Banged Up

by Jack Dickson

Jas shivered against the light.

  “Oh fuck!”

  He tried to move. Failed. He tried again, hauling himself upright. He opened his eyes, blinking against fluorescent glare.

  Stevie’s stare was wide, horrified: the dark had hidden the worst.

  Jas inched towards the wall, stared through half-shut eyes.

  His cell-mate was holding a bloodied T-shirt and an empty mineral-water bottle. Kneeling beside an aluminium bucket, Stevie dipped the rag into the piss-pot, squeezed excess out, then brought the make-shift sponge down above Jas’s right eye:

  “Stay still – ah’ve tried tae clean ya up a bit ... wanted tae keep the water til ye came round.” Dabbing. Surprisingly gentle.

  Ammonia tingled in his nostrils. “Kills all known germs, eh?” Desperation brought the humour.

  An attempt at a laugh.

  He needed to focus, he needed to stay with it ...

  Jas zeroed in on Stevie’s face.

  ... needed to fight the urge to roll into a ball and shut everything out. His visible cuts and bruises were the least serious. His guts throbbed, balls swollen and sore – immediate damage. The long-term variety worried him more. Inside, his body gaped from the intrusion.

  Desperation brought the thoughts – the reckless, irrational thoughts.

  Jas pushed them away. His brain thrust them back at him. His body pulsed with the illogical need to be clean, when any infection was a foregone conclusion, occurring in seconds.

  The trickling on the back of his thighs was moving more quickly. He stared at Stevie’s furrowed brow and willed his mind to stop functioning.

  Panic rose before him, smashing out everything he knew and leaving only unsound, wishful thinking. “There much left?” Voice was a croak. He eyed the piss-pot.

  The hand paused. “Enough – get ye tae the showers soon an’ ...”

  “Pour it intae ma arse.” He eased himself onto his right side, muscle twisting and tearing as new sections brushed the stone floor. If there had been acid, he would have bathed in it willingly.

  “Whit?”

  Jas inhaled sharply, then managed to manoeuvre himself onto his belly. “They came in me ...” Every movement was agony. “... an’ ah’m fuckin’ bleedin’!” Raising himself onto one elbow, he glanced over his shoulder. “Do it. man! Come on!” He gripped quivering flesh, pulled against instinctive clenching.

  Confusion, hesitation painted the pale face.

  He watched Stevie lift the aluminium bucket with both hands, then looked away.

  The piss burned like acid.

  Stevie poured carefully.

  Fingers clenched into fists, knuckles scraping raw on the stone floor. “If it wiz good enough fur the Romans tae bleach their togas wi’, it’s good enough fur me!”

  “Whit?”

  “Nothin’! Keep pourin’!” Coldness through the burning heat. He tried to draw the liquid up into him, hold it there.

  To cauterise.

  To seal ...

  ... to ...

  ... rings of fire tightened.

  He clenched his arse-cheeks. Then clenched higher, and became aware of new muscle ... raw, searing muscle.

  Jas closed his eyes, felt the scream build in his lungs. He held it like he held the piss. Scorched tissue seemed to soak up the stinging liquid. He began to shake ...

  “Oh fuck ... oh fuck ...”

  ... he staggered backwards on all fours, then squatted. Hands on his waist, guiding. The rim of the piss-pot dug into thighs. Sweat poured from his brow, his pits. Stevie’s arms tight around his waist, his head on Stevie’s shoulder, Jas released his sphincter.

  The cell was filled with splattering. The stink made him gag. The relief made him shake more violently. Jas lowered his head and hugged himself. A blanket around his shoulders. Arms around the blanket. He slumped forward onto his knees.

  The shivering subsided as something warm and gentle dabbed and wiped at his arse and thighs. Then a cigarette between dry lips.

  Match struck. Stevie held the roll-up still as he lit it.

  Jas sucked smoke into his aching lungs, drawing the nicotine deep into his brain. It mixed with shimmering adrenalin and helped keep alive what he wanted to forget.

  The bleeding stopped. Eventually.

  By the time keys scraped on metal, he’d managed into T-shirt and a pair of Stevie’s briefs. The cell door opened. Jas stared at the grey uniform, watched a snub nose wrinkle in distaste then anger:

  “Ya dirty bastards! Get this shitehole cleaned up straight after slop-out!”

