Life on Mars: Borstal Slags. Tom Graham
can’t never go back to Friar’s,’ Barton hissed. ‘It’s hell on earth.’
‘The other inmates pretty rough, are they?’
‘Not the inmates, sir.’
‘What, then?’
‘If I tell you what’s so terrible about that place, sir, will you promise to get me out of here?’ Barton pleaded.
‘Sure. I promise.’
‘Okay. Since you’re kind.’
‘I’m all ears,’ said Sam. ‘And kind eyes. Go ahead, tell me what’s so terrible about Friar’s Brook.’
Barton dropped his voice to a hoarse whisper. He pressed his mouth against the spyhole and breathed a single word, ‘McClintock.’
And with that, he fell silent.
Sam waited for something more, but he got nothing.
‘Is that it? “McClintock”?’
Barton nodded. He glanced about in terror, as if by uttering the name he was at risk of summoning the devil.
‘And who is this “McClintock”?’ asked Sam. ‘An inmate? One of the warders?’
‘Go and find out for yourself, sir,’ Barton whispered. ‘Then you’ll see. Then you’ll see.’
‘Barton, I promised to help you, and I will. But in return you promised to give me information.’
‘And that’s what I did, sir!’
‘A single name and some veiled hints isn’t much for me to go on.’
Barton crept forward again and peered out through the spyhole. ‘Just remember that name, sir. McClintock. Go to Friar’s Brook, sir. See what you will see.’
Sam shrugged. ‘Well, what can I say? Thanks for your cooperation. Now – you get yourself some rest. I’ll make sure you’re out of here as soon as I can.’
‘You mean that, sir? You won’t be sending me back there?’
‘We’ve got bigger fish to fry, Barton. Now go to sleep. And don’t have nightmares.’
Still anxious, but less so than before, Barton crept back to the mean little seat that ran along the cell’s back wall and settled himself on it. He folded his legs primly, and gave Sam a coquettish smile.
‘Thank you, sir,’ he said. ‘You’re different. I can see that.’ And, just as Sam closed up the spyhole once more, he caught Barton’s voice, ‘Be dreaming of you, PC Brown Eyes.’
CHAPTER THREE: MRS SLOCOMBE’S PUSSY
Alone in his flat, Sam dumped a set of dirty plates into the sink and left the washing-up for tomorrow. It would take half the night to get enough hot water to fill the basin, and he was in no mood to sit up, not after the day he’d had. All he wanted was beer and a doze in front of the telly.
He carried a bottle of brown ale over to the TV. The screen glowed. Cash registers clinked and clanged. A funky bass guitar started up. A woman’s voice intoned flatly:
Ground floor: perfumery,
Stationery and leather goods.
Wigs and haberdashery.
Kitchenware and food. Going up!
‘A bottle, a chair, and a few old gags about Mrs Slocombe’s pussy,’ Sam said to himself, cracking open the beer. ‘That’ll do me. That’ll do me just grand.’
He swilled back a warm mouthful of brown ale and let his mind drift. But at once he was disturbed by the memory of a voice – a man’s voice, very harsh and brutal, issuing incongruously from the mouth of an immature young scally.
‘I’ll keep coming at you, you cheating bastard. I’ll keep coming at you until I’ve got my wife back – my wife – mine.’
‘Just ignore it,’ he muttered to himself, trying hard to relax. ‘It’s just mind games. Annie’s never been married.’
Annie. Married.
The image floated into his mind of Annie dressed all in white, with a lace veil, appearing in the aisle of a crowded church. The organ struck up the Wedding March. Sam pictured himself, all togged up in his morning suit, getting to his feet and turning to watch her walk slowly towards him.
This beautiful fantasy made his heart turn over. But then, unexpectedly, his dream was invaded by interlopers. Horribly familiar faces appeared amid the assembled guests. First he caught sight of Chris Skelton, uncomfortable in his cheap suit, a wilting flower hanging limply from his button hole as he pulled a leering, Sid James-ish face at Annie: ooh ’eck, cop a load of that!
Beside him, with his collar un-ironed and fag burns on his shirt, stood Ray Carling. He nudged Chris with his elbow – when the boss gets tired of her, he can always chuck her over my way – and swigged flagrantly from a pewter hip flask.
Just across from them was Phyllis, all made up and kitted out in her finest glad rags, but looking as scowly faced and unimpressed as ever. She shot Sam a sour look that said a girl like that – settling for a no-good little ’Erbert like you.
‘Give me a break guys,’ Sam whispered to himself, emerging from his fantasy and taking another swig of beer. Then he settled back again, let sleep tug at his eyelids and the emanations from the TV wash over him like a lullaby.
INT: GRACE BROTHER’S DEPARTMENT STORE – DAY
With her bright orange hair and thick multi-coloured make-up, Mrs Slocombe folds her arms and looks disapproving.
MRS SLOCOMBE: That new girl who’s started – Miss Belfridge, she calls herself. Nothing but a floozy! She’s in line for a promotion already, and all because she wiggles her hips and flutters her eyelashes!
Captain Peacock looks at her across the top of his glasses.
CAPTAIN PEACOCK: Do you feel ready for a promotion, Mrs Slocombe?
MRS SLOCOMBE: I do! I’m totally up for it, Mr Peacock! If only someone would give me one!
CAPTAIN PEACOCK: If I had the power, Mrs Slocombe, I’d happily give you one right now.
Mrs Slocombe simpers and pats her orange hair.
Nearby, Mr Spooner and Mr Humphreys overhear their conversation.
MR SPOONER: Promotion? Personally, I’m not much interested in climbing the corporate ladder. What about you, Mr Humphreys? Would you rather be on top?
MR HUMPHREYS: Ooh, I’m quite happy near the bottom.
The TV burbled on.
Slipping back into his wedding fantasy, Sam tried to ignore the faces of his colleagues amid the pews. Damn it all, this was his dream! Those bastards had no right to gatecrash it!
He tried to fill his imagination with the image of Annie in her bridal gown. She looked – and how could she not? – wonderful. He allowed a pale aura of light to shimmer around her, a soft-focus haze that gave her an almost ethereal radiance. Subtly – perhaps a little tackily – he made her eyes glint alluringly beneath her veil as she turned to smile at him.
The priest stepped forward to read the wedding service. But Sam’s imagination decided on a cruel casting decision.
‘Oh no, not you!’
There was a panatela smouldering unashamedly in the priest’s gob. He tugged at his dog collar to loosen it, sniffed, glanced about, and reached under his cassock to flagrantly shepherd