by Simon King
“No,” I said. “But Jack asked the same thing like 2 minutes ago.” Hal looked at Jack who was nodding.
“They’re up to something and I don’t like it,” Hal offered and both Jack and I chuckled briefly. “What?” Hal asked.
“Just how long were you standing outside listening to us?” Jack asked. Now Hal picked up a jumper, throwing it at Jack’s head. It hit him square on, the arms flapping around the side of his face as he grabbed for it.
“Wasn’t listening at all, you sap.”
2.
Despite trying to find out, none of us knew why the pair were secretive. I decided to pay Frank a visit myself, to see whether I could get to the bottom of it. As I reached the top of the stairs, Nails was leaning on the guard rails outside of Frank’s cell.
He eyed me suspiciously but didn’t speak. I half-expected him to challenge me, but Nails simply continued watching the unit as I knocked on Frank’s door.
“Come,” Frank’s voice yelled out and I pushed the door open and peered inside.
“Ah, Dylan my boy,’ he said, waving me in from his bunk. He was sitting with his back against the wall, reading the daily newspaper. “What brings you here today?”
“Just thought I’d drop by before work. You know, catch up and stuff,” I said, taking a seat on the chair he had near his desk.
“Ah nice, always a pleasure. Any issues there? At work, I mean?”
“No, not at all. Sad to see Friendly go but her replacement seems OK.”
“Ah yes, Jackie’s replacement. I have it on good authority that there will be 2 new faces in the quack wing soon. Both from the new course. Maybe offer each of them a cell, if you catch my meaning.”
I groaned inside, Sam’s face staring back at me from another time. Frank must have picked up on it, laying the newspaper down in his lap.
“Sheep, remember?” he said.
“I know. Listen, I was wondering if everything was OK? Some of the boys seem a little concerned.” I tried to make it sound a bit off the cuff, but in true Frank style, he saw through me.
“If Hal and Jack have a problem, let them come and see me themselves. Don’t be their little bitch, running in here for them.” I was expecting him to explode, but instead he remained composed. And then it happened. It was the look he gave me, one that instantly took me back to another time.
The place that look took me was in that very same cell, a couple of years before when I was listening to Frank and Danny plan the hit on Nick the Greek that never happened. Their deceptive grins, the wink they shot at each other, it all came flooding back as Frank now looked at me.
Both Hal and Jack had been right. Frank was up to something; something he didn’t want me, or anyone else, knowing what it was, but I knew. There was something behind his deceptive grin that he wanted me to see, wanted me to be aware of, but what it was would remain a secret until a time of his choosing.
“Everything alright?” he asked as I stared at him.
“Yah, listen, the lads didn’t send me. I came by myself. I really just wanted to, you know, touch base a bit.” He looked at me for a moment longer then resumed his newspaper.
“There’s a shipment due in this afternoon that needs to come directly to me,” he said, ignoring my comment. “It’ll be in a small pillow case on the linen truck. Think you can find it?” I nodded and stood; positive I wasn’t going to get the answers I was looking for.
“Sure thing, Frank.” He didn’t stop me, not even bothering to watch me leave. Frank continued to read his paper as I turned and walked out. Nails was still leaning on the railing outside, him also remaining neutral to my presence. I closed the door and returned to my cell, an uneasy feeling continuing to build.
3.
It was a revolver that turned up in the delivery of linen the next day. I didn’t know too much about guns, but from I’d seen on TV, it appeared to be a 38, the kind worn by a lot of the cops on shows I regularly tuned in to.
There were also half a dozen bullets, rolled up in a small swatch of fabric. Every prisoner was given a carton of milk each day and it was in mine that I hid the gun, after draining the carton’s contents first. I first stuffed a torn pillow case into the bottom of the carton, jammed the gun inside and then topped it with more pillow case to stop the cargo from rattling around inside.
It was a nervous wait to get my cargo back to the unit. There were still a few hours to go and if anyone decided to ramp the unit, I would be fucked, caught with my pants down and nowhere to run.
