Banged Up

by Jack Dickson

Fifteen

  ON THE COT, he linked fingers behind his head and stared up at metal spirals. Jas focused on curled springs and knew how they felt. On the periphery of his vision, his cell-mate’s thighs stalked into view, turned then stalked away.

  The mood in the cell was tighter than usual ...

  He frowned.

  ... but he wasn’t here for the atmosphere. The frown twisted into a scowl. And he needed to think. Closing his eyes, he thought of Black Bill’s neat cell ...

  ... his mind culled news reports from over the past ten years. Then found what it was looking for.

  William Black. Lothian and Borders region. Sentenced to a minimum of thirty years for the rape and murder of five boys, none of whom had seen their tenth birthday.

  Sentenced to thirty years in a maximum security mental hospital.

  The Bar-L was neither maximum security or a hospital, but needs must ... when Hadrian held the reigns. It was not surprising Black was here: it was a surprise he was still alive. According to Telly, the man had been transferred from Peterhead, awaiting a bed at Carstairs. He thought about the small, neat segregation cell ... the faces ... the CD player. Not the cell of a prisoner in transit.

  Not the type of prisoner who usually had an easy time of it. Not the type of prisoner to attract visitors to his cell ...

  ... unless they were carrying weapons. Not the type of prisoner he’d expect Paul McGhee to be friendly with.

  Jas rubbed his face.

  Not the type.

  Judge not, lest ye be judged ...

  Jas tried to relax the muscles in his face.

  Ex-polis: possession with intent to supply ...

  ... thinking in types wasn’t productive.

  Types was meaningless.

  He ran a hand through hair: according to Black, Paul was intending to get in touch with a friend, after release and had been friendly with Ian Dalgleish during his sentence. The first piece of information took him nowhere.

  The second?

  Inside, there were few reasons for friendliness between officers and prisoners. Jas thought about the bullet-headed kid who’d driven him to London three years ago ...

  “Where is it?”

  Jas opened his eyes, poked his head out from the lower bunk. “Where’s whit?”

  “The fuckin’ piss-pot!”

  He swung his feet onto the floor and stood up. He didn’t need this ... not now.

  His cell-mate was standing beneath the barred window, face a study in fury.

  Jas stared at the semi-undressed man. For the first time he noticed the ridges of scar tissue decorating McStay’s chest. “Whit you on aboot? It’s ...” He dragged his eyes away from the wounds, to the corner.

  No piss-pot.

  His mind travelled back to this morning’s fracas in the showers, and an item thrown but not retrieved. “Sorry, ah ...”

  “Fuck sorry, pal!” McStay took a step towards him.

  Jas held his ground. Animosity crackled through the air between them.

  Two men. One cell. A hierarchy as yet unestablished.

  “Look, it’s no’ lights oot yet, there’ll be somewan still around ...” He turned, to the locked door and thumped twice. “Oi! Mr Brodie? Ah need ...”

  The forearm around his neck stifled the end of the sentence. Jas inhaled sharply, thrusting back with both elbows, then following their motion against the body behind him.

  The movement took McStay by surprise. He staggered, then toppled, loosening his grip in an attempt to break his fall.

  Jas twisted around, pulling free from the grip. “Whit’s your problem, pal?”

  “You’re ma fuckin’ problem!” McStay cleared his throat.

  Head flicking left, Jas avoided the bullet of phlegm. He seized his cell-mate’s naked shoulders.

  Tremors darted up and down muscle. He could smell the violence, smell ...

  “Ya fuckin’ ...!”

  Fingers gripped more tightly. He held McStay steady, brought up his knee and ...

  ... something hit him in the stomach, something hard and round. His knee impacted with McStay’s nose, missing the intended target in the face of the vicious head-butt. Jas fell back against the cell door, skull glancing off rusting iron, hands still gripping cold shoulders.

  Fingers clutched at his face, thumbs gouging at his eyes.

  He twisted away.

  Hands scrabbling for a grip. Someone was breathing hard and cursing. Gasping, Jas raised his knee again.

  The other leg hooked from under him, he fell backwards, spine jarring against the lower bunk. “Fuck, ya ...!” Fingers dug into hard flesh.

