Kicking Off

by Jan Needle

  ‘Listen,’ Lister said. ‘If you speak to me once more, without I give you my express permission, I’ll do this to you properly, OK? I’ll starve your brain of oxygen until it dies. You’ll be a vegetable. Deaf and fucking dumb. If you understand me, collapse.’

  He let go, smiling sardonically as the man crumpled to the floor. You had to keep a sense of humour, didn’t you? The prison officers knew that he had done something, and it intrigued them. Old Mickie White made no complaint, and there was not a mark visible on him. But the next time they had opened up the cell, he had been staring at Lister in transparent terror, pressed against the wall beside his bed. The officers had asked him what was wrong, and he had violently shaken his head. Maybe, they thought, he’d bought a drink somehow. More likely, this strange American had got to him.

  Most of the officers in Bowscar were reasonable men, who only actively disliked and despised the vile and violent specimens. Some of them had a sneaking regard for a number of the prisoners, while people like Mick White they were in general sorry for, and regretted the mockery and beatings they received – even when the beaters were their fellow officers. But in this case, none of them could see a way to signal to the American that White should be left alone, or that there would be trouble. It was inexpressible, naturally, but they all knew it: they were afraid.

  On the second day, three officers were detailed to take Lister to a contact cell for interrogation. Two plainclothes policemen, rumoured to be Special Branch, had arrived by prior arrangement to question him on matter or matters unspecified. They were large men, broad shouldered and fit, and they made little effort to conceal their higher status in the world of fighting crime. They informed the duty officer who allocated the contact room that their requirement was for absolute isolation, with no chance of being overheard.

  No hovering, they implied. No little boys trying to muscle in on big boys’ games. Lister, when his cell was opened, was sitting at the small table with a pack of cards in front of him. He had not cut them, but was holding them face downwards in a deck. If the spyhole on the cell was opened at almost any time he would be found like that, not moving, not playing with the cards. Poor gregarious Mickie was usually on his bed, stone silent.

  The two detectives were seated at one side of a plain formica table. The prison officers guided Lister in, then stood awkwardly, unsure what to do. Normally they’d have exchanged a word or two, had some banter. The detectives remained hard-faced.

  ‘This is Charles Lister,’ said prison officer Ted Taylor, finally. ‘We won’t be far away. I expect you know how—’

  ‘Sit down, Charles.’ The screws were ignored entirely. ‘We’ve got some questions for you.’

  When the officers had gone, one of the detectives drew a packet of Marlboro from his pocket and offered it. Clearly the rules did not apply to them. Lister took a cigarette, and the lighter. He inhaled deeply. He gestured round the small, bare room.

  ‘Is this clean?’

  ‘It’s a prison, Charlie. Not the Lubyanka.’

  The American’s eyes were pale blue through the smoke. He took another draw before he spoke. He was breathing deeply.

  ‘Then why the fuck,’ he said clearly, ‘am I in it? What the fuck went wrong? And when the fuck do I get out?’

  The bigger of the detectives had close-cropped, greying hair. He took his lighter off the table and fiddled with it.

  ‘Something went wrong,’ he said. ‘Some politician pulled a stunt, changed the whole scenario overnight. By the time we got the buzz, it was too late. We sent a car to St Albans so fast a policewoman’s knickers melted. You’d gone. Short of ramming the prison truck we’d blown it.’ He snapped the lighter on.

  ‘Fuck-up. Grade A. Sorry.’

  The smaller man was sweating. He brushed his temples, from back to front, with the thumb side of his hands. Lister let smoke trickle from his mouth and rise beside his nostrils. Whatever they’d expected, he stayed calm.

  ‘We had a deal. I’ve got to be out of England by a specific date. I’ve got one whole gigantic stack of bucks riding on this date, and that’s only an instalment. When do I get out?’

  The spokesman tapped moodily with the plastic lighter.

  ‘We know who fingered you,’ he said. ‘If it hadn’t been for him the Customs wouldn’t have had to go for you just yet. We wouldn’t have had to start this bloody farce.’

  Before Lister could reply, the smaller man chipped in.

