circuit security cameras in the High Street and within the Parkgate centre. In some of the footage, you will see Wayne actually waving to the camera, in the full knowledge that he was being filmed.’
Wayne smiled.
‘Are you suggesting that Wayne knew the seriousness of his behaviour?’
‘Without question, ma’am. He has been before this panel on a number of occasions, been subject to a series of supervision orders.’
‘Yes, but does he realize what he is doing?’
‘The police service are of the opinion that he does and that for his own benefit and the protection of the community at large, a custodial remedy would be appropriate and desirable. I would remind you that he has already broken an Anti-Social Behaviour Order.’
‘And what do the probation service have to say on the matter, Mr. Toynbee?’
Jez Toynbee looked up from the thick file in front of him. He had been christened Jeremy, but thought Jez sounded more democratic. At 5ft 8ins, he was no taller than his young charge, Wayne, sitting alongside him.
‘Wayne Sutton is an averagely intelligent young man, in need of guidance and encouragement. He comes from a dysfunctional background. He has never had a father figure. His mother is an alcoholic, part-time prostitute. She undoubtedly loves Wayne, but is deficient in the parenting skills department. Wayne’s only male role models have been itinerant men who formed temporary liaisons with his mother.
‘We in the probation service believe that although Wayne is clearly disturbed, his offences were not committed out of wickedness but as a cry for help.
‘While the panel has the power to send him to a young offenders’ institution, we do not believe that would be beneficial at this stage of his development. In fact, there is every reason to believe that it would actually be counter-productive.
‘In a secure institution, Wayne would come into contact with other young offenders, which could further disrupt his personal development. We sincerely believe that he can be rehabilitated and go on to take his rightful place in society and make a full contribution.’
‘Bollocks,’ muttered Pearson under his breath.
‘Did you say something, Mr. Pearson?’
‘No ma’am.’
‘Pray continue, Mr Toynbee.’
‘Thank you, ma’am. As I was saying, we believe that Wayne Sutton is not beyond redemption. The problem in his case has been his deprived childhood. He has not been showered with presents, like other children, which explains his thieving. He has never had the luxury of a family car, which contributed to his taking and driving away of vehicles. While his mother loves him, she has been incapable of showing him affection. He has been routinely assaulted by some of his mother’s, er, male associates. He has a repressed anger, which manifests itself in assault and criminal damage.
‘We believe that if Wayne can be shown the kind of affection missing in his life, can be exposed to some of the normal treats which other children expect as their birthright, he can be persuaded of the error of his ways. Before you consider a custodial solution, I would urge you to put this unfortunate young victim of society first. His welfare and his future must be paramount.’
‘What, exactly, are you suggesting, Mr. Toynbee?’
‘The probation service, with the assistance of the local authority and the Victims’ Trust, have recently established a scheme aimed at broadening the horizons of offenders like Wayne. Under close supervision, young offenders are taken beyond their immediate environs and given a glimpse of the wider world which awaits them. We find it helps them confront their criminality and makes them feel valued. In turn, this will help them reject their previous behaviour and become valued members of the community.’
‘Very well, Mr Toynbee. This panel is always reluctant to impose a custodial sentence. Having read all the reports and having heard your submission, we are agreed that Wayne should be released into the supervision of the probation service. Wayne, stand up, please.’
Wayne dragged himself to his feet and stared past the magistrates and out of the window.
‘Wayne, we have been persuaded by Mr. Toynbee that you deserve one more chance to take your rightful, and lawful, place in society. But if you don’t respond, you will find yourself locked up. You will report back here in three months. Do you understand?’
Wayne farted.
Ricky Sparke stumbled upstairs and, by placing one hand over his left eye, managed to locate the keyhole in the front door to his flat. He stepped over the pile of unopened mail on the doormat, threw his coat on the sofa and reached for the vodka bottle.
He unscrewed the cap and turned it upside down. It was empty. He wrung the neck, like a man strangling a chicken, but the bottle was spent.
Ricky retrieved another from the washing machine.
Since he had a laundry service, he had no need of the Indesit combined washer/drier. So he used it as storage space. Every other surface was covered with old newspapers, magazines, CD cases and LP covers with coffee mug stains on them.
Ricky picked up a dirty glass, wiped it on his shirt tail, poured a large slug of Smirnoff into it and topped it up with half a bottle of flat slimline tonic.
By drinking slimline tonic, Ricky had convinced himself that it wasn’t really drinking at all.
It was his concession to fitness. He was always trying fad diets, none of which worked, largely on account of the fact that he would insist on supplementing them with vodka and Guinness.
He once went on a white wine only diet, after reading that Garry Glitter had lost three stone on it.
Ricky lost three days.
He devised his own version of the F-Plan diet. He called it the C-Plan. Ricky thought that if it worked he would market it and make his fortune.
The principle was fairly simple. You could eat anything you wanted, provided it began with C.
The diet started well on day one, Ricky eating nothing but cottage cheese and cabbage.
On day two, he dined on corn on the cob and cucumber.
Encouraged by the results, he extended the diet to his drinking habits. Two bottles of Chablis later, he moved onto Chartreuse and, eventually, Carlsberg Special Brew.
Then came champagne, chicken tikka masala, chips, cheese and onion crisps and cognac. He had completely forgotten about the chicken tikka massala until he brought it up on the platform of Upminster tube station.
Ricky had fallen asleep on the District Line, passed his stop at Westminster, slept all the way to Ealing Broadway, turned round and slept all the way back, past Westminster once more and onto Upminster at the eastern end of the line.
He was woken by a guard, turfed off the train, threw up, slipped in his own sick, smashed
