Читать книгу Confessions from the Clink - Timothy Lea - Страница 5

When I leave Mrs. Sinden’s, a large weight is off my mind and the rest of me is feeling much lighter, as well. What a performer that lady is! I feel as if I have been through a suction cleaner a couple of times. Talk about being taken out of yourself. I have to skate round the rest of the lodgings to pick up all the laundry before lunch and the strain of my morning obviously shows.

‘Ooh, you’re looking completely drained,’ says Petal resting his hand on my forearm. ‘Are you all right?’

‘Don’t do that,’ I tell him. ‘How many times do I have to tell you? I’m allergic to being touched.’

‘Ooh, you are sensitive. I can see you had a bad morning. I had a lovely time in the library. They’re ever so nice there. One of the boys, well he’s called Jeremy and he’s my favourite. He said that his whole life-style had been changed since he worked there. His basics have been broadened out of all recognition.’

This comes as no surprise to me and I only hope he will be able to cope with Mr. Warren. Maybe they will be able to strike up a deep and meaningful relationship that will relieve the pressure on my toecap.

Before I can comment further on the subject I hear the crunch of motor car against gravel and look out of the window to see a Rolls pulling up outside the front door. To my amazement, four groovy chicks pile out of it, all fun furs and thigh-length boots, giggling and looking up at the windows.

‘Who the hell are they?’ I say to myself as much as to anyone else.

‘They’re wives, ain’t they?’ says the inmate Legend addressed as Grass, matter-of-factly.

‘Wives!?’

‘Yeah. Every Wednesday your wife can visit you for the afternoon.’

‘Ooh, there’s no getting away from them,’ says Fran distastefully.

‘Supposing you don’t have a wife, then?’ I ask.

‘Well, you’ve had it, haven’t you? Old shit-face is dead against immorality.’

‘But I’ve got feelings. Just the same as any married bloke.’

‘If you had ’em strong enough, you’d get married. That’s what the Governor thinks, anyhow.’

I return my eyes to the crumpet, thinking how unfair it all is. At least, it is good to know that there is some advantage in being married – if you ever got stuck in the nick. Looking at those birds it is difficult to believe that they are spliced. They seem so blooming cheerful compared to most of the wives I know. Maybe this is another result of their old men being in the chokey. Absence makes the heart grow fonder and all that sort of rubbish. They are certainly receiving a lot of attention from the windows and when they disappear inside it is to a sound like someone testing a leaking set of bagpipes. I have hardly got used to their absence when a charabanc arrives, and then another. They are all jam-packed with real sporty looking birds and I feel like I must be one of the few unmarried blokes in the prison. Me, and Fran, of course.

‘Ooh, they’re like ravening beasts, aren’t they?’ says Fran. ‘I think it’s disgusting, myself. Like Honeymoon Holiday Camps. All of them arriving down here for only one thing. I’d have too much pride myself. It must take all the romance out of it.’

‘Yeah,’ I say, thinking how blooming lucky it is that I had my little session with Mrs. Sinden in the a.m. Without that I could be contemplating knotting myself. You may think it strange that I am wandering about casing the frippet but this is what the place is like. Nobody has asked me to pick any oakum yet – which is just as well as I wouldn’t know which shade to choose – and the only time they lock the door of your cell – oops sorry – room, is when you are bloody grateful because it is time to start worrying about Fran Warren. At this rate, boredom is going to be my chief enemy unless I can pick up Mrs. Sinden’s washing article by article.

I am contemplating this course of action as a serious possibility when another coach-load of bird-life rolls up. I don’t know how many blokes there are in the nick but at this rate a lot of them must be moslems. I look down and allow my mince pies to fondle the curvy limbs as the bints trip down the steps of the bus. Blimey! There is a face from the past I recognise. Daisy Deacon. One of sister Rosie’s friends from my old Scragg Lane days. She was a raver, was Daisy. I remember her well. Rosie was no angel but Daisy left her standing. I can recall Dad having to lock the door of the potting shed because she was always in there breaking his flower pots. Not intentionally, mind. They just got in the way when she had about three fellahs with her. I might have guessed she’d end up marrying a villain. I wonder – Blimey! Mark II!! There is Rosie large as life and twice as tastelessly dressed. What is she doing here? I did not know it was an ordinary visiting day as well. I wonder how she found out where I was? Good old Rosie. I always knew she had a soft spot for me. She does not say too much, but when the chips are down she’s in there – one way or another. Not like dad. Dad’s attitude really got up my bracket to eyebrow height. Dropping me in the S-H-you-know-what like that.

