Confessions from the Clink. Timothy Lea
whole thing. Says he can’t hold his head up in the Highwayman any more.’
‘Give him a couple of beers and he has trouble holding his head up anywhere. I don’t know what he’s going on about. He’s one of the reasons why I’m stuck in this place.’ This is indeed true and comes about from the fact that dad’s porn collection, concealed in the hallstand, was considered to be mine by the searching ’bules. Fresh evidence of my depraved nature. In fact, though never averse to a quick butcher’s, I would rather spend my money on the real thing.
Dad works, for want of a better word, at the Lost Property Office and is swift to fall upon those articles which nobody would ever have the face to claim. Blood supposedly being thicker than water you would have thought that he might have stepped forward to acknowledge ownership of ‘Wife-Swapping – Danish Style’ and ‘Spanking for Beginners’, but not a sausage. He allows his firstborn to be put away without a murmur.
Sid sticks a hand through the bars and pats me on the shoulder. ‘I know, Timmy. Your dad has behaved rotten, but don’t worry. I’ll stand by you. I’ll send you a postcard.’
‘Where from?’ I say, allowing a trace of bitterness to creep into my voice.
‘The last few weeks have been a big strain, Timmy. I thought I’d take Rosie and the kids for a bit of sunshine. Sardinia has been recommended to me.’
‘Oh, that’s blooming marvellous, isn’t it? I go in the nick and you go off to Sardinia. There’s no justice.’
It is shortly after this exchange that Sidney goes up the steps from the cells nursing a thick lip and I find myself lumbered with a swollen knuckle that prevents me succumbing immediately to a spot of percy pummelling.
The next day I hear that, either by luck or design, I am being sent to Penhurst Prison and it is clearly a decision that causes resentment amongst my ’bule friends.
‘Place is a blinking holiday camp,’ snorts one of them. ‘You want to take your tennis racquet.’
‘And your camera,’ says another. ‘Or maybe not, knowing the kind of pictures you like taking.’
I don’t argue the toss but climb aboard the H.M. Prisons van which I share with a pasty-faced bloke with two-tone hair. The first half inch is black and the rest yellow.
‘Ooh!’ he says, pursing his lips at me. ‘Thank goodness for a little company at least. What naughty things have you been up to?’ It occurs to me without too much effort that this bloke is never going to be a serious threat to George Foreman but it is an impression I keep to myself. It takes all sorts to make licquorice, as my old school master used to say.
‘It’s a very long and turgid story,’ I tell him, ‘but basically they got me for making and appearing in blue films.’
‘Ooh! That must be difficult,’ says my new friend. ‘I suppose you set up the camera, run out and do your bit, and run back again. Must be very tiring.’
‘I wasn’t doing both at the same time,’ I explain. ‘In fact, I didn’t know I was being filmed.’
‘Ooh, that is treacherous. Taking advantage of someone like that. It’s not right, is it? But, you know –’ Streaky squeezes my arm conspiratorially – ‘I’m surprised they were able to recognise you. Some of those films. I mean, really. People know me by my face. The way they go on about it, you wouldn’t recognise your own mother. I know, because she was in one. Marvellous woman. She’d bend over backwards to help a complete stranger. That was her trouble really. She was just too – you know what I mean?’
‘Er – yes,’ I say. ‘Heart as big as all outdoors.’
‘Not only her heart, ducky. She was a lot of woman in more ways than one. Quite overpowering, in fact.’
I have a shrewd idea that Two-Tone Jessie O’Gay is not in clink for tying parking meters in knots, and he is quick to reinforce this impression.
‘It’s disgraceful me being in here, too. I mean, when a cute blonde number comes up to you in the little boys’ room and says ‘hello sailor’ you don’t expect him to be playing scrum-half for the Metropolitan Police Rugby Team, do you? I was quite overcome. Over, I have never been so come.’
‘Diabolical,’ I say. ‘I know just how you feel. I mean –’ I add hurriedly, ‘It’s not on, is it?’
‘Oh, you are nice,’ says Streaky, giving me another little squeeze. ‘I said to myself the moment I saw you. “He’s nice,” I said. I’m so glad we met up. We’ll be able to stick together, won’t we?’
I think the answer to that must be no, but I don’t want to give offence too early in our non-relationship. ‘My name’s Timothy Lea,’ I say, trying to sound as if I can strip paint by huffing on it.
‘Fran Warren,’ says my adorable comrade. ‘Fran, short for Francis, but long for everyone else. Oops, sorry. Just my little joke.’
A few more like that and I will have committed murder before we ever get to the nick, I think to myself. What a laugh riot this little number is turning out to be.
‘It would be nice if we could share, though, wouldn’t it?’ warbles Mrs. Warren’s problem child. ‘I’m certain we’d get on well. I mean, you must be broad-minded.’
‘Exactly,’ I said hurriedly. ‘That’s all my mind ever thinks about – broads.’
‘Ooh, you’re like that, are you?’ He manages to make it sound as if I enjoy interfering with garden gnomes.
‘Birds,’ I say firmly. ‘I love ’em. That’s my scene. Birds, lots of birds. And football. Chelsea. We are the champions! We are the –!’
‘Yes, all right, dear,’ says Fran holding up his hands in dismay. ‘There’s no need to shout. We all have our little idiosyncrasies. I support Norwich City, myself. That heavenly yellow. And their goalkeeper! He’s a dream. Like a big pussy cat throwing himself all over the place. Ooh, I feel like standing in the way every time I see him.’
I do not think a common interest in football is going to be enough to make life with Francis Warren bearable. Certainly not when my interest is nowhere near half as common as his.
I hope they are not all going to be like him at Penhurst. Of course, I have heard stories – and it is not surprising when the crumpet ration is akin to the number of nips rolling up to a Kamikazi pilots reunion dinner – but I did not expect to get lumbered before I got through the front gate.
This article presents itself before I have had to slap my companion’s wrist more than a couple of times, and bears a stronger resemblance to the entrance to a crematorium than a nick – with my family you get plenty of chance to see both. There is a bloke in a peaked cap behind the wrought iron gate and the minute I see him, I am reminded of the Funfrall Holiday Camp I once worked at. I hope the nosh is better here.
The driver’s neck, seen through the glass panel behind his seat, looks like a pink elephant sitting down, and I turn away from it to feast my eyes on Fran plucking at his disgusting hair.
‘Oh, it’s awful, isn’t it?’ he squeaks. ‘I saw you looking. I’ve got split ends and my follicles are clogged.’
Please! I feel like saying to him. Spare me the details! I mean, there are some things you just don’t want to know about, aren’t there? ‘I was on remand for three weeks,’ he clucks, ‘never had a chance to do anything about it.’
‘Don’t worry,’ I soothe. ‘I’m certain they’ll make allowances.’
‘O.K. you two. Out!’ The prison officer swings open the door and divides his contempt between us. I am not certain I like the way he says ‘you two’ as if we were some kind of double act.
‘Oh dear. What a shame. Just as we were getting down to brass tacks, too. It’s always the same, isn’t it?’ I ignore the bent gent’s twitter