by Herb Hamlet
Jim felt a chill go down his spine. He heard nothing but the pounding blood in his ears. “H...heavies...”
Weston’s eyes narrowed. “You’d better listen very carefully, my tax-bludging friend, because I’ll tell you this only once.” The CCO leaned forward, his face only six inches from Jim’s. “In the presence of prison staff, an inmate only speaks when he is asked a question. Do you understand?”
“Yes.” Jim turned away to hide his impatience.
“Yes what?” There was menace in the CCO’s tone. Jim shrugged, puzzled. “Yes, I understand.”
Ramming his baton into Jim’s midriff, he yelled, “Wrong answer! It’s yes sir!”
Jim doubled over, fighting hard for breath. “Better get used to it, you tax bludging shit.” Weston’s tone lowered to a guttural rumble. “I particularly hate you tax-bludging types because I have to pay every cent of my taxes to the bloody government. There’s no way I can write things off like you bastards in business can, so I’ll be taking a particular interest in you and so will some of the other staff who work here.” Weston beckoned the guard who had been waiting outside the office. He turned back to Jim. “Right, these are the basic rules in Pukka. A more detailed official outline is displayed in every cell.” He took a deep breath. “Barred doors are unlocked at six-thirty each morning. By that time, you will be shaved and dressed for a work detail that will be allocated to you. Cell doors are re-locked at nine p.m. sharp. If you are not in your cell at this time, you will be charged and suffer a severe penalty.” CCO Weston jerked his thumb toward the door, addressing the guard. “Get him to the store and kit him out. Then take him to the shower for delousing. And make sure you use plenty of powder.” The Chief Correctional Officer pronounced each word slowly and deliberately, giving each syllable almost reverent respect.
Being led away to the prison store, Jim had never felt so degraded in his entire life. He felt trapped in an ongoing nightmare from which there appeared to be no escape. An elderly inmate kitted him out with two sets of green prison clothing, one pair of black leather boots, two towels, one cake of soap, one toothbrush, one tube of toothpaste, one set of sheets, one pillow slip and two blankets. Next, he was lead to the ablution block where he and the accompanying officer were joined by another guard who drew on latex gloves. Jim was ordered to strip off his clothing. The officer then performed a body search, Jim shivering with humiliation in the cold atmosphere of the block. He was made to take a shower, the guards laughing loudly as they covered his wet skin with a foul-smelling disinfectant powder. The smallest guard looked around the ablution block, and gave a short snigger. “Just wait ‘till you’re caught in here by yourself, Rankin. You won’t bloody well forget it, believe me. And don’t expect any help from us when that time comes.”
The other guard shoved Jim’s civilian belongings into a large black plastic bag and pulled the tie strings together tight. “You can have these back when you make parole.” He grinned.
Arriving outside his allocated cell, he allowed his eyes to sweep around the enclosure. Severely cramped, the cell was a two man affair. A shit hole. There was just enough room for the double bunk, sink, toilet and the small locker it held. Only about seven square meters. A sardine tin.
“Get in,” the guard ordered.
Jim tentatively entered the small enclosure, his heart skipping a beat when the heavy metal barred door slammed shut behind him, a depressing finality to the loud noise. Allowing his eyes to become accustomed to the murky atmosphere, he looked enquiringly at a young man, around twenty years. lying on the bottom bunk.
The youngster lifted his eyes from a motor magazine and swung his legs off the bunk and sat staring at Jim. “Welcome to Fukka rest camp, mate. Just get here, did ya?” he opened with a friendly grin.
“Yes.” Jim placed his bedding on the top bunk.
“What ya in for?”
“Tax fraud.”
“Bloody hell.” The young man mulled on this for a moment before raising his eyebrows.
“How much?”
“It doesn’t matter.” Was his stiff reply. “I really don’t want to discuss it at the moment, if you don’t mind.”
“Suit yourself.” He lay back with an injured look on his face and resumed reading in the dim light.
“What about you?” Jim sighed as he sought to make amends.
“Went on a little joy-ride with an ex-mate of mine.” The youngster shrugged as he lay on his side, supporting his head with the palm of his hand. “He didn’t tell me that he’d knocked off the bloody car we were in. And the rotten stinkin’ bastard made no attempt to clear me when I was charged even though he knew I was innocent. He just let me take the rap along with him.”
“Sounds to me like you are innocent.” Jim frowned.
He smiled showing his crooked teeth. “Everyone’s innocent in here, mate.” He chuckled as he rose from his bunk. About five feet ten, with a slim build, his fine blonde hair didn’t suit the crewcut that adorned his scalp. He had a thin face, pockmarked by acne scars. Tatoos covered both arms,
“I’m Jim Rankin.” He held out his hand which was taken in a surprisingly firm grip.
“Sean Hamilton.”
“How long have you been in here, Sean?”
“Nine months.”
“What’s it like?” he asked uncertainly.
He shrugged. “The others reckon it’s not much different from other jugs around the country, except the screws at Fukka are worse, especially that bastard, Weston.”
“Yeah, I’ve met him thanks. He’s a right mongrel if ever I seen one.” Jim made a face.