  Stevie took a step towards the rapidly disappearing grey back.

  Jas caught a rigid arm. “Ah canny prove onythin’ – an’ who would ah try an’ prove it tae, onyway?” At least he could talk.

  Cold brown eyes.

  Jas rubbed Stevie’s biceps.

  Brown eyes thawing a little. “Aye, well ...” Unconvinced.

  Jas cased himself off the wall, picked up jeans and made his way to the door. Behind, he heard the clang of the empty piss-pot.

  At least he could walk. Jas inched slowly towards the showerblock.

  All sorts of power ...

  ... all sorts of privileges.

  Neil Johnstone had just exercised one of his.

  Jas stumbled past the queue, stopped under a vacant faucet. He pulled off the T-shirt, turned his face up to the shower-head and drank in the soothing heat.

  He closed his eyes.

  He didn’t move.

  He didn’t wash.

  Water flowed over him. Warmth seeped through his skin. He let it soothe and try to heal the unhealable.

  Hands on his shoulders.

  Jas opened his eyes, levelled his head.

  Stevie.

  Naked.

  Holding a larger-than-usual bar of carbolic.

  Jas glanced right, then left.

  Nothing. No eyes – no grey uniforms.

  His gaze returned to Stevie ...

  ... and saw only tiled wall. But felt fingers. Jas lowered his eyes.

  Soapy hands eased down soaking briefs and began to lather his thighs. He stared at the man who knelt before him and thought of other men ...

  ... Jas tensed.

  The hand stopped abruptly. Soft brown eyes looked up. “Sorry! Did ah hurt ye?”

  He gazed down. The gentleness and concern made his guts turn over. He shook his head.

  Vague, reassured smile. Then head relowered. The soaping continued. As Stevie washed every inch of his bruising body, Jas’s mind focused.

  Last night ...

  ... the pain was lessening, making room for anger. And curiosity. He remembered what that impulse did to cats. Amidst the jumble of taunts, one comment lingered:

  ... keep yer nose oota whit disney concern ye ...

  Stevie’s fingers moved into his hair, rubbing vigorously.

  He moaned, tried to relax into the movement, fists clenching.

  Hands wiping sudsy water from his face. Jas blinked his eyes open. A bell rang.

  He turned his head and watched a pudgy man demurely pass Stevie a remarkably fluffy-looking towel. He stepped out from beneath the faucet, caught the towel handed to him, and began to dry himself.

  Another bell rang. He shivered, needing longer, needing more time ... the warmth was bringing back the ache ...

  ... and the desire to curl into a ball and stay there. Jas tossed the towel, watched it snatched one-hand, mid-air. Walking to the bench, damp men moved to give him room. He leant against the wall, muscle and sinew loosening and stiffening by turns. Awkwardly, he pulled on combat pants, his cell-mate’s thigh inches from his face.

  Cell-mates ...

  ... Jas frowned up at his ersatz nurse.

  All sorts of power.

  All sorts of relationships ...

  ... one of which was being tested by another source?

  He eased feet into boots, which had appeared from somewhere. Jas straightened up.

  The room swayed.

&nbs
p; He clutched at a shoulder solid and reassuring, brought his mouth close to Stevie’s ear and thought about other, more short term damage: to his reputation. “It’ll be aw’ roon’ the Hall, that ah wis ...”

  “They’ll ken ye wur worked over – nothin’ mair.” Tight words.

  Tighter hands on his shoulders:

  “Who did this tae ye, Jas-man?”

  He felt himself held, then pushed back a little. Fingers gripping:

  “Wiz it over that wee toe-rag ye gave the H to?”

  Jas raised his head. “Neil Johnstone.” He stared into angry brown eyes.

  “Mystic fuckin’ Meg?” A headshake. “Whit’s he got tae dae wi’ you?”

  The truth? Jas scrutinised the eyes inches from his.

  Confused brown eyes.

  His own head was in a parallel state. Jas cupped a hand behind Stevie’s neck, ruffling stubbly hair. The gesture was affable, affectionate – inadequate.

  Brown eyes acknowledge the deficiency. Stevie frowned, twisted away.