I abandon thoughts of my evil old man and head for the front entrance where scenes of touching reconciliation are being enacted. Not so much touching as downright groping in some cases.

‘Oh, my little lovie-dovie, you’re looking marvellous,’ says one lecherous old sod folding himself round a chick who looks about half his age.

‘Hang on a moment,’ she says coldly. ‘Are you ninety-nine?’

What a funny question, I think to myself. Surely she knows that by now. What does it matter as long as he’s still got some lead in his pencil. He can’t have been love’s young dream when she first met him.

‘I’m sixty-six,’ he says.

‘Well, I’m ninety-nine,’ she says. ‘You’ve got the wrong girl.’

The poor bloke looks flabbergasted as well he might. What is she on about? And then I see it! The bird is showing him a lottery ticket which he has read upside down. Could it be that there is hanky panky afoot? My shrewd nature tells me that the answer to that question is a wacking great YES! In that case is it possible that my sister Rosie could be offering herself for the gratification of the lewd and base instincts of the inmates – in some cases, no doubt, almost equal to her own? Again, previous experience suggests a fat ‘yes’ to be the answer to that question. What a carry on! Meanwhile, back at the old homestead, Sidney is probably packing his bucket and spade ready for the Sardinian adventure and imagining the first Cuba Libre of the holiday. The base ingratitude of it all brings tears to your eyes, doesn’t it? Not to mine, it doesn’t! After what Sidney has lumbered me with I would be prepared to hum ‘In a Monastery Garden’ while Rosie walked naked through an Italian prisoner of war camp. If she wants to come to a sticky end by charabanc – good luck to her. What I want to know is: where’s mine?

I am about to address this question to Arthur Legend who is disappearing down the corridor with two birds, when Brownjob suddenly appears beside me and tugs at my sleeve.

‘Have you ever thought about it?’ he says.

I feel like telling him he must be joking but you have to humour the poor old sod, don’t you?

‘You mean, dirty thoughts and all that?’ I ask him.

Brownjob closes his eyes and winces. ‘I meant the sacred state of marriage. I know only too well that your thoughts have erred in the other respect. When you see those fortunate men united with the ones they love does it not make you think there is a piece missing from your life?’

I can only nod my head in agreement. ‘Yes sir,’ I say humbly.

‘I took special care to examine your record, Lea, and I found, just as I expected, that you had never rested your finger on the nuptial knot.’

That’s all you know, you stupid old berk, I think to myself. There is not a part of the female body I have not had a go at in my time. Since I got those books out of Battersea Public Library I have become an artist at finding parts of the body birds never knew they had. I would have done even better if some thieving bugger had not torn all the diagrams out of the back.

‘Lea,’ continues Brownjob seriously. ‘Lea, I think that your descent into depravity may have been caused by the lack of a steadying home influence. Faced with the joys and responsibility of a wife and family you could be a new man. Imagine the satisfaction of returning home after a day’s honest toil to find your loved one warming your slippers in front of a roaring fire.’

‘We live in a smokeless zone.’

Brownjob shakes his head sadly. ‘Lea. That response is so typical of your predicament. You are so inhibited, self-orientated and retarded that you cannot be outward going in your feelings for other people. You protect yourself from involvement behind a stockade of insignificant minutia.’

‘You’re probably right, sir,’ I say. I mean, it is difficult to disagree when you can’t understand a word the bloke is saying, isn’t it? What disturbs me most about his words is that the stupid old basket realises I am not married. It is therefore going to be difficult for me to get issued with a ‘wife’. Why can’t he mind his own bleeding business? Does every bloke inside for making pornographic films have to put up with this invasion of his privacy? I would write to my M.P. about it if I did not know that he was on a fact-finding trip to the Bahamas: studying how Nassau handles its traffic problem or something like that. They don’t spare themselves, these blokes, you know. ‘I’m only saying this for your own good, Lea,’ burbles Brownjob. ‘And because I’m a trifle worried about your relationship with Warren.’

