The Jailhouse Blues Ch. 01

I couldn't believe it.

I was just twenty years old. And now, I was going to have a prison record - which meant I was sure to be fired from my Garden Centre job.

Life just seemed so unfair!

At one-month's imprisonment per Crimes Against Females offence, designed to get errant males back in line - back in their place, before they started getting too uppity - this was known as the AFP's (Prime Minister Caroline Flynt's brainchild) 'short sharp shock' penalty.

"Take him down," Her Worship Delia Downing had then ordered, sounding bored now, with it all.

Whereupon two Securi-Fem prisoner transport officers - whose uniform consisted of a white, short-sleeved blouse, black tie (clip-on, in case of any funny business from the sent-down prisoners), black, above-the-knee skirt, and black, thick-rubber soled shoes - immediately approached the dock with intent.

And I immediately became wary.

Not hard-faced exactly, they were still decidedly no-nonsense, capable-looking women in their early-to-mid twenties. And before I knew what was happening, they were roughly setting about pinning my hands behind my back, preparatory to handcuffing me.

Instinctively, I had resisted. "Hey! Get off me!" I protested indignantly.

"Keep still, you!" one of the Securi-Fem officers said in annoyance.

"You will remain passive, Mister Lightwood!" Her Worship Delia Downing ordered authoritatively, her voice immediately regaining its animation, at seeing such unseemliness in her courtroom.

"Oh, we've got a lively one here, Sandy, heh heh heh," said the Securi-Fem officer with the name-tag 'Sonia', to her colleague, name-tagged Sandra, who was the one who'd told me to keep still.

But they were strong, and the two of them efficiently restrained me and quickly handcuffed me - they were seasoned officers, used to subduing real criminals, and rendering them, harmless, so the likes of me was like putty, in their expert hands.

I felt the cold of the steel bracelets being pressed to my wrists, and then ... snap! snap! They were clamped shut; painfully tight, totally unyielding. "That's you sorted!" said Securi-Fem officer Sandra in satisfaction.

I almost cried out - but I didn't want to give them the satisfaction of knowing they were hurting me.

Duly restrained, Securi-Fem officers Sonia and Sandra escorted me out of Sodbury Crown Court.

It was nice and sunny outside ... and I found myself thinking I'd better enjoy it while I still could: for the next three months, sunshine would most likely be a commodity in short supply.

Securi-Fem officers Sonia and Sandra's large, dark-grey painted panel van was parked right outside at the kerb. I beheld it with dismay.

I don't think I've ever seen such an ugly vehicle. It was like a mobile blot on the landscape. It seemed to actually darken the day. I was certain that the hideous vehicle had a second - but, no less important - purpose: to darken the day and depress the spirit of those transported in it ... conditioning them, for what was to come.

I saw a mischievous look pass between Securi-Fem officers Sonia and Sandra.

Securi-Fem officer Sonia said to her colleague, "Shall we have a quick ciggie, Sandy, before we take Mister Lightwood to prison?"

Securi-Fem officer Sandra, tight lipped, obviously from holding in a complicit giggle, nodded.

Securi-Fem officer Sonia then turned to me and said, "Have you got a light, Mister Lightwood?" And then, putting her index finger to her lips as if suddenly realising something, she said, "Oh - but, hang on a minute ... you don't smoke, do you, Mister Lightwood?"

At that, the pair of them were bent double with mirth, laughing their silly heads off.

When the two of them had recovered sufficiently, Securi-Fem officer Sandra pulled open the two tall doors at the back of their prisoner transport van. Inclining her head and pointing her finger, she gestured to me to get inside. "In you pop, Mister Lightwood."

I hesitated.

I stared inside, at the utterly cheerless, unrelieved bleakness of the large panel van's austerely furnished dark-grey painted interior.

I stared at the prisoner transport van's bare metal roof, walls and floor. And at the two scratched, scarred and torn black-vinyl faced bench-seats, bolted to the floor along each side of the van.

"Come on, Mister Lightwood," further prompted Securi-Fem officer Sandra. "What are you waiting for? In you get ... and don't drink the cocktail cabinet dry."

Securi-Fem officer Sonia enjoyed a good chuckle at that.

Still, I hesitated.

Securi-Fem officer Sonia warned, "Come on, Leonard. Don't give us any trouble, now. Don't tangle with us. We'll eat you for breakfast - and that's a promise. You are going down, and there's no two ways about it. So come on, Leonard. Just be sensible, eh? And don't make things any harder for yourself, than they need be."