As if on cue, I heard the doors to the toilets slam open out in the hall, followed by the distinct clip-clop of bootheels on the linoleum floor. By the spring in their step, I knew it was members of the Tactical Unit. They just had a certain sound to them, the air itself changing volume whenever they entered an area. Another door slammed open, the sniffer dogs seeking me out.
“Billet!” someone shouted, the voice bouncing off the walls.
“In here,” I called back, the milk carton in my hand. I panicked, picked up a bucket and was about to hide the carton underneath it when my time ran out. I turned to see 2 Tactical screws looking in at me. I had a bucket in one hand and a milk carton containing a handgun and ammunition in the other.
My heart had dropped into my stomach, pounding away like a John Bonham rift on steroids. I could feel my cheeks start to burn as their eyes drilled into me. One of the screws, a prick called Daniel McPherson, took a step into the room and looked around, as if searching for something.
“What are you doing back here?” he asked. Just as I thought the game was over, the other one spoke up, probably saving me.
“Come on, kid. Bring your mop and bucket. And a blood-spill kit.” I waited as the second officer turned and walked back the way he came. McPherson stood his ground for a moment longer, as if to highlight his prowess, then turned and followed his mate. I breathed a sigh of relief, set the carton down behind some tubs of floor cleaner and grabbed my equipment.
“Hurry up, billet,” McPherson called back, waiting for me as he held the end corridor door open. I hoped he’d follow me the second I came through the door, but the prick didn’t, standing his ground as if sensing my fear. I didn’t turn back, despite wanting to. I continued to follow the screw and turned the corner. If McPherson turned back, I knew he’d find my stash.
4.
A blood-spill kit is a sealed plastic bucket that contains a disposable overall, disposable gloves, safety goggles and a yellow hazmat bag. It was used to clean up blood as well as any other bodily fluids including vomit, urine and shit. Turns out, the clean-up was for the latter.
5.
Every unit always had at least one painful crook. That one guy who didn’t care who he pissed off. While the hospital wing had a couple, none were worse than Timmy Eastman. This guy was in his early 30s, mentally retarded and a complete basket case.
A skinny, bald dude with a single black rotten tooth is how best to describe his appearance. He also walked with a limp as if one leg was shorter than the other. Timmy had this weird twitch which made his head wobble from side to side, as if he was trying to draw the figure 8 with the tip of his nose.
Timmy’s favorite pastime was giving screws grief. It didn’t matter if he was in his cell, unit or out in the yard. It wasn’t that he was trying to be painful, he just wanted attention. He would goad the officers charged with watching him into a false sense of security, then make them instantly regret any inroads they thought they achieved by offering him sweeteners like a hot drink, snacks or privileges. As I said; the dude was a retard.
His most famous trick was shoving things into his arse, hard enough to make it bleed. It didn’t matter whether it was a pen, plastic cutlery or a television remote control. If you gave it to Timmy, he would make it disappear, his arse turning into a virtual toy chest.
6.
I could hear the commotion as soon as I pushed through the corridor doors that led back into the main ward. There was a row of isolation cells beh
ind the officer’s station and it was there that a group of officers and nurses were standing.
“Timmy, put your hands through the trap so we can cuff ya,” someone at the front of the group said. I couldn’t make out who it was, the crowd around 4-deep. The speaker had the view-flap open. This was a little trap door that sat above the trap itself. While the trap was a small door to access the cell, the view-flap was more of a viewing window. The screws would use that instead of the trap when dealing with irate crooks.
The view-flap was also useful for stopping a prisoner from throwing piss, shit or anything else at the screws. Some even tried to spit at them, but failure often followed. While the screws hid behind their little window, there really wasn’t any point in throwing anything at them. All it did was make things worse for the cell occupant.
“Timmy, last chance. Put your hands through or we’ll send the dog in.” Something suddenly tapped me on the shoulder and I turned to see Dhurrin himself standing behind me.
