0 comments/ 10973 views/ 4 favorites The Last Time By: jamesmarlowe (Chapter 19) "The Last Time" (circa-1990) Justice Adrian Bradshaw removed his wire-rimmed spectacles from his tweed jacket pocket and after slipping them over his nose he stared at the nine defendants in the dock. All nine had pleaded guilty to theft or the receiving of stolen goods. Of the nine defendants, three men in their mid-twenties had pleaded guilty to the theft of three-million cigarettes stolen from a cash-and-carry warehouse. The men had disabled the security alarm system and close circuit television cameras before crashing a heavy goods vehicle through a roller-shutter door. The other three men in the dock consisted of two Asian men and one white male. They were the owners of newsagent's shops and all three had pleaded guilty to receiving in the region of one-million cigarettes. The remaining members in the dock were three women in their mid-fifties who had pleaded guilty to the handling of stolen goods. Justice Bradshaw had been listening for over an hour to the respective barristers representing the three young men who carried out the initial theft. They asked his lordship to consider a range of mitigating circumstances that had resulted in bringing their clients to this unfortunate situation. They said that if their clients hadn't come from broken families, living in depressed neighbourhoods with little or no prospects, and had they been given a better start in life in a more secure environment they felt sure that their paths would have taken a different route and they most certainly wouldn't be standing in front of his lordship today. Leaning forward on his elbows with his fingers weaved together in front of his mouth and his half-moon glasses balanced precariously on the end of his nose, casually flicking through a lengthy summary report of their previous convictions, ranging from GBH and ABH, assault with a deadly weapon, arson, burglary, resisting arrest, trespassing, anti-social-behaviour, breaking and entry, theft, drinking and driving...the list went on. Mr Bradshaw sighed and folded his arms across his chest, waiting patiently for the barrister to describe how these three men - when they weren't engaged in crime - felt it was their duty to help little old ladies to cross a busy road. The barristers representing the proprietors of the newsagent's shops who had received the stolen cigarettes generally summarised their clients as happily married men with children, who were respected and upstanding members of the communities they served. The barristers reminded his lordship that if you discounted unpaid parking fines all three men had outstanding and unblemished records. They respectfully suggested to his lordship that given their clients circumstances and background, on this occasion a suspended sentence rather than a custodial sentence would be more appropriate. Justice Bradshaw had heard enough bullshit for one day. There were more important things on his mind. Like the vintage bottle of Claret he had removed from his wine cellar earlier this morning and the sizzling roast beef dinner his wife will have waiting for him when he gets home from his bureaucratic kingdom of justice. He pushed his spectacles back onto the bridge of his nose and cleared his throat to announce his intention to deliver the verdicts. His voice was calm but delivered with an intellectual maturity that you would expect from a man who administers the law. He first directed his attention at the two men who he described as the ring-leaders in a well organised, ruthless and well executed crime with only one objective. He suggested that in their desperate attempt to steal a quantity of goods they had left a trail of destruction with no thought or consideration of others. Growling his dissatisfaction in a voice full of genuine hatred he launched into a fiery attack on their characters, describing how men like these play an egotistical but unworthy part in today's society. His words were conveyed with a hint of patronising sarcasm, only just avoiding the word 'scumbags.' He went on to reminded the court of the substantial costs that had incurred and the numerous and tireless hours spent by the detectives in their efforts to have the two men extradited from the Mediterranean island of Cyprus. The two men both received a five year prison sentence. The third man in the dock described as the get-away driver who allegedly only received a payment of a few hundred pounds and a couple of cartons of cigarettes, received a two year prison sentence. A brief moment of the most uncomfortable silence filled the court room, eventually broken by a flatulent movement from someone in the dock. It was at this point when the haunting reality of a custodial sentence looked almost certain. His freedom. His wife. His job. His life hanging by a thread. He took the matter a little more seriously, sat up straight, cleared his throat and adjusted the knot in his tie. Justice Bradshaw gathered a few papers from his desk before turning his attention to the two Asian men and the white male who he referred to as, 'the shopkeepers.' Unforgiving eyes looked out over the top of his half-moon spectacles, his body language assertive and the tone of his voice laden with righteous indignation. "You have been described as three professional men who are supposed to be respected pillars of the community. But men of your status in society should know better than to break the law. If you weren't so eager to take stolen goods then crimes of this nature wouldn't be so appealing to the criminals." The three 'shopkeepers' each received an eighteen-months prison sentence. Justice Bradshaw sighed and took a deep intake of breath before facing the three middle-aged women who had pleaded guilty to handling stolen goods. Innocent eyes looked back at the judge, their faces shrouded in paper tissues, forcing sniffles and false tears, shuffling nervously on their feet, waiting anxiously for the outcome. After placing the palms of his hands flat together directly in front of his face in that collective sign common to prayer or begging, he looked at the three women and cleared his throat. "I believe that you three women were unfortunately caught up in a ruthless criminal web of deceit. I also accept that your involvement in the handling of these stolen goods did in fact play a small part in the scale of the overall crime. Notwithstanding this, you are all old enough to understand that your conscience is that part of you which separates right from wrong and for that reason I can't let you go unpunished." After pausing to regain his composure and adjusting his spectacles, he continued. "I therefore sentence all three of you to..." At this point one of the three women almost collapsed in the dock and another began sobbing uncontrollably. After a court usher dutifully provided a glass of water and the judge had reinstated some kind of order, announcing that they would each receive a twelve months suspended prison sentence, they all made a remarkable recovery. Overcome with relief the three women hugged and kissed each other before extending their thanks to Justice Bradshaw. One of them composed a curtsy and addressed him as, 'Your Highness' which brought a sanctimonious smile to the face of one of the barristers. The holding cell in the bowels of the court was cold and depressing. Two rows of bench seating fixed along a white-washed painted wall covered in shameful graffiti provided the condemned men with a place to contemplate their adversity as they sat without protest awaiting their final destination. He sat between two men who looked as if they were innocent of any crime. A young man in his early-twenties with short black hair and tear filled eyes sat opposite. He had just been given a twenty-year prison sentence for shaking a two-year old baby boy so violently that he died of brain damage. He wondered how grey his hair would be when he was eventually released. Shuffling on the timber seat and craning his neck, reading the artwork and graffiti decorating the walls, impulsive inscriptions of lost lovers proclaiming their everlasting love for each other. Some had written insults. Others had made promises that would never be kept. The mocking hand of a football fan playing carelessly with a marker pen, the amusing inscription scribbled on the wall bringing an unexpected smile to his face. 