debt to society well and truly paid up.
Unable to sleep, Tommy thought over his ten years inside. When he’d first arrived at Feltham, he was no more than a tearful, frightened kid. Meeting Freddie had been the turning point. Wise beyond his years, his pal had filled his head with knowledge and had taught him how to fulfil his potential. From the day he’d done over Leroy Wright in the shower room, he’d never looked back. He and Freddie had run Feltham from that moment onwards. Neither of them were bullies, but they were the leaders. They never picked on the run-of-the-mill lads and they even looked out for some of the simpletons, or shy kids who couldn’t come to terms with the system. The only lads they gave it to were the ones who deserved it. The freaks, the nonces and the pure fucking evil were the ones that always got their comeuppance. Then there were the new boys, the chancers, the ones that arrived thinking they were the next Godfather. Within days they’d be given a good hiding. Most of them got the message there and then, but there were an odd few who tried to get their revenge. They were the ones that suffered the worst, their lives made a misery for the rest of their stay.
Both Tommy and Freddie had a good relationship with the screws. They treated them with a certain amount of respect and received a cushy life and plenty of blind eyes in return. The screws liked a quiet life and Tommy and Freddie helped them keep the other lads in order. The situation suited everybody, especially Finchy, who developed a soft spot for the two tough east London boys. On many occasions he spoke up for them to the guv’nor and got them out of sticky situations. He was a good bloke, old Finchy, and Tommy would always hold fond memories of him.
At the time, leaving Feltham had seemed awful. As soon as Tommy turned seventeen, he’d been moved to a proper prison. Saying goodbye to Finchy and the lads had been extremely emotional. He’d made many friends there and they even had a little leaving party for him. Saying goodbye to Freddie was probably the hardest thing he’d ever had to do. He’d been desperate not to make a tit of himself by crying, but he hadn’t been able to stop the tears rolling down his cheeks. As luck would have it, Freddie had got all emotional as well.
Tommy had begged the guv’nor at the borstal to have a word with the authorities for him. He was desperate to go to a London prison, so he could see more of his family and friends.
He’d been told at one point that he was going to Kent somewhere and he’d been well poxed off about that. His family were still piss poor and, unless he was in London, he’d rarely get a visit.
Freddie had been on Finchy’s case to have a word with the guv’nors about getting him into Pentonville. Freddie had an uncle in there, who was aware of Tommy, and would look out for him. Whether it was strings being pulled or just pure bloody luck, that was where he ended up. The journey there was horrendous. It was a really hot day and the van he was shoved into was like a Swedish sauna. The traffic was awful and by the time he reached his destination, Tommy was sweating like a pig.
He was filled with apprehension as he entered his new home. The screws were horrible to him and spoke to him like a piece of shit. He was strip-searched, given his orders and taken to his cell. Walking through the prison, Tommy kept his head down. He’d already come face to face with a couple of the inmates and they were fucking frightening. Great big skinhead types with faces full of hatred and scars. Feltham was full of little boys, the Ville was a different ball game.
Tommy was given a single cell and spent his first night wide awake. By morning he’d made his decision. If anyone gave him any grief, he was gonna clump ’em. Freddie had always told him that this was the best way to deal with matters and he would take his friend’s advice. Big, small, black or white – anyone got in his way, he’d give ’em a dig.
Within two days of his arrival, Tommy had grief. He’d seen some fat, tattooed prick giving him daggers at breakfast. Ignoring him, he finished his grub and walked away. At dinner the fat prick went one better. As Tommy walked past him with his food, the geezer stuck out a leg. With a tray in his hand, Tommy had no way of keeping his balance, and went flying. As laughter rang around the hall, Tommy was determined not to look a mug. He stood up, straightened his shoulders, and brushed himself down. Grabbing the fat prick’s tray, he smashed it over his head with such force that it took his breath away. Tommy smiled when he noticed his tormentor was not only bleeding, but also had shepherd’s pie dripping off his big fat head.
‘Leave me alone, you fat cunt,’ he said, as he walked away to cheers.
The tattooed one was about to respond, but was stopped in his tracks by the screws’ intervention.
‘You’re dead, kid,’ he screamed, as he was escorted from the room.
‘Yeah, right,’ Tommy replied.
Tommy was punished for his part in the fracas and spent a week in solitary. He didn’t care – he was just glad that he’d stood his ground. In a one-to-one fight the geezer would have slaughtered him. The fat cunt was probably treble his weight and could have knocked him out with one punch. Being on his own gave Tommy plenty of time to think. He was a tall lad and, while in Feltham, had shot up to six foot. What he needed now was to fill out a bit, as he was far too skinny to be taken seriously. In Feltham they’d had plenty of exercise, but there were no facilities to lift weights and build up muscle. He knew there was a gym in the Ville and his plan was to use it as much as possible to change his physique.
Within hours of returning to his own wing, Tommy had received many pats on the back. A lot of the older lags had seen a younger version of themselves in him, and Tommy soon learned that the geezer whose head he’d smashed in was a very unpopular inmate called Mark Abrahams, who was nearing the end of a long-term sentence for supplying heroin.
At dinner that evening, Abrahams appeared with a scar across his bonce. Apparently, he’d had a dozen stitches, which had been removed earlier that day. He sat over the other side of the room and not once did he glance across. Tommy was surprised by this. He’d expected some sort of backlash, even if it was just a threat.
He found out later that evening why Abrahams would be giving him no more trouble. There were two magic words in the prison system. ‘Bobby Adams’ was an inside form of ‘abracadabra’ to warn off potential troublemakers, and nobody was brave enough to get on his wrong side.
Freddie had never told Tommy much about his uncle. He’d said he was heavy stuff, a proper chap, and was doing a stretch for robbing a bank, but little else. Tommy was surprised when he first came face to face with Bobby Adams. He’d built a picture in his mind of what Freddie’s uncle might look like, but the geezer that stood in front of him was the total opposite of what he’d imagined.
Tall, grey and distinguished, he stood out from every lag in the place. He had an air of authority about him and looked more like a bank manager than someone who robbed the bastard things.
‘Bobby Adams, son. Freddie’s written to me and told me all about you.’
Tommy shook his thickset hand and smiled. Apart from introducing himself properly, he was at a loss as to what to say.
Bobby noticed his hesitation and took over the conversation.
‘You’ll have no more trouble from Abrahams. The geezer’s a wrong ’un, he’s a smack dealer, scum of the earth. He’s been warned off you now and he’ll be dealt with in due course. Most of these cunts in here are wrong ’uns. About ten per cent are proper, the rest you wouldn’t piss on if they were on fire. I’ll show you the ropes, teach you who you can trust and who you can’t. I’ve put the word about that you’re a pal of my nephew’s. You’ll be treated with respect from now on, and you’ll have no more grief from the lags or screws.’
Feeling more at ease, Tommy
