The Last Time

Surrounded by a three metre high steel security fence the open prison covered a vast area of land. The buildings for both inmates and the prison service were a mixture of pre-fabricated timber and brickwork construction. They had that despondent look that you often associate with old institutional buildings and army barracks.

There was a range of social and activity rooms for inmates. Television Room. Gymnasium. Snooker and Pool Room. Arts and Crafts Room. Music Room, which consisted of a tired looking piano with a number of broken keys. He counted six. It was certainly not a Steinway.

His accommodation for the remainder of his sentence would be undertaken in one of the pre-fabricated buildings where he would spend most of his time living with eleven other inmates. Apart from himself and a quiet man in his late-forties, all the other inmates were in their early to late-twenties.

For the next few days he went about adjusting to the new environment, mixing socially with some of the younger inmates, finding his way around the prison and getting familiar with the recreational facilities, all the time making sure he followed Tom Bradley's advice, avoiding any confrontation with violent lunatics.

It was a cold wet morning waiting for the daily roll-call-register to get underway.

"Adams!" shouted the duty officer. "Yes," a voice echoed, the mere mention of his name getting him on his toes, craning his neck over a sea of heads, searching for the compulsory raised hand of the inmate.

'Darren Adams,' the fingers of 'LOVE' and 'HATE' informed him, his eyes instinctively taking another quick tour over an ocean of blue denim uniforms, the unmistakable tall silhouette of Tony Elliott towering over the crowd, bringing a smile to his face.

Never in his wildest dreams would he have thought that a couple of ruthless hard-men could be such a welcoming sight.

It didn't take long before the prison officers recognised the authority and respect that Tony and Darren were given amongst the other inmates. It was also evident that the screws played a part in passing information to certain inmates, especially when it concerned a 'nonce' who was attempting to slip through the net.

Most inmates who were inside for normal criminal activities that weren't associated with interfering with children, or attacks on elderly people were reasonably accepted by other inmates and most of the prison officers. No one tolerated paedophiles and if they were discovered they were dealt with in a brutal and violent manner.

Tom Bradley had told him that convicted sex offenders were given the opportunity to be protected under prison 'Rule 43,' which meant they could spend their sentence in solitary confinement. However, there was the occasional 'nonce' that preferred to mix and socialise with the other inmates and thought the risk was worth taking.

It was meant to be a friendly gesture, but the gruesome hand of Tony Elliott gripping his shoulder and the threatening voice in his ear always made him feel uneasy, especially when he was alone in the toilet block.

"There's a 'nonce' in your building," Tony barked, spitting skilfully into the sink next to the urinal, the urgency in his voice demanding that he should finish his piss and listen to what he had to say.

"The older man," Darren confirmed, stepping from the shadows. "He's been convicted of sex offences with children," he added, blowing smoke above his head, pulling his zip down and levelling up at one of the urinals.

"After midnight roll-call we're going to pay him a visit," Tony grinned, his grip intensifying, his voice uncompromising.

"I want you to warn the other inmates not to get involved. And if the screws ask questions, tell them to keep their mouths shut."

Thirty-minutes after midnight roll-call Tony and Darren walked casually into the pre-fabricated building and after pushing a sock into the man's mouth they dragged him along the corridor and into a nearby toilet block.

The paedophile was beaten without remorse, his desperate cries for help fading into muffled echoes inside the toilet enclosure, until everything went deathly silent.

It didn't take long for the rumours to circulate around the prison the next day. All of the inmates were being questioned by the prison officers, although everyone including the screws knew who had carried out the assault. Apparently the man had been attacked by someone yielding two snooker balls wrapped inside a sock. The beating was so violent his face was unrecognisable and both testicles had been crushed.

After being rushed to a local hospital the 'nonce' was on a life support machine in a critical condition. A prison officer confirmed that if he hadn't managed to crawl from the toilet block into the corridor, he probably would have died from his injuries.

