Borstal Slags

by Graham, Tom

  As they ran, the boys chanted, ‘Si-lence. Re-spect. Du-ty. Si-lence. Re-spect. Du-ty. Si-lence. Re-spect. Du-ty …’

  They bundled through an open doorway that clanged shut behind them, cutting off their voices. There were now just Sam, Gene and Mr McClintock standing together in the courtyard beneath the ominous shape of the punishment frame. Above them, the grey clouds rolled slowly across the dim circle of the sun.

  ‘Let me explain something to you, young Detective Inspector,’ said McClintock in a clear, patient voice. ‘And to you too, Detective Chief Inspector. Friar’s Brook is a borstal. It houses young criminals. It is not a boarding school, it is not a scout camp. It is a place of punishment and correction, and it is run accordingly. And, so long as I am House Master here, the System will be maintained. The System punishes. The System corrects. The System teaches young hooligans what it means to go against society and to go against the Law. The methods are not pretty, but nor are they unjust. Justice must sometimes soil its hands in the pursuit of its aims. Justice must sometimes be hard.’

  ‘Can’t argue there,’ said Gene.

  ‘So,’ McClintock went on, ‘let us all be in no doubt that my regime here – my System – exists to turn bad boys into good ones, and if it cannot succeed in that then it at least delivers retribution on those who deserve it.’ He focused his attention on Sam and added, ‘Put away your suspicions, young Detective Inspector. I do not oversee a murderous regime, nor am I covering up institutional crimes. Tulse died in the kitchens due to a tragic accident. Tunning died by his own hand. And Coren died through misadventure whilst attempting to escape. There is no plot. There is no conspiracy. I am, like you two gentlemen, a servant of the law, and I play by its rules.’

  And, with that, he offered his hand to Sam. It was then that Sam saw that skin on his palms was unnaturally smooth and misshapen, disfigured by severe burns.

  At once, Sam thought of Craig Tulse, the inmate who had burned to death in the kitchens. Were the inmate’s death and the House Master’s burns connected?

  Impossible. Those are old burns from many years ago, long since healed up. Tulse’s death was recent.

  Even so, there was something about McClintock that reeked of malevolence, of danger, of guilt.

  Sam stared at that burned hand but made no move to take it.

  ‘Tyler,’ Gene growled, assuming Sam was making yet another moral stand. ‘Just grow up.’

  Gingerly, Sam reached out. He took McClintock’s hand and shook. But, when he pulled his hand away again, he felt the compulsion to wipe the palm against his jacket. It wasn’t the thought of having touched burned flesh that disgusted him: it was the thought of having touched McClintock.

  ‘Very well, then,’ said McClintock in his clipped tones. ‘We are all united. We understand one another. We trust each other.’

  ‘Careful, Jimmy, you’re one step away from suggesting a communal shower,’ warned Gene. ‘Let’s get moving before my high-spirited colleague goes off on another one of his bleeding-heart crusades. It’s what he’s like. You know, McClintock, I have to put up with this sort of bollocks every working day. Reckons criminals got more rights than victims. Reckons we should warm the handcuff before we slap ’em on in case their little wristies get nippy. I tell you, it’s like being partnered with the bloody Messiah.’

  ‘The Messiah would be on my side, were he to visit this institution,’ McClintock said, straightening his already perfectly straight cap. ‘Of that I have no doubt. Now, gentlemen, if you will follow me – we were on our way to the new kitchen block before we were momentarily diverted.’

  CHAPTER SEVEN: COOKING WITH GENE HUNT

  ‘The kitchens are just along here,’ announced McClintock, striding briskly towards a set of double doors. ‘The lad Donner will be on duty. I’ll call him out so you can speak to him.’

  ‘Don’t be obvious about it,’ said Sam. ‘Do it subtly. Don’t make it clear he’s the one we want to speak to.’

  McClintock gave him a quizzical look. ‘And why shouldn’t I make it clear?’

  ‘Because if the other boys know he’s talking to the police then they’ll see him as a snitch. If he’s frightened of being labelled a snitch then he won’t say a word to us, even if he knows something important.’

  ‘He’ll say what he’s told to say,’ McClintock declared. ‘It’s not for him to decide what to reveal and what to hold back. The System controls him. It’s nae the other way around.’

