Cell Block Ache

Mr. Jackson, I have carefully considered the argument put forward by the prosecution. I have also listened to the mitigating circumstances supplied by your defence and their request that you continue your rehabilitation helping the… the…’

The judge scanned his documents.

‘The weans. Know the wans that urnae aw there? Them… The retarded wans.’

The judge peered over his glasses at Jackson. He stood in the dock, resplendent in his ‘George for ASDA court suit’ — £20, available in one colour and limited sizes — his gelled hair and impish smile.

‘Are you trying to be humorous Mr. Jackson? Because I can assure you that humour has no place in my courtroom.’

‘I kin see that yer honour. Ah’m just trying tae help oot. Like ah dae wae the retards,’ Jackson said solemnly. ‘No that ah’m comparing ye tae…ye know… a retard.’

Jackson’s defence lawyer lowered her head and muttered under her breath.

‘Mr. Jackson, anymore of your outburst and I will hold you in contempt. As I was saying, I have listened to all the evidence put forward and despite your best intentions helping the retar… the mentally disabled, you are a repeat offender. A petty criminal who constantly challenges the law. I see no benefit in you continuing your community service. Therefore, I see no other option other than imposing a custodial sentence set a minimum of eighteen months.’

Jackson’s heart sank. He closed his eyes. Somewhere behind him, he heard his mother wail. Jackson’s head swirled with thoughts, the noise from the gallery and the judge’s gavel slamming down.

The keys fumbled in the lock, metal grinding against metal, signalling the start of the day. The heavy steel door creaked open, the light from the industrial bulbs hanging high above the gantry brought a beam of light into the room. Seconds later, the cell’s main light bulb flickered into life.

‘Mon boys, time tae git up,’ shouted a voice from the gantry.

Hidden from view, in the top bunk, a body squirmed and moaned at the rude awakening. ‘Sake Rab, did ye no leave the do not disturb sign oot?’

The person in the bottom bunk didn’t respond. A bulky figure stood in the door way, the harsh light silhouetting his features, giving him an ethereal glow around the edges.

‘Ha bloody ha. Dae ye hink this is the Premier Inn or something Jackson? Up!’

The figure stepped into the cell, revealing his heavily, bagged eyes, salt and pepper moustache and haggard face. The top bunk’s covers got thrown back, a bleary-eyed Jackson propped himself up on the bed. He ran his hand over his neatly clipped hair, before rubbing his eyes.

‘Sorry Mr. McCracken. I must hiv confused the comfy bed and the friendly greeting for wan ae Glesga’s more up-market hostelries.’

‘Very funny, any mair of it and you’ll be on toilet duties.’ McCracken turned to make his way back out on to the gantry before stopping. ‘Oh, and so I can inform the turndown service, would sir like a mint on his pillow tonight?’

McCracken didn’t have to wait to hear the answer, he started to swagger out of the cell, continuing his morning duties. Jackson flicked his middle-finger up in a show of defiance behind McCracken’s back. It was small victory for him. McCracken didn’t miss a beat, he flicked a middle finger back over his shoulder and exited the cell.

‘Basturt,’ muttered Jackson, a smirk appearing on his face. He swung his legs over the side of the bunk, dangling them in the air. He could hear the clink and rattle of the keys further down the hall as McCracken continued working his way down the block.

‘He’s no a bad cunt,’ said Rab, his gruff voice muffled by his sheets that were still pulled over him. ‘Any the other wans wid pull ye up for aw the shite ye gie him.’

‘Ach he knows it’s just a carry oan. Probably brings a bit of joy intae his sad, wee, servile life.’

Jackson hopped down from the top bunk, his bare feet smacking against the cold, concrete floor, a sharp jolt of pain worked its way up, through his heels. He wandered over to the window that overlooked a brick wall and concrete yard. Bird shit and the Scottish weather had stained the window a miserable grey colour, causing it to blend in with the seemingly ever overcast, dismal, Glasgow sky.

‘Seriously,’ mused Jackson, ‘who wakes up wan day an’ hinks, dae ye know whit, I’m gonnae become a sadistic, wee prick? Fuck it, that’ll be a great job. Minimum wage, a shite pension and dealing wae us cunts aw day. May as well stick Big Mac’s in a fucking cardboard box aw day. At least that way yer providing a community service to fat fucks.’

Jackson’s words barely left his mouth when he heard a cough behind him.

‘Fuck.’ He knew it was McCracken that was standing in the door way.

‘I meant to ask if sir would be kind enough to leave a Tripadvisor review upon his departure, in maybe, I don’t know, three years’ time? But, I see yer awready composing it Jackson. Come along gents, breakfast is served. And stick some claes on Jackson, I tell yer religion through yer boxers.’

With that, McCracken was gone. There was a stifled laugh coming from Rab’s bunk. Jackson picked up a shoe and lobbed it in the direction of the lump under the cheap, scratchy sheets. That only made the laughter get louder. Rab pulled the covers back and tossed the shoe back in Jackson’s direction.

