Stone Cold

by Taylor, Peter

  He squared his muscular shoulders, looked down at the massive hands resting on his thighs. The hands triggered the memory, pulled him down the dark path he had trodden so many times. Those hands, what they were capable of, had brought him here. Yet hands were only an instrument. It was something inside him that had unleashed them, given them the power to beat another human being to death. Bull Jackson hadn’t been much and he’d known the score, but no man should die like that. He remembered the pictures in the newspapers, Bull’s wife and three children standing by his grave, heads bowed in a miserable black-and-white tableau which his madness, as if by God given right, had created. Why had his own family put him in that situation in the first place?

  He placed a hand over his eyes as though to hide from a past best left undisturbed. It was the old gypsy life that had been responsible for leading him into the fateful fight. In prison, being forced to mix with others of different creeds, attending education classes, he’d learned things, gradually emerged from the cocoon of beliefs and prejudices his gypsy life had woven round him. The gypsy way, which had been his heritage, had a lot going for it, but he’d done with it now. There was a whole world out there and he was determined he was going to embrace it with an unshackled mind.

  Henry heard a key turn in the lock, turned towards the door as a screw let his pad mate in. Tom Daly, a gypsy like himself, slumped his emaciated frame down on his own bed and let out a sigh. Henry didn’t like the agitated look in his eye, the aura of apathy about him. He was having trouble adjusting to prison, the way a wild bird has trouble adjusting to the confines of a cage and dies of a broken heart. Sometimes Henry caught him staring into space and it wasn’t just down to the drugs; it was his broken spirit dreaming of horizons denied him here. You couldn’t afford to dwell on such things if you wanted to remain sane.

  ‘How’d the visit go, Tom?’

  Tom shook his head. Eyes that seemed only half aware stared out from hollowed cheekbones. Henry saw the desperation in them.

  ‘Bad news, man,’ he groaned, focusing on a spot on the ceiling as though the words were addressed to some invisible presence. ‘The wife has no more money, can’t buy me the drugs and the Jacksons aren’t going to give me any on tick.’

  Hearing the Jackson family mentioned, Henry grimaced. Bull Jackson, the man he’d killed, had been their hero and talisman, the best of their fighting men following in a long line. If he’d killed him in any other way than in a prize fight, they’d have wreaked their vengeance upon him. They’d always been involved in a multiplicity of dodgy businesses but drug dealing was beyond the pale, a sin compounded when they dealt to their own kind.

  ‘You could apply to go on the drug-free wing, Tom. You’d get counselling and they make sure there’s no drugs around. They’d put you on methadone, wean you off the brown and the rest.’

  Tom didn’t answer, just nodded automatically, like a wound-up doll. He’d heard it all before, didn’t really want to know. He swung his legs up on to the bed and lay on his back.

  ‘I don’t know what I’m going to do,’ he said, a melancholy timbre in his voice. ‘You’ve been here for me, Henry. Nobody else will be. It takes a gypsy to understand one. They’ll likely pad me with an idiot or bully when you’re gone and it’ll drive me madder than I already am.’

  A lonely wind trapped in the courtyard below the window sighed its frustration as it beat against the walls. Seagulls cried out as though in answer, their voices reminiscent of rolling seas stretching as far as the eye could see. Henry had already told Tom what he needed to do, didn’t like to press it. Like all addicts, Tom had to want to do it for himself.

  ‘Drug-free wing!’ he repeated.

  ‘I only feel free when I’m tripping, man,’ Tom answered edgily.

  Henry shut up. His hope was that, without him there to help when the highs wore off and he descended into depression, Tom would realize he’d have to seek help elsewhere, either sink deeper into murky waters, or start to kick to the surface.

  Suddenly, Tom said,’ Anyway, didn’t know you planned to fight. You never told me.’

  Henry’s head jerked back. What was Tom talking about? Had the drugs affected his brain so that it was creating fictions from odd fragments of memory?