  ‘Please, Mr McClintock,’ Sam insisted, ‘just do it my way. Trust me.’

  Gene let out a theatrical sigh, said, ‘I’ve been dead patient since comin’ here to this kiddies’ clinky. I’ve been really well behaved. I haven’t moaned, I haven’t played up, I’ve been as good as ruddy gold as far as I’m concerned. But now I’m starting to feel certain people are taking the piss with me.’ He gave Sam a fierce look. ‘So. If the fairies and faggots don’t mind, instead of poncing about with secret signs and playing it low-key, I think the hour of the Genie has come. I’m going to go in there and do things my way. Toodle-oo.’

  He turned on his heel and barged through the doors. Sam and McClintock hurried in after him.

  The kitchen was large and functional, with two dozen boys peeling spuds, mixing gravy, and cutting up rock-like slabs of stale cheese, under the watchful scrutiny of five or six black-clad warders. Everybody looked up with a start as Gene crashed his way in and looked about.

  ‘Very smart,’ he boomed. ‘Very smart indeed. Pity it smells like the bogs at central station.’

  He glowered about at the boys, meeting their sly, sulky stares, using his copper’s sixth sense to read their eyes, look into their hearts.

  ‘Let me introduce myself. You know that thing that scares you the most, that thing that keeps you awake at night, fretting, that thing you have nightmares about? Well, that’s me, that is.’

  Gene paced slowly about, his bottom lip stuck out, the corners of his mouth pulled down.

  ‘Making tarts?’ he asked a nervous-eyed young boy, sticking his finger into the lad’s open jam pot and scooping out a mouthful. He grimaced at what he tasted and spat it sharply into the boy’s face. ‘Colgate and boot polish! My missus can do better!’

  Under his breath, Sam whispered to McClintock, ‘Do you want me to try and rein him in?’

  ‘I don’t see any reason to intervene,’ McClintock whispered back. ‘His methods are crude but he’s showing a strong hand. The boys will respect that.’

  Sam opened his mouth to argue, but gave up. Instead, he asked softly, ‘Which one’s Donner?’

  McClintock nodded towards a boy over the far side of the kitchen. Donner was totally average: average height, average build, nondescript colouring, unremarkable face.

  Sam began to wonder how to get him out of the kitchen so he could speak to him in private, but without the other inmates becoming suspicious.

  But his thoughts were interrupted by Gene’s booming voice.

  ‘Right, girls, listen up. One of you lot escaped the other day, as I’m sure you’re aware. Very bright kid called Andy Coren. Genius, in fact. So bloody clever that he not only got himself chauffeur-driven out of this place on the back of a lorry, but he booked himself into a very exclusive hotel at the other end. It’s a cosy little place, not big but family-run. For no extra charge you get to die screaming in the depths of a huge crushing machine. Which is nice.’

  There was a ripple of movement among the boys as looks were exchanged, but nobody said a word. Every one of them kept his mouth shut. There was silence. And, in that silence, Gene paced slowly.

  ‘Now. The question is, was it an accident, or did somebody here have a hand in it? Mmm? Did Andy Coren bugger his escape up – or was it buggered up for him? Well? Anyone got any suggestions?’

  For no reason that Sam could see, Gene’s attention suddenly fixated upon one of the boys. It was a tall, rather weaselly lad who was standing next to an open oven, ready to grill an array of wretched-looking saus
ages. Gene loomed over him.

  ‘You,’ he said, his voice low and dangerous. ‘Name.’

  ‘Townsend, sir.’

  ‘What do you know, Townsend?’

  ‘Nuffing, sir.’

  ‘I don’t think that’s right, Townsend. I think you know about Andy Coren. I think you know why he escaped on the back of one lorry, while his brother thought he was on the back of another.’

  ‘Don’t know nuffing, sir.’

  He’s fishing, Sam thought, watching Gene carefully. He’s still not sure whether or not Coren’s death was just a stupid accident or not. Some part of him must suspect there’s more to this than a fatal cock-up. And, if there is, I’m going to make damn sure he remembers that it was Annie who spotted it first.

  Gene drew closer to Townsend until they were practically nose to nose.

  ‘’Coz I’m such a nice bloke,’ he said in a deep, growling voice, ‘I’m going to ask you again without losing my rag. What happened to Coren?’

  ‘Don’t know nuffing, sir.’

