, anyway,' he said offering his hand.

‘Les,' smiled Norton, half rising from the bed and accepting Max's firm but brief handshake. ‘Please to meet you mate.'

Max was a wiry sort of bloke, shorter than Les and in his late forties or early fifties with a bit of a potbelly. He had thinning sandy-coloured hair adorned with a pair of huge side levers spreading over his square jaw. He seemed to have those ever-smiling eyes and a lopsided smile that opened up to reveal a set of discoloured buckteeth that looked like a mouthful of broken paddle-pop sticks.

‘I see you're only in for a couple of days,' he said. ‘Goin' a bit bad are you?'

‘No. Not really. It's a bit of a funny story to tell you the truth. I noticed you're stuck in this dump for twenty bloody days though. Shit!'

‘I don't really look at it like that, Les. I reckon it's all right in here actually.'

Norton screwed his face up at Max. ‘Are you fair dinkum?'

Max nodded enthusiastically from where he was sitting on his bed. ‘Mate, this is the grouse in here. All you've got to do is stick to yourself and mind your own business and you're sweet. It's the tops, I'm tellin' you.'

Norton continued to stare at Max almost in amazement. Bernie was right about the truck driver. He definitely had to have a loose cannon rolling around on the top deck to come out with a statement like that. He was about to elaborate on it when he heard voices outside.

‘That's muster,' said Max, clapping his hands together.
‘They check our names, then we get dinner.' Max smiled at Les, winked and ran his tongue over his lips. ‘The food's great too. Come on.'

Still shaking his head, Norton got up and followed Max outside. Along with the rest of the inmates they stood in front of their cells while two guards with a clipboard walked past and called their names, which were answered with a ‘yo' or a ‘yay' or whatever. After they were satisfied everyone was there they let them form a queue outside the servery.

Norton got behind Max and was given a tray with his eating utensils and a mug. Then came the food. Fried lamb-chops, peas, carrots, mashed potato and pumpkin; plenty of gravy and a lump of bread. Sweets were some sort of rice pudding with stewed fruit and custard, plus a mug of tea. There was plenty of it and although it wasn't quite as cordon bleu as Max made out it was okay. The only fault, if any, was that it came from the other side of the gaol and was a little cold by the time it got there. Some of the men took their meal into their cells, but Max and Les ate theirs seated at a bench near the pool table. After they'd finished Norton returned his plate and cutlery but kept his mug for another cup of tea.

‘You were right about the food, Max,' he said. ‘It wasn't half-bad.'

‘Wasn't half bad?' replied Max. ‘Mate, those lambchops and vegetables were bloody beautiful. And I haven't tasted sweets like that in years.'

Norton looked at the side-levered truck driver and smiled; he'd barely known him a few minutes and already he couldn't help but like him. He was open and friendly, without being a crawler, and incongruously happy at the same time. Yet there definitely had to be something wrong with someone who referred to a cell in Long Bay Gaol as the grouse and plain food as bloody beautiful. In the short period he was going to be there, Norton was determined to find out why.

‘So what happens now Max?' asked Norton as they sat beneath the blaring television, sipping their mugs of tea.

‘What happens now? Not much,' replied Max. ‘They lock the wing off after five o'clock muster then you can sit around and watch TV or whatever till they bundle us into our cells at ten. Then you can do what you like. Read, think. Listen to the radio. Have a pull if you like. Or you can put your head down and have a good eight hours of beautiful, unbroken sleep. Which is generally what I do,' Max added with a wink and his lopsided smile.

‘Sounds... just great,' Norton smiled back.

‘It is, it's heaven.'

The more Norton spoke to Max, the more curious he became. Now the truck driver actually referred to being locked up in that filthy graffiti-ridden cell for nearly ten hours as heaven. Where the fuck had Max come from? Devils Island? A North Vietnamese prison? It was a funny one all right.

Most of the other prisoners had drifted back out and were sitting around staring vacantly up at the TV. Now that the sun had gone they nearly all had their blankets over their shoulders and sipped at mugs of coffee and Ovaltine to keep warm. Jimi Hendrix had resumed his spot outside his cell, and guitar in hand was mercilessly putting the cleaners through ‘The Times They Are a-Changin'' before absolutely crucifying ‘Hey Jude'. Luckily the TV still drowned most of it out so no-one seemed to take much notice. Norton nodded and half smiled to some of the blokes seated around him; and got a half smile back for his efforts. They were a pretty average looking lot, no real heavies amongst them. Except maybe for two rugged-looking blokes standing unsmiling as they earnestly discussed something out of earshot down by the bookcase.

Before long another two guards came in and did a quick muster before a rattling noise told Norton they'd locked off the wing as they left. Norton bummed a bit of coffee and sugar from Max and with his blanket across his shoulders watched the news and some boring shows on TV. Between checking out the faces around him and watching programs that he didn't at all like Norton felt like going into his cell and reading. But he'd be getting locked in there before long and wasn't actually relishing the thought, so why hurry. Before he knew it, that time had arrived.

The same two guards returned and the taller one switched off the TV. ‘Righto girls,' he said, rattling a large set of keys. ‘Time for beddy byes. Come on. Let's go.'

There was a general discontented muttering, a few quiet curses and they all shuffled into their cells. Max was already laying on his bed reading a
Penthouse
when Les walked in.

‘Thank Christ they've turned that fuckin' TV off,' he said as Norton stood in the muted light with his back to the door.

A queasy feeling suddenly hit Norton as the door slammed shut behind him and the locked turned; much queasier than the ones he'd already experienced. It was a feeling of finality. Now he was well and truly locked in and he couldn't get out if he wanted to. A few little butterflies gave a slight but
noticeable flutter in the pit of his stomach.

‘Ahh! Peace and quiet at last,' said Max, resting his head back on the pillow and momentarily closing his eyes. ‘Isn't it lovely?'

Norton looked at him for a moment or two before sitting down on his bed. ‘Yeah. If you say so,' he shrugged.

‘You sleep like a top in here, Les. I'm tellin' you.'

Norton noticed that the truck driver's head was only going to be about two feet from his own. ‘Hey Max, how do you get on if you get some cunt in here that snores?'

Max reached behind him to the cabinet and handed Norton a plastic container. ‘I use these. Anti-noise wax earplugs. Do you snore Les?'

‘I've... been known to get a bit of a rhythm going now and again. What about you?'

Max nodded. ‘Yeah. I saw up a few logs on the odd occasion.'

‘All right if I borrow a couple of these?'

Norton started to soften up the cotton wool covered earplugs in his fingers while Max did the same. ‘Hey what time do they turn the light off?'

‘They don't.'

‘What do you mean — they don't?'

‘They don't. They leave it on all night.'

‘Christ.' Norton frowned at the dull fluorescent tube above their heads. ‘How do they expect you to get to sleep?'