  ‘You know I’ll never fight again.’

  Tom levered himself up onto his elbows, met Henry’s gaze.

  ‘Sorry, mate! It was the wife told me. She heard there’s talk at Appleby. They’re saying you’ll fight the latest Jackson prospect. Big money involved too. That’s what she said, anyway.’

  Henry’s eyebrows arched. Was his past beating a path to his door even before he was out of here? He battened down his anger. It was probably rumour. There was plenty of idle talk at Appleby Fair. He was aware that Tom was studying him, his stare calculating, knew he was thinking that if Henry fought and won he’d have money, might help him by sending in some of what he craved.

  ‘Forget it,’ he snapped. ‘It’s just somebody making mischief. The horses at Appleby have more sense than their owners. You know where you stand with horses.’

  The glimmer of hope in Tom’s eyes gave way to disconsolation as he saw another door closing in his face. Henry couldn’t sustain his anger though. Tom was out of order even broaching the subject when he was aware why Henry was in here, but given his need, expecting him not to try would have been like expecting a drowning man to ignore a lifejacket.

  Minutes later it was all forgotten and Tom was asleep. Down the corridor Henry heard footsteps, a screw’s voice announcing it was time for a library visit. He picked two books off the shelf above his bed, flicked idly through the pages. It was still a wonder to him that he had learned to read. Books had opened up a new world for him, as though his mind had lain in hibernation for years, had at last emerged, like a hungry bear from its winter cave, to a landscape of infinite possibilities.

  A key turned in the lock. The door opened and a screw with a long, angular jaw poked his face into the cell.

  ‘Take all your books back today, Torrance,’ the screw announced. ‘Dare say you’ll never lift one on the out, eh! Once you get dodging and weaving again with all your gypsy mates.’

  ‘Don’t know about that, Mr Evans. Guess I’ll always have my — chin — in a book.’

  Once he would have let the screw’s taunting get to him but it was the measure of the change in him that he could keep his cool, find other methods of retaliation. The screw wasn’t sure whether or not he was being sent up. No matter what the screw thought, Henry knew he’d be reading, maybe even studying, on the out. Let the ignoramus have his pennyworth.

  With other prisoners from the wing, he followed Evans through a labyrinth of corridors. They waited at each door while the screw laboriously opened up and then locked it behind them. Until recently, the library had been Henry’s place of work and he’d become acquainted with the civilian librarians who worked there. One of them, Mary Thompson, had become another wonder in his life.

  Evans let them into the library and Henry was pleased to see Mary at the desk. She glanced up, offered a smile, withdrew it when Evans looked in her direction.

  The prisoners dispersed down the aisles wanting to make use of the ten minutes they were permitted to choose fresh books. Henry glanced idly at the non-fiction, plucked a book on horse care from the shelves, flipped through the pages but didn’t absorb much of the content. It was a subject he was familiar with anyway, having worked with horses before.

  ‘Let’s roll,’ the screw called out dead on the ten minutes. ‘Too much knowledge is a bad thing for you lot. Never know what you’ll do with it.’

  They lined up at the desk to return the books they’d read and have new ones stamped. Henry positioned himself at the back watching Mary go about her business, admiring the way she treated each man in the same friendly manner.

  ‘I’m losing a customer,’ she said, when it was his turn. Her blue eyes twinkling, she tossed back her blonde hair. ‘No doubt you’ll be pursuing other
interests soon, Mr Torrance.’

  Henry smiled, glanced towards the door where Evans was preoccupied patting a prisoner down. He lowered his voice to a whisper.

  ‘Part of me will be out there, but the best part of me will be wherever you are, Miss Thompson.’

  She laughed as she picked up his books, then leaned forward, fixed him with her baby blues and whispered, ‘Reassuring to know I’m not just another brick in the wall then.’

  He was about to answer when Evans called out, ‘Come on, Torrance. These bookworms are waiting for you and I’m ready for my bait.’