  ‘I really advise you change your answer to something a little more positive, Townsend, do you understand me?’

  ‘Yes, sir.’

  ‘Do you?’

  ‘Yes, sir.’

  ‘Do you really?’

  ‘Yes, sir.’

  ‘Okay, then. Tell me, young Townsend, what happened to Coren?’

  The boy glanced about at the other inmates, then at the warders, then at Sam, then at McClintock. After a few silent moments, he at last said, almost inaudibly, ‘Don’t know nuffing, sir.’

  Gene moved with lightning speed. Before Sam had a chance to react, Townsend was being thrust head-first into the open oven. Gene whacked up the grill.

  ‘Start talkin’ or start sizzlin’!’ he bellowed.

  From inside the oven, a muffled, metallic voice howled, ‘I’m cookin’, bloody ’ell, I’m cookin’!’

  ‘With gas, son, you bet you are! Now talk! I said flamin’ talk!’

  Sam shot a glance at McClintock, expecting to see the House Master furiously intervene. But McClintock was silently observing what Gene was doing. In fact, he seemed to be enjoying the spectacle. What was it he had just told them? ‘The methods are not pretty, but nor are they unjust. Justice must sometimes soil its hands in the pursuit of its aims. Justice must sometimes be hard.’

  Sam shook his head. McClintock and Guv – they hated each other, but they were peas in a pod.

  Townsend was bleating, ‘Lemme out! Lemme out!’

  Gene hauled him out, slapped a chunk of rock-hard cheese on his face, and shoved him back under the grill.

  ‘You know it’s done when you can smell it,’ he announced to the inmates, who were all watching, mute and open-mouthed. ‘You know the smell I mean? That crispy, meaty, stinky, cheesy smell. It’s getting my buds going just thinkin’ about it.’

  ‘I don’t know nuffing!’ Townsend wailed. ‘Please, sir, I’m meltin’!’

  ‘Guv, I think he’s starting to char,’ Sam put in.

  A thin trail of black smoke was starting to emerge from the oven. Gene dragged Townsend out and threw him roughly to the floor. The boy squirmed and whimpered, clawing at the hot, sticky, napalm-like Cheddar clinging to his face.

  The Guv glared about at the other inmates. ‘Okay, lads, that was Gene’s Cheesy Surprise. Who’s going to help me demonstrate how to make a Boiled Bollock Pie?’

  Sam decided to intervene, seeing that nobody else was going to. ‘No call for that, Guv. There’s only one lad in here we need to talk to. One lad who knows what’s what. One lad who’s in charge.’ Sam walked around, looking into the faces of the boys. ‘I want to speak to the daddy. Come on, guys, I’m asking you straight: who is it? Who’s the daddy? Eh? Who’s the daddy?’

  He stopped in front of a potbellied boy with heavily taped spectacles.

  ‘You, son,’ Sam asked softly. ‘Tell me. Who’s the daddy?’

  After some hesitation, the boy muttered, ‘Ken.’

  ‘Ken?’

  The boy nodded, and readjusted his glasses.

  Sam crouched down, bringing his face to the boy’s level ‘And which one’s Ken?’

  The boy glanced about, then said, ‘He’s the one who lives with me mummy, but he’s not me real daddy.’

  The inmates sniggered, but were silenced by a shrill command from one of the warders.

  ‘You’re wasting your time trying to reason with these dregs and ne’er-do-wells,’ McClintock observed. ‘Your DCI has the right idea. Brute force is the only thing these creatures understand.’

  ‘I’ll carry on, then,’ said Gene, rubbing his hands together. He picked up an industrial-size cheese grater. ‘Let’s see what I can do with this.’

  ‘Forget it, Guv, these boys won’t talk,’ said Sam. He walked past Donner, pretending not to be aware of him.

  ‘You underestimate my culinary powers, Tyler. I’m a bloody wizard in the kitchen.’

  ‘But I don’t think they know anything, Guv. We’re wasting our time. There’s nothing for us to find out here. We might as well call it a day.’

  Gene looked sideways at him. He could tell Sam was playing some sort of game here, but couldn’t quite nail what it was.

  ‘Come on, Guv. Let’s get back to the station.’

  Sam made his way towards the door as if to leave, putting his hands in his pockets as he went. And then he stopped. He delved deeply into one pocket, then into the other.