'Gazza signs for Sunderland.' The inmate's reception at H.M.P. Durham held an unhealthy black gloom of helplessness and inevitable depression. A sour faced arrogant and overweight prison officer had the mundane task of registering each inmate as he entered his domain. "Name," he barked, matter-of-fact and without emotion, followed by the usual confirmation of address, date of birth etc. "Empty the contents of your pockets. Remove any watches, rings and jewellery," he bellowed his authority. "Strip off and turn around in a full circle," was his next instruction. "Enter the showers and pick up a set of prison clothing," was his final command. From that moment and throughout the remainder of his sentence Mark Brand would be referred to by his Surname and never by his Christian name. For many years H.M.P. Durham had been a top-security jail, holding some of the country's most violent prisoners. But now it operated solely as an allocation prison and therefore most inmates would only spend a short time in custody before being relocated to another prison. His barrister had informed him that he would probably spend about four weeks in Durham before being transferred to H.M.P. Tollgate open prison. He also said that with good behaviour and a recommendation by the Parole Board he could be released on licence after serving a third of his original sentence. His first night of incarceration was always going to be the most difficult to deal with. He couldn't stop thinking about Jill and how she would cope on her own with their four-month old baby girl, Catherine. But although he agonised with her predicament he was fully aware that Jill was a strong and rational person who would manage and deal with any problem or difficult situation. Stepping into the haunting claustrophobia of a cold prison cell on E-Wing, to be greeted by a violent and foul-mouthed man in his mid-twenties who had been convicted of stealing and ringing cars didn't help him in his moment of despair. Neither did the metal framed bed with a badly stained mattress and perpetual use from countless inmates who had shed more than tears during long sleepless nights. Or the foul-smelling bucket of urine in the corner of the cell, a bowel moving reminder of the dignity lost in the disposal of bodily functions. He climbed into bed. He couldn't sleep. He couldn't think straight. He tried to ignore the foul-mouthed man's friendship. He waited until he had fallen asleep before spilling a few silent tears on the pillow. He buried his face in the mattress. He hoped and prayed that when he woke up this would all turn out to be some regrettable nightmare. After a sleepless night with a homicidal maniac he was relieved when a prison officer told him he was being transferred to another cell on C-Wing later that day. His new cell mate was a tall stocky man in his early-fifties with long grey hair, a huge head and a cavernous mouth that displayed more gum than teeth. He was serving three years for arson. "Tom Bradley," he offered, his outstretched hand almost crushing his fingers. "Mark Brand," he replied, dropping his belongings on one of the bunk-beds. "You're on the top bunk," Tom said, without compromise, waiting patiently until he had moved his stuff off his bed. "Cigarette," Tom offered, his face shrouded in smoke from a burning cigarette dangling precariously from his mouth. "Is this your first time inside?" Tom asked, offering his lighter. "Is it that obvious," he replied. "It is... So I'd better give you a brief rundown of the rules and protocols inside the prison," he said with reassurance, slipping his lighter back into his pocket. "This is a shit-hole son. In nearly one-hundred years there have only been two changes to improve the welfare and conditions for inmates." He paused and drew smoke into his lungs. "After a fucking hundred-years you can now have corn flakes for breakfast and a radio in your cell." Instinctively he looked at the radio, the resonating 'A Minor' chord of AC/DC launching into a 'Whole Lotta Rosie,' interrupting his flow. "You can't hear yourself speak with that fucking racket," he barked, shaking his head in disgust, dropping the volume and gathering his thoughts before continuing his lecture. "The screws get you up in the morning at 6 a.m. and they put you to bed at 10 p.m. You collect your meals from the kitchen and you eat your food inside your cell. You shower on a Thursday and you get a change of clothing on Friday. They allow you a forty-five minute break each day for 'Association,'" he said, coughing into a clenched fist. "That's when they let you outside for a stroll around the prison yard." After pausing to roll two more cigarettes he continued. "Jobs inside the prison are scarce son. Kitchen...Laundry...Library...Scrubbing or Mopping floors can all get you away from the boredom of the prison cell." Tom smiled and handed him a cigarette between two nicotine stained fingers. "Other than that you are banged-up almost all day," he concluded, flicking his lighter over the cigarettes. "Oh, there's one more thing. Never ask anybody why they are in here and be careful how you go, this place is full of thieves and fucking villains." A week later Tom informed him that he was expecting to be transferred to another prison. "That squeaky clean image of yours is only going to get you into trouble," Tom said, raising a concerned eyebrow. "It's a fucking time bomb in here," Tom snorted. "The place is full of fucking maniacs," he added, placing a friendly hand on his shoulder. "It's a place where the strong fuck the weak son and you look a little vulnerable," he said, brushing his hand over the back of his neck and staring out through the steel bars on a small window, a faint glimmer of light the only reminder of the world outside. "Over the years this prison has held some of the most violent criminals. Ronnie Kray. John McVicar. Frankie Fraser. They've all done time in here," he sighed, blowing smoke between the vertical steel bars and stubbing his cigarette out on a fossilised spider. "If you want to stay clear of trouble son, you need to mix with the right people," he said with reassurance, smiling through a toothless mouth. "Before I leave, I'll introduce you to two friends of mine who will look after you when I'm gone. Nobody messes with Tony and Darren, not even the screws," he grinned, as he proceeded to empty