  McStay lunged forward, crushing him. Jas gritted his teeth, tasting blood in his mouth. He strained, bucking his hips against the heavy form.

  Nothing.

  He bucked again, muscles rigid, and rolled.

  Movement. Pulling him upright.

  Strong arms pinned his to the side of his body. Stronger legs pressed against him.

  His spine glanced off bare brick.

  Breathing in his ear – heavy, laboured breathing.

  Using his weight, Jas swore and pushed forward, using McStay’s motion to topple the man a second time.

  An elbow came loose. He rammed it into a soft stomach, felt the rest of the body go limp. His guts ached, his head spun from the glancing blow of the bunk’s edge. Jas grabbed a flailing fist as it zoomed towards his face, fingers tightening around a tensed wrist. With the other hand, he shoved his cell-mate back onto the floor.

  The man’s head landed with a thud.

  Jas registered the stunned look on McStay’s face, but didn’t stop.

  This wasn’t about piss-pots ...

  ... the faceless, innocent victims of this man’s homophobia floated in front of his eyes. He flattened McStay’s right arm on the stone floor, threw himself on top of the snarling body and grabbed the other arm.

  McStay bucked and heaved, roaring.

  His knees slid off a fleshy abdomen. Jas straddled thighs and glanced at the fine white lines which encircled the man’s wrists like bracelets. It took every ounce of his strength and weight to hold McStay there.

  The body beneath strained upwards, lips frothed with pink spittle, frustration contorting face.

  Two men. One cell. A power balance asserted.

  Jas scowled down, then lowered his head, stopping inches from his cell-mate’s bleeding nose. His stomach brushed a hardness.

  An unexpected hardness.

  Heart thumping in his ears, Jas moved his eyes from the enraged face to the crotch of the man’s regulation denims. He continued to grip McStay’s damaged wrists, staring at the raised outline.

  The arms in his grip tried to flex.

  Jas tensed, flicking eyes back up to his cell-mate’s face.

  McStay turned his head away.

  Beneath his chest and stomach, Jas could feel laboured breathing. His own groin ached with a new pain.

  McStay twisted in his grip ...

  ... and brought back Telly’s words: ‘... disney feel onythin’ when he’s in wanna they tempers ... ’ He thought about the razor, at present lurking in the mattress, then disregarded the thought. Moving down the erect, cursing semi-naked man, Jas nudged thighs apart and forced a knee against McStay’s balls.

  “Ya bastard! Ah’m gonny ...”

  “Ye’re gonny – whit?” Jas released one wrist, then regripped both with strong fingers. He waited for his damaged arm to let him down: it didn’t. He stared at ridges of white scar tissue and the blush which was spreading over the pale face, trickling down onto neck and chest.

  There was more here ...

  ... more than he wanted to deal with. With his free hand. Jas seized a chin, held the thrashing head steady.

  Then slapped.

  And slapped again.

  No punches. Pain wasn’t the object.

  The pale face reddened further but didn’t flinch.

  Jas scowled, hand stinging. “Open yer eyes!” />
  Lids clenched firmly shut.

  Beneath denim, vulnerable flesh flexed. Jas pressed his knee more firmly into the man’s groin.

  Eyelids shot open. Glazed amber glowered up at him.

  Easing himself off quivering flesh. Jas replaced his knee with his hand.

  The blush extended under jeans’ waistband towards the hard outline.

  Jas cupped tight balls, squeezing. “Forget the fuckin’ piss-pot, eh?” Instinctively, he rubbed the root of the hardness with a thumb. Blue eyes never left brown.

  Inches above his fist, the outline twitched.

  “Eh?” Jas squeezed again.

  “Aye – okay!”

  He released the wrists.

  McStay’s arms remained above his head. A gesture of defeat.

  Jas closed his eyes, feeling a man in the palm of his hand. The smell of two sweating bodies drifted into his nostrils. Jas scowled.

  His own prick itched against the zip of his combat pants. He opened his eyes and looked at the spoils of the fight.

  McStay’s chest was still heaving, the broad shoulders pushing down against the cold stone floor.