  Jas stared at Stevie’s naked back: “Neil an’ me go way back ...” Stevie spun round. “Whit ye wanna go pokin’ aroon’ in other folk’s ... private business?”

  The question took him by surprise. “Whit ye oan aboot?”

  Stevie looked down. Face dried with towel.

  There was something else here. Jas snatched the towel away. The sound of running faucets and unspoken words. “Tell me!”

  Pink face raised to his. Fingers gripped his shoulders again. “You tell me whit’s between you an’ Johnstone, Jas-man! An’ ah want the truth.”

  “Break it up, you two!” Voice from the end of the shower block. “... an’ should you no’ be in the kitchen, McStay?”

  Jas refocused, saw the shower block was empty, apart from himself, Stevie and a Brodie-clone.

  “Jist goin’ ...” His cell-mate moved away, then turned. Eyes still narrowed. “... tell me, eh?”

  Jas could only nod. Stevie had more than earned his trust.

  Nineteen

  TELLY AND THE REST of the table maintained a stony silence.

  No eyes met his, although several hands refilled his coffee-cup several times.

  Jas chewed on over-cooked fried egg. Grease slicked and soothed the cut on his bottom lip. He pushed the plate away and leant back on the hard, plastic chair. The food hit his stomach like a punch.

  Three hands offered him a cigarette. Two were roll-ups. He accepted the one that wasn’t.

  Another hand lit it for him.

  Jas inhaled, scanned the room.

  A greyer presence than usual.

  He stared at three uniformed faces, knew they registered his. If his injuries were half as bad as they felt, the bruising should not go noticed.

  Hear no evil, see no evil ...

  Jas exhaled a cloud of blue-grey smoke. He examined the features of a Hadrian officer he hadn’t seen before, caught and held a tentative grey gaze. Which immediately flicked away.

  ... led to all sorts of chaos. He continued to scan the room. At yesterday’s table, David Hamilton’s seat was occupied by a scraggy, bearded man who seemed more intent on listening to his food than eating it. Jas examined the yellow egg-yolk which decorated the man’s cheeks like war-paint.

  He was right about the war ...

  Details of his nocturnal visit crouched in his mind.

  ... the enemy was less easily identified. Last night, four men had gained the keys to his cell: keys, not a makeshift jemmy like the last time.

  Jas’s eyes circled the room.

  All sorts of crimes.

  All sorts of criminals ...

  ... facilitating the theft of keys was little short of criminal neglect. Jas pushed pointless anger from his mind and listened to the sounds of subdued men eating.

  Men subdued by fear and boredom.

  Something had to give.

  Eventually, something would ...

  ... and Jas hoped to hell he was beyond these walls when it finally did. A hand on his shoulder sent shudders through his body. A voice in his ear neutralised the shiver:

  “Mr Dalgleish wants to see you, Anderson.”

  He pushed back his chair and followed the Hadrian officer towards the gate.

  A room full of eyes bored into his back.

  The intricately carved chess-set sat in the middle of the desk.

  Gunmetal eyes glanced up as the officer led him forward. A nod ...

  ... then the sound of a door closing.

  Jas examined the arrangement of chessmen. “Yer queen’s under threat.”

  Sounds of standing, then a voice close. “When did this happen?”

  He continued to stare at the checkered board. Accusations minus proof were no good to anyone ...

  ... as was lagging on their basis.

  “Who did this?”

  Jas focused on the one remaining black knight, which languished at the other end of the board. He flicked his eyes to the face at his side. “No’ like you tae waste a valuable piece.”

  “Tell me ...” Barely restrained irritation. “... Sergeant Anderson – an’ that’s an order!”

  The authoritative tone tugged at polis training. But they were on different sides of the fence now. Jas looked back to the board. “Ah wiz locked in ma cell from when ah left here last night til they opened the door this ...”

  “McStay?”

  Jas stared at the chess pieces: three days ago – another, less damaging but equally illicit visit. Last night had been – different: more organised, in every sense of the word. “Naw, but either somewan in this place has an unauthorised set of keys or ...” His mind drifted to Brodie, Pepperpot ... and the man in Hadrian grey who had taunted Stevie yesterday. “... wanna your officers let four men intae ma cell tae beat an’ ...” His voice rose then cracked at the memory.

