Crunch Time

by Nick Oldham

  Two

  It was 8 a.m. Jagger sat on the edge of the bed in his cell, hugging himself pitifully and rocking back and forth, eyes tightly closed, his head rotating. He hardly dared to breathe just in case he threw up again.

  ‘I feel horrible,’ he mumbled drily. ‘My head’s exploding.’

  ‘Serves you right,’ his unempathetic cellmate admonished. He was sitting on the floor in one corner of the cell, as far away from Jagger as possible.

  Jagger didn’t even bother to open his eyes. ‘Prob’ly,’ he gasped as his face screwed up with pain.

  ‘Prick,’ the other man said under his breath, pushed himself up and crossed to the cell door, jamming his finger on the emergency call button set in the wall and hammering with the side of his fist on the door. The door rattled and Jagger flinched at the metallic noise that penetrated his skull like shrapnel. The balls of his hands went to his temples and he braced his head.

  Suddenly the inspection hatch clattered open.

  ‘What?’ the sullen voice of the morning gaoler demanded.

  Jagger’s cellmate placed his hands on the door and he looked through the opening. ‘I’ve been locked up here for two hours with a stinking pisshead of a drunk. I’ve had nothing to eat or drink,’ he explained slowly with a seething undercurrent of anger. ‘Nor have I had chance to speak to my brief – which I demand.’

  ‘Breakfast is coming and I’ll ask about your brief, OK?’

  ‘OK,’ he accepted stoically. ‘And by the way, this fucker needs a shower, a change of clothes, Nurofen and water.’ He thumbed a gesture at Jagger. The gaoler peered in, nodded, then slammed the hatch back into place with a crash that made Jagger jump.

  ‘Thanks, mate.’

  ‘One thing we ain’t – it’s mates.’

  The thing about showers in police cell blocks is that they are always hot and powerful. There is no room for modesty, however, because for obvious security reasons there are no doors on the cubicles. But Frank Jagger couldn’t have cared less that the gaoler was keeping one eye on him as he soaped himself down with a block of harsh white soap, shampooed himself with something rather like washing-up liquid, and rinsed off. He was beginning to feel human again as the aroma of vomit and urine was displaced by the cheap soap.

  He shaved with a blunt disposable razor, using the soap as shaving foam, and though he nicked himself a couple of times, the process added to his slow re-emergence into the land of the living. He studied himself in the polished steel plate mirror screwed on to the wall – real glass mirrors were banned in the custody area – and thought he looked half-decent, even though the swelling under his right eye from the broken cheekbone of months before still distorted his face slightly, made his eye bloodshot and watery. Next he cleaned his teeth, using his first finger as a brush to apply toothpaste from an almost empty tube of Colgate.

  ‘C’mon, gorgeous, here’s your zoot suit,’ the gaoler said, handing the naked Jagger a paper suit and slippers to replace his horribly stained and ultimately unsalvageable clothing. Jagger stepped into the generously proportioned suit and was herded back to his cell where breakfast and a huge mug of tea awaited.

  The food was cooling on a plastic plate, but even so, the slightly congealed egg, lukewarm bacon and toast tasted like a feast. The tea was like gulping nectar and at the end of the repast Jagger was approaching some sort of normality, even though he knew he was still drunk … well, perhaps not drunk as in the staggering, insensible sense, but still under the influence of booze.

  He’d balanced his plate on his knees to eat and when he’d finished he placed it and the empty plastic mug on the cell floor and looked up at his cellmate. The man remained aloof, standing propped in one corner sipping his tea, not having touched his food which was on a plate at his feet.

  Jagger exhaled. ‘That’s better … you not eating?’

  The prisoner toed his plate towards Jagger. ‘Yours if you want it.’

  ‘Nah, ta … I’m OK now … sort of … smell better, anyway.’

  ‘True enough, you were gross.’

  Jagger shrugged. ‘So what’re you locked up for?’

  ‘My business,’ the man answered, giving Jagger a warning look.

  Jagger held up his hands. ‘Nuff said. Just instigating conversation.’

  ‘Not interested.’

  ‘OK, OK.’ He breathed out again, then inhaled to get more oxygen into his lungs. ‘What a fuckin’ bender that was.’

  The man chuckled, his guard dropping slightly. ‘You’re a fuckin’ mess.’