his bladder into a bucket of piss. When Tom Bradley introduced him to Tony Elliott and Darren Adams he knew immediately that these were two ruthless hard-men who should always be respected. Tony Elliott had the physique of a gladiator and the look of a man who ate his meat raw. Over six-feet tall and built like the proverbial brick-shit-house, he towered over most people and there were occasions when he had to lower his head when he entered a room. A huge muscular man with a threatening look and a venomous voice, he had the biggest pair of hands he had ever seen. Prior to his conviction, Tony worked on his parent's farm but in his younger days he had been a semi-professional boxer until he lost his licence. After one of his fights, Tony was enraged when the referee awarded the fight to the other man. He confronted the referee after the fight and after an exchange of words Tony hit him with a punch to the face that left him unconscious on the dressing room floor. Tony was serving a two year sentence for the theft of a tanker full of diesel fuel. Darren Adams was similar in build, although only six feet tall with normal size hands that displayed the prison trademark of 'LOVE' and 'HATE' tattooed across each hand. When he wasn't doing time he worked on-and-off as a night-club doorman. Darren was serving a three year sentence for grievous bodily harm. It was a timely coincidence that Darren was a good friend of the two men who had been convicted of the stolen cigarettes, and furthermore he had flown to Cyprus to visit the men prior to their extradition back to the UK. When he said the worst job in the prison was scrubbing floors Tom Bradley was right. With a scrubbing brush in one hand and a bucket of dirty water in the other, he worked his way down the stairs under the watchful eye of a prison officer. His task for that day was to ensure the quality of workmanship was up to his demanding standards, and if it wasn't he would find himself out of a job. The sound of two fingers snapping together and that unmistakable voice of authority interrupted his enthusiastic momentum. "BRAND!" growled the prison officer. "Move to the side and let the probation officers pass." "Yes sir," he answered, dragging his bucket of dirty water to one side, looking up to see two smartly dressed women heading down the stairs. One of them was a fat abrasive woman in her mid-fifties with a round face and a few strands of hair growing from a hideous mole on her chin. The other woman was in her mid-thirties. She was slim and attractive with impossible long legs growing out of a pair of black towering heels. The tapping of black heels on the concrete stairs suddenly stopped. Their eyes met. He froze. She gasped through a tangle of shuffling feet, almost losing her balance in embarrassing recoil. She looked at him. He looked at her. She lowered her eyes. She looked up again. Her eyes and mouth wide open, the expression on her face a haunting mask of shock and utter disbelief. A deep shade of crimson coloured her face, a renewed demeanour in her step, heels clicking in urgent descent down the concrete stairs, long legs and black heels disappearing into one of the staff offices at the bottom of the stairs. Caroline Spencer had once again walked out of his life. For the next five weeks he joined Tony and Darren each day for Association. Although Tom Bradley had been transferred to another prison, he hadn't forgotten his parting words of advice or his valued friendship. The coach journey to H.M.P. Tollgate open prison took just over an hour. And even though the panoramic views of the autumnal countryside were a welcoming sight from his dismal cell in Durham, he was still a little apprehensive about his next destination, knowing he wouldn't have the friendship or the protection of Tony and Darren. Before his untimely departure from HMP-Durham, Tom Bradley had explained some of the advantages and disadvantages of being inside an open prison. He told him that the main advantage was the flexibility to move freely around the camp and mix with the other inmates, and because you weren't locked in a cell for most of the day you could take a shower and get a change of clothing whenever you liked. He said that although all inmates were allocated a job, when your working day had ended the rest of your time was devoted to the social and leisure facilities inside the prison. The main disadvantage of the move to an open prison would be the monthly visit for Jill. Durham prison had only been a short bus ride, but now she would be faced with a lengthy journey and it wouldn't be easy considering Catherine was only four months old. Another disadvantage of the open prison was that although you had the freedom to move around inside the camp, the night-shift prison staff were few in numbers, which added to the risk of attacks from other inmates. The Last Time Surrounded by a three metre high steel security fence the open prison covered a vast area of land. The buildings for both inmates and the prison service were a mixture of pre-fabricated timber and brickwork construction. They had that despondent look that you often associate with old institutional buildings and army barracks. There was a range of social and activity rooms for inmates. Television Room. Gymnasium. Snooker and Pool Room. Arts and Crafts Room. Music Room, which consisted of a tired looking piano with a number of broken keys. He counted six. It was certainly not a Steinway. His accommodation for the remainder of his sentence would be undertaken in one of the pre-fabricated buildings where he would spend most of his time living with eleven other inmates. Apart from himself and a quiet man in his late-forties, all the other inmates were in their early to late-twenties. For the next few days he went about adjusting to the new environment, mixing socially with some of the younger inmates, finding his way around the prison and getting familiar with the recreational facilities, all the time making sure he followed Tom Bradley's advice, avoiding any confrontation with violent lunatics. It was a cold wet morning waiting for the daily roll-call-register to get underway. "Adams!" shouted the duty officer. "Yes," a voice echoed, the mere mention of his name getting him on his toes, craning his neck over a sea of heads, searching for the compulsory raised hand of the inmate. 