  ‘Knowledge is the food of the mind, Mr Evans,’ Henry called back, glancing disdainfully in his direction. ‘You should maybe change your diet.’

  One of the prisoners stepped up to be searched, diverting the screw’s attention. Henry took his chance, placed his hand over Mary’s. It was a rare moment of physical contact, the warm smoothness of her skin surprising him in a world where most of the time everything seemed rough, hard edged. It reminded him of how much he had missed. As a youth, he’d been one for the girls. Five years was a long time without a female’s touch, or soft words to alleviate the asperity of prison conditions. In here, gentleness was weakness, an opening where those with a vicious temperament would drive home their weapons, either of the material or verbal variety, with glee.

  Walking back through the corridors, he remembered how, like Tom Daly, the gypsy in his soul had once cried out at the restrictions. But some people had been kind to him, prisoners and screws, and life had become bearable. Eight months ago Mary had come into his life, like a light shining into the grey austerity. She had become the star in the corner of his universe. That she had returned his feelings, when he had summoned the courage to declare them, had seemed like a kind of miracle.

  Back on the wing again, Henry called out to the screw, ‘Want me to tell your fortune for you, Mr Evans? Learned the skill at my old grandmother’s knee, I did.’

  The prisoners laughed and Evans swung round, his jaw thrust forward so that it looked even more prominent.

  ‘Got to cross your palm with silver, haven’t I, Torrance? Wouldn’t trust you with a five pence piece, would I?’

  Henry grinned ‘You’ve thwarted me again, Mr Evans. Thought you’d like to know what’s in front of you and — I confess — I just wanted to hold your hand for the last time before we part for ever.’

  A prisoner wolf whistled and the others smirked. Blushing, Evans turned his head away, spoke to Henry over his shoulder.

  ‘Don’t count your chickens, Torrance,’ he said, spitefully. ‘For ever is a long time.’

  ‘Used to steal chickens,’ Henry came back at him, smiling. ‘Never had time to count them though.’

  The banter ended as the prisoners filtered into their own cells. Tom still lay on his bed but awake and looking more apathetic than ever. That worried Henry. It was natural enough to dwell on life outside for a while but there came a day when you had to let go, steal yourself to live in the present or you’d go mad. He’d seen it happen often enough.

  Out of the blue, Tom said, ‘Maybe I could learn to read and write like you did. I never worked much at school see. We was always moving on and it didn’t seem to matter.’

  ‘Best thing you could do,’ Henry told him, hoping this was a new, positive note. ‘Keep you out of mischief — and other things.’

  He did his best to inject belief into his voice but could hear the false note. He didn’t really think Tom was serious, was merely voicing a thought that flitted into his mind. A long road lay between thought and action when you were courting heroin. His thoughts returned to Mary Thompson. One hint of their relationship and he’d have been moved to another prison and Mary would have lost her job. Continuing their relationship on the out was equally dangerous for Mary because it would be regarded as a danger to prison security. What if all his good intentions came to nothing? It was all very well making plans. So many did that, but failed to escape their past, reverted to their old ways. He worried about failing himself and her. He hadn’t much to offer and he didn’t want Mary backing a loser. Best he got a foot on the ladder, started climbing before they made a final commitment to each other.

  *

  An hour later, Evans opened up the cell again and stepped inside. He put his hands together in an attitude of prayer and raised his eyes to the heavens.

  Henry shot him a querulous look. ‘What is it this time, Mr Evans? Conscience worrying you, is it? Come to make last-minute confession of all the wrongs you’ve done me?’

  ‘Arise from your pit of iniquity, Torrance,’ Evans intoned. ‘God is calling you and I am a mere emissary.’

  Henry knew Evans was referring to Father Andrew, the priest to the gypsy community on Teesside. This must be a last visit to wish him well for his release. He scowled at the screw. The father’s kindness had been part of his survival here and he didn’t like Evan’s disrespectful words or tone.

