Cat O'Nine Tales and Other Stories - Jeffrey Archer [69]
“I think so,” I said.
“Mind you, the rule doesn’t apply to Pete on account of the fact that he’s a man. It’s only logic, isn’t it, because men are different. We’re lions, they’re lambs.” Lionesses would have seemed more appropriate. However, I confess I didn’t voice my opinion at the time. “Still,” Mick continued, “the code is clear. You don’t have sex with a mate’s tart while he’s banged up.”
I put my pen down and continued to listen to the Gospel according to St. Mick—another burglar who was in and out of prison as if the building had revolving doors. I decided to abandon any attempt to write my daily diary. It was clear Mick was on a roll and nothing was going to stop him—certainly not me. And as the door was locked and I couldn’t escape, I decided to take down his words. But first a little background.
Mick Boyle was my cell mate at Lincoln, and serving his ninth sentence during the past seventeen years, all for burglary. “I may be a tea-leaf,” he proclaimed, “but I can’t be doing with violence. Don’t approve,” he added, clearly attempting to capture the moral high ground. He told me that he had six children that he knew of, by five different women, but had had little or no contact with any of them since. I must have looked surprised, because he added, “Don’t worry yourself, Jeff, they’re all taken care of by the Social.”
“If you want pussy,” Mick continued, “there’s quite enough going spare without having sex with your best mate’s tart; after all, most of us are in and out, in and out,” he repeated, laughing at his own joke.
Mick’s friend Pete Bailey—the hero or the villain in this tale, according to your viewpoint—had been charged with aggravated robbery, which covers a multitude of sins, especially if you ask the court—after you’ve been found guilty—to take into consideration one hundred and twelve similar offenses.
“Result? Pete gets six years in the slammer.” Mick paused to draw breath. “Mind you, he still killed his best mate while he was inside and got away with it, didn’t he?”
“Did he?” I asked, showing a little more interest.
“Yeah, he sure did. Mind you, he knew he’d only have to serve three years on account of the fact that he was always on his best behavior, whenever he was inside,” said Mick. “Logic, isn’t it? So after fifteen months in Wakefield—awful nick—they sent him off to Hollesley Bay open prison in Suffolk, didn’t they, to finish off his sentence. Bloody holiday camp. See, the theory is,” continued Mick, “an open prison is meant to prepare you for returning to society. Some hope. All Pete did was spend his time in the prison library reading through back copies of Country Life, supplied by some do-gooder, so he could work out in advance which houses he was going to rob the moment he got out. Now another rule in an open prison,” continued Mick, “is that you’re entitled to a visit once a week, not like the once a month you get in closed conditions; that is as long as you’re enhanced, and not been put on report for at least a month.”
“Enhanced?” I ventured.
“That’s when a con’s been on good behavior for at least three months. When he’s enhanced he gets all sorts of privileges, like more time out of his cell, better job, even more pay in some nicks.”
“And how do you get put on report?”
“That’s easy enough. Swear at a screw, turn up late for work, fail a drugs test. I was once put on report for nicking an orange from the kitchen. Diabolical liberty.”
“So was your friend Pete ever put on report?” I asked.
“Never,” Mick replied. “Good as gold, wasn’t he, because he wanted a visit from his tart. Well, he does his three months, works in the stores, keeps his nose clean, and bob’s your uncle, he’s enhanced. Following Saturday his tart turns up at the nick to pay him a visit.
“In open prisons, visits are held in the biggest room available,