  Jas stared at the ridges of dead skin. Some looked old, some relatively new. Fingers tightened. He knew what he should do. Unzipping, he hauled his prick free from combat pants.

  McStay should be broken completely.

  The shaft flexed against his palm. His left hand still gripping the man’s balls, Jas stared at bloodied, swollen lips.

  He should take what was rightfully his.

  McStay would respect him for it.

  Word would shinny up the Bar-L’s grapevine. His position in the hierarchy would be established.

  Jas released denim-and-jersey-coated balls, moving up the defeated body. Knees in the hollows of his cell-mate’s armpits, he ran a hand down his own pulsing length. Eyes floorwards.

  McStay’s nose had stopped bleeding. A crust of crimson snot outlined the upper lip, frosting dark growth ...

  ... then Jas shoved prick back inside combat pants and pushed himself to his feet. A flicker of surprise on the angular features.

  He continued to stare as McStay hauled himself upright.

  His cell-mate stared back, skin flushed from exertion.

  Jas hoped the show was enough. Just in case it wasn’t ...

  ... turning away, he reached under lumpy bedding. Fingers brushed what was left of the heroin, then the steel of the denuded Bic. He drew the blade out. Voice behind:

  “Whit did ye dae wi’ that fuckin’ piss-pot, onyway?”

  Different sounding. Jas slid the blade back between bed-frame and mattress, and turned.

  A lop-sided grin. The expression rearranged the man’s features more than any beating could have.

  Jas tried to ignore the throbbing in his groin, and grin back. Semi-success. “Ah canny remember!”

  A laugh.

  He watched as his cell-mate reached towards the denim shirt which was draped over the end of the bunk.

  Fingers into pocket, two hand-rolled cigarettes produced. One extended.

  Jas took it. He lit both cigarettes, remembering tight ball-sac warm in his grip.

  His cell-mate inhaled, sighed. “Christ, ah needed that!” He sat down on the lower bunk.

  The smoke?

  But at least they were talking.

  After lights-out, each lying on his own bunk, they were still talking. Or one of them was.

  Jas glanced silently from the glowing tip of his cigarette to the McStay-shaped dip in the mattress above.

  Steven. Stevie.

  “Aye, that wiz ma sister, Carol – she took Sam an’ Haley, when ah got sent doon. She comes when she can, but it’s no’ easy – ah don’t like the kids seein’ me here, but.”

  The mattress-shape changed position. A sigh, then: “You got kids?”

  Jas frowned, flicked cigarette ash onto the stone floor. His mind was back with what he knew about Stevie McStay: the fights ...

  And what he didn’t.

  ... the scars, the frustration which had hung over the man like a storm cloud.

  None of his business ...

  A point had been made. A hierarchy had been established.

  ... he wanted to ask. None of his business. He wanted to ...

  “... Sam an’ Haley’s mother walked oot oan us – oh, don’t get me wrang – ah don’t blame her, ah’m no’ the ...” Half-laugh. “... easiest o’ bastards tae live wi’!”

  He stared up at the dent in the mattress. The storm cloud had burst, releasing a deluge. Ears drifted beyond the words.

  “... but me an’ the kids get by okay ...” Defensive. “... they’re both at school noo, so ah could still work. Carol’s been guid, helpin’ oot an’ stuff ...”

  The voice was husky from the cigarette. Smoky, like the thick haze floating down from above. It seeped into his ears, flooding his body in a soft, unwanted glow.

  “... she’s got three o’ her ain, says another two disney make ony difference.” Laugh.

  The sound was warm, good-natured. Jas responded in kind and managed a parody of humour. It was all he could do. His silence had been double-edged: the refusal to talk about himself had given Stevie more scope. The details only served to bite deeper than any razor blade.

  “Ye’re oan remand, eh Jas-man?”

  The title sent a shiver over his body. He leant out of the bunk, stubbed his cigarette on the cold stone floor and watched sparks fly then die. “Ten oota ten, pal!”

  Another laugh. No resentment in the sound.

  Jas stretched out on the cot and tried to ignore the throbbing in his groin. One tension had been replaced by another. He had to get his mind of it, he had to talk. “You?”

  The mattress-shape moved.

  Jas stiffened as a head appeared ox er the edge of the bunk above him:

  “Two years ...”

