by Ray Rigby
He looked away. He didn’t want to think about Roberts. ‘I’ll go spare.’ He deliberately reviewed some recent events in his past life in an effort to cheer himself up. ‘Funny old life I’ve had,’ he mused. ‘Feast or famine. It’s always been feast or famine, with me. Take a few weeks ago, now.’ He grinned at the memory of that wonderful night out on the town. ‘Realised my life’s ambition, didn’t I?’
Bartlett loved to do things in style. So, with the money he had made from the tyres he had flogged he had taken some of his pals out for a booze-up in Cairo. Money always burned his fingers, Bartlett was absurdly generous. His one redeeming feature.
After a pretty wild drinking bout he and his friends wandered into the Globe cabaret armed with a zinc bath, a scrubbing brush, a highly scented bar of soap and a large towel. While his pals gleefully filled the bath with bottle after bottle of Stella beer, Bartlett went to the gents and undressed and when the bath was about two-thirds full of beer it was carried to the centre of the dance floor, then one of the boys borrowed the bandsman’s drums and as the drums rolled Bartlett flung open the door of the gents and wrapped in his bath towel he made his entrance and strolled, like a Roman Emperor, on to the dance floor.
He placed his toe in the bath gingerly to try it for temperature then, to everyone’s delight he threw off his bath towel and stood stark naked in the middle of the dance floor and acknowledged the wild cheers by bowing to the soldiers, and blowing kisses to the almost hysterical cabaret girls, and then he stepped into the beer bath and got to work with the scrubbing brush and soap.
Bartlett grinned with delight at the memory of it. ‘Pity the bleeding Redcaps had to nick me,’ he thought. ‘No sense of humour, and a pity I had all that money on me and they wanted to know where I got it from and a pity that Alf had to tell them. Just shows you, you can’t trust nobody.’ He turned and glared at Roberts again. Somebody had better put this berk straight and it had better be me.
“ ’E’s a comic,” he said, nodding to Roberts. “Can you see it, Mack?” He went into his posh act again. “Oh. Come in, ex-Sergeant-Major Roberts. Take a pew. Williams, you say murdered one of my lads — tut, tut. Can’t have that sort of thing here, can we? Get the place a bad name.” Bartlett laughed and turned to McGrath. “Put that bloody lunatic straight, Mack.”
“The Commandant sounds like a nice fellow, Bartlett,” Roberts said. “Do you think he’ll insist on a court of enquiry?”
McGrath leaned forward and stared at Roberts. “Of course there’ll be an enquiry so shut up shouting murder till we know a bit more.”
“Mack, you saw what Williams did to Stevens.”
Bokumbo knelt down and folded his blankets.
“Aye. He gave him the same treatment he gave us.”
“One small difference,” said Roberts. “Stevens is dead.”
McGrath lost his temper and threw his pack across the cell. “Why the hell don’t you join the band of hope? Stevens is dead. O.K. but you canna bring him back. But, Roberts, if you keep screaming maybe we’ll all join him in the temperance hall.”
“Mack,” said Bartlett, “this’ll calm Williams down. I bet he’s shaking.”
“You’re catching on, Monty,” McGrath grinned. “That pig of an R.S.M.’s not going to be so pleased with Williams this morning.”
“Yeah. One screw’s gonner get busted out of ’ere. Think he’ll be a bit more polite now, don’t you, Mack?”
“Aye. We’ll have no more trouble out of Williams.”
Roberts moved to the window and Bokumbo followed him. “They’ll bust Williams and transfer him. That’s the way it will be, Joe.”
“It was murder.”
“We know that. Does the Commandant know it? Does the M.O.? Those screws will stick together like mud.”
“I’ll see the Commandant gets the facts.”
“O.K.” Bokumbo turned away.
‘Tell him Williams doubled Stevens over the hill,” said McGrath. “That’s all of it. He doubled Stevens and us lot over the hill.”
“Bet Stevens’s missus gets a telegram,” said Bartlett. “Your poor ’usband died a hero’s death in action.”
“O.K.,” shrugged McGrath. “She’ll get a telegram.”