“This the first time you’ve been in?”
“Of course,” Jim exploded.
“All right, all right, don’t get ya knickers in a not.”
“Sorry.”
“Where did they remand you?”
“You don’t get remanded for my offense,” Jim explained. His quiet response was almost apologetic.
The young man nodded. “Ah, you’ll have a little learning to catch up on.”
“What do you mean?” Jim’s brow furrowed.
“You have to learn how things work in this place, mate.” Sean gave a knowing wink.
“Okay, go on, tell me.”
Sean lay quietly for a moment, arms behind his head, gathering his thoughts. He was enjoying his role as a teacher, Jim his new pupil. “First of all, like most prisons, this one is broken up into different groups.” He put up his right index finger. “Number one, there’s the black fellas.”
“Black fellas?” Jim asked.
“Yeah, Abos, you know. There’s a heap of ‘em in here. It’s us whites against them.”
“I won’t be taking sides,” Jim replied. “I have nothing against Indigenous people.’
“You hafta, mate. Otherwise they’ll do ya.” Sean looked toward the ceiling, rolling his eyes.
He raised a second finger. “Then there’s the heavies.” He noticed Jim’s vacant look and went on to explain. “You know, blokes who’ve been big on the outside. They run the drug scene in here and arrange the bashings. The ones you have to pay protection to.”
“Protection! Explain that one to me.” Jim’s eyes narrowed suspiciously.
Sean shrugged. “You give ‘em cash, cigarettes or drugs and they leave you alone.”
“And what if you don’t make the payments?” Jim raised his eyebrows expectantly.
“They bash ya.”
“Bloody hell.” Jim swallowed.
“Yeah!” Sean paused, a wry smile dimly lighting his countenance as he raised a third finger. “But I’m afraid there’s more. There’s the sodomisers.”
Jim didn’t have to be told what that meant. “Shit!”
“Yeah, you can say that again. These bastards are the scum of the bloody
earth. Most of the inmates in here hate the animals. But I warn you, mate, if they happen to get you by yourself, they’ll gang rape ya.” Sean paused again. “The rest of the prison mob is made up of those who’ve done crimes ranging from murder to just defaulting on a traffic fine.”
“What! They put fine defaulters in here? I thought they did some sort of community service as payment.” Jim couldn’t disguise the surprise in his voice.
“Nah, they come here. Poor bastards, they really get a hard time,” Sean replied curtly. “But that’s how things work in society, don’t it? If you’re bloody rich or you can afford to pay a fine, you’re alright. But if you’re down and out, broke or just out of luck, they put you in a place like this to pay off the debt.”
Swallowing his apprehension, Jim moved slowly across the room to the sink. Nervous tension had drained his mouth of saliva.
Sean’s gaze followed him. He said, “A young fine defaulter got bashed and raped a month or so ago. The next day, the poor bastard climbed onto the roof of the prison and threatened to throw himself off. Some of the heavies were calling out for him to jump and finally, to everyone’s’ surprise, he did.” He shot Jim an angry glance. “I can tell you, it was a bloody mess when he hit the concrete. Blood and guts everywhere. He was just a kid, poor bugger.”
“What action did the authorities take?”
“What do you think?” Sean gave a harsh laugh. “Prison management just hushed everything up of course.” He turned his head on the pillow and closed his eyes.
Jim lay in his bunk on his first night of incarceration, sleep evading him. He tossed and turned on the uncomfortable prison mattress, the claustrophobic atmosphere of the cell threatening to choke him. He heard the comforting sound of heavy rain beating against the metal awning that ran down one side of the simple block structure. At any other time that welcome, steady rhythm of raindrops would have lulled him to sleep. Not tonight though. In spite of his best efforts to fight off the feeling, self-pity overcame him. What have I done to deserve what’s happening to me? He lay awake thinking about his incarceration and the business. He couldn’t help worrying about Judy, his children and his dealership. How could I have let this happen?
He allowed his mind to drift, to examine his past, especially his courtship and marriage. Jim first met Judy after his twenty-second birthday. He’d been on one of his usual Saturday afternoon visits to the home of his friend, Arty Carson. He’d ambled into the kitchen, accompanied by Arty, to pay his respects to Mrs. Carson, and found himself staring at a most attractive young woman standing at the sink washing dishes. She turned toward him, flashing a radiant smile, revealing her perfect white teeth. For the first time in his life, Jim Rankin was speechless and for some reason felt self-conscious.
Judy laughed mischievously at his embarrassment, large blue eyes twinkling in a small, flawless oval face. Short dark wavy hair completed the picture. Jim stammered, unable or unwilling to remove his eyes from hers. He found he was breathing a little harder. He couldn’t believe the effect she had on him. Arty wore a bemused expression as he looked from one to the other.
A few seconds later, the spell was broken as he made the introductions. “Jim, I’d like you to meet my cousin, Judy. Jude, this is my mate, Jim Rankin”
“How do you do.” Her sweet voice was like music to his ears.