‘Mate, yer hopeless. Nae luck at aw,’ laughed Rab. ‘Honestly Jacko, see if wis raining fanny, ye’d git hit wae a dick.’

‘Aye, but at least ah’d git to see some fanny,’ said Jackson, looking back out the window. ‘Dae ye ever hink they’ve moved oan without ye?’

‘Who?’ Rab wasn’t really paying attention.

‘The fucking Taliban,’ said Jackson sardonically. ‘Who dae ye think? Family, yer maw, da, pals, burds… the world.’

‘No really mate,’ Rab was sitting on the edge of his bunk, scratching his balls. ‘Just thinking aboot whit’s for lunch the day.’

‘Pizza.’

‘Aye? Belter.’ Rab nodded in approval

‘Aye. Heard Stevie mention it yesterday. Prick hinks he’s Gordon Ramsay or something. He’s sticking frozen shite in an oven and he’s aw cordon bleu.’

‘Naw mate, pretty sure he’s a Sellick fan.’

‘The fuck you talking aboot?’ Jackson shot Rab a look of disgust, before returning to the window. He could make out the shapes of the high-rise flats looming over the M8, he could hear the traffic on the motorway. ‘Mate, there’s a whole city oot there. Folk sitting in cars, spending hours in traffic jams, breathing in carbon monoxide, slowly killing themselves, just so they kin go to some dead-end 9-to-5 job just to pay for their ungrateful spawn then go home at night, miserable and shove fucking kale and broccoli in their gubs just so they kin feel better when they look in the mirror… an ye know whit? They don’t even know we exist. Whit does that say about us? These miserable pricks are gittin’ on wae their shitey lives and don’t even bat an eyelid at our existence. I miss that life.’

Rab was staring at Jackson open mouthed. ‘Erm, ye awright Jacko?’

‘Naw mate. I need tae git oot of here.’

‘Better start digging then pal. And remember we’re three floors up.’

‘Very funny. Ah mean here. The cell. I miss ma own space. My own room. These walls man… I swear they get closer every day…’ Jackson looked away from the window and leaned against the cell wall. ‘Ah mean, nae offence, but I don’t want tae keep seeing your coupon every morning. There’s only so much I kin take.’

Rab recoiled in mock horror. ‘Yer no a fucking oil painting yersel. Who’s the cunt that did the weird paintings wae aw the wonky faces?’

Jackson shook his head.

‘Ye know. The wans wae the eye fur an ear and a tit for a nose.’

‘Ah don’t know mate. I didnae pass standard grade art.’

‘Ach, his name sounds like a fitba player… Spanish guy. No the wan that looks like he wis tripping on acid. The other wan.’

A muffled voice came from the cell next door. ‘Picasso.’

Jackson and Rab both looked at each other, before looking at the brick wall that divided the cells.

‘Who the fuck is that guy?’ mouthed Jackson, pointing at the wall.

‘Aye, Picasso,’ smiled Rab. ‘You look like a fucking Picasso mate.’ Rab leaned back on his bunk, satisfied with himself.

Jackson looked back at the window and his mind drifted.

A collection of petty burglary and driving without insurance charges had mounted up and left Jackson at Her Majesty’s pleasure. He hadn’t been a bad guy in the past — a wee bam as his mum had called him. Trying to impress his mates had caught up with him. He certainly wasn’t like the some of the other inmates on the block — the career criminals, the drug dealers or the neds who had seen ‘Scarface’ one too many times and saw themselves as gangsters. Jackson fitted into the prison system well. He was chatty when he needed to be, but mainly kept his head down and tried to stay out of trouble. But being locked up and sharing the same space with hardened criminals meant that trouble usually found you. ‘Shady cunts’ as Rab had called them, always looking for a way to make money, get high or generally make life awkward. Jackson had a few run-ins with the ‘shady cunts’ and ended up getting a few years tacked on to his sentence. He didn’t complain, he knew he deserved it, he just tried to get on with life in prison, which wasn’t always easy but he could deal with it. But the lack of personal space niggled at him. Jackson craved some alone time…

‘Look mate,’ said Jackson turning to Rab. ‘Ah’m no feeling too great. Ah might just hiv a wee kip, see if it passes. Can ye bring us back a box a Frosties or something?’

‘Fucking hell, ye really dae hink this is a Holiday Inn, dint ye?’

‘Mon man, ah’m no asking much.’

Rab stood up and slipped on his prison issue, grey tracksuit bottoms and generic, white t-shirt. ‘Aye nae bother pal. But see if ye hiv the shites, ye better no stink this place oot.’

Jackson grinned as Rab made his way out the door.

‘Rab,’ called Jackson. ‘Grab us a banana mate.’

‘Fuck off. You’ll be asking for kale next.’

