To Hell in a Handcart

Ten

Tyburn Juvenile Panel

Wayne Sutton dug deep into his left nostril with the long nail on the index finger of his right hand, which had HAT tattooed, or rather Biro-ed, on the knuckles in erratic, pre-school letters. Wayne thought it spelled HATE. Spelling had never been his strong point, which, since he had rarely attended school, was no great surprise. He was once moved on for begging outside Tyburn tube station with a cardboard sign reading HUNGREY AND HOMLES.

Wayne dislodged a large, crusty bogey. He rolled it between his right thumb and forefinger, examined it, popped it in his mouth, toyed with it with his tongue, threw back his head and propelled it into the air.

‘Wayne. Please pay attention,’ said the plump, middle-aged lady sitting opposite him.

Wayne shrugged and tugged his right earring. He had the body of a man and the mind of a moron. He wore his lack of education on the sleeve of his designer shell-suit, which he had stolen at knifepoint from another kid on the Parkgate Estate. Taxing, he called it.

Ever since he was ten, he had terrorized the estate and its environs, leading a semi-feral existence. He was no stranger to the courts, but since the law granted him anonymity he was known to readers of the Tyburn Times only as Monkey Boy, owing to his ability to scale drainpipes and gain entry to premises through upper-storey windows.

Wayne never knew his father, who could have been any one, or all, of a gang of bikers his mother had obliged in a caravanette in Clacton. Or a travelling salesman she had screwed on the end of Clacton pier in return for the price of a bottle of sherry.

Wayne’s mum was a slag. There was no other word for it. She had stumbled through a succession of drunken, violent relationships, existing on benefits and a few extra quid selling her favours to old men in the derelict bowls club, which had been closed since Wayne’s first, bungled, arson attempt.

She would meet her punters in the pub opposite the Post Office and, after a couple of milk stouts, would relieve them of their sexual tensions and a substantial part of their pension money. She even charged one old geezer an extra 50p for tossing himself off without permission while he was waiting in line.

It had been obvious to all that Wayne was being neglected and was in desperate need of a stable home environment. But social services, in their wisdom, rejected fostering on the grounds that it was best to keep the family together.

Family. That was a laugh. The only family Wayne had ever known apart from his mother was whichever feckless thug was currently punching his mum’s lights out in between bouts of heavy drinking, drug taking and thieving.

‘Mr Pearson, please continue,’ said the middle-aged magistrate.

‘Thank you, ma’am.’ Mr Pearson cleared his throat.

‘January 16. Abusive behaviour to staff and customers at Patel’s Minimart and Video Library.

‘January 22. Breaking a 14-year-old boy’s arm at Tyburn fairground.

‘January 23. Smashing a plate-glass window at Corkeez wine bar.

‘January 28. Throwing stones from the bridge above the underpass in Nelson Mandela Boulevard onto passing vehicles.

‘February 4. Shoplifting at Waterhouse’s department store.

‘February 7. Breaking the windows of a number of premises on the Parkgate Estate. The list is attached, ma’am.’

‘I am obliged to you, Mr. Pearson.’

‘February 11. Setting fire to a tramp behind the Odeon.

‘February 14. Abusive behaviour, criminal damage to St Valentine’s flower display at Buds the florist in the High Street.

‘February 21. Criminal damage to bus shelter.

‘February 22. Shining a laser beam into the eyes of a cab driver in Roman Road, causing him to swerve and career into a fruit and vegetable stall, hospitalizing the stallholder, a Mr Bunton.

‘March 2. Kicking over litter bins in High Street. Graffiti spraying on wall of Town Hall.

‘March 6. Shoplifting in Waterhouse’s again.

‘March 9. Attempted burglary at SupaTalc the chemist’s.

‘March 17. Thrown out of Toy Town for attempting to steal Buzz Lightyear dolls.

‘March 19. Threats made against cashier at Continental Stores in Market Road.

‘March 25. Burglary of homes on Parkgate Estate. You have the list, once again, ma’am.

‘March 31. Possession of controlled drugs, cannabis and Ecstasy tablets, with intent to supply.

‘April 1. Urinating from walkway on Parkgate Estate onto the head of PC 235 Watkins, home beat officer.’

‘I think we’ve probably heard enough, Mr Pearson. Thank you. I have read all the relevant papers and social reports.’

‘Then you will see that over a five-month period this year, Wayne Sutton has committed no fewer that seventy offences, ranging from assault and robbery to taking and driving away motor vehicles, culminating in a high-speed chase through the Parkgate Estate in May. He is also in breach of a curfew order, imposed by this panel last December.’

‘Indeed, Mr. Pearson. I am most grateful.’

‘In addition to the evidence in your file, we also have video footage of Wayne committing a large number of the offences, taken from the closed circuit security cameras in the High Street and within the Parkgate centre. In some of the footage, you will see Wayne actually waving to the camera, in the full knowledge that he was being filmed.’