  ‘His name is Forbes. Andrew Forbes. Some sort of journalist, a writer. He’d been shagging Alice Grogan. They’d been having an affair.’

  ‘She’s dead,’ said the other. ‘The plods were called in by a neighbour, nothing to do with us. I suppose you knew that did you, Charlie? Alice Grogan’s dead.’

  Behind their still faces, both were suffering. Lister crushed the cigarette out between his thumb and index finger. He rolled the filter, then flicked it. It was noticeable that his fingers were very slightly shaking. His voice betrayed no strain.

  ‘I don’t exactly know what you’re trying to say to me,’ he said. ‘But let me tell you something straight. I’m working for an outfit, right? It’s an outfit that stretches right across the world. If I don’t get out as per schedule to meet a certain boat, that outfit is going to be gunning for somebody. Not any somebody, right, but you somebody.’ His finger stabbed. ‘You, and you, and all the other little yous who got me in this mess, OK? We’re talking business here, OK? The biggest business in the world. And we’re talking an arrangement you fucked up.’

  The bigger of the two detectives said quietly: ‘We work for an outfit too, you know. We’re not a one-man band.’

  Lister gave a single shout of laughter. No more needed to be said. He stood up and gestured at the door.

  ‘Why don’t you fuck off before I lose my cool? Why don’t you call the Mickey Mouse squad in? I’m fed up of your company.’

  ‘Andrew Forbes,’ started the smaller one.

  ‘Is dead,’ said Charlie Lister. He went and hammered on the armoured door. Booted feet approached. ‘I’ll expect a visit soon. Very soon.’

  As the door opened, he added: ‘Or Forbes won’t be the only fucking one.’

  *

  Strip cell. The Animal and Mr Pendlebury.

  Richard Pendlebury renewed his efforts to speak to someone at the highest level after finally achieving an interview with Angus John McGregor. At Queen Anne’s Gate his call was expected, and the people in Christian Fortyne’s office had been briefed. Neither Mr Sinclair nor his highest aides were available, the governor was told, but he would be contacted as soon as possible. How soon? Well, difficult to say, as they were in a meeting. Within an hour, possibly. After two, Pendlebury rang again, and was again put off. He was promised a response, however. Probably within an hour.

  The visit to the strip cell where McGregor was incarcerated was conducted in conditions of the highest security. Although he was the governor, Pendlebury was well aware of how little actual operational power he commanded in the face of a well-organised and obstructive staff. Many reasons had been given for the delaying of his interview, all of them presented in terms of his personal safety. Although McGregor was no longer conducting a ‘dirty protest’ he was still refusing to wear clothes, and was considered to be an almost certain carrier of HIV and hepatitis. Drug injection was rife in Scottish prisons, and McGregor had also undoubtedly shed blood in fighting other prisoners, and probably had anal intercourse. All this had been explained with proper gravity, and Pendlebury had kept his counsel, and insisted. He wished to interview McGregor, and he would.

  The meeting, inside the antiseptic, glaring cell, was totally bizarre. The walls, of padded vinyl, reeked of disinfectant and reflected crazily the bright bulb, recessed in the ceiling in a bulge of armoured glass. Pendlebury, in a dark grey suit, stood between two officers who looked like Martians from a children’s comic. They wore white overalls and rubber boots, red industrial gloves of heavy PVC, neck protectors and
visored helmets. Outside were three more men dressed the same, carrying weighted billy-clubs. He sympathised with their position, but only half. Whatever else Aids meant, he recognised it as another opportunity to enhance the trappings, to indulge the myths of danger and of power. Angus John McGregor was a violent, dangerous man. But you would not, he thought, approach a pain-crazed tiger in this fashion.

  McGregor was a small man. He sat in front of Pendlebury on the only piece of furniture in the cell, a narrow padded bench built along the angle of the wall and floor. It had no sharp edges, no brick or concrete exposed. Even if you put your chin on it, and banged your head down with your tongue between your teeth as frightened kamikaze pilots were reputed to have done rather than fly their missions, you were unlikely to bite it off. Pendlebury, who would perhaps have killed himself two years ago if he had not loved his daughter, had often pondered the morality of such places. To be unable to harm oneself, when so many people were doing one such harm, was peculiar. But like so many other moral questions he had had to face since joining the prison service, he had yet to find an answer for it. He wondered if McGregor might have an opinion to express.