'Darren Adams,' the fingers of 'LOVE' and 'HATE' informed him, his eyes instinctively taking another quick tour over an ocean of blue denim uniforms, the unmistakable tall silhouette of Tony Elliott towering over the crowd, bringing a smile to his face. Never in his wildest dreams would he have thought that a couple of ruthless hard-men could be such a welcoming sight. It didn't take long before the prison officers recognised the authority and respect that Tony and Darren were given amongst the other inmates. It was also evident that the screws played a part in passing information to certain inmates, especially when it concerned a 'nonce' who was attempting to slip through the net. Most inmates who were inside for normal criminal activities that weren't associated with interfering with children, or attacks on elderly people were reasonably accepted by other inmates and most of the prison officers. No one tolerated paedophiles and if they were discovered they were dealt with in a brutal and violent manner. Tom Bradley had told him that convicted sex offenders were given the opportunity to be protected under prison 'Rule 43,' which meant they could spend their sentence in solitary confinement. However, there was the occasional 'nonce' that preferred to mix and socialise with the other inmates and thought the risk was worth taking. It was meant to be a friendly gesture, but the gruesome hand of Tony Elliott gripping his shoulder and the threatening voice in his ear always made him feel uneasy, especially when he was alone in the toilet block. "There's a 'nonce' in your building," Tony barked, spitting skilfully into the sink next to the urinal, the urgency in his voice demanding that he should finish his piss and listen to what he had to say. "The older man," Darren confirmed, stepping from the shadows. "He's been convicted of sex offences with children," he added, blowing smoke above his head, pulling his zip down and levelling up at one of the urinals. "After midnight roll-call we're going to pay him a visit," Tony grinned, his grip intensifying, his voice uncompromising. "I want you to warn the other inmates not to get involved. And if the screws ask questions, tell them to keep their mouths shut." Thirty-minutes after midnight roll-call Tony and Darren walked casually into the pre-fabricated building and after pushing a sock into the man's mouth they dragged him along the corridor and into a nearby toilet block. The paedophile was beaten without remorse, his desperate cries for help fading into muffled echoes inside the toilet enclosure, until everything went deathly silent. It didn't take long for the rumours to circulate around the prison the next day. All of the inmates were being questioned by the prison officers, although everyone including the screws knew who had carried out the assault. Apparently the man had been attacked by someone yielding two snooker balls wrapped inside a sock. The beating was so violent his face was unrecognisable and both testicles had been crushed. After being rushed to a local hospital the 'nonce' was on a life support machine in a critical condition. A prison officer confirmed that if he hadn't managed to crawl from the toilet block into the corridor, he probably would have died from his injuries. The weather was showing signs that they were heading for a cold winter, so when he was told he would be employed in the main administration block he considered himself rather fortunate, especially when the other inmates told him that working in the Governor's office was considered to be the best job in the prison. The administration block was predominantly a brick built flat roof building. The building footprint formed the shape of a T. On the immediate left of the T were the offices for about thirty civilian staff. To the right were the offices of the Governor and the Deputy Governor, Principal Prison Officers and the Probation Service. The leg of the T contained the staff toilets, store rooms, cleaner's room and a small kitchen. At the bottom of the leg there was a tradesman's entrance and a single inmate's toilet. Jack Wilson was a desperately thin and frail old man who looked as if he needed a good meal and a doctor. With snowy white hair combed flat on his head and shining with cream, his face was tired and gaunt and his expression always held a bitter sadness. After spending four weeks of his sentence at H.M.P. Armley, Jack was transferred to Tollgate open prison where he had spent the last five months working in the administration block. He had been convicted of stealing goods from a supermarket where he was employed as an assistant manager. After giving the company forty-years of his life and never once having a day's sickness, Jack was overlooked for promotion. He was deeply hurt and for a long time he suffered from anxiety and depression. Insulted by their oversight he decided that an alternative way to top-up his pension and savings account was to remove goods from the supermarket store room. At first things were going reasonably well and his thefts went undetected. He started by taking a few items home in the boot of his car and sold them to friends and neighbours. But with all crime comes greed and it wasn't long before the quantities increased and he ended up having to make use of a truck. For his crime Jack was sent to prison for two-years. "Fucking rain," he cursed, lifting his collar and sprinting like an athlete through the storm, panting heavily and soaking wet when he reached the administration block, crashing through the door to the tradesman's entrance, pausing in the dark lobby to catch his breath and clear water from his face and hair. Apart from the sound of rain drumming against the air-conditioning units on the roof there was an uncanny silence. Once he had regained his composure and he could work his legs he headed towards a bright light spilling into the corridor from an open door, pausing when he heard the feint sound of someone muttering inside the room. He courteously signalled his approach with a couple of forced coughs before stepping into the warmth of the kitchen. "I'll be with you in a moment," said an old man holding a felt-tip pen, marking a calendar on the wall and circling today's date, his bony fingers counting out the next six days, leading up to the seventh day marked with the words, 'FREEDOM.' "Only six-days to go," the old man smiled, pointing a finger at the calendar, before extending his hand. "Jack Wilson," he invited, unable to disguise the cheer in his voice. "You must be the new boy," he said, forcing a smile that quickly faded. "Mark Brand," he offered, letting go of his hand. "The Parole Board recommended that I could be released on licence after serving a third of my sentence," Jack said, raising two fingers at the establishment. "I can't wait to get away from this fucking shit-hole," he added, frowning when he realised he was a little insensitive. Before his release Jack explained some of the important protocols and procedures involved with his many duties. He told him he was the tea-boy, the subservient dogs-body, the whipping-boy and anything else they could think of. Jack also advised him who he should look out for, who he could trust, and most of all, who he should avoid. Once he had accepted the indignity of delivering tea and coffee to the staff and cleaning the toilets, life was reasonably comfortable and the privacy of the kitchen gave him time to relax and write letters to Jill. David Jefferies had been the Governor of H.M.P. Tollgate for the past twenty-five years. A tall thin and tired looking man who looked his age and knew he should have retired from the prison service at least two years ago. Boasting a large sweeping moustache that curled upwards at the ends, the yellow nicotine streak in the centre confirmed his weakness for his twenty-a-day foul smelling cigars. And with a soft baritone voice and easy going manner he was polite and respectful to everyone. He was calm. He was sophisticated. He was intelligent. He was known to complete the times cross-word in less than fifteen minutes. Douglas Wood had held the position of Deputy Governor for the last eight years. He was a fit looking man in his early-fifties and from his six-foot-four-inch height he looked down on those around him with contempt. He was a foul mouthed arrogant man who demanded respect from everyone and there were occasions when