he makes his stand just as I make my stand. Now that stand is taken away from us. We are naked bodies to be arse examined by a doctor, to be deloused and showered. We are nobodies. Next will come the cutting off of my hair. I was allowed to grow it somewhat before I got released. If I had’ve stayed out, it might have reached a decent length. No decency in here. Well, fuck them. And nakedness is no degradation. We stood naked forever before they came with their clothes. Nothing wrong with my naked bod either, man. Put a little swagger in my walk; but keep that scowl on my face. They circle around me warily. I’m getting the star treatment. Copper shooter, eh!
That nakedness doesn’t last long and soon I’m in prison grey and the last of the outside disappears as my hair is trimmed back to my scalp. Now, I’m a convict. A prisoner of the state, numbered and dehumanised. Fuck it; fuck it, fuck it! To hell and back. I can’t stand it. I keep collapsing into myself. Have to find something in my mind to pull me through. I’ll get used to it. I will, I will!
I stand at the door of the nightclub looking real cool. My hair’s slicked back just right and the curl dangles over the forehead just right. Everything’s just right and I have a roll of bills in my pocket and I’m ready to groove the night away. Black pleated pegged pants; black shirt; narrow white tie to go with my long draped sports coat. Got my brothel creepers on too and I’m ready to creep. I put a little swagger in my walk as I brush past the bouncer. Him, he can’t bounce. Can do him with one hand tied behind my back and he knows it, but I’m cool, you dig?
‘How’s it with you, Fred?’ I make with the chatter as I stop a little away from him so that he can take all of me in. I pull one of the new long fags outa the pack and light up. I don’t offer him one. He isn’t one of us, is he?
He eyes me as if he would like to tread on me then lifts his foot cautiously and replies: ‘A little quiet, but we got a new singer and she’s got a voice and a bod along with it.’
‘Bet you, she’s not for you,’ I smile as I peel off one of the bills and let it drift into his hand like a snowflake. Inside my eyes sweep over the room. I ain’t one to keep in the shadows. Brown, looking good and on the prowl. I make my own space as I drift on by in my crepe-soled shoes. I sink into a chair at the front of the place. Right in front of me is the breasts of the singer moving just for me as she sings:
‘My man wears pegged pants,
Long draped coat and a narrow tie,
Boy, when he gets moving,
He makes me puff and sigh.’
Her lips move around the words and push them out at me. She starts on another verse of the song:
‘My man, he’s built so big and fine,
Yeah, I tell you, he stands tall,
Got, his mumma working overtime,
Every night we have a ball.’
The waiter comes with a drink on the house. I sip and watch her fine breasts moving under the green silk of her fine dress. They’re moving just for me. Man, I know it’s going to be my night ... I’m walking down that street in that posh suburb, and this kid, this girl-child with mother of course comes outa this nice neat house, all bright and clean, with a nice green closely cropped lawn around its face. Nothing outa place here excepting me. And then this kid, this girl child picks up a pebble, and lets fly with all the viciousness which lurks in the human breast. It hits me on the right shinbone. I look down at the instant scar, still hurting like mad, man. I look across at that little bitch with hate in my eyes and snarl: ‘You rotten little moll, just wait till I get ahold of you.’
I hurt! I drag my leg as I move towards her, and the white lady, the mother gets all upset and protests: ‘She’s just a child.’ I reply, ‘So am I lady and I’m going to get that little cunt’—and just then my leg collapses under me and I’m down on hands and knees, down on all fours, just a wild cat and timidly I belly level away, as that fucking little bitch picks up more pebbles and the white lady smiles and says: ‘You aren’t no child. You’re just an animal and the RSPCA should come and put you down ...’
I come outa my daydream and mutter, ‘Well, lady, satisfied, now I’ve been put down?’
And the screw escorting us across to the cell block, snarls: ‘Keep your trap shut.’ And I shut it, for I can’t daydream myself outa this one. All I do in my head is scream and scream. This is going to be my home for the next umpteen years, Christ!
2.
My New Home
Now I’m an old lag, moved up into the world, become an adult and made it to the main yard. No more little juvenile. Mummy, I’m a man.
I think so at least. Yeah, I am. From Cluny Boy to Freeo Man, nothing can make or break me. Do it standing on my head, if only, if only it wasn’t so long. Ten years and after, help! The screaming continues and continues in my head. No way out. Never been in the army like Old Clarrie. Where to get the strength? Cluny, the shooting of that copper. The screws have been treating me a little different from last time. With respect! I ain’t no small-time crim. I shot a cop. I’m violent and vicious, and someone to be reckoned with. Yeah, I am. So I slouch along beside the proudly marching Clarrie. He’s back under the command of his old serge major and seems to be enjoying it; but he’s only got six months. Anyone can do that standing on their head. Oh God!
A jangling of keys as the screw orders us to halt. He unlocks the big wooden door leading in to the main division where I’ll most likely be. Surprise! He hands us over to a screw, who hands Clarrie over to another screw, while he marches me along the division. Same old place, flagstones and three tiers of cells and the stupid wire netting stretching across the bottom from lowermost landing, right to left, to bounce off hurting objects from above. And you know what, you know what? My first time in here, the place looks huge, cavernous, now just small and dowdy, like, like a little old lady, like that old Queen Victoria who reigned when the place was built. I don’t wanta spend all my time in this old-fashioned dump. It smells of the suffering men inflict on men. It smells like, like an Institution. Yeah, an institution, a House of Correction. Home, man!
March along this length of hovel and reach an end door. Halt. Again the jangling of keys. Wooden door opens. Across a little space I am confronted by a metal grille. I know what it unlocks on—the New Block. So that’s where I’m going to live for who knows how long. Make it an eternity, you dig?
The New Block was built during the Second World War for soldiers and backs onto the women’s section. Never been in there, the New Block, you ninny, and why am I going in there now? Questions? No answers in boob. Just commands. You get marched this way, you get put there. You get work, a tobacco ration and even a few bob a day which you can spend on what they call luxury items, such as a tin of condensed milk. They also call them privileges and they can be taken away from you, if you so much as ask a question from a screw. Well, I learnt all that before. No big deal, huh?
I wait while he opens the door; march through when he tells me to; wait until he opens the grille; march through when he orders me to. Wait until another screw takes over. Wait as the first screw locks the grille behind me. The second screw takes me to his office. Wait outside while he fumbles and lip-reads through the paperwork ...
The New Block is a cube, you know, square like the heads of soldiers and thus unlike the dreariness and weariness I have just been marched along. Army and time has evolved beyond the old Victoriana. Only two tiers and no wire netting stretched across the bottom landing. The colour scheme is not whitewash lime but creamy nice.