Wayne smiled.

‘Are you suggesting that Wayne knew the seriousness of his behaviour?’

‘Without question, ma’am. He has been before this panel on a number of occasions, been subject to a series of supervision orders.’

‘Yes, but does he realize what he is doing?’

‘The police service are of the opinion that he does and that for his own benefit and the protection of the community at large, a custodial remedy would be appropriate and desirable. I would remind you that he has already broken an Anti-Social Behaviour Order.’

‘And what do the probation service have to say on the matter, Mr. Toynbee?’

Jez Toynbee looked up from the thick file in front of him. He had been christened Jeremy, but thought Jez sounded more democratic. At 5ft 8ins, he was no taller than his young charge, Wayne, sitting alongside him.

‘Wayne Sutton is an averagely intelligent young man, in need of guidance and encouragement. He comes from a dysfunctional background. He has never had a father figure. His mother is an alcoholic, part-time prostitute. She undoubtedly loves Wayne, but is deficient in the parenting skills department. Wayne’s only male role models have been itinerant men who formed temporary liaisons with his mother.

‘We in the probation service believe that although Wayne is clearly disturbed, his offences were not committed out of wickedness but as a cry for help.

‘While the panel has the power to send him to a young offenders’ institution, we do not believe that would be beneficial at this stage of his development. In fact, there is every reason to believe that it would actually be counter-productive.

‘In a secure institution, Wayne would come into contact with other young offenders, which could further disrupt his personal development. We sincerely believe that he can be rehabilitated and go on to take his rightful place in society and make a full contribution.’

‘Bollocks,’ muttered Pearson under his breath.

‘Did you say something, Mr. Pearson?’

‘No ma’am.’

‘Pray continue, Mr Toynbee.’

‘Thank you, ma’am. As I was saying, we believe that Wayne Sutton is not beyond redemption. The problem in his case has been his deprived childhood. He has not been showered with presents, like other children, which explains his thieving. He has never had the luxury of a family car, which contributed to his taking and driving away of vehicles. While his mother loves him, she has been incapable of showing him affection. He has been routinely assaulted by some of his mother’s, er, male associates. He has a repressed anger, which manifests itself in assault and criminal damage.

‘We believe that if Wayne can be shown the kind of affection missing in his life, can be exposed to some of the normal treats which other children expect as their birthright, he can be persuaded of the error of his ways. Before you consider a custodial solution, I would urge you to put this unfortunate young victim of society first. His welfare and his future must be paramount.’

‘What, exactly, are you suggesting, Mr. Toynbee?’

‘The probation service, with the assistance of the local authority and the Victims’ Trust, have recently established a scheme aimed at broadening the horizons of offenders like Wayne. Under close supervision, young offenders are taken beyond their immediate environs and given a glimpse of the wider world which awaits them. We find it helps them confront their criminality and makes them feel valued. In turn, this will help them reject their previous behaviour and become valued members of the community.’

‘Very well, Mr Toynbee. This panel is always reluctant to impose a custodial sentence. Having read all the reports and having heard your submission, we are agreed that Wayne should be released into the supervision of the probation service. Wayne, stand up, please.’

Wayne dragged himself to his feet and stared past the magistrates and out of the window.

‘Wayne, we have been persuaded by Mr. Toynbee that you deserve one more chance to take your rightful, and lawful, place in society. But if you don’t respond, you will find yourself locked up. You will report back here in three months. Do you understand?’

Wayne farted.

Eleven

Ricky Sparke stumbled upstairs and, by placing one hand over his left eye, managed to locate the keyhole in the front door to his flat. He stepped over the pile of unopened mail on the doormat, threw his coat on the sofa and reached for the vodka bottle.

He unscrewed the cap and turned it upside down. It was empty. He wrung the neck, like a man strangling a chicken, but the bottle was spent.

Ricky retrieved another from the washing machine.

Since he had a laundry service, he had no need of the Indesit combined washer/drier. So he used it as storage space. Every other surface was covered with old newspapers, magazines, CD cases and LP covers with coffee mug stains on them.

Ricky picked up a dirty glass, wiped it on his shirt tail, poured a large slug of Smirnoff into it and topped it up with half a bottle of flat slimline tonic.

By drinking slimline tonic, Ricky had convinced himself that it wasn’t really drinking at all.

It was his concession to fitness. He was always trying fad diets, none of which worked, largely on account of the fact that he would insist on supplementing them with vodka and Guinness.

He once went on a white wine only diet, after reading that Garry Glitter had lost three stone on it.

Ricky lost three days.

He devised his own version of the F-Plan diet. He called it the C-Plan. Ricky thought that if it worked he would market it and make his fortune.