  McGregor was naked, and he sat with his thighs together and his hands held as if in prayer. His face was pale, thin-cheeked, and stubbled. He was allowed an electric razor twice a week, but it was a lightweight battery-driven toy, encased in soft rubber to prevent use as a weapon.

  His body was thin, almost emaciated, his rib-cage hollow. Although he looked incapable of doing physical harm to any normal healthy man, Pendlebury did not doubt that he could be transformed in violence. It seemed to him, from observation, that many legendary ‘hard men’, like Glaswegian fighters, drew their power from other sources than the power of their bodies. The violence came from inside. The spirit, maybe. The frustration and the rage. The myth itself. Angus John McGregor had murdered several times, with weapons or with his bare hands. I wonder if he had his reasons, Pendlebury thought.

  ‘Good morning,’ he said. ‘My name’s Richard Pendlebury, and I am governor of this prison. You may find this peculiar, but this visit is in the nature of a courtesy call. You’re being held in these conditions of maximum security for reasons of your own safety, because of the information we received when you were transferred. Personally, I would wish at the earliest opportunity to transfer you into the main body of the prison, possibly via the hospital wing if that might be beneficial. There are other factors to be taken into account, but your attitude and demeanour is the most important one. What do you think?’

  Pendlebury could almost feel the contempt emanating from the prison officers. Their assessments of the state of McGregor’s mind had insisted on one point: he was unprepared to co-operate, or indeed to communicate in any way. Pendlebury actually saw them jump when McGregor raised his head and answered him.

  ‘Excuse me, sir,’ he said. ‘But I think somebody’s kidding you. I wasnae moved here for my own safety, and you should know that. Maybe you do. If so, you’re a fucking evil—’

  Beside Pendlebury, the prison officers tensed themselves to spring. McGregor saw the movement and stopped talking. He grinned, through his bruised lips.

  ‘Look,’ the governor told them gently, ‘I have heard these words before, you know. If Mr McGregor wants to ask me if I’m a fucking evil liar, I think in the circumstances he’s entitled to. Mr McGregor?’

  Behind the visors, the faces had set. Pendlebury could hear breath hissing through one man’s nose. One day, they’ll jump on me, he thought. Maybe I deserve it.

  McGregor raised his head higher than it had been so far. He thought for a moment, then decided.

  ‘You’re a queer one, aren’t you, Mister?’ he said. ‘I’ll level with you. I’ve no idea at all why they sent me into England. It happened in the middle of the night, and they moved me from pillar to post till I lost myself completely – which was intended, any fool can tell. But if they expected me to still think I was in Scotland, they’re fucking mental. Even full of Largactil I can tell an English accent, can’t I? I don’t know where I am exactly, but by their accents it must be Birmingham or somewhere. Am I close?’

  ‘Sir,’ warned one of the officers.

  Pendlebury ignored him.

  ‘You’re in Staffordshire,’ he said. ‘What you might call the Black Country. It’s a deadly insult to say the accent’s like Birmingham but we’ll forgive you. This is HM Prison Bowscar.’

  ‘Ach, the Scar. Well, thanks for that. But why? It’ll be something to do with my wee brother?’

  Pendlebury said: ‘I honestly know nothing about anything like that. A brother? I’m not sure. We’ve had no requests to visit you. Does he know you’re here?’

  ‘How would he, then? No fucker knows. Anyway, he’s inside himself, he’s in Buckie.’ McGregor’s voice had become low and flat. ‘He was on the roof. Is it over yet? Are they down?’

  His head had dropped forward. Now he snapped it back. His eyes began to shine, the pupils to dilate.

  ‘I need to know! I need to fucking know! It’s driving me insane!’

  Momentarily, Pendlebury saw the mask of the beast slip into place. The atmosphere in the little padded room became charged. McGregor’s eyes were widening, his lips pulling back to expose his teeth. His hands left his thighs and clenched into fists beside his cheeks. The bodies of the prison officers altered in stance. They braced themselves, leaned slightly forward. Then the moment passed. McGregor slumped, dropping his open palms onto his legs. Everybody’s breath was clearly audible, quickened.

