Cat O'Nine Tales and Other Stories - Jeffrey Archer [35]
“Where are they taking me this time?” Pat asked a not very communicative officer whom he’d never seen before.
“You’ll find out when you get there, Paddy,” was all he got in reply.
“Have I ever told you about the time I tried to get a job on a building site in Liverpool?”
“No,” replied the officer, “and I don’t want to ‘ear—”
“—and the foreman, a bloody Englishman, had the nerve to ask me if I knew the difference between a—” Pat was shoved up the steps of the van and pushed into a little cubicle that resembled a lavatory on a plane. He fell onto the plastic seat as the door was slammed behind him.
Pat stared out of the tiny square window, and when the vehicle turned south onto Baker Street, realized it had to be Belmarsh. Pat sighed. At least they’ve got a half-decent library, he thought, and I may even be able to get back my old job in the kitchen.
When the Black Maria pulled up outside the prison gates, his guess was confirmed. A large green board attached to the prison gate announced BELMARSH, and some wag had replaced BEL with HELL. The van proceeded through one set of double-barred gates, and then another, before finally coming to a halt in a barren yard.
Twelve prisoners were herded out of the van and marched up the steps to an induction area, where they waited in line. Pat smiled when he reached the front of the queue and saw who was behind the desk, checking them all in.
“And how are we this fine pleasant evening, Mr. Jenkins?” Pat asked.
The Senior Officer looked up from behind his desk and said, “It can’t be October already.”
“It most certainly is, Mr. Jenkins,” Pat confirmed, “and may I offer my commiserations on your recent loss.”
“My recent loss,” repeated Mr. Jenkins. “What are you talking about, Pat?”
“Those fifteen Welshmen who appeared in Dublin earlier this year, passing themselves off as a rugby team.”
“Don’t push your luck, Pat.”
“Would I, Mr. Jenkins, when I was hoping that you would allocate me my old cell?”
The SO ran his finger down the list of available cells. “ ‘Fraid not, Pat,” he said with an exaggerated sigh, “it’s already double-booked. But I’ve got just the person for you to spend your first night with,” he added, before turning to the night officer. “Why don’t you escort O’Flynn to cell one nineteen.”
The night officer looked uncertain, but after a further look from Mr. Jenkins, all he said was, “Follow me, Pat.”
“So who has Mr. Jenkins selected to be my pad mate on this occasion?” inquired Pat, as the night officer accompanied him down the long, gray-brick corridor before coming to a halt at the first set of double-barred gates. “Is it to be Jack the Ripper, or Michael Jackson?”
“You’ll find out soon enough,” responded the night officer as the second of the barred gates slid open.
“Have I ever told you,” asked Pat, as they walked out on to the ground floor of B block, “about the time I tried to get a job on a building site in Liverpool, and the foreman, a bloody Englishman, had the nerve to ask me if I knew the difference between a joist and a girder?”
Pat waited for the officer to respond, as they came to a halt outside cell number 119. He placed a large key in the lock.
“No, Pat, you haven’t,” the night officer said as he pulled open the heavy door. “So what is the difference between a joist and a girder?” he demanded.
Pat was about to reply, but when he looked into the cell was momentarily silenced.
“Good evening, m’lord,” said Pat, for the second time that day The night officer didn’t wait for a reply. He slammed the door closed, and turned the key in the lock.
Pat spent the rest of the evening telling me, in graphic detail, all that had taken place since two o’clock that morning. When he had finally come to the end of his tale, I simply asked, “Why October?”
“Once the clocks go back,” said Pat, “I prefer to be inside, where I’m guaranteed three meals a day and a cell with central heating.