The weather was showing signs that they were heading for a cold winter, so when he was told he would be employed in the main administration block he considered himself rather fortunate, especially when the other inmates told him that working in the Governor's office was considered to be the best job in the prison.

The administration block was predominantly a brick built flat roof building. The building footprint formed the shape of a T. On the immediate left of the T were the offices for about thirty civilian staff. To the right were the offices of the Governor and the Deputy Governor, Principal Prison Officers and the Probation Service.

The leg of the T contained the staff toilets, store rooms, cleaner's room and a small kitchen. At the bottom of the leg there was a tradesman's entrance and a single inmate's toilet.

Jack Wilson was a desperately thin and frail old man who looked as if he needed a good meal and a doctor. With snowy white hair combed flat on his head and shining with cream, his face was tired and gaunt and his expression always held a bitter sadness.

After spending four weeks of his sentence at H.M.P. Armley, Jack was transferred to Tollgate open prison where he had spent the last five months working in the administration block.

He had been convicted of stealing goods from a supermarket where he was employed as an assistant manager.

After giving the company forty-years of his life and never once having a day's sickness, Jack was overlooked for promotion. He was deeply hurt and for a long time he suffered from anxiety and depression.

Insulted by their oversight he decided that an alternative way to top-up his pension and savings account was to remove goods from the supermarket store room.

At first things were going reasonably well and his thefts went undetected. He started by taking a few items home in the boot of his car and sold them to friends and neighbours.

But with all crime comes greed and it wasn't long before the quantities increased and he ended up having to make use of a truck.

For his crime Jack was sent to prison for two-years.

"Fucking rain," he cursed, lifting his collar and sprinting like an athlete through the storm, panting heavily and soaking wet when he reached the administration block, crashing through the door to the tradesman's entrance, pausing in the dark lobby to catch his breath and clear water from his face and hair.

Apart from the sound of rain drumming against the air-conditioning units on the roof there was an uncanny silence.

Once he had regained his composure and he could work his legs he headed towards a bright light spilling into the corridor from an open door, pausing when he heard the feint sound of someone muttering inside the room.

He courteously signalled his approach with a couple of forced coughs before stepping into the warmth of the kitchen.

"I'll be with you in a moment," said an old man holding a felt-tip pen, marking a calendar on the wall and circling today's date, his bony fingers counting out the next six days, leading up to the seventh day marked with the words, 'FREEDOM.'

"Only six-days to go," the old man smiled, pointing a finger at the calendar, before extending his hand.

"Jack Wilson," he invited, unable to disguise the cheer in his voice. "You must be the new boy," he said, forcing a smile that quickly faded.

"Mark Brand," he offered, letting go of his hand.

"The Parole Board recommended that I could be released on licence after serving a third of my sentence," Jack said, raising two fingers at the establishment. "I can't wait to get away from this fucking shit-hole," he added, frowning when he realised he was a little insensitive.

Before his release Jack explained some of the important protocols and procedures involved with his many duties. He told him he was the tea-boy, the subservient dogs-body, the whipping-boy and anything else they could think of. Jack also advised him who he should look out for, who he could trust, and most of all, who he should avoid.

Once he had accepted the indignity of delivering tea and coffee to the staff and cleaning the toilets, life was reasonably comfortable and the privacy of the kitchen gave him time to relax and write letters to Jill.

David Jefferies had been the Governor of H.M.P. Tollgate for the past twenty-five years.

A tall thin and tired looking man who looked his age and knew he should have retired from the prison service at least two years ago.

Boasting a large sweeping moustache that curled upwards at the ends, the yellow nicotine streak in the centre confirmed his weakness for his twenty-a-day foul smelling cigars. And with a soft baritone voice and easy going manner he was polite and respectful to everyone.

He was calm. He was sophisticated. He was intelligent. He was known to complete the times cross-word in less than fifteen minutes.

Douglas Wood had held the position of Deputy Governor for the last eight years.

He was a fit looking man in his early-fifties and from his six-foot-four-inch height he looked down on those around him with contempt. He was a foul mouthed arrogant man who demanded respect from everyone and there were occasions when his mood swings could often lead to a demonstration of his violent temper. He made it clear that he wasn't interested in exchanging pleasantries with anyone other than the Governor.