his mood swings could often lead to a demonstration of his violent temper. He made it clear that he wasn't interested in exchanging pleasantries with anyone other than the Governor. Douglas Wood was also aware that the announcement of David Jefferies declaring the date of his retirement was long overdue. It didn't take him long to find out that some of the prison officers and most of the civilian office staff were decent and friendly people, even a fat middle-aged woman with an obvious moustache that would have made most young men very proud. But the one person that caught his attention was an attractive woman in her early-thirties. With short blonde hair, big blue eyes, shapely long legs and curves in all the right places, Christine Noble oozed sex appeal. It was a bitterly cold night in November. It was eight o'clock in the evening and the function was in full swing. The Governor and Deputy Governor and some of the select Principal Prison Officers were entertaining members from the Prison Officers Association and Parole Board. About twenty faceless people had gathered inside the governor's office, some were smoking and drinking, others discussing corporate issues, a fog of cigarette smoke and sweet smelling cigars mingling with the smell of body sweat and inexpensive perfume. His job for the evening was to serve the guests with tea, coffee or alcoholic drinks. He was given a white jacket especially for the occasion. He was a little apprehensive about his first function, but when he discovered that Christine Noble had volunteered to help with the buffet he felt more relaxed and actually looked forward to the event and the opportunity of getting to know more about her. With her hair held in a neat bun at the back of her head, wearing a black skirt, white blouse and a trace of perfume just enough to enhance her femininity, she looked stunning. When they weren't serving the guests they sat in the kitchen talking and having a cigarette. At first they only exchanged a few meaningful words and the usual small talk that's common with people who have just met. But as the evening progressed, that despondent silence that always brings strangers together miraculously produced a spark of chemistry. They continued to share many more intimate details with surprising ease, slowly guiding each other towards a sexual and more flirtatious conversation. They laughed and took turns in telling each other about their backgrounds and their likes and dislikes. Christine managed to compress her entire life storey into about fifteen-minutes of rambling trivia, some of which was interesting but other information about her family and pets were less important and ultimately boring. Christine helped herself to the occasional glass of wine. He was a little hesitant about drinking alcohol. Even though the two creaking stairs in the corridor provided a warning that someone was approaching the kitchen, he didn't want to take the risk until he knew where he stood with Christine, although it didn't take very long before her trust became evident. She listened for footfalls in the corridor before handing him a glass of wine, smiling into his eyes as she watched him drain the glass. As the night reached a close, it was evident in Christine's slurred speech that she had consumed several glasses of wine. And with too much alcohol fuelling a surge of Dutch courage, revealing an unexpected impudence and loosening her tongue with flirtatious innuendo, she would no doubt feel the consequences the next morning. After draining her glass and getting to her feet she said that she hoped she might see him again at the 'Big-Bash' in December. He wasn't sure what she meant and the embarrassment of a baseball bat inside his pants forced him to remain seated. But there was a soft tenderness in her voice that hinted maybe Christine Noble wanted something more. As she left she surprised him with a fleeting kiss on his cheek. With the offer of free cigarettes, coffee and chocolate biscuits, the monthly visit from members of Alcoholics Anonymous always attracted a large number of inmates. With a mouth permanently fixed in a contented smile a large framed woman in her early-fifties stood up at the visitors table and introduced herself and two other people with her. Staring into the faces of about thirty restless and uninterested inmates she looked a little apprehensive as she announced the purpose of her visit to the prison. After talking with assurance for about fifteen-minutes about the serious consequences that alcohol can have and how it can seriously affect your social, domestic and physical way of life, she introduced the first speaker. "My name is Stuart Bell and I'm an alcoholic," said a tall skinny man with a nasal voice and large bulging eyes. "I'm thirty-four years old and after a divorce about three years ago I now live on my own in a single bed flat." After a chorus of sniggers from a few inmates, Stuart took a deep breath and continued. "I used to work as a telecommunications engineer for a large telephone company. Each day I was given a job sheet with a number of installations or maintenance items which I had to complete. The company provided me with a van to get to the appropriate destinations." He nervously scratched his testicles, cleared his throat and lowered his head, trying to ignore the crude and impatient comments from his mutinous audience. "I've been a member of Alcoholics Anonymous four the last two-years," he declared, pausing to smile at the large framed woman, waiting long enough until she returned his smile. "Let me tell you about a typical day in my life," he offered, pausing to sip a glass of water. "Each day would start with a thumping hangover. Breakfast would usually consist of a piece of toast followed by a couple of cans of beer or a glass of whisky. Once I had arrived at my job for that particular day I would make a mental note of the local pubs. Before my lunch break I would have probably had another can of beer." He hesitated and hunched his shoulders to indicate his stupidity. "When I was inside the pub at lunch-time, I would consume about three pints and sometimes a whisky to wash down a sandwich. In the late afternoon I would drink another can before driving home. For the remainder of the evening I would just sit at home, drinking beer, whiskey or vodka...I never went to bed until I was pissed." With the conviction of a minister and the look of a defeated man who had been used to too many disappointments in his life, he declared. "I will never let alcohol ruin my life again." After twisting his face in miserable apology Stuart Bell sat down in his chair and for a few seconds the room went deathly quiet. Someone sitting at the back of the room with a strong Liverpool accent and a foul mouth broke the crippling silence. "IS THAT FUCKING ALL?" he chuckled. "I've spilt more down me fucking shirt." Everyone in the room except Stuart Bell and the large framed woman sitting next to him exploded into fits of laughter. It was a cold December night when he arrived in a hasty panic at the tradesman's entrance of the administration block. Because his guests would be arriving at 7.p.m. Douglas Wood had instructed him to be there no later than six-thirty to offer reception drinks on their arrival. When he walked into the kitchen Christine Noble greeted him with a welcoming smile and a reassuring voice. "I