“‘Ere,” cackled Bartlett, “what about them boys who stopped a bomb in that brothel in Sister Street. They died in action too, didn’t they?”
Bokumbo couldn’t help laughing. “Man. If you’ve got to die I don’t know a better way.” He stopped laughing when he heard Harris shouting from the end of the corridor.
“Wakey-wakey. Rise and shine. Let’s have you now. Stand by your doors.”
Then the racket started. A low murmur that increased into a howl of rage, and then the tin cups rattled on the bars of the cell doors and the noise increased until it was almost deafening. Then the chanting “Stevens ... Stevens ... Stevens ... Stevens ... Stevens ... Stevens ... ”
Roberts ran to the cell door and gripped the bars and tried to see into the corridor. Then he turned to the prisoners and shouted “Hear that? Do you hear that? Now are you just going to sit on your backsides and do nothing?”
Bartlett picked up his cup and banged it against the grill bars and yelled “Stevens ... Stevens ... Who murdered Stevens? Stevens ... Stevens ... ”
Roberts and Bokumbo watched Bartlett bashing his cup against the grill bars and yelling his head off. They looked at each other.
Harris walked along the corridor and stopped to yell into one of the cells.
“That’s enough, shut it. Quiet. That’s enough noise.”
The prisoners jeered and made even more noise and Harris walked on, still shouting. Burton ran towards him and they had to shout to make themselves heard.
“Seen the R.S.M.?”
Burton shook his head. “No, Staff.”
Harris nodded. “Take over.” He walked quickly down the corridor and passed two more Staffs, both of them running. Harris walked into the sunlight then sprinted towards the Staff quarters. He saw Wilson walking towards him and slowed down. “Sir, the prisoners.”
“Sounds like victory celebrations,” said Wilson. “Get every available Staff here at the double.”
“Yes, sir. Armed?”
The R.S.M. smiled. “Where the hell do you think we are. Chicago? I’ll give them my tongue not waste bullets on them. Detail a fire picket and hoses. Don’t think we’ll need them, though.” He walked on and Harris doubled away.
The R.S.M. walked into the corridor and Burton saw him and ran to him. “Who’s the Staff in charge?” yelled Wilson. “Me, sir,” Burton yelled back.
Wilson nodded and moved to the first cell and looked through the bars at the enraged faces yelling at him. He stood there silently for almost two minutes, just looking at the prisoners. Then he beckoned to Burton to unlock the door and as he stepped into the cell the prisoners stopped yelling and moved back. The prisoners in the other cells stopped shouting and everybody waited.
The R.S.M. looked at each prisoner in turn, then he picked on the biggest man who was clutching a battered old tin cup in his hand. “You,” he pointed his cane at him. “What’s your name, Oliver Twist?” The prisoner made no reply. “Put that cup down.” Wilson tapped the cup with his stick. “It’s too early for breakfast.” The prisoner stood his ground. “What’s your name?” repeated the R.S.M.
“Stevens,” said the prisoner.
The R.S.M,’s expression hardened and he stood weighing the man up. Then he called out to Burton but he didn’t take his eyes off the prisoner. “Staff.”
“Sir.”
“We’ve had a miracle. Here’s a man returned from the dead. Take him back to the mortuary.”
“The mortuary, sir?”
“Yes, the mortuary, via the hill. Give him a last good run before we bury him.”
The prisoner threw his tin cup against the wall. “You bastard.” He rushed at the R.S.M. who sidestepped smartly and put his shoulder to the prisoner and sent him flying through the op
en cell door and slap into the corridor wall. Burton pushed him and two Staffs shoved him along the corridor. The R.S.M. turned to another prisoner and watched him as he called out to Burton. “Staff.”
“Sir.”
“Double away and get me a copy of the K.R.R.’s.”
“Sir.” Burton doubled away.
The R.S.M. looked the prisoner up and down. “Name?”
The prisoner hesitated. “Johnson, sir.”
“How long are you in for, Johnson?”
“Hundred and twelve days, sir.”
“Hundred and twelve days. Hardly time to get a haircut. Did you start the mutiny?”
“Eh? The — I didn’t start nothing.”