The principle was fairly simple. You could eat anything you wanted, provided it began with C.

The diet started well on day one, Ricky eating nothing but cottage cheese and cabbage.

On day two, he dined on corn on the cob and cucumber.

Encouraged by the results, he extended the diet to his drinking habits. Two bottles of Chablis later, he moved onto Chartreuse and, eventually, Carlsberg Special Brew.

Then came champagne, chicken tikka masala, chips, cheese and onion crisps and cognac. He had completely forgotten about the chicken tikka massala until he brought it up on the platform of Upminster tube station.

Ricky had fallen asleep on the District Line, passed his stop at Westminster, slept all the way to Ealing Broadway, turned round and slept all the way back, past Westminster once more and onto Upminster at the eastern end of the line.

He was woken by a guard, turfed off the train, threw up, slipped in his own sick, smashed his head on a bench and passed out.

Ricky discovered a previously unidentified side effect of the C-Plan diet.

Concussion.

He slept the night on Upminster station and made his way back the following morning, breaking his journey at Aldgate East for an extremely painful and deeply unpleasant shit.

Since then he’d stuck to vodka and the occasional can of Nigerian lager, which had been his first news editor’s pet name for Guinness.

Ricky took a slug of his vodka and slim and retrieved a can of Guinness from the fridge to chase it down with.

He made a mental note to go shopping the following morning, Saturday. He was down to his last bottle of vodka and five cans of Guinness. Oh, and some milk might come in handy, too.

Ricky slumped back on the sofa and hunted for the remote. He located it under a pile of soft-porn magazines. He didn’t know why he bothered buying them any more. Half the time he was too pissed to toss himself off.

Ricky laughed. It was true. He was the one sad bastard who really did buy Penthouse for the articles.

Ricky hit the remote and the 33-inch Loewe TV in the corner came alive. Along with his Linn hi-fi, the state-of-the-art television was his pride and joy.

He loved his home entertainment. He was a cable junkie. And his collection of CDs and LPs, which he still played on a 20-year-old Linn Sondek LP12 turntable, was larger and more comprehensive than the record library at Rocktalk 99FM. Ricky often took his music in with him.

Charlie Lawrence didn’t believe in wasting money on immaterial software, such as records. He relied on freebies. And since all the popular stuff disappeared overnight, Ricky reckoned that the only way he’d get a decent show on the air was by supplying his own CDs. Otherwise he’d be reduced to playing Lena Zavarone, Kenneth McKellar and the crass soft rock no one even wanted to steal.

Ricky flicked through the channels, hoping to stumble across some hard-core German channel.

It was always more in hope than expectation. The only porn he ever found late at night seemed to have been made in the 1970s. Before they got their kit off, all the players looked like Abba, during their ‘Waterloo’ period.

Ricky paused when he saw what looked like a game show come on. The spangled host grinned insincerely and introduced the programme.

‘Good evening and welcome to a brand-new edition of ASYLUM!’

‘Today’s programme features another chance to take part in our exciting competition: Hijack an airliner and win a council house.

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‘And, don’t forget, we’re now the fastest-growing game on the planet.

‘Anyone can play, provided they don’t already hold a valid British passport. You only need one word of English:

‘ASYLUM!

‘Prizes include all-expenses-paid accommodation, cash benefits starting at £180 a week and the chance to earn thousands more begging, mugging and accosting drivers at traffic lights.

‘The competition is open to everyone buying a ticket or stowing away on one of our partner airlines, ferry companies or Eurostar.

‘No application ever refused, reasonable or unreasonable.

‘All you have to do is destroy all your papers and remember the magic password:

‘ASYLUM!

‘Only this week one hundred and fifty members of the Taliban family from Afghanistan were flown Goat Class from Kabul to our international gateway at Stansted, where local law enforcement officers were on hand to fast-track them to their luxury £200-a-night rooms in the fabulous four-star Hilton hotel.

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Was he taking the piss, or what?

Who could tell?

Ricky switched off the TV, picked up the CD remote and pressed Play. Randy Newman. ‘Bad Love’.

Ricky drained the can of Guinness and topped up his vodka. He reflected on his earlier encounter with Charlie Lawrence.

Fuck him and his fucking job. Who needs it? Ricky’s inclination was to walk away from Rocktalk 99FM. But Charlie Lawrence was right.

Actually, Ricky needed it. He’d never been out of work, he had an expensive flat and expensive tastes.

Tonight, Dillon had handed him his bar bill at Spider’s. It came to £1,234.75. Ricky had to promise to pay him next week, when his salary cheque was paid into the bank.

Ricky collected the mail from the doormat.

Junk, bills, flyers, pizza menus, minicab cards.

And one registered letter, marked URGENT.

It was from the Tyburn Building Society.

Dear Mr Sparke,