  Barely restrained denial. “Ma men ur ...”

  “Yer men ur young, badly trained an’ flickin’ useless!” He knew he was shouting.

  A firm hand on his shoulder. “Sit down ...”

  He flinched, remembering other hands. His legs began to shake. Jas staggered towards a chair, knocking the chessboard aside as he tried to steady himself. He watched the black queen roll from one end of the board to the other.

  Sound behind. Then a glass thrust at him. “... drink this ...”

  Jas took the glass, swallowed the water and wished it was something stronger. “Sorry aboot yer game ...”

  “Ye don’t need tae tell me.” Calm voice. “Wi’ the bad blood between the two o’ you, this huz Johnstone’s signature aw’ over it.”

  Jas stared at his empty glass.

  “Ah warned ye aboot dealin’ ...”

  He could hear the sounds of bootsteps on nylon carpeting as the man paced. Jas strained to make sense of the remark.

  “... ah shouldda said mair.” Sigh. “Christ!” Pause.

  The empty glass shrank then came back into focus. Ian Dalgleish’s words swam as the man began to talk:

  “Ah’m tellin’ ye this fur yer own guid – an’ cos ah’d hate tae see ye gettin’ mixed up in onythin.” Pause. “Johnstone’s the biggest dealer in here. He’s organised, the drugs ur top quality ...”

  His mind raced.

  Neil Johnstone ...

  ... from hot-wirer to drugs baron in three years? His brothers would be proud of him.

  “... an’ he obviously thinks ye’re tryin’ tae muscle in.”

  Jas frowned. “Whit happened tae Hadrian’s nae-drugs-in-Barlinnie line?”

  “They huv their function in penal establishments. We’re never gonny eradicate the problem, so we’re tryin’ tae limit it.”

  Jas stared at the glass. “Tae heroin?”

  “It’s whit they want.”

  “A drugged prisoner is a happy prisoner?” He tried to keep the sarcasm out of his voice. He raised his head.

  Gunmetal eyes narrowed. “If supply can be restricted tae wan dealer, it can be controlled ...” Dalgleish leaned a
cross the desk. “... it took a while, an’ a lotta work, but we re gettin’ there ...”

  He glanced up. “You’re turnin’ a blind eye to criminal activity ...” The phrase made him flinch, bringing back twenty-year-old memories. Alan Somerville.

  “There ur ... degrees of criminality.”

  The justification only served to heighten his recall. Jas pushed the past away and thought about less distant mistakes: all he had done for the last two days was offer H around like sweeties. All he had done was draw Johnstone’s already antagonistic attention. Dalgleish talked through the thoughts:

  “Ah don’t have the manpower to organise an escorted visit tae a GP, but there’s a guy in E-Hall wi’ a nursin’ qualification if ye ...”

  “Ah’ll live.” Jas raised his eyes ...

  Last night’s wet intrusion into his body tugged at his mind.

  ... and met gunmetal scrutiny of his face:

  “That lip looks nasty ...” Frown. “... but ah take it there’s nae lasting damage done?”

  He tried not to think about the dull ache inside, which immediately flowered into a jabbing, psychosomatic heat: a vision of tiny, viral cells beating his into submission was something no one could do anything about.

  Ian Dalgleish took and refilled his glass from a bottle of spring water which stood on top of the filing cabinet, then handed it back. “Can ye identify ony o’ them?”

  Jas stared at the glass. Faces blurred in the face of last night. Even if he could ... he couldn’t – for the same reason no prisoner could. He placed the glass on the desk. “Ah think you should maybe reconsider if giein’ Neil Johnstone even more clout than he’s awready got’s such a guid idea ...”

  “Ye’re no’ in the Force, noo ...” Low baritone. “... ah – Hadrian – ken whit we’re doin’.”

  He raised his eyes from the glass and looked at the face of the ex-police officer with whom he had served six months of his probation. The man who had taught him chess almost two decades ago ...

  ... the man who had listened, when his own father’s face twisted and turned away ...

  ... the man with whom he had arrested and restrained Alan Somerville.

  Gunmetal stared back. “Lea’ it tae us: forget aboot the drugs – an’ Neil Johnstone: ye’re ainly makin’ trouble for yersel’, whit wi’ the grudge he’s awready holdin’.”