  Pendlebury said: ‘All this is new to me. I ask you to believe me. I’ll do my best to find out the answers.’

  McGregor’s eyes were dull. He did not speak.

  ‘In the meantime,’ said Richard Pendlebury, ‘would you consider wearing clothes? It’s very difficult to relate, you know. A naked man, sometimes…’

  Angus John McGregor’s chin was back on his chest.

  His hands were in the prayerful attitude, between his thighs. Shortly, the three other men left the cell.

  When Christian Fortyne at last rang Bowscar Prison, Pendlebury had made a list of queries and worries concerning Angus McGregor. His original unease had been solely with the idea of solitary confinement. Solitary confinement in a strip cell, with no communication or association whatever, for a period unspecified. Now he wanted to know other things from Fortyne. Why, for instance, had a Scottish prisoner been transferred to England? Why in the dead of night? Why had he been drugged, why held incommunicado? Was it to do with his brother, and if so why? Were there any other next of kin? Had they been informed?

  Fortyne had been the soul of reason. He had spoken of the deep regret that was felt at the measures forced upon them by the current ferment in the Scottish system, and their hopes to bring about a lasting stability very soon. There were certain elements, he said, that threatened to destabilise the whole Scottish experience, involving a network of irredeemably evil men.

  When Pendlebury had tried to question further, Fortyne had allowed himself to sound a little irritated.

  ‘Mr Pendlebury,’ he said. ‘At the Department, your concern for the welfare of the men in your establishment is well understood and, I promise you, appreciated. But you must allow us the global view, the ability to make wider decisions based on all the facts, not just some of them. If you wish it, we will issue an order and have McGregor transferred by tomorrow morning. But I’m afraid I absolutely can’t discuss the details of his custody any further. Angus McGregor must be kept segregated until further notice, and he must be guarded constantly, as I’m sure your excellent officers understand. Now – shall I authorise the transfer?’

  Richard Pendlebury did not want that. It would have been a defeat, a defeat for everybody. How easy to let him go, to see ‘The Animal’ shunted from prison to prison to be possibly brutalised and surely forgotten. He expressed careful regret if he had voiced his concern too robustly, and took note of Fortyne’s strictures on the global view. He pu
t the phone down and wondered, for some while, how much of the rigmarole he’d believed.

  At the other end, Fortyne banged the phone down and made a face at Judith Parker.

  ‘God save us from good men,’ he said. ‘They just don’t understand.’

  *

  Forbes and Rosanna.

  It was nearly two hours before Andrew woke up again, two hours in which the Wee Mouse Nixon had made herself familiar with both his house and most of what she presumed to be his secrets. She had not done it deliberately, in the sense that she was seeking anything, but once she’d started she’d been systematic. From time to time in her perambulations she’d paused to look in at his door, to where he remained flat on his back under a thin and lumpy duvet, snoring. The room, apart from the mattress on the floor, was remarkably bare, barer even than her own. A chest of drawers, a pile of clothes, a radio. Most noticeably, a cardboard box claiming to contain a duvet, with two soft brown paper packages resting on it. The curtains were open, but the view outside was restricted by a double layer of grey net nylon, hanging down at one side.

  It was a big house, with a bathroom and a box room on this floor, and two attic rooms above. Everywhere was piled with cardboard boxes, and bulging plastic bags, and electrical devices – once shifted by removal men but never yet unpacked. Only in the room downstairs, the living room that stretched from front to back, had there been an effort at homemaking, civilisation. It held a polished table, sadly stained, some easy chairs and a sofa, thousands of books on fitted shelves and in heaps across the floor, and a flatscreen TV with all the trimmings.

  She glanced at the newspapers. The Guardian, The Times, The Independent, The Observer. All old, most of them unread. The only area which was not entirely chaotic was a small corner between the back window and one of the knocked-through room’s gas-fires. It contained another table, on which there was a Mac with piles of tightly written notes around the keyboard, that looked incomprehensible. She was halfway up the basement stairway with a third cup of milkless instant in her hand, when she heard Forbes coming down the upper flight.