told you we'd meet again at the Christmas party." Douglas Wood was a little nervous but also excited about the occasion. Tonight was a high profile event with delegates from the Chair of Prison Governors, The Chief Constable and members of the Association of Police Officers and representatives from the National Probation Service and the Parole Board. Douglas Wood made it very clear to everyone that tonight he could win or lose brownie points. His instructions were delivered with his usual no-nonsense venomous tone that made him feel like he was something he had just scraped off his shoe. Douglas Wood was a man of limited vocabulary. "Look smart. No alcohol and don't fuck up." Although he found his remarks about alcohol almost laughable, he just nodded his head and left the tempting 'arrogant fucking arsehole' waiting at the back of his throat. Inside the confines of the pre-fabricated buildings the inmates were also making preparation for their festive party. The regular 'fence-drops' had provided an abundance of canned beers and various bottles of wines and spirits, and the cartons of cigarettes and dope would ensure the inmates Christmas and New Year would be celebrated in the manner they had become accustomed to. David Jefferies waited until all the guests had received a glass of champagne before announcing his retirement from the prison service in three months. Douglas Wood's eagerness broke the silence, extending his hand to David Jefferies, raising his glass, inviting a toast to his long and happy retirement. "Three cheers for the Governor," Douglas hailed, unable to disguise the enthusiasm in his voice and the glowing look of self-congratulation on his face. For the first couple of hours Mark and Christine skipped between the kitchen and the governor's office making sure everyone had plenty to drink and eat. But as the night gathered speed and the guests became less demanding they were able to spend more time in the kitchen chatting over a cigarette and a glass of wine. On one occasion when he returned to the kitchen he discovered a cigar had been carefully placed on his chair. David Jefferies was a considerate man. It was becoming evident by her slurred voice and a piece of mistletoe stuck in her hair that Christine had been sampling the champagne a little too much and a little too often. And not only did the alcohol relax her mood it also removed any defences that she might have had and prompted a number of flirtatious comments and sexual innuendoes. The Last Time "Haven't you noticed what I've got in my hair?" she asked, a flirtatious giggle lifting the corners of her mouth, pointing a finger at the mistletoe tangled in her hair, the unexpected acquaintance of his lips meeting hers in a meaningful kiss bringing her quickly back to sobering reality. She stepped back, breaking away from the kiss, her face registering uncertainty as if contemplating a situation that she really wanted but never expected could actually happen. Words weren't necessary. A playful interaction of touch and feel and a brief exchange of persuasive gestures was all it took to fuel the fire of passion. He kissed her with the compulsion of a hot-blooded man overwhelmed by the natural and compelling pursuit of human sexual response, pressing urgently against her body, letting her feel the firmness inside his pants. He was suggestive. She was flirtatious, pushing back against the force, meeting the intensity of his impulsive urge, letting him feel the softness of her warm inviting body. Even though he was a little surprised at the speed of her submission, the intoxicating touch of her soft lips and warm breath quickly eroded any indecision from his mind. But he was aware that the real challenge he faced with Christine wasn't because she was naive or inexperienced. It was more that her impetuous desire for stimulation might be compromised because of the bizarre circumstances. Caution and rational melting away in the heat of passion, pulses racing, hormonal chaos awakening senses, the harnessing of involuntary gestures and a simulation of coital foreplay stirring emotions, the promise of expectation increasing arousal, faces coming together, mouths meeting, lips touching, tongues flirting and dancing over teeth in a mating courtship of mutual engagement, responsive gestures and impulsive movements promising him the moment was real. The risk. The danger. The excitement. The promise of persuasive gestures fuelling the fire of passion, her face flushing with urgent desire, her heart banging inside her chest, the buttons on her blouse almost bursting, arterial busts of emotional fluids gathering between her legs, urgency and need brushing away any last chance of caution. Although fearful of the incriminations should she be caught fucking an inmate, the desire to have him between her legs far outweighed any complications or uncertainties. "Follow me," she smiled, curling a finger invitingly as she headed into the corridor. Obeying her command he followed quickly on her heels, although with such an impressive hard-on he would have probably obeyed any order she gave. However, although the promise of surreptitious intimacy was stimulating and exciting and washed away the need for caution, the consequences of being caught were never too far from his thoughts. The inmate's toilet at the end of the corridor was desperately small and left little room for movement. With a toilet pan and a small wash hand basin and a single light bulb hanging from a bare wire it certainly lacked romantic ambience. It certainly wasn't designed for two people anticipating intercourse. It was dangerous. It was outrageous. It was insane. It would have to be hurried. His pants were at his feet before her bottom hit the toilet seat. A gasping moment of awe and disbelief, her eyes wide open staring with alluring fascination at the gruesome limb liberated from captivity, bobbing and swaying between the folds of his shirt, shifting her weight on the toilet seat and curling her fingers around the thick veiny shaft, feeling the swollen object pulsing between her fingers, feeling the weight of the throbbing muscle cradled in her hand. A well-practiced hand worked the length with proficient ease, pulling and tugging, up and down, pulling and dragging, tugging and releasing, long strokes fast and meaningful, short strokes slow and deliberate, feeling the surge of blood throbbing between her fingers, stretching the loose foreskin down the length, pulling it back until it shrouded the head. Insatiable lust, arousal and expectation fuelling impulsive gestures, curiosity and responsive pursuit driving habitual explorations, the promise of lustful intent dancing behind flashing eyes, dragging her long fingernails across the scrotum, cradling his oval testicles in her hand, giving each one a gentle squeeze before curling her fingers around the long veined column and easing him into her hungry mouth. Easing him in, easing him out, a warm mouth, a long tongue and a bobbing head working the length with sensuous ease, leaving a wash of oral fluid glistening on the smooth head, sweeping her tongue over the small eye with hungry intent, feasting on a smearing of sticky fluids before peppering light kisses along a sinuous blue vein, feeling the warmth and the visceral surge of blood pulsing between her lips, easing him in, easing him out, holding his cock in tender