spurs shook with aggression. Some lads didn’t take to being banged up. Which was fucking unfortunate.
Some lads thrived on the aggro.
A lifer called James Figgis had taken a liking to me. The bloke was an ex-hooligan with a London Intercity firm, said he had links to the severe right-wing extremists, the real bad blood-oath bastards. He followed me about the yard, gobbing in my ear when he talked. The world, run by Jews, the New World Order dedicated to keeping the Anglo-Saxon down, how the Pakis and wogs and chinks and the rest of those faceless, bloodless East Europeans with their hollow eyes and sticky fingers were ripping the jobs from the common white man. White was right and there weren’t no black in the Union Jack.
He said he’d pegged a guy in Birmingham, a Rasta. Took a double barrel and the guy’s kneecaps point blank.
‘He screamed like a fuckin’ coon,’ he said.
That kind of attitude, it’s not long before someone takes offence. The someone in question was an Asian guy Figgis took to be a terrorist. His name was Kumar, he was a Muslim, and he worked in the kitchens. One morning in the breakfast line, Figgis went to grab a bowl of Rice Krispies and Kumar threw a pan of boiling water in his face. The Asian watched me, two cons back, as Figgis dropped to the floor, screeching, steam rising off his face like piss on a cold day.
I couldn’t take my eyes off Figgis. His hands up around his face, but not touching. Too afraid, his skin scalded, his eyes screwed shut and stinging red. Screaming like a bairn. Like ‘a coon’.
A screw grabbed Figgis under the arms and pulled him out of the kitchen while we all looked on. Figgis’ legs kicked out, his feet squeaked against the lino. Kumar returned to the back of the kitchen, but he never took his eyes off me. They had a matte finish, just completely black.
I didn’t say nowt. Kept my mouth firm.
‘Yeah, you better,’ Kumar said to me on the spur. ‘You better keep it locked, mate.’
His voice was too deep for his frame. It felt like God was speaking to me, some really nasty Old Testament cunt.
There was a bang-up after that. I would have been glad of it if Kumar hadn’t spoken to me. But his voice boomed in my skull.
You will be eligible for community visits after you serve at least three-quarters of your sentence, depending on your Parole Eligibility Date (PED) and your Sentence Expiry Date (SED).
It couldn’t come fast enough.
20.
‘You can fuck yourself,’ said Baz. ‘That’s what you can do.’
‘That’s nice talk, Baz,’ I said.
‘You chucked a mug of fuckin’ tea at us. I were just messing.’
‘And so were I.’
‘I know when you’re messing, Mo. And you wasn’t messing then.’
‘Fuck off and get round here.’
‘Get the bus, nobhead.’
“I told you once, Baz.’
‘Get Rossie.’
‘Get fucked. And get round here.’
I bleeped him off. Fuckin’ Baz with a pet lip on ‘cause I chucked a mug of tea at him. Fuck’s sake, what were the world coming to when a mate couldn’t chuck a mug at another mate without all this whiney bitch nonsense. Not like I burned him bad or owt. Fuck’s sake, even if I did it’d be an improvement to that face. And the fucker had no right messing with us like that.
He weren’t the one worried about his fuckin’ sister took up with a lad twice her age. It were embarrassing, man. Humiliating. What kind of family was we that’d let that happen?
So there were more to be done than pissing with Baz, know what I mean? I sat on me couch and smoked a ciggie, drank a bottle of Vittel. Did a wrap of speed to break me into the day.
Me cheek were back to normal. Nothing scarred this cat.
When Baz rang the buzzer, I went downstairs, got in the passenger seat of his Nova. I laughed at Baz’s face: it were bright fuckin’ red and blotchy. ‘Fuckin’ hell, Baz,’ I said. ‘You want to stay out the sun, mate.’
‘Where we going?’ he said. He didn’t look at us.
‘We’re going to see Innes.’
“I thought you was done with that.’
‘What made you think that, Baz? I weren’t finished with that.’
‘But the lad ‘
‘The lad were a fuckin’ scally. Bout time someone with some sense took this thing over.’
‘Mo’
‘You gonna shut the fuck up and drive, mate? I know what I’m doing.’
Baz stuck his bottom lip out some more and started the engine. We drove and he didn’t say nowt until we was near Salford. Then he said, ‘You sure about this?’
‘What’s not to be sure about, man?’
‘Your dad’ll find out.’
The dad won’t find nowt out. You think Innes is gonna go crying to him?’
‘He might.’
‘Nah, I’ll make sure he don’t. So how’s about you fuckin’ button it and keep your eyes on the road.’
I pull away from the club, and I don’t feel anything. I drive in silence, head for the motorway on autopilot. Paulo’s right.
But it’s not my decision to make.
Part of me wants to be back inside.
The lockdown was safe. I had books and a Walkman that was so battered nobody bothered to nick it. I could close my eyes in there and pretend I was somewhere else until the lights went out. It was comforting, in a way. Yeah, there was the fear of what could happen on the landings, in the yard.
But if I kept my head down and my mind off it, nothing would happen. That’s what I believed, anyway.
There’s a hold up, traffic backed up all along the M62 outside Hull. If I’d bothered to turn the radio on, I probably would have heard about it. As it stands, I’m stuck behind Corsa with a Baby On Board sign in the back, but no sign of a kid. I stare at the woman driving. Catch her face in her rear view. She doesn’t have a kid. Not unless they’ve found a way to stop the menopause.
Part of me wants to rear end that Corsa. My foot hovers over the accelerator until my ankle cramps.
Paulo nearly beat the shit out of me. He had no right to do that, even if he is a mate. I stood up for him enough times in the past. People giving me shit because I was working for a homosexual. Oh right, like the only way I got out of prison was because he fancied me. Get a grip. Sly innuendo and finger pointing. But the trouble with finger pointing is that someone’s bound to snap it off at the knuckle.
And Christ, when did I get so angry?
The Corsa turns off at the next service area, and so do I.
The air smells like exhaust fumes. I step into a cafe, order a fried breakfast. When it comes, it looks like someone’s thrown up on my plate and put toast by the side of it. I drink a bad cup of tea (their fault) loaded with sugar (my fault) and wish I could smoke.
My jaw aches where Paulo took a right against it. My tooth still smarts. At least the bruises on my neck feel like they’re disappearing.
The knife and fork squeak against the plate like nails on a blackboard, so I don’t finish my breakfast. I grab a piece of toast. Halfway through it, I realise I need a piss. When I throw the toast back, there’s blood in the butter.
In the gents, I splash water on my face and try to blink back the fatigue. I’m not that far from Newcastle