  Jagger nodded. ‘Aye,’ he said resignedly. ‘Life’s become a bitch.’ He placed the tip of his right forefinger against his forehead and closed his eyes, still feeling bad. His broken, slowly repairing cheekbone had a throb all of its own. ‘Not good,’ he said, fighting a fresh wave of nausea which was interrupted by the cell door opening.

  ‘Both of you,’ the gaoler said, beckoning.

  Jagger pushed himself up unsteadily and, despite the shower and food, he remained unstable. His cellmate supped the dregs of his tea, picked up his plate and handed the items to the gaoler.

  ‘Not hungry?’

  ‘Shit food.’

  ‘Mind if I have it?’ the gaoler asked.

  ‘If you don’t mind food that’s been gozzed on, be my guest.’

  The gaoler glared at him, stood back and let both prisoners walk past him. They grinned at each other: any victory over the bastards was to be savoured.

  The custody desk was a hive of activity. Detectives, uniformed cops, waiting prisoners, briefs, all milling about whilst a huge black guy with a tee-shirt emblazoned with the word ‘Janitor’ moved patiently around people with a mop and bucket. The desk was split into prisoner reception and those already in custody and now there were two custody officers on duty, one to deal with the new arrivals – of which there was already a queue – and one for those already banged up, of which Jagger and his cellmate were two.

  Jagger looked despondently around and was pushed up to the desk alongside his new-found friend, who was then pulled slightly back by the gaoler when the custody sergeant pointed at Jagger and said, ‘You first.’

  The sergeant was a woman with harshly scraped back blonde hair and angular features, probably accentuated by her stressful role and tiredness.

  Jagger gave her a winning smile, but that didn’t stop her going through the process of ensuring that he actually understood why he’d been arrested and what had happened to him since, including his reasonably spectacular showing on the breath machine.

  Jagger accepted it all with tired equanimity. He declined the offer of a solicitor and also the opportunity to make a phone call. ‘Thanks, but no thanks. I ain’t got no one to call. Bitch dumped me, hasn’t she? Just charge and bail me and I’ll get going …’ His voice trailed off as he saw the sergeant’s head start to shake. ‘No? What then?’ he asked worriedly.

  ‘You will be charged, yes, but you’ll be going straight to court this afternoon. No bail … standard procedure with drink-drivers. Get ’em banned as soon as possible.’

  ‘You are fuckin’ joking!’ Jagger exploded. He banged the counter top hard with the flat of his hand, making everyone jump. ‘I’ve things to do, you evil witch,’ he snarled into the face of the custody officer. She did not flinch, but looked blandly at him, blinked, very unimpressed by the display. He jabbed a finger at her and shouted, ‘You can’t fuckin’ well do this to me! I have things to do, people to see.’

  ‘In this case, the magistrates.’

  Jagger went rigid at her remark, then a seething, violent look came over his face. He raised his right fist, bunched it tight and held it for a moment, quivering with rage, before he drew it back.

  ‘Hit me and it’ll be the last thing you do,’ she said coldly.

  Jagger’s cellmate, who had observed the interaction from a couple of feet behind, stepped forward and placed his fingers around Jagger’s forearm. ‘Don’t be a fool,’ he said into Jagger’s ear. H
e looked harshly at the custody officer, then into Jagger’s blazing eyes. He shook his head. ‘The cunt isn’t worth it.’

  For a few seconds, his jaw rotating, Jagger seemed as though he would still drive his fist into the woman’s face, but then the fight went out of him with a hiss and a flare of the nostrils. ‘Twats,’ he uttered.

  The cellmate patted him on the back and moved away from the fray. Jagger was still shaking with anger, but he controlled himself by gripping the edge of the desk, knuckles white.

  A man in an ASDA suit appeared behind the custody officer. He had a supercilious smirk on his face. He was late thirties, slightly overweight, with a florid, drink-ravaged face. Jagger pinned him as a career detective. Cheap suit, with a know-it-all expression, tie an inch too short.

  ‘And not only that’ – the guy forced a victorious grin on to his face that lasted about a second, one of those ‘gotcha’ expressions – ‘you wouldn’t have a car to go home in anyway. It’s been impounded.’

  ‘You what? What’s—?’ Jagger uttered, then his face drained as he realized something and tried to bluff it out, having shot a worried glance in his cellmate’s direction which he then tried to cover up with a bit of bluster. ‘There’s nowt wrong with that car.’

