The New Collected Short Stories (42 page)

Mr Adams smiled, and turned to leave.

‘By the way,’ said Pat, as Mr Adams touched the handle of the door, ‘did I tell you about the time I tried to get a labouring job on a building site in Liverpool, but the foreman, a bloody Englishman, had the nerve to ask me—’

‘Sorry, Pat, some of us have got a job to do, and in any case, you told me that story last October.’ He paused. ‘And, come to think of it, the October before.’

Pat sat silently on the bench and, as he had nothing else to read, considered the graffiti on the wall.
Perkins is a prat.
He felt able to agree with that sentiment.
Man U are the champions.
Someone had crossed out
Man U
and replaced it with
Chelsea.
Pat wondered if he should cross out Chelsea, and write in Cork, whom neither team had ever defeated. As there was no clock on the wall, Pat couldn’t be sure how much time had passed before Mr Adams finally returned to escort him up to the courtroom. Adams was now dressed in a long black gown, looking like Pat’s old headmaster.

‘Follow me,’ Mr Adams intoned solemnly.

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 honour?’ 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 jeweller’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-and-white 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?’ enquired Pat, as the night officer accompanied him down the long, grey-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 behaviour 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 misdemeanour 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 offence 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 offence, and sentenced 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 pretences. 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.