Douglas Wood was also aware that the announcement of David Jefferies declaring the date of his retirement was long overdue.

It didn't take him long to find out that some of the prison officers and most of the civilian office staff were decent and friendly people, even a fat middle-aged woman with an obvious moustache that would have made most young men very proud.

But the one person that caught his attention was an attractive woman in her early-thirties.

With short blonde hair, big blue eyes, shapely long legs and curves in all the right places,

Christine Noble oozed sex appeal.

It was a bitterly cold night in November. It was eight o'clock in the evening and the function was in full swing.

The Governor and Deputy Governor and some of the select Principal Prison Officers were entertaining members from the Prison Officers Association and Parole Board.

About twenty faceless people had gathered inside the governor's office, some were smoking and drinking, others discussing corporate issues, a fog of cigarette smoke and sweet smelling cigars mingling with the smell of body sweat and inexpensive perfume.

His job for the evening was to serve the guests with tea, coffee or alcoholic drinks.

He was given a white jacket especially for the occasion.

He was a little apprehensive about his first function, but when he discovered that Christine Noble had volunteered to help with the buffet he felt more relaxed and actually looked forward to the event and the opportunity of getting to know more about her.

With her hair held in a neat bun at the back of her head, wearing a black skirt, white blouse and a trace of perfume just enough to enhance her femininity, she looked stunning.

When they weren't serving the guests they sat in the kitchen talking and having a cigarette.

At first they only exchanged a few meaningful words and the usual small talk that's common with people who have just met. But as the evening progressed, that despondent silence that always brings strangers together miraculously produced a spark of chemistry.

They continued to share many more intimate details with surprising ease, slowly guiding each other towards a sexual and more flirtatious conversation.

They laughed and took turns in telling each other about their backgrounds and their likes and dislikes. Christine managed to compress her entire life storey into about fifteen-minutes of rambling trivia, some of which was interesting but other information about her family and pets were less important and ultimately boring.

Christine helped herself to the occasional glass of wine.

He was a little hesitant about drinking alcohol.

Even though the two creaking stairs in the corridor provided a warning that someone was approaching the kitchen, he didn't want to take the risk until he knew where he stood with Christine, although it didn't take very long before her trust became evident.

She listened for footfalls in the corridor before handing him a glass of wine, smiling into his eyes as she watched him drain the glass.

As the night reached a close, it was evident in Christine's slurred speech that she had consumed several glasses of wine. And with too much alcohol fuelling a surge of Dutch courage, revealing an unexpected impudence and loosening her tongue with flirtatious innuendo, she would no doubt feel the consequences the next morning.

After draining her glass and getting to her feet she said that she hoped she might see him again at the 'Big-Bash' in December.

He wasn't sure what she meant and the embarrassment of a baseball bat inside his pants forced him to remain seated. But there was a soft tenderness in her voice that hinted maybe Christine Noble wanted something more.

As she left she surprised him with a fleeting kiss on his cheek.

With the offer of free cigarettes, coffee and chocolate biscuits, the monthly visit from members of Alcoholics Anonymous always attracted a large number of inmates.

With a mouth permanently fixed in a contented smile a large framed woman in her early-fifties stood up at the visitors table and introduced herself and two other people with her.

Staring into the faces of about thirty restless and uninterested inmates she looked a little apprehensive as she announced the purpose of her visit to the prison.

After talking with assurance for about fifteen-minutes about the serious consequences that alcohol can have and how it can seriously affect your social, domestic and physical way of life, she introduced the first speaker.

"My name is Stuart Bell and I'm an alcoholic," said a tall skinny man with a nasal voice and large bulging eyes. "I'm thirty-four years old and after a divorce about three years ago I now live on my own in a single bed flat."

After a chorus of sniggers from a few inmates, Stuart took a deep breath and continued.