‘Now, wait a minute –’ I yelp.

‘I know, I know. It’s nothing to be ashamed of. I know that the early days in – in an establishment like this can be lonely ones.’

‘You don’t think I’m a –’

‘It’s not at all unusual if that is any comfort to you, and could, I think, explain your decision to make films which insult and degrade womankind.’

The worst thing about all this is that I am beginning to think he may have a point. Perhaps I do hate women. Maybe I am not making love to them, but attacking them. And I did give Fran – I mean, Warren – half my Milky Bar yesterday. Oh, my gawd! ‘Settle down with a wife and children. That’s my advice to you. Bring some stability into your life.’

‘Yes sir. But it’s a bit difficult at the moment.’

‘I know, Lea, I know.’ Brownjob gives me a fatherly pat on the shoulder.

‘All you can do at the moment is derive what comfort you can from observing the love of others.’

A cell door we are passing closes quickly but not before I get a glimpse of what he means. Blimey! They don’t waste any time, some of them.

‘Think about my words, Lea,’ says Brownjob, stopping to dismiss me. ‘If you want psychiatric help it can be arranged.’

‘On the National Health?’

‘On the National Health, Lea.’

Sounds too good to miss, doesn’t it? If it’s free I’m all for it. Dad has got three pairs of false gnashers, two hearing aids and six pairs of specs back at Scraggs Lane. He reckons the Tories are going to take them back and believes in having a few spares up his sleeve.

Brownjob pads off and I go back to my room and try not to feel sorry for myself. Again, thank God I had my little session with Mrs. Sinden, otherwise I might start chewing one of the chair legs. I have just settled down with a stirring epic entitled ‘Soccer Thug’ by one Frank Clegg, when there is a sharp rat-tat-tat on my door. Never one to misinterpret the significance of such things, I bid the knocker enter expecting to see Warren’s two-tone bonce sidling round the corner primed for another chat on togetherness. In the light of my address from the Governor, I am ready to tell him to push off and start peeling his nuts with a spoke shave but it is not Warren. It is Arthur Ian Legend, Penhurst’s other governor.

‘How’s it going, then?’ he says. ‘Enjoying your book, are you?’

‘It’s very good,’ I say. ‘It’s a searing indictment of the sex and violence world of the teenage tearaways. Fearless and outspoken.’

‘How do you fancy a bit of the other, then?’

Well, I have a lot of respect for Mr. Clegg and his book but nooky does have a greater short-term appeal.

‘Very much,’ I say. ‘I mean, with birds that is.’

I feel it worth making that clear because there are a lot of funny people about.

‘Of course, with birds, you berk,’ says Legend contemptuously. ‘You don’t think I want to travel round your Circle Line, do you? Do I look like a pouf?’

The answer, most assuredly, is no and I try and bring this home to Arthur.

‘You must have seen all that totty rolling up,’ he says. ‘Some of it is genuine, most of it isn’t. Wives and sweethearts. Friends of friends. You know. That kind of thing.’

I give him my man of the world nod.

‘You’d be amazed how many birds like coming here. They’re not getting enough outside and they reckon the thought of a gaol full of sex-starved men rearing to get at them. They feel they’re performing a public duty, too. They can justify everything if they can believe that they’re saving some poor bastard from going round the twist. They’ve got what every bird wants, an excuse for doing just as she bleeding well likes.’

‘So somebody wants to help me, do they?’ I say hopefully.

‘Any number, son. I’ve got a right little raver scratching the door of my room at the moment.’

‘Inside or outside –?’

‘Outside, of course. Don’t be funny, son. I’m doing you a favour. I’ll leave you alone with your friend if you’d rather.’

‘No, no,’ I say hurriedly. ‘She sounds fantastic, this bird. Great! Lead her to me.’

‘Are you sure you’re up to it?’

‘Up to it? I’ll be out the other side. Don’t you worry about me. Give me a couple of minutes, that’s all.’

