Banged Up

by Jack Dickson

  “Shut yer fuckin’ ...!” Stevie lunged forward. Two pairs of hands grabbed his arms:

  “Want assaultin’ an officer added to the charges, McStay?”

  Jas scowled. “Lea’ him alain!”

  The hands on his arms regripped. “Ken whit the penalty is fur huvin’ a weapon in yer cell?”

  He twisted in the grip. “Ah lose ma privileges?” No response. Then a flushed face inches from his. Low voice:

  “You’ll lose privileges ye never knew ye had! Now, get a move on – ye can tell yer tale o’ woe tae Mr Dalgleish!”

  Jas continued to frown as he was propelled, with a struggling Stevie, down a metal staircase.

  “Thanks. Jim – ah can handle this.”

  Jas stood in front of a large desk, in a small room. He watched the officer who had taunted Stevie exchange glances with Ian Dalgleish, then reluctantly leave. He returned his gaze to the broken Bic, the condoms and the Vaseline, which lay on a pile of blue folders. “That lot’s mine – all o’ it: McStay had nothin’ tae dae wi’ ...”

  “Why?” Gunmetal eyes bored up at him. Disappointment and frustration shone from both barrels.

  Once, this man’s approval had been everything to him. Jas felt himself struggling to justify present failure. “Ah didney ken whit ah wiz walkin’ intae, comin’ in here – the razor’s fur protection ...” He frowned. “... so’s the condoms!”

  Ian Dalgleish stood up and strode over to a filing cabinet. “Ah should put ye oan a charge – you ken that ...”

  His eyes focused on the small, intricately carved chess-set which sat on top of the filing cabinet, game in progress.

  “... but ah’m more interested in the heroin ye’ve bin flashin’ around: where ye bought it, and where ye’ve stashed it.” The bulky figure turned.

  Jas stared. “Who tipped ye aff?”

  Ian Dalgleish lifted the black knight from the chess board and stroked its rigid mane. “Cell searches are routine – we try tae dae it with all new prisoners ...” Gunmetal eyes cocked. “... for their ain safety.”

  Jas raised an eyebrow.

  “Where did ye get the H?”

  Jas bit his lip: grassing Mhairi up would do no one any good, himself most of all.

  Gunmetal eyes blazing. “Don’t even think aboot dealin’ – Barlinnie is a drugs-free zone.”

  He remembered Telly’s offer, the other transactions he’d witnessed while washing corridors. Jas’s eyebrow arched further. “Aw’, come oan ...” He wanted to laugh, but knew this was no laughing matter.

  Dalgleish walked back to the desk, still holding the black knight. “Ah want a list o’ yer customers ...”

  He knew Officer Dalgleish had put two and two together, and made the usual four. “Ah’m no dealer.”

  The statement ignored. “Hadrian are taking a very hard line oan drugs.” The bulky man sat down. “Barlinnie hud a serious problem, when we took over fae the SPS ...”

  Jas stared.

  “... aw’ prisons have – you ken that. Maist fights are over drugs, and ma men have enough tae dae, withoot constantly drug-busting.” The black knight placed on the desk between them. “Eradicate that problem, and maist others go too – it’s oor primary mission statement.”

  Jas stared at the chess piece. “Ground Control tae Hadrian – come in Hadrian!” He wondered what world Ian Dalgleish was living in. Then remembered two sides of one fence. Opposite sides.

  Gunmetal eyes narrowed. “Control the drugs ...” Dalgleish leaned across the desk and looked up at him. “... an’ ye control Barlinnie.”

  Jas stared from the black knight to the contraband. “The condoms aren’t fur transportin’ H. Ah’m no’ ...”

  “Dae ye understand what I’m saying?”

  He glanced up. “Are ye askin’ me tae believe there’s nae drugs in ...?”

  “We’re workin’ oan it – an’ we’re getting there. Barlinnie’s a lot cleaner – an’ safer – a place tae be than it wis.”

  Jas recalled the screaming boy, three cells down, the threats he’d received ...

  ... was still receiving. Drugs were only part of the problem. But arguing the toss was pointless. He repeated the truth. “The johnnies urney fur transportin’ drugs.”

  The implication acknowledged. “Ah should still pit ye oan a charge.” Broad fingers picked up a condom, turned the foil package over, the held it out. “Ye ken the official Scottish Office line on male-tae-male sex?”