"I used to work as a telecommunications engineer for a large telephone company. Each day I was given a job sheet with a number of installations or maintenance items which I had to complete. The company provided me with a van to get to the appropriate destinations."

He nervously scratched his testicles, cleared his throat and lowered his head, trying to ignore the crude and impatient comments from his mutinous audience.

"I've been a member of Alcoholics Anonymous four the last two-years," he declared, pausing to smile at the large framed woman, waiting long enough until she returned his smile.

"Let me tell you about a typical day in my life," he offered, pausing to sip a glass of water. "Each day would start with a thumping hangover. Breakfast would usually consist of a piece of toast followed by a couple of cans of beer or a glass of whisky. Once I had arrived at my job for that particular day I would make a mental note of the local pubs. Before my lunch break I would have probably had another can of beer."

He hesitated and hunched his shoulders to indicate his stupidity.

"When I was inside the pub at lunch-time, I would consume about three pints and sometimes a whisky to wash down a sandwich. In the late afternoon I would drink another can before driving home. For the remainder of the evening I would just sit at home, drinking beer, whiskey or vodka...I never went to bed until I was pissed."

With the conviction of a minister and the look of a defeated man who had been used to too many disappointments in his life, he declared. "I will never let alcohol ruin my life again."

After twisting his face in miserable apology Stuart Bell sat down in his chair and for a few seconds the room went deathly quiet.

Someone sitting at the back of the room with a strong Liverpool accent and a foul mouth broke the crippling silence. "IS THAT FUCKING ALL?" he chuckled. "I've spilt more down me fucking shirt."

Everyone in the room except Stuart Bell and the large framed woman sitting next to him exploded into fits of laughter.

It was a cold December night when he arrived in a hasty panic at the tradesman's entrance of the administration block. Because his guests would be arriving at 7.p.m. Douglas Wood had instructed him to be there no later than six-thirty to offer reception drinks on their arrival.

When he walked into the kitchen Christine Noble greeted him with a welcoming smile and a reassuring voice.

"I told you we'd meet again at the Christmas party."

Douglas Wood was a little nervous but also excited about the occasion.

Tonight was a high profile event with delegates from the Chair of Prison Governors, The Chief Constable and members of the Association of Police Officers and representatives from the National Probation Service and the Parole Board.

Douglas Wood made it very clear to everyone that tonight he could win or lose brownie points. His instructions were delivered with his usual no-nonsense venomous tone that made him feel like he was something he had just scraped off his shoe.

Douglas Wood was a man of limited vocabulary.

"Look smart. No alcohol and don't fuck up."

Although he found his remarks about alcohol almost laughable, he just nodded his head and left the tempting 'arrogant fucking arsehole' waiting at the back of his throat.

Inside the confines of the pre-fabricated buildings the inmates were also making preparation for their festive party. The regular 'fence-drops' had provided an abundance of canned beers and various bottles of wines and spirits, and the cartons of cigarettes and dope would ensure the inmates Christmas and New Year would be celebrated in the manner they had become accustomed to.

David Jefferies waited until all the guests had received a glass of champagne before announcing his retirement from the prison service in three months.

Douglas Wood's eagerness broke the silence, extending his hand to David Jefferies, raising his glass, inviting a toast to his long and happy retirement.

"Three cheers for the Governor," Douglas hailed, unable to disguise the enthusiasm in his voice and the glowing look of self-congratulation on his face.

For the first couple of hours Mark and Christine skipped between the kitchen and the governor's office making sure everyone had plenty to drink and eat.

But as the night gathered speed and the guests became less demanding they were able to spend more time in the kitchen chatting over a cigarette and a glass of wine.

On one occasion when he returned to the kitchen he discovered a cigar had been carefully placed on his chair. David Jefferies was a considerate man.

It was becoming evident by her slurred voice and a piece of mistletoe stuck in her hair that Christine had been sampling the champagne a little too much and a little too often. And not only did the alcohol relax her mood it also removed any defences that she might have had and prompted a number of flirtatious comments and sexual innuendoes.