“Grab a seat over there,” he said, pointing at a row of chairs near the prisoner television. It was out of the way and as I nodded, heard the familiar echoing of a dog barking. A few seconds later the dual-doors swung open and one of the prison’s infamous attack dogs entered, snarling and snapping as his handler desperately hung onto the other end of the lead.
The dog barked several times, the noise loud enough to cause my ears to ring. His handler held him back far enough to avoid the teeth from clamping onto the wrong victim. I’ve seen these dogs in action several times. They are a bunch of muscles with a set of teeth fixed into them, nothing more.
The commotion continued at the cell door, Timmy kicking it a few times. I watched as the dog kept pulling at its lead, desperate for release. It was ready to rip anyone a new arsehole, crook or no crook. But the sound of its barking must have given the retard a bit of a scare because I heard the familiar ratcheting of cuffs closing, then heard the rattle of keys on metal as the cell door was opened.
“You’re up, billet,” one of the officers said and I grabbed my things as Timmy was led out, two Tactical screws hanging on to each shoulder as they marched him down one of the corridors and into another cell.
The site that greeted me inside the open door was the worst I’d ever witnessed, and I’d seen some bad shit in this unit. But walls painted in faeces wasn’t something I’d dealt with before. Not personally anyway. I’d heard about it, sure. But cleaned?
He’d shit in his hand and smeared the faeces across every wall, including the window. A brown smear covered every flat surface in the cell. He’d also kicked the fuck out of the metal toilet, hard enough to pull it from the wall.
“Need you to clean it up asap,” Hans Zimmerman said, shielding his face from the stink. The smell was bad enough to make my eyes water, my stomach somersaulting inside me. I fought to keep my food down, a struggle that I eventually won.
All up, I had to spend almost an entire hour in that cell, but by the time I was finished, all evidence of the faecal attack had disappeared. For me it was a job well done, deserving a little something. The unit screws must have agreed because when I walked out of the cell the final time, they inspected my handywork, then handed me a small clear plastic bag. There must have been a couple of handfuls of coffee in the bag and despite me not drinking it, was grateful for the gesture.
But there was something else weighing heavily on my mind. It was the gun, hopefully still hiding where I put it before rushing out. My stomach had only just settled after cleaning the last remaining shit smears and now did a double-take as I grabbed my tools and turned for the corridor.
7.
It was just as I left it, waiting patiently inside the milk carton. Transporting a milk carton between units wasn’t anything suspicious, the cargo a common one for crooks to be carrying. But while it may have been normal for crooks to carry them, spot inspections still happened, random prisoners picked up for searches.
It was a risk I had to take, one that couldn’t be avoided. I needed to get my lethal cargo back to the unit and into the hands of Frank before lockdown. I knew that if I timed it right, the chances of getting picked up for a spot search were virtually extinguished.
What I needed to do was leave the med wing 5 minutes before Control called for movement around the prison to cease. This would mean officers and crooks would all be rushing around to return prisoners back to their respective units. If they weren’t, it meant extra work for the screws once muster was complete. They would be required to escort prisoners back to units personally and as it took 2 officers to escort a single crook after lockdown, it wasn’t an easy task while everyone was trying to go home.
I managed to get through the first 2 gates with relative ease. There were 3 others walking with me, all headed to their respective units. We picked up another crook as we walked through the gym corridor, the prison library entrance just one of the many doors it held. The 5 of us looked to be transporting a hell of a lot of gear, with 4 of us carrying plastic bags.
My heart lay heavy in my stomach during that walk. As we reached the other end of the corridor, 2 Tactical Officers suddenly emerged from the gymnasium door, waving us over. So close. The screw at the gate had already opened the gate for us. I watched as the relative safe passage all but disappear as he closed it again.
“You boys look like you’ve got a hell of a haul tonight. Anything of interest?” one said, pointing at the guy in the lead and gesturing for him to open his bag. The other held out his hand for the milk carton he was carrying. My stomach did a double take as the bag was taken, opened and rummaged through by the screw.