I see Arthur on his way and wonder how best to present myself for the love match. Half a bottle of Aqua Velva down the front of my Y-fronts is a foregone conclusion but I reckon this occasion needs more than that. There is not room to swing a cat, so why not return to my bed and await developments? I have always fancied the drowsy, somebody-climbing-in-beside-you bit and here is a first class opportunity to give it a whirl. I shed my threads like they are white hot and kick them under the bed – one does not want to appear untidy, does one? Pausing only to marvel at my mouth-watering loveliness, I slide between the cold sheets and wonder whether you could actually rub down a piece of wood with them. They must make a sandpaper that is several grades finer.

I am looking forward to my encounter with Arthur’s friend for a number of reasons, not least being the opportunity it will give me to silence the knockers – I mean the tits with two legs as opposed to the other kind – who have been casting nasturtiums at my relationship with Fran. When this lady has staggered away to find a full fire bucket my reputation will be restored to its normal Everest proportions.

I turn my head away from the door and burrow into the sheets. I wonder what she will be like. One of the little ravers I saw tripping down the corridor with Legend looked decidedly my cup of Rosie. Wait a minute! The very mention of the name sends cold shivers down my spine. Rosie has no relations in the nick that I know of.

Is it not possible that even now she is padding swiftly towards my cell to do good works? My own sister! How disgusting. With my luck, I cannot afford to lie waiting for the door knob to turn. I leap to my feet and rummage under the bed for my pants. With a bit of luck I may be able to catch up with Legend before he sets the wheels in motion. I race down the corridor and collide with the great man as I dash round the first corner. He has been delayed in a conversation with one of the screws – ‘and make sure there is plenty of ice. I hate bleeding lukewarm champagne. Yes, what is it?’

‘I’ve decided I don’t fancy it after all,’ I blurt out.

‘Yerwhat!?’

‘I’ve got this pain. It comes suddenly. I never know when it’s going to strike.’

‘Psschaw!’ These letters try to capture the flavour of Legend’s mouthwash as it stings my cheek.

‘No, straight up –’

‘ “Straight up”? You couldn’t get up with a step ladder. You’re bent, mate. I was giving you the benefit of the doubt but you’ve made it very clear to me now.’

‘But –’

‘No “buts”. Hopit, before I give you the pleasure of my boot up your backside.’

I feel like blurting out the real reason for declining Arthur’s favour but deep down inside – so deep that many people never notice it – is a grain of family loyalty that occasionally comes between me and the fulfilment of my ambitions. I do not want to have to admit to Arthur, or anyone else, that Rosie is a ratbag with a one-track mind – and that a dirt track.

I slink back to my room and try to come to grips with Frank Clegg and his powerful novel, but it is no good. I cannot concentrate. I give it a few tries and then go back to bed again. Maybe I will be able to sleep. I usually can whenever I try to read anything. But this time I cannot. I lie in bed and watch the square of blue sky and wonder how I am going to stand living in this place for twelve months with everyone thinking I am bent. Maybe I will be bent by the time I get out. ‘Knock! Knock!’ This time it must be Warren; no doubt offering me a nibble of his Milky Bar. Well, he is not dribbling little pieces of chocolate all over the floor of my cell – I mean room – Oh, dear me, no! I’ll soon put a stop to his nonsense. I sit up in bed expectantly but it is not Warren. This is another thing I dislike about the bloke. He is so unreliable.

It is Daisy Deacon with a mouth you could post an ironing board in, tastefully picked out in dayglo paint that threatens to escape up her jumbo-size hooter. This feature trembles as if menaced by the potential avalanche of eye make-up poised above it. Nevertheless, despite a certain lack of subtlety, Daisy is still a sight for sore thighs.

‘Well, if it isn’t little Timmy Lea,’ she says breezily. ‘Do you remember me, love? I used to be a friend of your sister’s. I’m sorry to find you in here. Importuning males isn’t it?’

This is too much.

‘What do you mean!?’ I yelp. ‘I’m as straight as the next man.’

‘I hope not, dear,’ she says. ‘I’ve just seen him. His blond hair was falling out by its black roots and he walked as if he had just sat on a birthday cake and stolen all the candles.’

‘Not him! Not him!’ I whine. ‘Listen, Daisy, I’ll level with you –’

‘Ooh. Sure you’re capable?’

‘Don’t take the piss, Daisy. I’m not really bent. It’s just an unfortunate set of circumstances that have got me misunderstood.’