Another prisoner interrupted. “Where’s the mutiny?”
“Then what’s all the noise in aid of? Exercising your lungs?”
“Who killed Stevens?”
The R.S.M. gave his full attention to this prisoner now. “Staff,” he said quietly.
“Sir.”
“Double this man over to the mortuary. Show him the body. If he finds any marks, abrasions, or bullet wounds on the body then take him to the Commandant’s office and stay with him while he writes out his statement. Then let him see the Commandant on his own so he can speak freely. Now double out, lad.”
The prisoner doubled out of the cell. The R.S.M. looked at the other prisoners. “Any man got any complaints?” No one answered. “Anybody want to see the Commandant?” Still no one spoke. “Anybody witnessed any murders recently?” A prisoner shuffled his feet uncomfortably. “Scared to open your traps or what? Right. If you want to see the Commandant see Staff Harris. He’s an easy man to speak to.”
He walked out of the cell and into the corridor and Burton handed him the K.R.R.S and he paced slowly along the corridor holding the book in his hand. “You’ve all been making a hell of a racket. I’ll not stand for any more of it.”
This remark was greeted with jeers and cat-calls. He waited until the noise subsided a little.
“Or I’ll have you over the hill. Every damn one of you.” The prisoners’ shouts of derision turned to shouts of rage. “If you’ve any complaints you’re free to see the Commandant.” The prisoners laughed and jeered. “Give your names to the Staff in charge of the block. But make sure your complaints are genuine and you’ve got your facts right.” The laughter and jeers became an ugly murmur. “Any more trouble and I’ll read the Riot Act.” He held up the book. “And I’ll charge the ringleaders with mutiny.”
“Who’s the ringleaders?” jeered a prisoner.
“Every fifth man,” the R.S.M. shouted back. “That should work out to about one man in each cell. You know me. I don’t waste my breath on idle threats.” He threw the book to Burton and walked quickly along the corridor. At the door he met Harris.
“I’ve got all the Staff I could muster, sir, outside.”
“We won’t need them.”
“Then do we keep the prisoners locked in until they’ve cooled down, sir?”
The R.S.M. smiled. “Staff, they couldn’t radiate enough heat to light a match. Unlock the cells and keep them moving.” He nodded curtly to Harris and walked away.
Harris unlocked the first cell and yelled “Double away and get cleaned up.” He moved to the next cell.
Bartlett looked at his tin cup. “Blimey, I’ve dented it.” He moved away from the cell door.
“Any more trouble, Roberts, and it’s mutiny,” said McGrath. “One in five.”
“Be four outa four in this rosy dell,” said Bartlett.
Harris unlocked the cell door. “Get doubling.”
“Permission to see the Commandant,” said Roberts.
The other prisoners held back and looked at Roberts. Harris pushed Bartlett. “Double away, you three.” The prisoners ran down the corridor carrying their towels and soap.
“Making a complaint, Roberts?” Harris enquired.
“Yes.”
“Let’s have it then.”
“I’m accusing Williams of murder.”
Harris walked into the cell. “Over here.” He walked to the window and Roberts followed him. “Murder, did you say?”
“Yes, Staff.”
Harris nodded. “It’s a damn queer way to try and get your ticket out of here but it might work. How did Williams murder Stevens? Shoot him with a Smith and Wesson, did he, and government ammo? Or hit him with a blunt instrument?”
“He cracked him on the hill.”
“And you and the rest of them in this cell will testify to it in Court?”
“I will, Staff.”
“And the others?”
“I can’t speak for them.”
Harris squinted through the bars at the hill and shook his head. ‘He really wants to have a go at Williams,’ he thought. ‘Roberts wants him. So do I but Roberts wants him even more than I do. So what happens if Roberts gets as far as the Commandant? Be an official enquiry anyway, and Roberts’s complaint won’t help matters. Will the Commandant pay any attention to Roberts’s complaint? Might. But will it be taken seriously?’
Harris almost laughed out loud. ‘Lined up against Roberts will be, now let me see. The Commandant, after the R.S.M. has got at him. Then there’s the M.O. of course. He wants to keep his nose clean and the R.S.M. of course, and Williams and any screws the R.S.M. wants to detail as witnesses to swear that Williams treated Stevens like his own son. And then there’s me. Now where do I stand?’