capture between her teeth, a prisoner in her mouth, sucking and blowing, looking up into his eyes to see his reaction. "Stand up," he whispered, taking her arm, the motioning gesture getting her to her feet, his hands already unbuttoning her blouse, fumbling and cursing with the bra clasp until it yielded and both garments fell to the floor. Heart beats racing, pulses buzzing and humming, chemicals charging adrenaline, hormonal chaos dancing in a tango of carnal uncertainty, mouths colliding, hands sweeping over hot naked flesh, hips moving in a simulation of coital foreplay, a courtship of promising expectation, fondling and squeezing breasts, biting and mauling nipples, groping and scratching buttocks, touching and feeling genitalia, the receptive and unrelenting compulsion of reckless interaction accompanied by commentary of compliments and empty promises. Her inner thighs were moist, her knickers wet, her legs parting in an invitation of carnal enquiry, a searching hand sliding inside the lace fabric, feeling the thick bush of pubic hair slipping between his fingers, feeling the wet flaps and folds of a burning vulva, her slippery entrance welcoming his fingers inside her body. "That's so good," she breathed into his mouth, sending a rush of hot breath spilling into his lungs. "More fingers," she urged, her confidence growing in urgent gestures of persuasive simulation, her libido increasing by the second, her body preparing for the invasion she knew was coming and desperately needed. A hesitant pause, a deep intake of breath and a frustrated sigh, as if contemplating the risk of her next action. But with a body swimming in a sea of hormonal chaos, a brain clouded with probability and uncertainty and a mind struggling to process rational words, the conclusion was always inevitable. "Fuck it," was all she said, turning around to face the wall, shamelessly pulling her knickers to the floor, lifting her skirt over the contours of her hips until the fabric had gathered at her waist, leaning forward with one knee on the toilet and one foot on the floor, one hand flat against the tiled wall, the other hand gripping the hand basin, her legs spread apart, looking back over her shoulder, words dancing impatiently behind her eyes. Christine was hot and impatient. She had given up worrying about making too much noise. It was far too late to agonise over such trivial matters now. Her words were loud and insistent. "FUCK ME!" No preliminary. No finesse. A single thrust of his hips and he was inside her body. A carnal connection of urgent commitment, both hands holding her waist, thighs smacking against her buttocks, the treacherous limb stretching the moist flaps and folds, opening the inner walls, filling her body with nine-and-a-half-inches of hard cock. "Oh yes," she breathed. "Don't stop...Faster," she urged, a visceral surge of adrenalin and oxygen rushing through her bloodstream into genitalia, stealing the life source from other organs, glancing over her shoulder, the expression on her face a twisted mask of pleasure. She was swimming in a sea of hormonal chaos. He was drowning in an ocean of testosterone. Two strangers caught in a raging sea of emotional tides and turbulent currents, riding the waves of an unpredictable storm, testing the troubled waters of risk, danger and uncertainty, a responsive expression of carnal lust and submissive persuasion, a physical demonstration of tireless stamina and endless libido, the alpha-male easing into a steady momentum, buttocks clenching and relaxing, entering and retreating, pushing in and pulling out, hard and fast, penetrating deep, plunging into the depths of her burning interior, increasing the pace, thrusting and pushing, hammering and grinding, in and out, back and forth, banging her like a screen door in a hurricane. A whimpering cry and an uncomfortable shuffle, a breathless voice gasping for precious air, submissive gestures and pleas for calm hissed between clenched teeth. "Your cock is too big. You're hurting me. Slow down," she pleaded, the brief pause giving her just enough time to adjust her knee on the toilet seat and tighten her grip on the wash hand basin, before the impulsive gestures of intimacy interrupted her calming appraisal. With the momentum of a perfectly tuned piston he moved inside her body, easing in slowly, stretching the tight entrance, easing out in a seamless exit, in and out, slow and methodical, allowing her to adjust to the brutal force, watching and waiting for the signal to unleash the ultimate pulse and let her feel the energy of his tireless machine. A mutual engagement of intimate connection, her willingness to continue acknowledged in an invitation of verbal gestures and coital suggestion, wriggling and swivelling her bottom, pushing back to meet the full impact of his perilous length, giving and taking, taking and giving, entering and retreating, giving more, taking more, moans and groans, whimpering cries and choking gasps, fading in a monologue of breathless curses and urgent suggestion. "Fuck me hard. Make me come," she pleaded, shuffling on her knee in a precarious but well-practiced vulva squeezing action, gripping his cock in a vice like grip, feeling the obscene length and formidable girth almost tearing her apart. "Christine wanted a good hard fucking. She was getting that...But how would she deal with an orgasm," he thought, glancing at his watch, the fast ticking timepiece reminding him that after being locked behind closed doors for twenty-minutes, it was time to find out. Her beauty, her unabashed nakedness, the curves and contours of perfection, the cheeks of her bottom open and inviting, the dark pigmented skin of her anus and sphincter muscles pulsing with aroused expectation, the musky odours of sex teasing his nostrils, beads of sweat dripping off his chin and onto the floor, his shirt stuck to his back, a synchronised fucking-machine pushing in and pulling out, in and out, a seamless expression of domination over submissiveness, two people groaning out their pleasure under the rhythmic sound of hard masculine flesh slapping against soft feminine flesh, the wet sloppy noises from their tireless copulation echoing in a musical overture off the tiled walls inside the small enclosure. Compliments following a string of insincere promises, curses following uncompromising commands, moans and groans smothered under a chorus of euphoric mutterings, a woman reaching the heights of no return, a woman freefalling towards orgasm. "Oh God," she cried. "Oh God," she repeated. "I'm fucking coming," she cursed in an outburst of unholy pledges and filthy vocabulary, her blessing from the almighty as close to a prayer as she had come in a long time. A helpless mouth breathing in short gasps of air, a body shuddering and jerking, tensing and stiffening, her legs beginning to buckle, vaginal muscles tightening around the custodial visitor, gripping his cock in tender confinement, orgasmic mutterings growing in pace and volume, an active volcano of immense proportions erupting from her toes and up her legs, into her chest and face, tingling her fingertips and rattling her teeth, reaching the farthest recess of her brain, a whiplash of blinding white-hot orgasm flooding through her body in a plateau of euphoric waves, a heavenly sea of emotional ecstasy, the ultimate release of an earth