‘Your mum, wasn’t it? I always thought she was inclined to smother you. Know what I mean?’

‘No. It was dad who tried to smother me. But it was an accident really. He didn’t know mum had put me in the laundry basket. Anyway, Daisy. That’s got nothing to do with what I’m on about. I only turned down Arthur’s offer because I was scared of bumping into Rosie. I saw her out of the window, you see.’

‘But she’s only visiting.’

‘Well –’

‘Now come on. I know some of the girls are on the game but you don’t think your own sister – Timmy, I’m ashamed of you.’

‘Yes – well – er, she can act a bit funny sometimes and I just thought that – well, you know. I’d rather not –’

Daisy quivers with righteous indignation and a ripple goes through her knockers that would show up on a seismograph. ‘Your sister has been a good friend to Walt and me ever since we both got married,’ she bridles. ‘Isn’t it natural that she should visit him in his hour of need?’

‘Of course, of course,’ I bleat. ‘I want to believe you, Daisy.’ I really do, too. I would much rather accept her explanation even though I don’t believe it, than face up to the unpleasant truth. I am like that about lots of things.

‘Who are you to point the finger, anyway?’

‘Who indeed, Daisy?’

I gaze up at her and turn on my bruised, innocent look. I reckon that this could appeal to the huntress in her and I am not disappointed.

‘Talking about my friend like that,’ she says, looking at the shape of my body underneath the bedclothes. ‘And your own sister, too.’

‘Yes.’ My voice dies away to a whisper and I turn my head towards the wall. Is it my imagination or is a large tear beginning to form in one of my eyes? It is my imagination. There is a moment’s pause and then I feel the reassuring weight of Daisy descending on to the bed. Her hand reaches out and touches my shoulder. I flinch as if I am surprised to feel it.

‘You were always a shy boy, weren’t you Timmy?’

I feel like saying that compared to Daisy a rape specialist would be a blooming shrinking violet but I keep my mouth shut. When Daisy was knocking around – and I use the expression advisedly – with my sister Rosie, I was a little less experienced than I am now. In fact, I had not broken my duck. It was not until brother-in-law Sidney came upon the scene and introduced me to the window-cleaning business that I began to blossom out.

‘You’re quite good-looking,’ continues Daisy stroking my temple with fingers that feel as they have been used for stirring pre-cast concrete. ‘Pretty hair for a man. I wish my hair curled like that.’

‘Stick around, kid,’ I think to myself. ‘I may be able to save you the price of a home perm kit.’ I turn over on to my back and gaze up into her generous features hoping that the rest of her is also in a giving frame of mind.

‘Poor little Timmy,’ she says softly. ‘You never knew what it was for, did you?’

I could give her an argument on that but once I have decided on my plan I must see it through to the bitter end.

‘I want,’ I murmur passionately, ‘I want –’

This indication of volcano-like emotion struggling to find expression can work wonders with birds and I am not surprised when Daisy’s friendly pinkies start creeping under the bedclothes. I try to hold the expression of helpless innocence on my face but it is difficult because I know what Daisy is going to find.

‘Oh,’ she says.

‘I don’t know what’s happened to me,’ I gasp. ‘I seem different somehow. Do you think I’m all right?’

‘Very definitely,’ says Daisy climbing swiftly to her feet. ‘Look the other way – I’ve got a little surprise for you.’

It always puzzles me this: how some of the biggest scrubbers in the world don’t fancy you seeing them in the altogether. Once they get to close quarters, anything goes, but they won’t let you grab an eyeful of what any kid wandering around an art gallery would get for nothing.

Daisy has not got a beautiful body but there is a lot of it. You have to take the good with the bad. And it is presented with all the subtlety that those lingerie shops in Shaftesbury Avenue can muster. Her bra looks like one of those things your mum used to put round the Christmas cake when you were a kid. And her panties – well, it is not every girl that has ‘Chase me charlie, I’m the last bus home’ embroidered across her nicks in gold thread. Her suspender belt is a very welcome trip down memory lane as far as I am concerned and has little black roses where it makes contact with the stocking tops. I may not know much about art but I know what I like and Mrs. Deacon is bang on target.

‘You’re looking,’ she says reproachfully as she leans forward and unhooks her bra. When she does that, I duck instinctively.

