Whenever a release date draws near, my thoughts turn to the possibility of rehabilitation. And there is, of course, never a shortage of unsolicited advice from one's peers. The other night, a gang of us was seated around a bucket of hooch, mulling over our prospects.
A pugnacious "face" from Dartmoor had good news. "Discharge grant's gone up to ?52. If yer homeless, ?110."
"Yeh? But the train takes forever to get to London. We'll have to wait hours before we get the first bag of gear."
"I heard there was a geezer at the station. Comes dairn specially every morning to meet that day's releases."
"Prison service bags don't exactly keep it a secret. Fucking royal crown and HMP stamped on the side."
"Does he sell rocks as well as gear?" an inveterate crackhead inquired.
"He can keep 'em as far as I'm concerned," Singer, our host, replied.
"I thought you was in here for rocks."
"That's why I ain't interested no more. Didn't I tell yer what happened last time I went dairn that road?"
He emptied the dregs of the first bucket of hooch into his plastic beaker.
"As yer know I was doing a bit of dealing. Originally to pay fer me own habit, but things took off and before long I'm serving up nearly every junkie in town. Naturally, I'm making a tidy profit and after a couple of months I've got a proper stash which I've wedged behind some shelves in me kitchen. One afternoon I'm sat there airt of me skull weighing up a bag fer the geezer in the flat upstairs, when I look airt, and there's four geezers climbing me winder frame on their way up to the roof."
"Why? What was on yer roof?"
"Nuffink. No one was trying to get up there at all. I just thought there was. Crack psychosis, know what I mean."
The group nodded. Everybody knew exactly what he meant.
"I used to think there was spiders breeding under me wallpaper," Dartmoor concurred.
"We've all bin there. So I tear up to the roof, and of course, it was a wild goose chase. When I get back indoors, the feller from upstairs has done a runner, and me parcel's nowhere to be seen. Cheeky cunt trying to mug me off. Went mental didn't I." Singer bared his teeth. "First thing I focus on is me samurai sword hanging above the fireplace. I grab that, and before I know it I'm up the stairs kicking his door dairn."
The illicit boozers were hanging on Singer's every word. You could tell he was enjoying himself. His eyes glistened with messianic luminescence.
"You ever seen real fear on someone's face? You ever felt the rush of real power surging up inside you? I run straight at him swinging me sword."
At this point Singer rose from his seat. Whish-whoosh went his virtual samurai. "Seconds later, the geezer's arm is hanging off by a thread. You could see his shoulder bone sticking out. Sinews flopping around like wet fish. It was like the day of the living dead."
Singer paused for maximum effect.
"Ain't easy to use them swords, are they?" Someone tried easing the tension.
"It's all in the wrist action," Singer explained helpfully, a concert pianist about to embark upon a masterclass in fugal technique. He mimed the actions again. "Then I was out of there. Pronto. His bird was screaming blue murder."
"Fuck getting wrecked with you."
"No. Don't get me wrong. I suppose I had bin overdoing it. And me temper has always bin a bit of a problem. Didn't know what to do. One thing was fer sure. I weren't gonna sit on me arse waiting fer the old Bill to arrive. Scarpered back up to the roof where I got a perfect view of everything that followed. He was out in the street by this time wailing like a banshee."
"So did they arrest you?"
"Kept his mouth shut. Give him credit fer that. Hospital managed to sew his arm back together. But what made me feel real bad was that a couple of weeks later, I found the lost parcel of gear. In the kitchen. Behind the shelf that I thought I'd looked behind."
"So you mean...?"
Singer nodded penitently. "I gave the guy a bung for keeping shtum. But I can't afford to get meself into that sort of state again. Imagine what would have happened if he'd talked. It would've bin double figures if I'd have gone down fer that. Section 18 at the very least."
"Attempted murder more like. That's crack though... guaranteed ticket back to gaol. Sure you don't want me to give you the address of that crack house?"
"Do I look like a muppet? Told yer. Bottle of bubbly, bunk up with the missus and an half ounce of skunk'll see me through me first day of freedom. No, drink up boys. We got time for another bottle before bang up?"
A week later, word came through the grapevine that another of our gang, recently released, had been lifted for dipping pockets on the train before he'd even arrived in London. Since then I've been reflecting on such salutory tales. Perhaps I should buy a tent and head for the hills. But as Dr Johnson said, "when you tire of London..." I'm making no promises. Watch this space.