Harris bit his underlip. ‘Well, I’ve always tried to do my best by the R.S.M. and the prisoners, but why the hell should I stick my chin out when I haven’t got a hope in hell of winning.’ He looked at Roberts. “So you’re not counting on the other prisoners?”
“You’d better ask them.”
“Afraid justice won’t be done, Roberts?”
“Justice, are you kidding?”
“You bloody idiot. British justice is a shining example to the world,” said Harris, and the moment he said that he almost believed it. He had always tried to believe it. ‘It’s not perfect perhaps,’ he thought, ‘but it’s near enough. Stevens had a raw deal but he wasn’t murdered. Williams, bastard though he is, didn’t set out to murder the lad, and there would be an enquiry so stop Roberts in his tracks now. He shouts too much.’
“Let the enquiry decide the rights and wrongs of the case, Roberts,” Harris said.
“Good,” said Roberts. “Then Williams won’t get away with murder.”
“He ran him up and down a hill. That ain’t murdering a man. That’s giving him exercise.”
“You shake me, Harris.”
“The sun killed Stevens. The blinding sun. That’s official.”
“So that’s the vet’s verdict is it, Harris?”
“Doubting his word, are you?”
“Will there be an enquiry, or will that interfere with the Commandant’s tennis?”
“Roberts. This is the British Army. If a soldier loses his spare pair of socks it goes down on paper and there’s an enquiry.”
“That’s good news,” Roberts said. “But how many fatal doses of sunstroke is a screw allowed to dish out before ... ”
“Roberts, watch that tongue of yours.”
“Williams may get away with this,” said Roberts, “but — ”
“Double out, Roberts.”
“This time. But I’m having him.”
Roberts doubled out of the cell and along the corridor, boiling with an inner rage. Harris, he thought, with his free fags and his easy manner. Useless, bloody useless. He’s the same as the rest. Not a bastard like Williams, not a hard man like Wilson, but he’s still a screw and all screws are bastards and you can’t trust any of them. They’re on one side of the fence and we’re on the other, and they’re just as afraid to make a wrong move as we are.
CHAPTER FOURTEEN
McGrath held his head under the tap and soaped his short cropped hair and rinsed it and snarled “Get back!” to the jostling prisoners queueing up behind him,
then he soaped his face and body and rinsed himself again. He breathed water up his nostrils and, holding his nose with his fingers blew downwards and spat into the zinc gulley.
“Dirty bastard,” someone laughed behind him and McGrath shoved back viciously and sent the prisoner staggering a pace or two. McGrath next put his head under the tap again and held it there and enjoyed the sensation of the cold water hitting the back of his neck.
Roberts pushed forward and looked down at the bullet shaped head under the tap. He placed his towel on the wooden bench and slipped out of his shirt, then put his head down until it was on a level with McGrath’s and water splashed on to him. McGrath looked up and found himself eye to eye with Roberts on the other side of the bench. He pushed his head further under the tap and Roberts drew back a few inches.
“Going on Commandant’s request, Roberts?”
“Aren’t you, Mac?”
McGrath lunged forward and tried to butt Roberts in the face with his head but Roberts was too quick for him. He stepped back smartly and punched McGrath hard in the mouth with his fist. McGrath staggered back and fell against Staff Burton.
Burton grabbed hold of McGrath. “What the hell’s going on here?”
“Sorry, Staff,” said McGrath. “I tripped over some lunatic.” He moved back to the wash bench and put his head down. “Tonight I’ll have you, Roberts, and they can do what they like with me after that.”
Roberts nodded. “O.K. But watch your head or I’ll crack it like a soft-boiled egg, with a boot.”
The R.S.M. walked into Cell 8 with Harris close on his heels. He saw a dead cockroach and moved it with his stick. He kicked Bartlett’s kitbag and watched several more cockroaches scuttle away. “This place is lousy with cockroaches, Staff.”
“Yes, sir,” said Harris. “They haven’t got the brains to make a dash for freedom.”