‘You’re beautiful,’ I say as if a blindfold has just been removed from my eyes. Remember those words: ‘You’re beautiful.’ I know I labour the point but if you never said anything else to a bird you would get more than your fair share of nooky. That is, basically, what any piece of frippet wants to hear when you open your cakehole. And it has opened more doors than a Metropolitan Police Vehicle Removal Officer – with infinitely more satisfying results, too.

‘Do you think so?’ she says. That is the kind of stupid thing birds usually say at moments of melting tenderness and though I feel like saying ‘no, I only said it because I wanted to get my end away’ I control myself and continue to gaze into her mush like a moody moggy. She is now climbing out of her panties and revealing a pair of thighs like the entrance to a waste disposal unit. Looking at her and remembering her reputation I am not certain if I dare trust my delicate equipment to her tender mercies – I say tender because she is built a bit like one.

I recall that when the American sixth fleet came to town she and Rosie welcomed them so enthusiastically that half the complement of an aircraft carrier had to be helped on to the train back to Portsmouth. The U.S. Navy had to ring up the Russians and ask them to postpone the next Middle East Crisis for a couple of weeks while they recovered. Faced with that kind of animal enthusiasm, am I going to be able to cope?

Now without a stitch, apart from anything left behind in her appendix scar, Daisy pulls back the sheets and slips in beside me.

‘Oh,’ I gulp. ‘Oh, oh.’

I try to sound like a chocolate tester being subjected to a new taste sensation. My barely restrained enthusiasm obviously communicates itself to Daisy because she slumps across my chest so that I can feel her breasts like two heavy bags being dumped on a customs officer’s desk.

‘Have you ever done this before?’ she says. ‘With a girl?’

I am not certain I like the last bit very much. Have you noticed how difficult it is to try and change people’s minds once they have formed an impression of you?

‘I’ve tried,’ I say bravely.

Her hand is toying with my action man kit again and there is no doubt that percy is eager for action.

‘You shouldn’t have any problems,’ she says encouragingly. ‘Why don’t you put it in?’

‘Put it in?’ I croak.

‘Gordon Bennet!! Give it here.’ With an impressive display of champion skills Daisy Deacon puts a hammer-lock on my hampton and manoeuvres it into the position where it can do the most damage. ‘Now push. There we are. That’s nice, isn’t it? It’s nice for me anyway.’ Just in case I should try and make a bolt for it, Big D grabs hold of the cheeks of my ask-me-no-questions and applies sufficient pressure to make me think she may be attempting a crotch swallow. This is a tempting proposition but the time has now come for me to shed the Robin side of my nature and make with a bit of Batman. From Cock Robbing to Batterman, in fact. With one bound – or extensive wriggle – I am free and directing my energies to a sustained bout of pelvis pounding.

‘Oh!’ squeaks Daisy. ‘Oh! Oh! Oh!’

It is as well that my morning exertions with Mrs. Sinden have taken the edge off my appetite as it would be very easy to come to the boil too soon with Daisy. She has the happy knack of giving you the happy knackers and should wear a flashing sign saying ‘loves it’ across her wide Miss Houri bosom.

‘You’re a quick learner,’ she gasps. ‘I’ll say that for you.’

‘There’s nothing to it, really, is there?’ I pant. ‘I must have had some kind of blockage in the past.’

‘You want to stick to girls, dear. It’s much better for you in the long run. Much better for them, too. Ooh, that is nice. I feel as if I’ve just had a champagne enema.’

‘You don’t look as if you have an enema in the world,’ I say wittily. ‘Oh, I’m so glad you looked in.’

‘So am I.’ And so saying the good lady hauls me to her and proceeds to try and batter a hole in the mattress. Two can play at that game and in less time than it takes to explain to an Irishman that he can move a wheelbarrow from one place to the other without using another wheelbarrow, we are thundering into what I hope is a grandstand finish. Our happy howls are almost too large for the cell and when we at last collapse into a panting heap there falls a silence in which I can sense the rest of the prison holding its collective breath and wondering what is going to happen next.

What happens next is that the door opens and Rosie comes in. There is a pink flush in her cheeks and her eyes appear to be watering but I do not pay too much attention to that.