Confessions from the Clink. Timothy Lea
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by the lack of a steadying home influence. Faced with the joys and responsibility of a wife and family you could be a new man. Imagine the satisfaction of returning home after a day’s honest toil to find your loved one warming your slippers in front of a roaring fire.’
‘We live in a smokeless zone.’
Brownjob shakes his head sadly. ‘Lea. That response is so typical of your predicament. You are so inhibited, self-orientated and retarded that you cannot be outward going in your feelings for other people. You protect yourself from involvement behind a stockade of insignificant minutia.’
‘You’re probably right, sir,’ I say. I mean, it is difficult to disagree when you can’t understand a word the bloke is saying, isn’t it? What disturbs me most about his words is that the stupid old basket realises I am not married. It is therefore going to be difficult for me to get issued with a ‘wife’. Why can’t he mind his own bleeding business? Does every bloke inside for making pornographic films have to put up with this invasion of his privacy? I would write to my M.P. about it if I did not know that he was on a fact-finding trip to the Bahamas: studying how Nassau handles its traffic problem or something like that. They don’t spare themselves, these blokes, you know. ‘I’m only saying this for your own good, Lea,’ burbles Brownjob. ‘And because I’m a trifle worried about your relationship with Warren.’
‘Now, wait a minute –’ I yelp.
‘I know, I know. It’s nothing to be ashamed of. I know that the early days in – in an establishment like this can be lonely ones.’
‘You don’t think I’m a –’
‘It’s not at all unusual if that is any comfort to you, and could, I think, explain your decision to make films which insult and degrade womankind.’
The worst thing about all this is that I am beginning to think he may have a point. Perhaps I do hate women. Maybe I am not making love to them, but attacking them. And I did give Fran – I mean, Warren – half my Milky Bar yesterday. Oh, my gawd! ‘Settle down with a wife and children. That’s my advice to you. Bring some stability into your life.’
‘Yes sir. But it’s a bit difficult at the moment.’
‘I know, Lea, I know.’ Brownjob gives me a 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