“I’m pleased to meet you, Judy.” Jim found himself instantly smitten by the girl who was visiting from Dalby on the Darling Downs. Later the same day, when the three dined together after going to the movies, she rose to go to the ladies room and Jim’s gaze followed her. The snug fitting light blue jeans hugged her trim legs and perfect buttocks. The sleeveless low cut blouse she wore accentuated her cleavage. At one time, her white napkin had slipped from her lap. They both leaned over to retrieve it and his eyes strayed to the velvety dark cleft between her breasts. He experienced a stirring in his loins and had to swallow his desire.
Jim drove Judy back to her aunt’s house and Arty opened the door for her, but she made no attempt to leave the vehicle.
“Good night, you two.” Arty smiled knowingly as he swung toward the house.
Judy leaned toward him. In the hushed silence, she uttered, “Thank you. Jim. I had a great time.”
“I really enjoyed myself, too.” He swallowed nervously, licking his lips. “What are you doing tomorrow?”
“We’ve got no firm plans.” She lifted her shoulders in a light shrug. “There was talk about driving to the Gold Coast in the morning.”
“Do you mind if I come with you?”
“I thought you’d never ask,” she replied, unable to disguise her delight as she moved closer.
Jim took her in his arms, his lips descending on hers. Judy wrapped both arms around his neck pulling him closer. They came up for air, faces only inches apart. Jim looked deeply into her blue eyes. “Oh, Judy.”
She sighed. “What’s happening here, Jim?”
“I don’t know. I’ve never felt like this about anyone before.”
“Me either,” she moaned softly.
They were married six months later.
Chapter Three
On his first morning of incarceration, Jim slipped out of his bunk at a few minutes past six. He’d spent a long drawn out uncomfortable night, barely closing his eyes. Moving to peer through the room’s barred window, he discovered there was no sign of the morning sun. Bleak grey skies and a light drizzle of rain greeted him. In keeping with how I bloody feel
Jim tried hard to be quiet as he tiptoed around the small enclosure, although he suspected Sean was most likely awake. He washed and shaved at the small sink and dressed in the prison-issued clothing.
“How’d you sleep?” Sean stretched and rose from his bunk.
“No good, tossed and turned for hours.”
“I heard you. That’s pretty normal for the first night.”
Jim moved back to gaze out the window as Sean went about his morning ablutions. Waiting patiently for the cell doors to be opened, he suspected he’d be doing a lot of that in the following months. At precisely seven, with the sound of clanging metal, the cell doors opened, and Jim and Sean lined up outside to join the others in their block. A whistle blew and Jim followed the others along a corridor, down a set of steps, and through a double doorway into an open dining room for breakfast.
As Jim moved past the servers, porridge was slapped onto one plate, while a fried egg and two pieces of toast were placed on another. Carrying his tray, Jim couldn’t help but feel the volatile atmosphere and strained undercurrents simmering within the confines of the open room. A quarter of the tables were taken up by Aborigines and Torres Strait Islanders of different age, shape, size and skin shade. They sat together, separate from the other inmates who were predominantly Caucasian and of Anglo Saxon heritage. Jim spied a spare seat at one table and sat. Before he could settle, he was stopped in his tracks by a tall, thickset man at the opposite end who glared at him. “Piss off, fuckwit.” He jerked his thumb in an obscene manner.
The blood drained from Jim’s face, and he found himself sweating profusely. He looked back at the large man. Shit!! With fumbling hands that almost knocked over his coffee, he quickly gathered his tray and utensils, and made his way to a table at the far end of the dining room and the company of older inmates who seemed less threatening. Taking his seat, two or three of the men at the table even nodded in his direction.
Back in their cell after breakfast, Jim and Sean talked quietly as they waited for their individual work allocations. A prison inmate, Jim quickly discovered, waited patiently for everything. A whistle blew, and the pair moved out to the passageway where a guard waited.
His first week of imprisonment saw Jim assigned to the cook house as a kitchen hand. His duties included peeling and cutting up vegetables, and operating the enormous automatic dish-washer. The only brea
k he received was for his meals served in the common dining room. At each meal sitting, Jim noticed around ten guards were on hand at any given time.
As he sat with Sean eating his lunch on the third day, he was startled by the sound of a terrified scream coming from the dining table next to his. Jim instinctively rose to his feet in time to see a man falling from his chair to the floor. Blood already soaked through the back of his prison uniform. He lay writhing on the floor, life force gradually draining from his body, in an ever widening red stain across the tiles. About to go to his aid, Jim’s arm was taken in a firm grip by Sean who showed amazing strength in pulling him back.
“Sit down! Don’t get involved,” he muttered through clenched teeth.
“But he’s hurt,” Jim replied, reluctantly sitting again.
“Leave it to the screws,” Sean whispered. “The heavies have arranged this and they’ll do you if you interfere in any way.”
“Bloody hell.” Jim swallowed hard.
“The prick who got stabbed is Hansen. He owes Lurch Lincoln, big time. That’s Lurch sitting at the table near the entrance.” Sean rolled his eyes in the direction of the large man who’d ordered Jim to leave his table. “And this is Lurch’s way of making everyone aware that he runs things in here.”
“I’ve run into this Lurch character before. He’s bad news.”