  He stared through smoky gloom at glowing brown eyes.

  Two more roll-ups extended downwards.

  Jas reached up, took one.

  Light flaring in the darkness.

  He moved towards the flame like a moth. In the yellow matchlight, Stevie’s face was very close. Jas stretched up his head, singed the tip of the cigarette, inhaled then moved back. He gripped the filter between thumb and forefinger, searching for a change of subject. “Kitchen-duties – that yer trade? Ootside, ah mean.” He lay back on his bunk, hoped Stevie would do likewise.

  The head continued to dangle, roll-up held between full lips. Frown. “Aye – they let me keep ma hand in.” A drag. An exhale.

  A cloud of smoke drifted across the air between them. Jas blew a grey oval. It swam towards the upside-down face.

  The frown slid into a scowl. Cigarette removed from lips, ash flicked beyond onto the floor. “An’ it keeps ma ... mind aff stuff, ken?”

  Jas knew. Hardness flexed against the fly of the combat pants.

  Stevie took a long draw of the cigarette. “Eight months left o’ ma sentence ...” Upside-down eyes stared towards the barred window. “... shouldda been six, but they added another two.”

  Something else in the voice now – the voice which refused to let blood leave his aching prick: sadness.

  Sleep pressed against his stinging eye-lids, seeping into his tired brain.

  “Ah, well ...” Sadness replaced by a philosophical yawn. Then more practical considerations.” Fuck, ah need a piss!”

  Jas smiled in the darkness. “Tie a knot in it!”

  A laugh.

  Jas frowned, remembering the feel of Stevie’s balls in his hand. “Git some sleep, eh?”

  “Aye – guid night, Jas-man.”

  He pinched the cigarette between thumb and forefinger, felt the burn. “Night, Stevie.”

  Sixteen

  BY THE TIME A BRODIE-CLONE unlocked the cell door, Stevie was clutching his groin and swearing.

  Jas watched his cell-mate dash past the grey uniform. He listened to the thump of work boots on metal.

&nbs
p; “No running!” An order delivered without conviction. Or effect.

  The bootsteps faded, but kept up speed.

  Jas grabbed his towel, moved out onto the walkway. For the first time in six days, he didn’t feel tired.

  Six days – only six days. More like weeks. Or months ...

  ... or minutes.

  BST. Barlinnie Standard Time. Time stretched could also contract.

  Telly.

  Black Bill.

  Gerry.

  Alliances formed swiftly ...

  Stevie.

  ... and viciously. Jas frowned.

  Time wasn’t the only constant to blur and bevel within the Bar-L’s stone walls. He had just acquired status – unwanted, but much needed ...

  The queue moved more quickly. Jas glimpsed the back of a step-cut head, four men in front. He peered beyond, into the shower block, and caught sight of a figure already under a faucet, washing vigorously.

  Stevie grinned and beckoned.

  ... with all the privileges that status carried. Jas glanced at the five men ahead of him in the queue, then broke ranks. He walked towards the middle shower.

  Stevie’s naked body shimmered, scars like Alps white and wet under a layer of lather. “It’s still there!” Soapy head nodded.

  He glanced at the errant piss-pot, and laughed, moving to retrieve a piece of Her Majesty’s property.

  “Naw, lea’ it, Jas-man – that’s ma job.”

  He nodded.

  Jas-man.

  The title was strange, but was growing on him. He watched fingers scrub ruthlessly at face and body, taking in the man’s bulk. Stevie seemed more relaxed, even under his obvious gaze.

  He glanced from one naked man to a queue of others.

  Several pairs of eyes glanced away.

  One rodent set stayed.

  Jas frowned at David Hamilton, who was watching him with a mixture of fear and confusion. He looked away, over towards where his cell-mate’s towel lay. Walking to the bench. Jas picked up the length of grey fabric, then returned to his previous position.

  He’d watched dozens of men shower.

  Men with whom he had just spent the night.

  Men he made hard.

  Men who made him hard.

  Men he had chosen, who had chosen him.

  All types of men ...

  He stared at Stevie’s back, eyes tracing the long line of flexing sinew between shoulders and the swell of solid buttocks.