  The detective laughed mirthlessly. ‘Other than the fact it’s made up of two other XJSs, both of which were stolen fifteen years ago – so long ago they’re not even on the computer anymore … but as you know, that doesn’t bother us half as much as the stuff in the boot, does it?’ He winked at Jagger, whose shoulders sagged ever so slightly.

  ‘There wasn’t anything in the boot,’ Jagger said, his voice a little hoarse.

  The ASDA shopper sniggered, then held up a key which he waved in front of Jagger’s nose. ‘Well, we can talk about that later, can’t we? First things first … I’ve just got the inspector’s authorization to spin your drum, search your hovel, and then I’m one hundred per cent sure we’ll have a lot more things to chat about. Would you like me to bring you a change of clothes while I’m there? Or would you rather go to court in a paper suit – or really impress the bench with your sick- and piss-stained suit? Your choice, matey.’

  The two cellmates did not see very much of each other over the next four hours, other than to pass shoulder-to-shoulder as they entered and exited interview rooms accompanied by detectives and solicitors. Eventually, just after one o’clock in the afternoon, they found themselves back in their original cell, sitting side by side on the bed with plastic plates on their knees, eating spam fritters and chips, each served with a huge plastic mug of sweet tea and a piece of Swiss roll.

  Jagger ate as though he’d been on a starvation diet. The alcohol had more or less cleared from his system to be replaced by a constantly banging head and dry mouth. He was regaining his true self step by step and the food, crap though it was, tasted amazingly wonderful.

  His cellmate, on the other hand, simply pushed his food around with his plastic fork.

  They had eaten in silence until Jagger – to whom silence seemed intolerable – blurted, ‘I never knew about that Jag … fuck!’

  His companion gave him a contemptuous, but amused look. ‘Bollocks,’ he said, ‘and I’ve never exceeded the speed limit.’

  ‘It’s fuckin’ true, I tell ya.’

  ‘Pull the other one,’ he said tiredly. ‘Got my own worries.’

  Jagger’s attention returned to his thin, salty, lukewarm chips. He packed a couple into his mouth and ate with relish.

  ‘Can have mine if you want.’ His cellmate offered his plate.

  Jagger stopped chomping. ‘You haven’t gozzed on ’em, have you?’ he asked, bringing a laugh from the other man. A slight chink in the armour. Jagger took the plate and tipped the food on to his, then proffered his right hand. ‘Frank Jagger … and thanks for this morning, by the way.’

  ‘Which bit?’

  ‘Calmin’ me down … I was still feeling nasty from the drink, I reckon. I’d’ve been in real shit if I’d’ve smacked the bitch one, I suppose.’

  ‘Deep, deep pooh.’

  The man still hadn’t shaken Jagger’s hand, so Jagger waved it again, encouragingly, and reluctantly they shook. ‘And your name is?’

  ‘Ingram,’ he admitted. ‘Ryan Ingram.’ The handshake continued, but Ingram seemed keen to detach himself from the grip. He looked sideways at Jagger. ‘Do I know you? Your face looks a bit familiar.’

  ‘Been about a bit, I suppose. Seen a bit, done a bit … now it’s all gone shit-shaped.’

  ‘Hence the bender to end all benders?’

  ‘Blew a hundred and eight, which is pretty good going, I’m told. Well worth a three-year ban and a grand’s fine … which I’ll never be able to pay, which means I’ll never get the cunts off my back.’ He exhaled, a woozy sensation coming over him again. ‘Still a bit pissed, I think. Four days does that to a bloke, especially one my age with no friggin’ prospects and a real hard cunt breathin’ down my neck.’ He emitted an exaggerated whump of a sigh, wondering if he should go on to burden Ingram with further tales of woe. Or would it be too much? Would Ingram just close down? The building of a relationship, as Jagger knew, was a delicate thing. Too much, too soon could destroy something even before it began.

  However, Ingram asked, ‘What was in the “not-stolen” car that the detective was so interested in?’

  Jagger froze. He tapped his nose, put his plate down on the bed, stood and crossed to the stainless steel toilet in the corner.