"Yes, come on, Leonard. And don't be all day, either," coaxed Securi-Fem officer Sandra, taking my elbow. "Once you are safely locked up in prison, you'll be going nowhere - but we've got a schedule to keep to."

"That's right," agreed Securi-Fem officer Sonia. "So don't hold us up. And besides, Leonard, the sooner we can get you off our hands, the sooner you'll get those cuffs off your wrists - and then we'll all be happy ... I'll bet they are hurting, aren't they?"

Securi-Fem officer Sandra exclaimed, derisively, "Ha! If it was up to me, Sonia, I'd hogtie Leonard. I would! I'd hogtie him, and laugh at his protests and yelling as he rolls about on the floor of the van as we transport him to Greystone Prison - the round-about route!"

"Yes!" agreed Securi-Fem officer Sonia vehemently. "So would I. And the way you drive, Sandy, that would certainly give Leonard something to think about! And Leonard would deserve nothing less - for what he did!"

Securi-Fem officer Sandra started tittering, then chuckling.

"What? What are you laughing about, Sandy?"

"What you just said, Sonia. You mean, what he didn't do, don't you? Remember? Leonard is actually going to prison, for something he didn't do ... Ha ha ha ha!"

And that was it.

The pair of them were bent double again, laughing fit to bust. "Talk about irony!" Securi-Fem officer Sonia squealed delightedly. "He didn't do three things - and he's got three months!"

Resignedly - and to escape being the hapless butt of Securi-Fem officers Sonia and Sandra's malicious jokes, and to get away from the tormenting sounds of their cruel, cackling laughter - I climbed the two grated-metal steps, got into the van, and sat down on the right-hand bench-seat. Miserably, I sat there with my head in my hands. Yes: I was "going down, and there's no two ways about it". But, they didn't have to rub it in, did they?

"That's right ... good boy, Leonard," said Securi-Fem officer Sonia in satisfaction, as she'd watched me drag myself into their dreadful vehicle, and sit down quiescently.

Upon which, she and her colleague slammed the two tall doors shut behind me, slid the bolt, and padlocked them.

I hated - absolutely hated - being called Leonard.

But I wasn't going to tell Securi-Fem officers Sonia and Sandra that.

* * *

Dear reader,

my arrival at H.M. Prison: Greystone ...

After a thoroughly miserable three-hour journey south - we'd been held up for about two hours on the M23, behind the scene of an overturned poultry lorry, and I'd had to sit there, listening to Securi-Fem officers Sonia and Sandra laughing and giggling their silly heads off at the sight of the lorry driver, emergency services personnel, and stranded motorists all running about recapturing the live chickens and returning them to the righted lorry - the prison van at last arrived at my destination: Greystone Prison.

The "purpose-built, female-run correctional establishment" was situated somewhere in the South Downs countryside in Sussex. The scenery en route was beautiful. But because of the circumstances I'd found myself in, I was rendered incapable of appreciating it as I stared out through the prisoner transport van's dark-tinted side window.

The place seemed to be in the middle of nowhere. But in fact it was only a short, easy-to-get-to car commute from Brighton, on the south coast, where many of the female prison officers lived.

With my wrists still handcuffed behind my back, escorting me between them Securi-Fem officers Sonia and Sandra headed for the prison's security checkpoint building. There, they would exchange paperwork and relieve themselves of their custodial responsibilities for me.

The security checkpoint was a single-storey wooden building. It was set just outside of the prison proper, which itself was situated behind fourteen-foot high, razor-wire topped walls.

Securi-Fem officers Sonia and Sandra escorted me into the security checkpoint building, and closed the door behind us - in the environs of Greystone Prison, people always closed doors behind them.

"Hiya, Natalie, Melanie," said Securi-Fem officer Sonia with breezy familiarity. "This is Leonard Lightwood," she informed the two Greystone Prison receiving officers. The two young women were sitting behind the counter, reading glossy-paged magazines, and they smiled and nodded their acknowledgement.

"He's going down for three months," Securi-Fem officer Sonia added. "He's in for Ungentlemanly Conduct."

"He's committed three transgressions against the Crimes Against Females laws," my other temporary custodian, Securi-Fem officer Sandra, further supplied.

The two receiving prison officers, Natalie and Melanie, gave me a disapproving look.

They both had their feet propped up on their desks. And I noticed, somewhat to my surprise, that on their feet they were both wearing a pair of pale blue, thin-rubber soled flip flops, of exactly the same shade of blue as their prison officer uniforms.