shattering, knee-trembling orgasm celebrated in shimmering silence. Shuffling her feet and glancing back over her shoulder, a deep intake of breath, the earth shaking tremors slowly subsiding into shivering gasps of exhaustion and complete surrender, a primitive part of her soul offering a breathless gesture of urgent persuasion. "You need to come," was all she said. A couple of thrusts accompanied by a vocal chorus of teeth grinding moans and groans, his balls exploding firing a sea of seminal fluids gushing up his shaft, his steamy cascade spilling from the single eye with the intensity of a flash flood, his reserves of liquid passion endless, multiple loads of his life creation splashing with an unforgiving force against the threshold of the cervix, coating the walls of her innermost depths. After a short interlude of rearranging clothes and making sure that all signs of mischief had been removed, they shared a smile and a kiss and with as much dignity as they could manage they walked back to the kitchen and casually resumed their duties. Neither of them spoke for a while, two tongue-tied strangers sitting in silence, staring at each other, radiant faces betraying their moment of risky fornication, breathing in the fear and excitement, forcing the occasional smile, both aware of that they had been outrageously daring and extremely lucky not to have been caught. "I don't think we've been missed," Christine said, breaking the silence, lighting a cigarette with a shaking hand and pouring wine into a glass, draining the contents in a couple of mouthfuls trying to calm her nerves and regain her composure. She spoke in conspiratorial whispers. "That was amazing. Have we got time for seconds?" she mockingly asked her post coital flush fading. "I can't wait for your release date," she added, shooting him an impish smile and raising a quizzical eyebrow. He was aware that Christine was responsible for sending out the inmates visiting orders and would therefore have a record of his personal details, including his home address, telephone number and marital status. He returned her smile but said nothing in reply. Christmas and New Year slipped quietly away. A few inmates risked going over the fence to celebrate Christmas and New Year with friends or loved ones, but their freedom was short lived and inevitably one-by-one they eventually returned to face the consequences of an extended sentence. Christmas in prison was lonely and depressing, but light always follows darkness. The Parole Board had recommended that he could be released early on licence and therefore he would only have to serve six-months of his initial eighteen-month sentence. Nothing else mattered. He had a new vitality to his life. All he could think about was his new release date and the eventual home comforts with Jill and their daughter Catherine. 'Keep your nose clean...Stay out of trouble,' the mantra inside his head repeated. Time in prison seemed to stand still. Long tedious days, predictable weeks and monotonous months, all seemed to move desperately slow and for most inmates boredom was inevitable. Sometimes a letter or the monthly visit with friends or loved ones was the only thing that kept them going. He should have listened to Tom Bradley when he told him not to get involved with the personal grievances of other inmates. But when the 'Dear John' letters started to arrive and he discovered that a large number of inmates lacked a basic academic education and some couldn't even read or write, he volunteered his literary services. But his skills as an 'Agony Aunt' therapist didn't last long. Most of his letters proved to have a negative response which led to some inmates becoming aggressive and threatening, so for the sake of his health he decided to decline any further assistance to inmates concerning matrimonial issues or matters of infidelity. He quickly turned his skills from human therapy to Chess. Teaching a couple of inmates how to play Chess was certainly a safer option than the hostility of a scorned woman. One of the inmates wrote a letter to his sister in Canada which triggered a lot of interest from her family and friends who were keen to set up a game. They accepted that the game would have to be communicated via the postal service and would inevitably be a time consuming event. Nevertheless, everyone was enthusiastic and subsequently England-v-Canada began positively. But after only four-weeks into the game Douglas Wood got wind of what was taking place and decided it was inappropriate and subsequently prevented any further postal contact overseas. The game was terminated with all black and white pieces still in play. Once again the 'King' had looked down on his 'Pawns' with amusement and contempt. Christine Noble always made sure his visiting order was delivered on time, so when the day arrived he was always well prepared for his monthly visit with Jill and Catherine. It was only just after half-past one on a cold Saturday afternoon and he was already sitting in the visiting room anxiously waiting for his two-o'clock visit with Jill. His mind was in chaos. He was eating cigarettes. He couldn't get the thought of the prison officer's irresponsible and careless action out of his head. 'Keep your nose clean...Stay out of trouble...Don't do anything that could affect your parole. The voice inside his head was a cautious reminder and one that he intended telling himself everyday until his release. So what went wrong? It was a typical Saturday morning, working for a few hours in the administration block, cleaning the offices and toilets and making beverages for the three prison officers on duty. He was almost at the end of his shift when a fat unpleasant prison officer in his mid-fifties called him into his office. A chain-smoker, never without a cigarette dangling from his mouth and a face permanently shrouded in a cloud of smoke, the imminent date of his retirement the only thing on his mind. "Brand," he shouted, snapping two fingers together as if he was calling his pet dog. "Come into my office. I've got an errand for you," he gasped, crushing his cigarette into an overflowing ashtray, squeezing his fat arse into a chair and lighting another cigarette, his lack of enthusiasm and carefree persona a clear sign that he had been given a desk-job to ease his transition into early retirement. "I want you to go to the central store and ask for Fred," he grunted, handing him two large empty coffee-jars, his breath smelling of alcohol and cigarettes, his emphysema making him breathe in quick short gasps. "Give the jars to Fred and he will fill them with gloss paint," he said, lifting from the chair and slapping him dismissively on the shoulder. "And be quick about it. My wife wants me to paint some doors when I get home today," he cursed, inhaling deeply on his cigarette, a throaty chuckle unsettling the phlegm inside his chest, an uncontrollable fit of wheezing and coughing following him out the door. It wasn't until he was back inside the pre-fabricated building and getting ready for his monthly visit with Jill and Catherine when he realised the Prison Officer was actually stealing paint from HMP stores, and furthermore he had implicated him in his crime. 'Keep your nose clean...Stay out of trouble...Don't do anything that could affect your parole. The voice of caution nagged inside his head as he waited for Jill to arrive.