  ‘It’s gone,’ he muttered. And turning to confront the inmates he said, ‘Okay – which one of you took it?’

  Silent faces stared back.

  ‘I said which one of you took it?’ Sam roared. He stormed across the kitchen, making straight for Donner. ‘It were you, weren’t it! You thieving little …!’

  He grabbed Donner by the scruff of his neck and frogmarched him furiously out through a door, kicking it shut behind him.

  Gently, patiently, Sam said, ‘You know that was all just play-acting just then, don’t you – accusing you of stealing and all that?’

  He and Donner were alone together in a storage room, surrounded by tins of spaghetti hoops, cans of Spam and industrial-size plastic tubs of Stork SB margarine.

  ‘I needed a pretext to get you out of there, to speak to you in private without your fellow inmates becoming suspicious. Do you understand me?’

  Donner was looking at him rather strangely. The boy’s face was hard to read. Perhaps his tough life and his time behind bars had given him a poker player’s skill at concealing his true feelings.

  ‘Well? Do you understand me?’

  ‘Of course I understand you,’ said Donner. ‘I’m not stupid.’

  ‘No. I can tell that. My name’s Sam. I’m a policeman.’

  ‘A policeman, yes, I figured that out already.’

  ‘Andy Coren escaped from here last Friday. He hid inside one of the old ovens being shipped out to the junkyard, but died in a crushing machine.’

  Donner didn’t react.

  Sam went on: ‘I’m trying to find out if his death was an accident, or if – if there was something …’

  He let it hang there, unwilling to put words into the boy’s mouth.

  ‘What makes you think I know anything?’ asked Donner. ‘Is it because I wrote that letter for him, the one to his brother?’

  ‘I’m not accusing you of anything, Donner, I’m just trying to follow up what leads we’ve got. Can you tell me anything?’

  Donner said nothing.

  ‘The letter you wrote for Coren, did he dictate it you? Or did you word it yourself?’

  Still Donner remained silent.

  ‘There’s mention in that letter of a veterinary clinic in Lidden Street. But there is no veterinary clinic in Lidden Street. Why would Coren make that up?’

  Sam waited for a response, but Donner’s face was motionless and impassive.

  ‘Please, Donner, I’m asking you to help me. Can you tell me anything about this borstal that I oug
ht to know? Are things going on here? Have you heard anything? Rumours? Hearsay?’

  ‘It’s too dangerous to tell you what I know,’ said Donner in a low, level voice. ‘I’d be the next one to end up dead.’

  ‘What do you mean by that?’

  ‘I think it’s obvious what I mean.’

  ‘Who would kill you if you spoke to me, Donner?’

  ‘Well, I can hardly tell you that, given what I’ve just said. You’re not very clever for a policeman.’

  ‘I’ll protect you,’ said Sam.

  ‘How?’

  ‘I’m a detective inspector with CID. I have authority.’

  ‘Be specific. I asked how?’

  Sam was a little taken aback by the boy’s manner. It was cool, concentrated, self-assured.

  ‘I could see about getting you moved,’ Sam said.

  ‘Where?’

  ‘To another borstal. An open one. A nicer one.’

  ‘When?’

  ‘As soon as I can.’

  ‘Not good enough. I need to be transferred at once.’

  ‘I don’t think that’s possible,’ said Sam. ‘It’ll take time.’

  ‘Get me transferred, then I’ll talk,’ said Donner.

  It was a manipulative move, a pressing-home of a tactical advantage. Donner had fully grasped the situation, that the information he had in his possession gave him leverage over Sam, and he was boldly exploiting it.

  Sam resolved to regain the initiative. He could not afford to have his hand forced by this intelligent but devious child. He had to maintain his authority.

  ‘Sorry, Donner. You’ve proposed a deal I cannot accept,’ he said. ‘Give me something – a clue, a direction to look in – and I’ll see what I can do for you in return.’

  ‘You have to do what I say,’ Donner said flatly, his voice devoid of emotion. ‘You need me. I can see that. Get me moved to another borstal, and I’ll tell you what you want to know.’

  ‘If you won’t talk to me, then I’ll just have to walk away. Trust works both ways, Donner.’

  It was a gamble. This boy wasn’t going to be easily bluffed or coerced. Sam went silent, and let Donner consider his next move.