But, as I would very soon learn, their pale blue flip flops were actually an integral part of their decidedly skimpy - and, individually-tailored - Greystone Prison officer's uniform: Short-sleeved, pale blue blouse, and very short, pale blue skirt.

Deliberately cut to be body hugging, their close-fitting blouses and skirts were specifically designed to emphasise the contours of their womanly figures, and so purposefully enhance and display their alluring female attributes to maximum advantage ... to the sex-starved prisoners.

The exclusively female prison officers of Greystone Prison, I would also very soon come to learn, were familiarly known as 'The Jailhouse Blues'.

And their hairstyle: it was the concave bob.

The concave bob ... Exactly, as worn by the ubiquitous and much feared Community Service Officers (CSO's).

Ridiculous as it sounds, and I can't for the life of me put my finger on it, but there was just something so ... unsettling, about the hairstyle. Something disturbing, that somehow instilled those females who wore it with an air of menace. Making them seem threatening, and overbearing - intimidating.

Somehow, as worn by the CSO's and the Jailhouse Blues, the concave bob hairstyle endowed an air of authority. Dark, authority.

Their feet still propped up on their desks, the two receiving prison officers had their ankles comfortably crossed. And, seemingly in no great hurry to move, they were both doing something with their feet, which was causing the heels of their highly flexible pale blue flip flops to repeatedly slap ... slap ... slap ... slap against the bottoms of their bare heels.

As they idly chatted to my two escorts, the noises that prison officers Natalie and Melanie were both making with their flimsy footwear was soon beginning to get on my nerves. I was finding their repeated - seemingly ceaseless - slap ... slap ... slap ... slapping very irritating. In fact, it was very quickly becoming highly annoying.

The two receiving prison officers' pale blue short skirts were so short, that from where I was standing at the counter I could actually see right up their skirts ... and their panties were the same pale blue colour too, I could see.

I was finding it hard to look away ... In fact, it was almost as if prison officers Natalie and Melanie were deliberately letting me see; actually inviting me to look up their skirts ... Actually inviting me, to get a good eyeful.

Prison officers Natalie and Melanie were both in their early twenties, and both blonde. They were of very similar build, too. They both had lovely, curvy figures and shapely, suntanned legs ... And, when I looked at their faces again, I was highly disconcerted to see from their knowing expressions that the up-skirt direction of my gaze had certainly not been lost on them.

But, still, they did nothing about their ... revealing posture, and they kept their feet propped up on their desks, ankles crossed - and kept up that maddening slap ... slap ... slap ... slapping noise, with their prison-officer issue flip flops.

As if I wasn't even there, Securi-Fem officers Sonia and Sandra engaged in saucy, boyfriend-related banter with the two Greystone Prison receiving officers ... and what they were saying was causing me to blush to the roots of my scalp.

And so, while they exchanged paperwork in connection with my transportation from Sodbury Crown Court, and my admission to Greystone Prison, to avoid further temptation to stare at those extremely alluring up-skirt sights I turned my eyes away to stare instead through the security checkpoint building's prison-facing window.

From here, the prison could be seen. It was clearly visible through the dark-grey painted wrought-iron entrance gates ... and what a gloomy, thoroughly depressing sight it made!

As I took in the grey and gloomy, profoundly depressing sight of the prison's forbidding and foreboding edifice; took in the actual physical reality of the place, I stood aghast, and dismayed. I knew that my first sight of the awful establishment would be etched on my mind forever.

The dreadful place seemed shrouded, in a soul-sapping atmosphere of helplessness and hopelessness. It emanated such an air of desolation ... of despair. It made my blood run cold, just to look at it: my home, for the next three months.

I looked for the obligatory banks of powerful searchlights, trained on the prisoners' exercise yard, and the guard towers, situated atop the fourteen-foot high walls at each corner. But these typical security features were absent ... and so their deployment must be deemed unnecessary, I thought, at this establishment.

The prison looked like some squat (though it was a six-storey building), dismal grey cube. Unrelieved in its stark plainness, it was an unlikely candidate, I thought, for any architectural awards.

Uneasily beholding the awful place, I found myself hugging my arms across my chest tightly. As if I fancied that small and instinctive gesture of self-protection might help ward off the dreadful establishment's negative waves. Such was my sense of dread.

At last, Securi-Fem officers Sonia and Sandra's prisoner transfer business was concluded, and they reclaimed their handcuffs. And I can tell you: I was glad to have those damned things taken off my wrists. Securi-Fem officer Sonia had been right - and she knew she'd been right: they damned well had, been hurting!