The other one peeled the milk carton open and peered inside. A few drops of milk spilt to the ground. I recognized the second screw from a scar that ran down the side of his face. His nametag said “Brennan” but everyone called him, funnily enough ‘Scar’.
“Hey, do you mind?” the crook said, holding his hands out in a wtf gesture. The screw holding his milk carton didn’t respond, turning the carton this way and that, trying to find anything submerged in the milk.
When they were both satisfied, they handed the gear back to its owner, waving to the gate keeper to let him through.
“Next,” one of them said, turning to the next guy. My heart was pounding, the sweat no doubt close to dripping down my face. The next crook stepped forward, handed over his bag and milk and went through the same routine. He also complained about the spillage.
My fingers gripped the milk carton tighter again as the second guy was ushered away, safely on his way to the unit.
“Come on, come on,” the first screw said to the next guy. I felt a heaviness in my bladder, positive I was about to piss myself as both screws inspected their items. The screw with the milk carton suddenly mimicked a little cheer, tore the carton flaps all the way open and reached inside. The other screw lowered the bag and looked at what the other one was pulling out from the box.
“Well, well, well, what have we here?” A small bag was pulled from the carton, milk dripping from it. It was well enough sealed to protect its cargo, a fine white powder that excited the officers. The screw held it up, shaking it from side to side as the crook just smiled back.
“You put that in there. I never seen that before,” he said, waving a finger at the boys in blue.
“All good, Jase. Stand over there.” The screw pointed for the crook to move aside near the wall, then pointed at the next guy to hand his stuff over.
I swear I thought I was going to pass out. They were about to find me with a fucken gun in my possession. My days in Yellow Block were about to come to an end, of that I was sure. My heart was pounding so hard, I could feel it in every part of my body, knowing I was well and truly fucked.
Although my milk carton held pretty incriminating contraband, my bag was clean, holding a towel, some t-shirts and a few apples. The officers allowed me to take left-over fruit whenever I wanted and I always obliged.
I watched with sheer horror as the final g
uy was ushered towards the gate, then held my breath as their eyes turned to me. But just as I was about to step forward, both their radios suddenly came to life, the voice echoing down the concrete hallway.
“Attention all stations. Cease all movement. I say again, cease all movement. Count will commence in 10 minutes.” I felt a faint glimmer of hope, the screws sure to let me go. They couldn’t take both me back to the unit and this other guy back to be processed for the contraband.
“Come on, hurry up,” Scarface said, waving me forward and instantly shredding the brief hope I held. With the pit of my stomach falling to the floor and my arsehole now puckering up, I stepped forward and held my things out. This was one situation I couldn’t get out of.
Scar took my milk carton as the other one snatched my bag. A couple of officers approached the gate and were ushered through by the gatekeeper, some jovial banter exchanged between them. I eyed off Scarface as he carefully opened the flap of the carton and peered inside.
The other screw rummaged briefly through the bag and pulled his hand back out as Scar simply stared into the carton, then at me.
“Anything?” the other screw said, handing me back my bag. I nearly dropped the bag; my fingers were trembling so bad. I watched him give the carton a slight shake, turn it a little and shake it again.
“No, all clear,” he suddenly said, closing the flaps back up and holding the carton out to me. “Hurry the fuck up back to your unit,” he said. I hesitated a moment, my stomach feeling on fire. He just stared at me with blank eyes. “Want it back?” he said when I didn’t take it.
“Yes, sorry,” I said, grabbing the carton. There was the briefest exchange between us, our eyes meeting and revealing what the other knew. It only took a split second to register. He worked for Frank.
I turned and hurried through the gate, not looking back. As I heard the gate snap shut behind me, I looked up at Yellow Block on my left, a lonely figure standing in one of the windows on the top floor. It was Frank, watching me walking towards the unit gate. He didn’t wave, smile or give anything away, simply standing with his arms folded across his chest, waiting for his delivery.