  Jas frowned.

  “... it disney happen – because if it did, it wid be criminal activity, since prison is defined as a public place ...”

  “Well, that policy’s no’ exactly been a roaring success.” Jas scowled. “Needles and flickin’ have already got ye 150 HIV positive men ...”

  Dalgleish stood up. “... who are isolated, and will be given condoms if an’ when they ur released.”

  Jas clenched his fists and thought about the three well-muscled men he had encountered while washing corridors. “Ah’ whit good does that dae onywan they take a dislike tae, in here?”

  “Ah’m no’ saying we’ve solved all Barlinnie’s problems ...” Gunmetal eyes blazed, then looked away. “Rome wasn’t built in a day ...”

  “Aye, but it burnt doon in wan.” Everyone knew drugs had a place in prisons: cannabis helped relieve the boredom and calm things down. Failure to acknowledge this fact, let alone attempt to eradicate drugs completely, was tantamount to idiocy.

  Ian Dalgleish was no idiot: did the order come from above? Livingston?

  He stared at iron-grey hair: doped-up or otherwise – acknowledged or otherwise – tensions would continue to simmer in any prison. He watched Ian Dalgleish pluck the black knight from the desk and replace the piece on the chess-board:

  “Let me give ye a bitta advice, Anderson: don’t ...” Turning. “... get involved in onythin ...”

  David Hamilton flashed into his mind. “Whit makes ye think ah want tae?”

  Gunmetal eyes stared back. “You huv been observed ...”

  Jas blinked. CCTV? Hadrian officers? Or snitches?

  “... an’ if ye have ony heroin left, get rid o’ it.”

  The truth. “Ah’ve done that ...” More truth. “... an’ ah’ve no’ intention o’ either usin’ or dealin’.” He searched the face for belief.

  Gunmetal eyes focused on the contraband. “Did ye buy this lot wi’ the H?” Eyes raised to his.

  He looked away and let silence lie for him, remembering the present destination of the remainder of the smack.

  A sigh. Something like relief. “Aye, well ah canny blame ye fur that, ah suppose.” Dalgleish flicked open a folder, picked up a pencil. “This isney the safest place fur you tae be.” Pause. “Yer trial’s – fourth of December?” Eyes raised.

  Jas met the gaze. Paul McGhee and the Black Bill-sourced information shot into his mind. “Hadrian in the market fur grasses?”

  Curious smile. “Ye’ll only be here – whit, another five weeks?” Smile slipping. “... and ye’ll be doin’ well if ye ...”

  “Ah’m no’ volunteerin’ – ah’m wonderin’ aboot a friend o’ a friend. He got oota here, coupla months ago.”

  Quizzical iron-grey eyebrow raised.

  Jas supplied the name.

  Gunmetal eyes narrowing. “McGhee?”

  Jas nodded.

  Stare, then slow headshake. “The name means nothin’.” Frown. “You ony idea o’ the administrative chaos Hadrian walked intae, when the SPA called that strike?” Quizzical again. “Whit’s yer interest in this guy?”

  The truth? “His sister used to snitch fur me, years ago. We keep in touch ...”

  Understanding in the gunmetal grey. “Ah – the lassie wi’ the scarred face? Yer visitor, yesterday?”

  Mhairi had made her usual impression. Jas nodded.

  Dalgleish stood up. “Pretty lassie – shame aboot that scar ...” He walked around the desk.

  “So her brither wisney grassin’ for ye, then – or ony
o’ yer men?”

  “Like ah said, the name means nothin ...” File flicked shut. “... noo, keep yer nose clean ...”

  Jas turned towards the door.

  “... and ah’ll see whit ah can dae aboot gettin’ ye a single cell.” Jas paused. Him and Hamster both?

  “There’s nae room in Isolation, but ye should at least be moved. McStay’s ...”

  “... ah’m fine where ah am.” Jas turned.

  Surprised. “You didney waste ony time!”

  Jas savoured the respect: at least he’d got one thing right.

  “Watch yersel’ wi’ McStay, though.” Dalgleish talked on. “The guy’s goat problems. They ainly tolerate him in the kitchens cos he’s an excellent cook ...” Laugh. “... make someone a lovely wife!”

  Jas flinched under the innuendo. “Ah ken whit ah’m doin’.”

