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