  For the second time that day Henry followed where Evans led. When they arrived at the prison chapel, the screw unlocked the door and stood back, ushering Henry in. Evans closed the door and remained outside. Father Andrew, his ruddy complexion contrasting to Henry’s prison pallor and enhanced by the contrast to his shock of white hair, sat in a chair facing the door. Behind him was a small altar and cross. The priest smiled, beckoned him to a chair facing his own.

  ‘I’m pleased you’ve asked to see me,’ Henry said. ‘I was hoping you would.’

  Father Andrew smiled and ran his hand through his hair. Henry felt again the aura of peace which seemed to accompany him and encompass those who were in his presence. He wished his own father had possessed just a fraction of it.

  ‘I came to wish you luck,’ the priest said. ‘But there is that other motive, the one we have discussed.’

  ‘You want me to be baptized?’ Henry said.

  ‘Only if you can fully accept.’

  Henry looked into the placid blue depths of the priest’s eyes, found no hint of pressure there, nor in his benign expression. He knew the least he owed this man was the truth, what was in his heart.

  ‘Father, you’ve done a lot for me, you and your beliefs, for which I am eternally grateful.’ He was conscious of Father Andrew watching him, a wise and patient knowingness swimming to the surface of those blue eyes as though he already knew what Henry was going to say.

  ‘I’ll never forget what I’ve learned from you, Father. And I do believe in the ways of Jesus.’

  He hesitated and the priest said it for him. ‘But you cannot accept the God of the Bible.’

  Henry sighed. ‘I killed a man, Father. Something evil came into me for a few moments, a desire to destroy a man utterly. You’d probably call it the Devil and you could be right. I won’t be letting the Devil in again, but I don’t understand how God can give him so much power to do harm.’ He lowered his head. ‘I can’t be a hypocrite, Father.’

  The priest nodded, reached out and patted his shoulder in a way that Henry wished his own father could have done.

  ‘Maybe one day,’ he said. ‘You’ve travelled a long way and sometimes the last mile, that leap of faith, is the hardest.’ Father Andrew sat back. ‘But enough of that. I’ve other news for you.’

  Henry feigned a grimace. ‘They’ve made a mistake with my release date. An error in the paperwork. That Devil at work again.’

  ‘On the contrary, rather good news. I’ve visited your old trainer Mick Lane in South Bank. He’d like you to do some coaching with the youngsters at the community centre.’

  ‘Me?’ Henry gasped. ‘Coach boxing?’

  ‘To young lads, in an area that’s full of temptations for them. It’s needed, believe me.’

  ‘But — after what I’ve done?’ Henry couldn’t keep the astonishment out of his voice.

  The priest shrugged, as though it was a matter that didn’t require much consideration.

  ‘Proper boxing with rules, the way Michael taught you. Boxing that inst
ils discipline in wild youngsters, saves many of them going down the wrong road.’

  Henry shook his head, still disbelieving. ‘And my probation officers have agreed to that?’

  ‘No reason not to and, even better, Michael has contacts, thinks he might be able to get you a job that’s right up your street. Not to be sniffed at, is it? There’s not much going especially —’

  ‘For ex-cons living in South Bank.’

  ‘It’s a fact of life, son, and there are, shall we say alternative lifestyles in South Bank. It’s a tough area.’

  The priest hesitated, his expression like a man’s about to take a first, tentative step into a minefield. ‘Your father is living permanently on the site there and your brother has a caravan on the site he often uses.’

  Henry screwed his face up. ‘You’re talking about the dead now, Father. As you well know they never visited me, never made any contact.’

  Father Andrew studied him with sad eyes. ‘I pray one day you and your family might be reconciled.’

  ‘There are better prayers, ones that might be answered.’

  Father Andrew raised his hands in a gesture that said he knew when to back off. He was well aware Henry had been hurt so badly his negative feelings towards his family were almost set in concrete.

  ‘You were lucky your aunt left you her house when she died,’ he said, changing the subject. ‘She must have thought a lot of you.’