  “Do ye, now?” Vaguely amused. “Aye, well ah suppose ye do.” Black knight re-plucked from board. “Ah was thinking about the auld days earlier ...” The carved piece held between thumb and forefinger. “... knights were your downfall, if ah remember correctly – ye eyeways underestimated their ability to move around the board.” Dalgleish reached past him, grabbed the door handle and pulled. “McStay! In here – noo!”

  Jas edged out of the office.

  Stevie’s glowering form pushed in, flanked by Hadrian grey. The door reclosed.

  As he stood, flanked by similar officers. Jas’s mind returned to the black knight ...

  ... and a Gorbals sergeant’s skill at chess.

  Door slammed shut. Keys scraping. Early lock-up as punishment. Stevie had lost kitchen privileges.

  Silence.

  Jas stared at the small, barred window then turned.

  Stevie scowled, eyes scanning the debris of the recent cell search. Then focusing.

  Jas followed his gaze. A heap of blankets, pillows and stuffing littered the floor. One of the mattresses was ripped beyond use. On top of the pile, a small, Polaroid-coloured rectangle.

  Stevie crouched, picked up the photograph.

  Jas watched the movement.

  Waves of antagonism radiated up from the lowered head, directed outwards, to beyond the locked door.

  Jas grabbed the mineral-water bottle, unscrewed the top and took a slug of Eau de Bar-L. He wiped his mouth, staring at two clenched fists, one held a connection with outside ...

  ... the other was a way of life inside.

  Silence.

  He took another drink. The water was cold, at least. Jas stared at the kneeling man.

  Then Stevie balled the torn photograph in a hard fist and slammed his hand against bare brick.

  And slammed it again.

  And again.

  Jas gripped the arm just before the fourth punch. Tremors rippled through a pulsing biceps, travelling up fingers, wrist and ending in his guts.

  Stevie’s body was rigid and shaking. Blood poured from knuckle grazes, trickling down the back of the quivering hand and onto the sleeve of the biker’s jacket.

  Jas knelt behind, his other hand gripping Stevie’s shoulder. He watched his fingers tighten on hard muscle, felt the resistance.

  It took all his strength to lower the fist.

  It took more than strength to pull the man back against him, holding tight around the solid pectorals. Jas trapped Stevie’s arms against his sides.

  No resistance.

  Stevie sank back onto his chest.

  Jas could feel hard sinew, still tensed and trembling. Maintaining his grip, he stared at the well-worn leather of his own biker’s jacket, staring at the scars on the man’s wrists.

  They sat in silence, on a bed of ripped mattress, tangled bedding and Telly’s contraband underwear.

  He inhaled the smell of sweat and something less easily identifiable, but deeply familiar.

  Anger and frustration he knew only too well ...

  ... knew how they ate into everything.

  After a while, Jas slackened his grip, turning Stevie’s broad form around to face him.

  The brown eyes lowered, refused to meet his.

  Jas didn’t push it.

  Time was one tiling he had plenty of.

  Bells rang.

  No meals arrived.

  Stomach grumbling, he grabbed one end of a ripped mattress. Together they heaved the remnants of bedding onto the top bunk. The knuckles of Stevie’s right hand were bound in a pair of contraband underwear.

  The photograph had been meticulously flattened, the creases pressed out. A faintly rumpled woman and two smiling children again beamed down at him from bare brick.

  He kicked the empty piss-pot, then lit a cigarette, sinking to a crouch against the wall.

  “Can ah cadge wan?”

  Jas extended the packet and fumbled for matches.

  Stevie inhaled, then blew a smoke ring. “Bastard!” The word rang hollow, inadequate.

  “Who?”

  “Dalgleish!” Smoke flaring from nostrils.

  Jas exhaled. Hating screws was par for the course.

  Stevie leant against the re-righted bunks. “Telt me this wis ma last warnin’ ...” Scowling lips blew smoke over his head.

  Jas stared up at his cell-mate. Darker red was seeping through the scarlet underwear.

  “Did me fur assaultin’ an officer, six weeks ago.” Voice tightening. “Wiz a fuckin’ accident – ah didney ... ken whit ah wiz daein’ – jist tryin’ tae get away an’ ...” Voice almost inaudible. “... wish noo ah really had assaulted him, the number o’ poor bastards Dalgleish’s fucked over since!”

