Confessions from the Clink. Timothy Lea
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of the ample grounds.
‘Right. Up the steps and report to reception. The Governor will want to see you.’
‘Ooh. Aren’t you going to carry my bag?’ sniffs Fran.
‘I wouldn’t trust myself to bend down and pick it up,’ says the screw. ‘Now hop it.’ He slams the door and climbs back into the driver’s seat.
‘Charming!’ says Fran. ‘No room service and nobody to meet us. I wonder they didn’t make us walk from the gate. I’m not certain I’m going to like it here. The vibrations aren’t right. Do you ever feel like that? Maybe I’m over-sensitive. I had a friend once who –’
‘Yeah, yeah,’ I say, before he can get into full spate. ‘We’d better do like the man says, hadn’t we?’ I nip up the steps and push open the door that is already ajar.
Inside, a tall bloke in blue shirt and denims is counting a roll of greasy one pound notes. He stops when he sees us and looks us up and down suspiciously.
‘We’re looking for the Governor,’ I say.
‘Oh yeah. New boys, are you?’
We nod.
‘Welcome to Sinnerama Holiday. Follow me. I think he’s free at the moment.’
‘Is it nice here?’ twitters Fran.
‘It’s bleeding lovely, mate,’ says our guide. ‘You two together, are you?’
‘Yes.’
‘No!’ I yelp. ‘We came together, that’s all.’
‘That’s all?’ trills Fran. ‘Don’t knock it, ducky!’ Before he can pursue the subject further our guide taps respectfully on one of the doors and a voice that sounds like two pieces of sand paper having it away bids us enter.
The inside of the room surprises me. I had not been expecting the state apartment at Windsor Castle but certainly something a bit more flash than this. The Playboy Calendar on the wall strikes an odd note, too. What is most unexpected is that there are bars on the windows. I puzzle about this for a minute before it occurs to me that they probably have some deep psychological significance. Maybe it helps the inmates to identify with the governor if he gives the appearance of living under the same conditions as they do. Fascinating, isn’t it? Oh well, please yourselves.
‘Two new boys, governor,’ says our guide, waving us forward.
‘Thanks, Grass,’ rasps the figure behind the desk. ‘Harvest coming in all right?’
‘Fantastic. We’ve almost got more than we can process.’
‘Excellent. Excellent. Don’t let me hold you up, then.’
Our guide withdraws and I concentrate on the governor. He is a large, squarely built man with a couple of days’ growth of stubble and tattoos going right up his arms. He, too, is wearing a blue denim shirt with rolled up sleeves so it is easy to see the artwork. ‘Mum, I love you’ says one arm. ‘Per ardua ad astra’ says the other. A nice combination of the sentimental and the intellectual, I think to myself. Very rounded personality, obviously. I never thought that a nick would go to the trouble of making it so easy for the prisoners to identify with their surroundings. Fancy, even dressing the governor up like one of the inmates. Maybe life is better under the Conservatives.
‘Hello, boys,’ says the governor cheerfully. ‘Fancy a drink, do you? I’ve got a nice drop of Spanish Burgundy here, or how about Bristol Cream?’
‘Ooh, I thought you said Bristol queen for a moment,’ squeaks Fran. ‘You almost offended me. I come from Bristol, you know. It’s a rough, manly town absolutely bursting at the seams with Jolly Jack Tars.’
‘Hello, sailor,’ says the governor. ‘Who’s your shipmate?’
‘We’d never seen each other before today,’ I yelp. Blimey, if this goes on I’ll have to get a placard printed.
‘Two orphans of the storm whom fate has thrown together,’ simpers Fran. ‘Will we be sharing a cell?’
‘No! No!’ I shout before the governor can say anything. ‘I have these terrible nightmares when I start lashing out at anything that stands in my path. I can be uncontrollably violent. I wouldn’t ask anybody to risk that.’
‘Ooh,’ says Fran, ‘I’m a great soother. I bet you, if I massage your temples every night before –’
‘No!’
‘Ooh, you’re such a spoilsport. I know you want to, really.’
‘Yeah, yeah,’ says the governor, waving at Fran to belt up. ‘If you’ve got any complaints about the accommodation we’ll sort those out later. The Domestic Affairs Committee will deal with it. Now, what are you two boys in for?’
While we tell him and sip our drinks it occurs to me that it is strange that he does not know already. This must be a very free and easy place if prisoners can roll up unannounced. Maybe a lot of them escape too, so that it is difficult to keep track of numbers.
‘Do you have a large turnover?’ I ask.
‘About two hundred thou at the moment,’ says our genial governor helping himself to a generous slug of sherry. ‘But we’re pushing it up fast.’
‘Two hundred thousand prisoners?’ I gasp.
‘Two hundred thousand nicker, you berk,’ croaks the governor. ‘Blimey, you’re as green as the blokes what are supposed to be running this place.’
While I ponder that remark, the door opens and a tall pinched geezer comes in. He has watery eyes and a face so thin that you feel he must have caught his nut between a couple of mating elephants. What strikes me most about him is his clobber. He is wearing a navy blue tunic with silver buttons and two pips on the epaulettes. It is a bit dressy for this establishment and, of course, dead out of fashion. His best friend should tell him.
‘Legend!’
‘Yes, Governor?’
Are my ears deceiving me? Our tattooed friend behind the desk is addressing the newcomer as Governor. There must be some mistake.
‘There must be some mistake, Legend.’ The tone suggests that the speaker might burst into tears at any minute. ‘All prisoners – I mean, all residents reporting to the House are supposed to report to me before they go to their rooms.’
The man addressed as Legend claps his hands to his head dramatically and jumps to his feet.
‘Governor! I had no idea. Oh dear. This is awful. I can see how put out you must be. Otherwise you would never have used that nasty word.’
‘Yes. Yes,’ splutters the new governor. ‘I’m sorry about that. I don’t know what came over me.’
Legend holds up his hand. ‘Don’t say another word, Governor. We all slip up sometimes. I suppose that is why a lot of us are here.’ He says it so that you expect to see a halo come sprouting out of his bonce.
‘Of course, of course.’ The Governor seems embarrassed. ‘I’m sorry I burst out like that. It was unforgivable of me.’
‘Don’t worry about it, Governor. We forgive you, don’t we lads? Life has taught us how to turn the other cheek.’ We nod vigorously. ‘Now, go along with the Governor, lads. He’s a man we all respect. He’ll see you all right. You haven’t got time for a glass of sherry before you go, Governor?’
‘Regrettably not, Legend,’ says wafer-bonce, looking as if his moist eyes are going to start melting down his cheeks at any minute. ‘By the way, how is the spinach coming along?’
Legend’s wizened mug twinkles like the inside of an empty whelk shell.
‘Excellent, Governor, excellent. We’re very grateful for that manure you provided. It makes all the