  ‘Actually,’ he said, pointing around the cell, then to his ears, to indicate the possibility of hidden listening devices, ‘I’ve no idea. Whatever it is’ – he placed his forefinger on the recessed toilet flush button in the wall – ‘they must’ve planted it.’ He pushed and the toilet flushed. He went back and sat next to Ingram and whispered three words into his ear, using his hands and the running water as a sound barrier.

  Even when they were handcuffed and waiting in the holding cage in readiness for court, Ingram still did not divulge the reason for his own arrest to Jagger, remaining tight-lipped and mysterious. All Jagger had learned was that Ingram had been interviewed and charged with a minor offence and had bail refused by the custody officer for some spurious reason. Two other prisoners were also in the cage and Jagger did not get further opportunity to speak to Ingram as they were herded out into a van and conveyed to court. They were then placed in another holding cell to await their appearance, their handcuffs removed. This time Jagger managed to ease himself on to the bench seat next to Ingram, who looked disdainful at this invasion of his personal space and shuffled a couple of inches away from him.

  ‘I reckon the cops’ll give me bail after I’ve been dealt with for this drink-drive shit.’

  ‘Did they find anything at your address?’

  ‘Nope, just my clothes.’ Jagger indicated his change of attire, out of the zoot suit and into a real one. He gave Ingram a sly look.

  ‘But there is more stuff?’ he guessed.

  ‘Yeah, and that’s one of my problems …’ Jagger’s trap shut tight as the cell door opened and a Group 4 security guard beckoned to him. ‘Mega cash-flow problems, coupled with an angry man.’ He shrugged and stood up. ‘Maybe I could do with being sent down. At least I’d be out of circulation. See ya, mate – all the best, whatever you’re in for.’

  The court appearance was short, sharp and shocking, not assisted by the fact that, according to court records, this was Jagger’s third drink-driving conviction in ten years.

  He sat quietly in the dock and let it all happen, allowing the duty solicitor to argue his case – pretty weakly – for him. In the end the magistrates banned him from driving for five years, fined him £1,200 and ordered him to attend an alcohol rehabilitation programme, the details of which he would be informed of in due course. If he failed or refused to attend this, he was told sternly, he would be returned to court and a custodial sentence would be considered instead.

  He meekly promised to atte
nd.

  Then, shell-shocked by the severity of the judgement, a muted Jagger was led back down to the holding area and pushed back into the cell with Ingram. He sat down heavily and put his head in his hands, emitting a loud groan. The other two prisoners were beckoned out, leaving Jagger alone with Ingram.

  ‘Shit,’ he breathed. ‘Five years’ ban and twelve hundred smackers. Utter, utter bastards.’

  ‘Doesn’t mean you really have to stop driving, does it?’

  Jagger’s eyes appeared from behind his hands and he grinned. ‘Just don’t get caught, eh? The fine’s an issue, though … as well as my other monetary problems and the associated, er, personal issues.’ He was attempting to come up with some sort of nicety to call the people who were baying for his blood and money.

  ‘Who are those issues?’

  ‘Nah, rather not say. Sorry, mate.’

  ‘OK.’ Ingram shrugged. There was a pause, during which Jagger became aware that Ingram wanted to say something. Jagger didn’t push it, simply allowed nature to take its course. ‘I might be able to help you out,’ Ingram said in a low voice. ‘I’ll need your mobile number, though.’

  ‘How could you help me out?’ Jagger responded glumly. ‘Shit creek baaht paddle, me,’ he said, playing the victim.

  ‘Give me your number, OK?’

  Jagger spread his hands. ‘Pen? Paper? Business card? Don’t see any of those things on me.’

  Ingram leaned forwards and reached down to his feet, his fingers sliding down the inside of one of his socks, reappearing with a small ballpoint pen of the type usually found in betting shops or Argos stores. Jagger smirked. ‘Got anything stashed up your nose?’

  ‘Kitchen sink … what’s your mobile?’

  ‘Don’t you want me to call you?’

  ‘I do the calling.’

  ‘Fair enough.’ Jagger recited his number. Ingram jotted it down on the palm of his hand.

  ‘I’ll be in touch. Don’t know where, don’t know when.’

  The cell door creaked open. The detective who had earlier spoken to Jagger in the custody area, the one possibly dressed in the fifteen-quid ASDA suit, stood in the frame. He beckoned Jagger with a stumpy finger and the expression a headmaster might have displayed before inflicting pain on a student. Jagger rose reluctantly, nodded at Ingram and followed the jack out.