  He gripped the cigarette between thumb and forefinger.

  “Ah ken aboot you, Jas-man ...” Words slow, deliberate. “... you fucked the polis back, eh?” Head lowered.

  Jas stood up. “They returned the compliment!”

  Snorting laugh. “Ah kent you wurney a druggy – yer lassie bring in the H fur ye?”

  He eyeballed the man inches away. No sign of the earlier anger – no sign of the rage which had nearly broken the bones in Stevie’s fingers. He wanted to keep it that way. Too many tensions already. Jas knelt, began to unlace boots. “Aye ...”

  The hardness beneath his jeans was a surprise, uncomfortable in every way.

  He didn’t want to think about Paul or Mhairi McGhee ...

  Boots kicked free.

  ... he didn’t want to think about Neil Johnstone, and other antagonisms he didn’t need ...

  Socks dragged off, stuffed into boots.

  ... he didn’t want to think about Dalgleish, and whether Hadrian had or had not been using Paul McGhee as a grass ...

  T-shirt pulled off, draped over the end of the bunk.

  ... he didn’t want to think about the way the head of his cock rubbed against the fly of his jeans.

  He didn’t want to think at all. Jas crouched, then stretched out, arms braced. “Count fur me, yeah?”

  “Whit?” Surprise.

  “Jist count.”

  “Sure, Jas-man.” The voice was closer.

  He stared at the floor.

  Stevie’s boots entered his line of vision.

  He closed his eyes and began the push-ups.

  Stevie’s voice punctured the sound of his breathing ...

  ... then a fist beneath his chest. He felt the dampness, hoped it was sweat and not bloody underwear.

  At twenty, he was skimming skin.

  At forty, the bone between his pecs was impacting hard on the fleshy marker.

  At sixty, he was back in the gym, and the fist belonged to Ali, Jimmy – one of any of a dozen men with whom he trained regularly.

  At seventy, low words in his ear:

  “Jeez, Jas-man!”

  Elbows locked in the raised-arm position, he opened his eyes. Heat rippled up and down bi and triceps. Three inches below. Stevie’s undamaged fist was strong and steady.

  “... fuckin’ impressive!”

  Jas scowled, sank back onto knees. He didn’t want to impress. Wiping face
and chest with the T-shirt, he lay down on his back, knees raised. Jas clasped hands behind his head.

  Pressure on his ankles. Warm pressure.

  He flinched.

  Stevie held his feet tightly. “Wan ...”

  He touched forehead to knees, eyes closed.

  “... two ...”

  Forehead to knees.

  “... three ...”

  Forehead to knees. Cock against thigh.

  “... four ...”

  Forehead ... knees ... cock ... belly ...

  “... five ...”

  Forehead ... knees ... cock ... stomach muscles trembling ...

  ... somewhere between twenty-five and thirty, a bell rang and the lights went out. Fingers gripped ankles, tighter than ever.

  Jas opened his eyes, continued the sit-ups.

  Through the darkness, he met Stevie’s luminous gaze every five seconds. He tried to slow down, lengthen the gaps.

  The counting continued, maintaining the pace.

  At fifty, one hand released his ankles and reached behind his head, holding him upright.

  Throat burning, chest hammering, guts churning, prick aching, Jas stared through the darkness at the face inches from his.

  Breath on his cheek ...

  ... on his eyes, his forehead, his ...

  Soft laugh. “Take it easy, eh? Ye’ll damage yersel’!”

  Jas ducked out from under the hand behind his neck and stood up.

  Damage ... the sobs of a desperate boy, three cells down ... David Hamilton’s terrified face ...

  He walked to the window, gripped two iron bars and hauled himself up.

  ... the ridges of scar tissue which crossed Stevie’s body like battle-lines ...

  Jas stared out at the night lights of Riddrie, then straighten his arms and gazed at brick.

  ... all types of damage.

  He bent his elbows. Riddrie appeared.

  He straightened his arms. Riddrie vanished..

  Movement in the darkness behind.

  Jas continued the pull-ups, trying to ignore the closeness of Stevie, trying not to listen to the lowering of a zip. Sweat trickled from his pits, the hair on his chest was damp and cold. Head lowered, he stared at his bare feet. Moisture dripped through eyebrows, stinging his eyes. He closed them.