Jackson paced around the empty cell. It only took him a few steps to reach each wall. He strolled out onto the gantry, the metal grates dug in to the soles of his feet. The cold air wrapped around his naked torso, the icy draft blowing from the cell block doors wrapping its fingers around him and hugging him. Jackson looked around for a few seconds, before heading back into his cell, closing the door slightly as he did so. He tried to remember the last time he had been alone. He missed the freedom of being alone — a luxury prison didn’t afford. He jumped back onto the bed and slid under the covers, grimacing as the cheap polyester hooked onto his leg hairs, pulling and twisting it. Jackson made himself comfortable, before putting his hand under the pillow and pulling out a dog-eared, tatty, well-worn magazine. ‘Swank’ was emblazoned across the front cover in garish, luminous letters. Jackson let the magazine fall open, he was letting lady luck decide on this morning’s companion. He slid his hand under the covers and into his boxer shorts. His bedsheets started to move up and down rhythmically. He focused intently on the curly haired, black woman that was laying casually across a hay bale, he ignored the absurdity and clichéd nature of the pose. He closed his eyes, enjoying the moment. He could have been anywhere. It could have been some else’s hand. He started to lose himself in the moment.

‘Jackson, Rab says yer no feeling too great… and how come the door’s closed? Ye know the rules.’ McCracken threw the cell door open with ease, swinging it into the small wooden desk in the corner of the room. Green paint chippings flew off the door, landing violently on the floor. McCracken quickly glanced at the desk and door and made a mental note to have it looked at, before looking up at Jackson.

Jackson threw the magazine to the floor and brought his hands over the covers. ‘Ho, ho. I see yer feeling better. A wee ham shank is it son? Christ sake.’

‘Fucking hell man,’ said Jackson awkwardly. ‘Can ye no fucking knock.’

McCracken strolled further into the cell, glancing at the open magazine laying on the floor. ‘Ah hink you’re the only wan daein’ some knocking wee man.’

Jackson shook his head and rolled over in bed to face the wall. ‘Ah just want some peace man. A bit of quality alone time.’

‘The only way yer gonnae get that here is going oot the front door or spend some time in solitary. And Jackson, yer no going be daein’ any a them any time soon. Anyway, ah’ll leave you to, erm, crack on,’ McCracken winked. ‘It’ll be our wee secret, eh lad.’

McCracken skipped over the hastily discarded magazine that was lying open on the floor before heading out the cell.

‘Fucking solitary, funny cunt,’ Jackson muttered rolling over and dangling his legs over the bed. He looked to the floor, the centrefold girl was staring back at him, he could feel her eyes boring into him. ‘And whit are you looking at? Fucksake man, whit a life. I’m being slagged aff by a screw and judged by a lassie with staples through her bits.’

He sat like this for a few minutes before hopping off the bed and pacing around the cell, thinking, his hands behind his head. He stopped suddenly.

‘Solitary. Aye, solitary.’

Rab walked into the cell holding a box of Frosties and a couple of bananas.

‘Awright, ah just passed McCracken there, he said something about a shank. Does the daft cunt hink yer gonna chib somebody wae a banana?’ Rab noticed the porno mag on the floor. ‘Ya durty basturt, got a wee stash hiv ye?’

‘Aye, McCracken caught him tugging it,’ said the muffled voice next door.

‘Kin he hear everything we say,’ whispered Rab looking at the wall.

‘Aye,’ said the muffled voice.

Rab screwed up his face. ‘Creepy basturt. Anyway…ye feeling better then?’

Jackson turned to face Rab.

‘Jacko?’ Rab could tell by the look on Jackson’s face, that something was wrong. ‘Whit is it?’

Jackson continued to pace around the cell, circling his cell mate. ‘Rab, we’re mates, right?’

‘Aye.’

‘Aye,’ Jackson mused. ‘This is gonna sound daft, but I need tae batter ye.’

‘Aye? Ah hink yer wee morning constitutional has cut off the blood to yer heid.’ Rab nodded in the direction of Jackson’s boxers.

‘Look mate, I need to be alone. I’m daein my heid in the noo.’ Jackson looked out the window again. He could still hear the rush hour traffic. ‘An entire city oot there mate…’

‘And battering me… well, trying to batter me, is gonnae dae wit?’

‘I’ll make it up tae ye mate,’ said Jackson sincerely.

‘Aye, I’m sure ye — ’

Rab’s demeanour changed. Jackson had spun around from the window, his nostrils flared, his breathing heavy. Rab was staring Jackson’s eyes, the cheeky glint was no longer there. Something was wrong.

‘Hawd on noo,’ pleaded Rab, backing up towards the cell door. ‘Ah hink ye need to lit aff a bit a steam. Take yer magazine. I’ll eh, I’ll go doo tae the break room.’

Jackson charged at Rab.

The box of Frosties and bananas fell to the floor.