After bidding their friendly farewells to prison officers Natalie and Melanie, my two antagonising escorts mockingly fluttered their fingers goodbye at me, and sarcastically wished me a pleasant stay in H.M. Prison: Greystone.

Upon which, they left the security checkpoint building, closed the door behind them, and I was heartily glad to see the last of them ... Except, I hadn't. Not quite.

Just a moment later, the door to the security checkpoint building opened again, and Securi-Fem officer Sonia popped her head back inside. "Oh, Natalie, Melanie, I almost forgot," she said. "Mr Lightwood hates - absolutely hates! - being called Leonard: I can tell. I thought I'd just pop back in and tell you ... I thought you'd want to know, heh heh heh."

*

Dear reader,

prison officers Natalie and Melanie give me their Welcome to Greystone Prison prep-talk. A prep-talk so incredibly outlandish, that naturally I'd found it very hard to swallow, at the time ...

"So, prisoner Lightwood ... Leonard," said prison officer Natalie, as she continued to cause her thin-rubber soled flip flops to repeatedly slap ... slap ... slap ... slap ... slap against the bottoms of her bare heels. "You like looking up women's skirts, then, do you?"

"Um ... er, no. I was ... I mean, I was just—"

"Save it, prisoner Lightwood," said her colleague, prison officer Melanie, who was likewise manipulating her flip flops annoyingly. "You couldn't drag your eyes away. We both saw you, so don't you dare deny it! Besides, you are going to find you'll be having plenty of opportunities to do that here, in Greystone Prison ... It's sort of the point."

Once again, I felt the heat of acute embarrassment reddening my face. "The point?" I said, confused now, as well as ashamed. "What is?"

"Before we go into that," said prison officer Natalie, "the first thing you have to learn, Leonard, is that you must always address prison officers as 'Miss', before their names. You can see what our names are, from our name-tags. Failure to address us appropriately will result in your being caned on the spot, on your bare buttocks. Am I making myself clear, Leonard?"

I couldn't believe what I was hearing.

What? I thought ... Caned on the spot, for failing to call them Miss? And on my bare buttocks! This was outrageous. Surely, that was beyond their remit? Surely, it was—

Intolerant of my disbelieving deliberations, prison officer Melanie uncrossed her ankles, swung her feet down to the floor, and as she came around her desk to confront me her thin-rubber soled flip flops rapidly slap slap slap slapped against the bottoms of her bare heels, rapping out an angry-sounding tattoo.

I soon knew what was going to happen ... I just couldn't believe it.

I could see what was about to happen, but I was stunned into immobility, too shocked to move.

Too shocked to move, as I saw prison officer Melanie raise her right hand. Stunned into immobility, as I watched the palm of her right hand descend at lightening speed towards my left cheek ... SLAP!

"Aaaahhhhhh!" I cried, at the powerful, stinging impact that, in occasioning me to stagger three steps back, nearly knocked me over.

I couldn't believe it. Prison officer Melanie had slapped my face! And I mean really, slapped me.

"Officer Natalie just asked you a question, prisoner Lightwood!" she snapped reprovingly.

"That hurt!" I complained, rubbing my sore cheek with my fingers. "There was no need for that!" I further protested.

Prison officer Melanie yelled, "This isn't a holiday camp, prisoner Lightwood! Or a leisure centre! It is a prison - and Greystone Prison, at that. Next time, prisoner Lightwood, it'll be the cane. And that will really hurt - I'll make sure of it!

"Now: officer Natalie just asked you a question. And when a prison officer asks you a question, prisoner Lightwood, you'd better come up with a prompt, and respectful reply. Or it'll be the cane ... or worse. Well, prisoner Lightwood? Officer Natalie is waiting."

Or it'll be the cane ... or worse? I thought. Worse than the cane? I really didn't want to think about that. It didn't bear—

"I said: officer Natalie is waiting!" shrieked prison officer Melanie.

All right! All right! I thought - but didn't say.

Turning to prison officer Natalie, I said, reluctantly and resentfully, "Yes. You are making yourself clear ... Miss Natalie."

"I'm not sure I like your tone, Lightwood," said prison officer Melanie in a menacing tone. "I think you need straightening out."

She was still facing me, as though waiting for me to say just one more word out of line - as though waiting for the slightest excuse to slap my face again. When I didn't say another word; didn't provide her with an excuse to straighten me out a bit more, she said, "Oh, you will soon be whipped into shape in here, Lightwood. You'll soon lose the attitude ... you just mark my words," she predicted chillingly.