Dark Side of the Street

fallen on hard times were meat and drink to him.

'And what the devil do you think you're supposed to be doing, Drummond?' he demanded. 'I know the idea of soiling those lily-white hands of yours doesn't appeal, but work is the object of the exercise.'

Youngblood moved in very close and said softly, 'He is working, Mr. Meadows, sir. He's working very hard. Now why don't you go back to the other end of the room like a good little boy.'

And Meadows took it, that was the important thing. His hesitation was only momentary, his face quite white and he was afraid, which was all that mattered.

From the other end of the room there came a sudden cry of agony. Meadows turned, glad of the excuse and hurried away. Everyone stopped working, all noise dying as the machines were switched off one-by-one. Nevinson appeared, walking close to the wall, wiping his hands on an oily rag.

'What happened, Jock?' Youngblood called.

'Jack Brady's just had a nasty accident,' Nevinson said calmly. 'Spilt a bucket of boiling water over his legs in the blacksmith's shop.'

Youngblood shook his head as he glanced at Chavasse. 'Now that was careless of him, wasn't it?'

Chavasse said nothing and moved forward with the others. Brady was groaning in agony and kept it up till the first aid men arrived and one of them gave him an injection. He lay there writhing, his great, ugly face soaked in sweat as they got him on to a stretcher. He moaned again and lost consciousness as they lifted him up, but it was difficult to feel any sort of compassion for him. He had broken the code of the society in which he lived and had received in return justice of a sort.

More screws had arrived, Atkinson among them and he rapped his staff on a bench. 'Get back to work, all of you.' He turned to Meadows. 'I'll want a report on my desk in an hour, Mr. Meadows. I'll send someone to relieve you.' He walked to the door and paused. 'You can bring Drummond with you when you come-his sister's here to see him.'

The last Thursday in every month was a general visiting day and when the Duty Officer took Chavasse into the main hall, it was already pretty full. A row of cubicles stretched from one wall to the other, and in each one prisoner and visitor faced each other through a sheet of armoured glass and spoke through microphones.

They sat Chavasse in a cubicle and he waited impatiently, the voices on either side a meaningless blur and then the door opposite opened and Jean Frazer came in. She was wearing a white nylon blouse and a neat two piece suit in Donegal tweed with a pleated skirt. Strange, but he had never realised before just how attractive she really was.

Her ready smile faded as she sank down into the chair opposite. 'Paul, what have they done to you?

Her voice sounded slightly distorted over the amplifier and he smiled. 'Do I look that bad?'

'I wouldn't have believed it possible.'

He cracked suddenly, a savage, cutting edge to his voice. 'For God's sake, Jean, what do you think it's like in here? I'm not Paul Chavasse playing a part and going home nights. I'm Paul Drummond doing six years for armed robbery. I've been inside four months now. I think like a con, I act like one. Most important of all, I'm treated like one-tell Graham Mallory to stuff that in his blasted pipe.'

There was real pain in her eyes and she reached out to touch him, forgetting about the glass. 'I feel so damned inadequate.'

He grinned. 'A good thing there's glass between us. You look good enough to eat, never mind the other thing.'

She managed to smile. 'Do I?'

'Now don't go making any rash promises. They'd only get you into trouble. After all, I do anticipate getting out of here sometime. How is Mallory, by the way?'

'His usual charming self. He told me to tell you to get a move on. Apparently he could use you elsewhere and thinks this business has gone on long enough.'

'The answer I'd like to send him is completely unprintable,' Chavasse said. 'But never mind. We'd better get down to business. We're only allowed ten minutes.'

'How are you and Youngblood getting on?'

'Fine-in fact I managed to stop someone sticking a sharp implement into him this morning.'

'I thought they put people in prison to prevent them doing that sort of thing?'

'That's the theory-worked out by people who don't know what they're talking about as usual.'

'Have you found anything out about the Baron?'

He shook his head. 'I've heard his name mentioned in general gossip amongst the other prisoners, but he's as much a question mark to them as he is to me. I tried to talk about him with Youngblood-told him I'd heard the Baron had got Saxton and Hoffa out. He seemed to think the whole idea was fairy tales for the kiddies.'

'So you've really wasted your time?'

'Not on your life. Youngblood's on his way out of here. I've never been so certain of anything in my life. He hasn't said so in so many words, but everything about him confirms it. His general manner, the remarks he makes and so on.'

'You've no idea how or when?'

He shook his head. 'Not a clue. There is one thing. He seems to be feeling his oats a bit at the moment. I think something's in the air.'

She shook her head. 'It doesn't make sense, Paul. I've read the file on this place. He couldn't get out- nobody could.'

'He's going to go, there's nothing surer and I'd like to be there when he does.'

'You'll stop him, of course.'

'Not on your life, angel,' Chavasse grinned. 'He doesn't know it yet, but I'm going with him.'

There was immediate dismay in her eyes, but as she opened her mouth to reply, a prison officer approached. 'Time's up, miss.'

She got to her feet. 'Goodbye, Paul. Look after yourself.'

'You, too,' he said and turned and followed the Duty Officer out.

Meals at Fridaythorpe were taken in a small canteen on the second floor of each tower block and when Chavasse arrived, lunch had already started.

The officer in charge signed for him and he went down to the counter and filled a tray quickly. Youngblood was sitting at the first table near the wall and he waved, pointing to a vacant place next to him.

'A sister, eh?' he commented as Chavasse sat down. 'You've been holding out on me.'

'I wasn't sure she'd want to know me any more,' Chavasse said. 'I must take a lot of living up to.'

'I hear she looked pretty good.'

Chavasse had long since got over being surprised at Youngblood's apparently inexhaustible supply of information. 'Is there anything you don't hear?'

'If there is, it isn't worth knowing.'

Atkinson arrived on one of his periodical tours of inspection and a few minutes later, the bell rang for the end of the session. They queued to return their plates and then stood in line at the lift to be returned in batches to their cells for the rest period before the afternoon session in the workshops began.

Smoking was allowed as they waited and Youngblood produced a cigarette, put it in his mouth and searched unsuccessfully for a match. Atkinson stopped beside him, took a box from his pocket and held it out.

'You can keep those, Youngblood, but make 'em last.' He shook his head as he moved away. 'I don't know what some of you blokes would do without me.'

There was a certain amount of dutiful laughter, particularly from those who wanted to stay in his good books. A moment later, the lift arrived and as they moved forward, Youngblood put his cigarette away and slipped the matches into his pocket.

Chavasse was conscious of a sudden surge of excitement. The whole incident was completely out of character. There was no love lost between Atkinson and Youngblood, both men made that quite plain, and yet the Principal Officer had gone out of his way to do Youngblood a kindness. It just didn't make sense.

During the rest period the cell doors were left open and there was a certain amount of coming and going, but any prisoner was at liberty to lock himself in if he didn't feel sociable.

'You don't mind if I close the door, do you?' Youngblood said to Chavasse when they reached their cell. 'I'm