Tom Graham - Life on Mars - Borstal Slags

‘He is a villain, boss!’ Chris insisted. ‘A jail bird. He’s done time before. He told us on the way in here. He did a stretch at Friar’s Brook and he begged us not to send him back there. Practically crying he was.’

‘Like a nancy,’ growled Ray.

Sam’s ears pricked up: ‘Friar’s Brook? He’s done time at Friar’s Brook borstal?’

‘That’s what he said, Boss.’

Friar’s Brook borstal was where the junk metal was being brought in from at Kersey’s yard, and it was also the source of the letter found on the lad who’d stolen the truck.

‘This young man you arrested, what’s his name?’ Sam asked.

‘Barton. We stuck him in Cell 2.’

‘Barton …’ Sam mused. Then he said, ‘You two knock off for the night. The Guv’s already down the boozer, he’ll be missing your company.’

‘You not coming, Boss?’ Ray asked.

‘No. I want to speak to this lad Barton. I’m interested in Friar’s Brook and he might have something useful to tell me about it.’

‘And what about – that ?’ Chris indicated nervously at the sports bag full of shoddy gay porn.

‘I’ll hang onto it,’ said Sam flatly. ‘For my private use.’

Chris’s mouth fell open. Ray scowled, uncertain, disturbed.

‘What’s the matter, boys?’ Sam added camply, arching an eyebrow. ‘Afraid of your own feelings?’

‘You shouldn’t joke, Boss, not about stuff like that,’ said Ray darkly. ‘You’ll get yourself a reputation. C’mon, Chris, let’s get down the Railway Arms. The Guv hates to drink alone. And besides, his sense of humour’s more – more normal than some.’

As the two of them headed off together, Sam called out to them, ‘Oh – and Chris?’

‘Boss?’

‘Those charcoal tablets you’re taking. Don’t overdo ’em, they’re carcinogenic.’ And when Chris stared blankly at him, Sam added, ‘They give you cancer.’

‘Give over, Boss!’ scoffed Chris, waving him away. ‘They ain’t no worse for you than fags.’

Sam headed back down to the cells. He reached the heavy door of Cell 2 and opened up the spyhole. Inside he saw Barton pacing anxiously about, sweating and chewing his nails. He was older than Sam had imagined, with rough skin around his neck and face, and collar-length hair that was well overdue for a wash. If he’d been an inmate at Friar’s Brook borstal, it must have been some years ago.

‘Barton?’ Sam called through the spyhole. ‘My name’s DI Tyler. I want a word.’

Barton turned with a start and at once dashed over.

‘Officer!’ he cried. ‘Sir! You gotta get me out of here! Please! Please , sir! I’m begging you! I’m no nonce. I’m just the courier. It’s them what takes the pictures, sir, not me.’

‘I’m not really fussed about all that.’

‘They take ’em in one of the flats on the Hayfield estate. Dirty pictures, sir. I just deliver ’em. They pay me a couple of bob, I need the cash, but I don’t get involved or nuffing ’coz I’m not like that, honest I’m not, sir! Please, sir, please, you gotta let me out of here!’

‘Barton, take it easy. There’s nothing they can charge you with except some trumped-up nonsense about resisting arrest. And if you cooperate with me I can see that charge is completely dropped.’

‘Really? Really, sir?’ Barton pressed his face hard against the spyhole. ‘You’ll let me go? You mean it?’

‘Of course I mean it. But in return, I want to ask you a few questions.’

‘Oh thank you, thank you!’ grovelled Barton, thrusting his fingers through the spyhole and waggling them. ‘I knew you’d help me! I could see you were different, you’re not like the others. You’ve got kind eyes.’

‘I have?’ said Sam, suppressing a grin.

‘Yes, yes, sir, you have, very kind eyes! And a kind face, sir! A very, very kind face.’

Sam laughed.

‘I mean it!’ Barton cried. ‘I know, I know, you think I’m a nonce talking like that. They all thought I was nonce, back in Friar’s. That’s why I don’t ever want to go back there. They gave me a hard time. A hard time, sir!’

‘Friar’s Brook is what I wanted to ask you about. What’s it like?’

‘Terrible, sir! They nearly killed me! It was awful. They said I was a nancy, they said I’d got my dick out in the showers and tried to – they said I wanted to – that I … It weren’t true, I swear it, sir! I never did nothing! I’m no poofter I like big tits and that!’

‘When were you at Friar’s Brook?’ asked Sam.

‘Last year.’

‘Rubbish. It’s a borstal. You’re way too old.’

‘Too old? I’m seventeen.’

Sam was taken aback. The heavy features, the skin roughed by cold shaves and alcohol aftershave and a diet of instant mash and fish fingers – could that really be the face of a teenager?

No moisturizers for men in the seventies. No skincare regimes, no fruit juice, no five-a-day. It’s all harsh winds and fag smoke and chips cooked in dripping for lads like this.

‘I 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.’

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: