Confessions from The Clink
BY TIMOTHY LEA

Contents

Title Page

Chapter One

Chapter Two

Chapter Three

Chapter Four

Chapter Five

Chapter Six

Chapter Seven

Chapter Eight

Chapter Nine

Chapter Ten

Also available in the CONFESSIONS series

About the Author

Also by Timothy Lea & Rosie Dixon

Copyright

About the Publisher

CHAPTER ONE

Twelve months in the nick! I could hardly believe my jug handles when the beak passed sentence. It looked as if it was all he could pass, too. I have never seen a more tight-lipped, prune-featured old git. And all for having a few magic moments of hampton parking immortalised on celluloid. Talk about diabolical! I have never known such a travesty of British justice since they put me away for nicking lead – at the time I thought I was taking part in a slum clearance scheme. It is not as if I wanted to flash my nasty at the great British public either. A few innocent recreational moments with a bevy of fun-loving Cypriot ladies were not meant to be shown as family entertainment. How I came to be blamed because some berk cuts them into the final version of ‘Revenge of the Creature from the O.K. Corral’ is beyond me. Likewise, how I became responsible for the whole film. I thought it was a Trion Production promoted by Justin Tymeley and my brother-in-law, Sidney, but it just goes to show how wrong you can be.

‘Terribly unlucky, Timmy boy,’ says Sid when he comes to visit me in my cell. ‘I feel very guilty about this. I wanted to give you a fair crack of the whip, that’s all.’

‘So did that old bleeder on the bench,’ I yelp. ‘He said he was sorry he couldn’t give me the cat.’

‘I know,’ says Sidney, shaking his head. ‘They shouldn’t allow them to say things like that. He’s past it, that bloke.’

‘He’s passed it alright. Twelve bleeding months. Do you think I should appeal?’

Sid shakes his head again. ‘I’ve spoken to Mr. Rampersand and he’s definitely against it. He said they’re very hot on pornography at the moment and you might get another six months.’

‘Gordon Bennett! I’m innocent. How come you and Justin weren’t up there with me? That’s what I can’t understand.’

Sidney extends his arms despairingly. ‘Like I said, Timmo. I was just trying to put a bit of moola your way. You’ve always said to me that you never had a real stake in any of our ventures so I thought I’d remedy that this time.’

‘Very considerate, Sidney.’

‘I’m glad you see it that way.’

‘So that piece of paper I signed made me responsible for all the company’s liabilities?’

‘That kind of thing, Timmy. I don’t want to confuse you with a lot of technical details at a moment like this.’

‘Don’t worry about that, Sidney. It will give me something to think about in the next twelve months. I suppose my responsibilities don’t extend to control of the profits?’

‘No, Timmo. You see, it wouldn’t be practical with you in the chokey, would it? Don’t worry. There’s a good reason for doing things the way we are.’

‘Yes, Sid. I think I know what it is: sheer, naked greed. You’ve made me the fall guy so that you and Justin can grab all the loot.’

‘Timmo!’ If you didn’t know Sidney, you would think he was really hurt. ‘That’s a terrible thing to say.’

‘It’s bleeding true, though. Even with my bit cut out, that film is going to make a million. The publicity has been fantastic.’

‘Don’t worry, Timmo. We’ll see you all right. Justin has got a lot of influence in the prison world.’

‘That doesn’t surprise me.’

‘No bitterness, Timmo. It’s unworthy of you. What I was saying is that Justin is trying to pull a few strings to make sure you get sent to a nice nick. Once they’ve made an example of you, they don’t want to lay it on too thick.’

‘Very kind of them.’

‘Penhurst. Have you heard of it?’

‘Not unless it’s in the Good Food Guide.’

‘It’s a very enlightened place. You get a nice class of person there.’

‘That’s always important, isn’t it? I don’t want to mix with a lot of rubbish.’

Sidney shakes his head. ‘You’re very difficult to help, sometimes, Timmo. Justin has gone to a lot of trouble on your behalf.’

It is at this point that I begin to see more red than if I had my mug pressed against a baboon’s bum. ‘Justin has gone to a lot of trouble!’ I yelp. ‘What about me?! Twelve months in the chokey. What’s going to happen to my sex life?’

‘Well, you’ll have to cut down a bit.’

‘ “A bit”! You must be joking.’

‘I expect you’ll get some remission.’

‘Quite a few of them, I should reckon. I can see my wrists in plaster by the time I get out.’

‘I meant that they’ll probably lop a bit off your sentence for good behaviour,’ says Sid huffily. ‘There’s no need to be coarse.’

‘They might as well lop a bit off my old man. I’m never going to last for twelve months without crumpet.’

‘We’ll send you food parcels.’

‘Food parcels? You’d be better off sending me a vat of bromide.’

I mean, it is disturbing, isn’t it? It can’t be good for my action man kit to be put in cold storage for a year. I am one of those blokes who needs it fairly regularly to keep in trim. You can’t deny a great artist the use of his paint brush for twelve months and then expect him to bash out the Mona Lisa, can you? ‘What about Mum and Dad?’ I say, deciding that I do not want to think about my fast fading sex life any longer.

‘She’s loyal, your mum,’ says Sid. ‘A diabolical cook, but loyal. She reckoned it was because you had that coloured fellow that you got put away.’

‘You mean my solicitor, Rampersand?’

‘That’s him. Mum said she could see that the judge was going to have no truck with him. I think she might have a point there. The miserable basket started looking old-fashioned the minute Rumpleknickers made you take the oath on those crossed chicken bones.’

‘Well, it was his first case in an English court, wasn’t it?’

‘I know, but you’d think he would check up, wouldn’t you? I mean, when he started throwing that white powder about and flapping his fly whisk, I could see the jury was going off him. No, on reflection, I think your mother was dead right.’

‘What about Dad? I haven’t seen him tripping down those stairs.’

‘Well, you wouldn’t, would you? Probably scared of seeing too many old friends. He’s very distressed about the whole thing. Says he can’t hold his head up in the Highwayman any more.’

‘Give him a couple of beers and he has trouble holding his head up anywhere. I don’t know what he’s going on about. He’s one of the reasons why I’m stuck in this place.’ This is indeed true and comes about from the fact that dad’s porn collection, concealed in the hallstand, was considered to be mine by the searching ’bules. Fresh evidence of my depraved nature. In fact, though never averse to a quick butcher’s, I would rather spend my money on the real thing.

Dad works, for want of a better word, at the Lost Property Office and is swift to fall upon those articles which nobody would ever have the face to claim. Blood supposedly being thicker than water you would have thought that he might have stepped forward to acknowledge ownership of ‘Wife-Swapping – Danish Style’ and ‘Spanking for Beginners’, but not a sausage. He allows his firstborn to be put away without a murmur.

Sid sticks a hand through the bars and pats me on the shoulder. ‘I know, Timmy. Your dad has behaved rotten, but don’t worry. I’ll stand by you. I’ll send you a postcard.’

‘Where from?’ I say, allowing a trace of bitterness to creep into my voice.

‘The last few weeks have been a big strain, Timmy. I thought I’d take Rosie and the kids for a bit of sunshine. Sardinia has been recommended to me.’

‘Oh, that’s blooming marvellous, isn’t it? I go in the nick and you go off to Sardinia. There’s no justice.’

It is shortly after this exchange that Sidney goes up the steps from the cells nursing a thick lip and I find myself lumbered with a swollen knuckle that prevents me succumbing immediately to a spot of percy pummelling.

The next day I hear that, either by luck or design, I am being sent to Penhurst Prison and it is clearly a decision that causes resentment amongst my ’bule friends.

‘Place is a blinking holiday camp,’ snorts one of them. ‘You want to take your tennis racquet.’

‘And your camera,’ says another. ‘Or maybe not, knowing the kind of pictures you like taking.’

I don’t argue the toss but climb aboard the H.M. Prisons van which I share with a pasty-faced bloke with two-tone hair. The first half inch is black and the rest yellow.

‘Ooh!’ he says, pursing his lips at me. ‘Thank goodness for a little company at least. What naughty things have you been up to?’ It occurs to me without too much effort that this bloke is never going to be a serious threat to George Foreman but it is an impression I keep to myself. It takes all sorts to make licquorice, as my old school master used to say.

‘It’s a very long and turgid story,’ I tell him, ‘but basically they got me for making and appearing in blue films.’

‘Ooh! That must be difficult,’ says my new friend. ‘I suppose you set up the camera, run out and do your bit, and run back again. Must be very tiring.’

‘I wasn’t doing both at the same time,’ I explain. ‘In fact, I didn’t know I was being filmed.’

‘Ooh, that is treacherous. Taking advantage of someone like that. It’s not right, is it? But, you know –’ Streaky squeezes my arm conspiratorially – ‘I’m surprised they were able to recognise you. Some of those films. I mean, really. People know me by my face. The way they go on about it, you wouldn’t recognise your own mother. I know, because she was in one. Marvellous woman. She’d bend over backwards to help a complete stranger. That was her trouble really. She was just too – you know what I mean?’

‘Er – yes,’ I say. ‘Heart as big as all outdoors.’

‘Not only her heart, ducky. She was a lot of woman in more ways than one. Quite overpowering, in fact.’

I have a shrewd idea that Two-Tone Jessie O’Gay is not in clink for tying parking meters in knots, and he is quick to reinforce this impression.

‘It’s disgraceful me being in here, too. I mean, when a cute blonde number comes up to you in the little boys’ room and says ‘hello sailor’ you don’t expect him to be playing scrum-half for the Metropolitan Police Rugby Team, do you? I was quite overcome. Over, I have never been so come.’

‘Diabolical,’ I say. ‘I know just how you feel. I mean –’ I add hurriedly, ‘It’s not on, is it?’

‘Oh, you are nice,’ says Streaky, giving me another little squeeze. ‘I said to myself the moment I saw you. “He’s nice,” I said. I’m so glad we met up. We’ll be able to stick together, won’t we?’

I think the answer to that must be no, but I don’t want to give offence too early in our non-relationship. ‘My name’s Timothy Lea,’ I say, trying to sound as if I can strip paint by huffing on it.

‘Fran Warren,’ says my adorable comrade. ‘Fran, short for Francis, but long for everyone else. Oops, sorry. Just my little joke.’

A few more like that and I will have committed murder before we ever get to the nick, I think to myself. What a laugh riot this little number is turning out to be.

‘It would be nice if we could share, though, wouldn’t it?’ warbles Mrs. Warren’s problem child. ‘I’m certain we’d get on well. I mean, you must be broad-minded.’

‘Exactly,’ I said hurriedly. ‘That’s all my mind ever thinks about – broads.’

‘Ooh, you’re like that, are you?’ He manages to make it sound as if I enjoy interfering with garden gnomes.

‘Birds,’ I say firmly. ‘I love ’em. That’s my scene. Birds, lots of birds. And football. Chelsea. We are the champions! We are the –!’

‘Yes, all right, dear,’ says Fran holding up his hands in dismay. ‘There’s no need to shout. We all have our little idiosyncrasies. I support Norwich City, myself. That heavenly yellow. And their goalkeeper! He’s a dream. Like a big pussy cat throwing himself all over the place. Ooh, I feel like standing in the way every time I see him.’

I do not think a common interest in football is going to be enough to make life with Francis Warren bearable. Certainly not when my interest is nowhere near half as common as his.

I hope they are not all going to be like him at Penhurst. Of course, I have heard stories – and it is not surprising when the crumpet ration is akin to the number of nips rolling up to a Kamikazi pilots reunion dinner – but I did not expect to get lumbered before I got through the front gate.

This article presents itself before I have had to slap my companion’s wrist more than a couple of times, and bears a stronger resemblance to the entrance to a crematorium than a nick – with my family you get plenty of chance to see both. There is a bloke in a peaked cap behind the wrought iron gate and the minute I see him, I am reminded of the Funfrall Holiday Camp I once worked at. I hope the nosh is better here.

The driver’s neck, seen through the glass panel behind his seat, looks like a pink elephant sitting down, and I turn away from it to feast my eyes on Fran plucking at his disgusting hair.

‘Oh, it’s awful, isn’t it?’ he squeaks. ‘I saw you looking. I’ve got split ends and my follicles are clogged.’

Please! I feel like saying to him. Spare me the details! I mean, there are some things you just don’t want to know about, aren’t there? ‘I was on remand for three weeks,’ he clucks, ‘never had a chance to do anything about it.’

‘Don’t worry,’ I soothe. ‘I’m certain they’ll make allowances.’

‘O.K. you two. Out!’ The prison officer swings open the door and divides his contempt between us. I am not certain I like the way he says ‘you two’ as if we were some kind of double act.

‘Oh dear. What a shame. Just as we were getting down to brass tacks, too. It’s always the same, isn’t it?’ I ignore the bent gent’s twitter and step down to take a butcher’s at the scenery. The building we are outside looks like a modern country house with two wings and a front bit that has more windows than a Peeping Tom’s training camp. They all have bars across them but apart from that, there is nothing that shouts ‘nick’ too crudely. There is even a football pitch in the middle of the ample grounds.

‘Right. Up the steps and report to reception. The Governor will want to see you.’

‘Ooh. Aren’t you going to carry my bag?’ sniffs Fran.

‘I wouldn’t trust myself to bend down and pick it up,’ says the screw. ‘Now hop it.’ He slams the door and climbs back into the driver’s seat.

‘Charming!’ says Fran. ‘No room service and nobody to meet us. I wonder they didn’t make us walk from the gate. I’m not certain I’m going to like it here. The vibrations aren’t right. Do you ever feel like that? Maybe I’m over-sensitive. I had a friend once who –’

‘Yeah, yeah,’ I say, before he can get into full spate. ‘We’d better do like the man says, hadn’t we?’ I nip up the steps and push open the door that is already ajar.

Inside, a tall bloke in blue shirt and denims is counting a roll of greasy one pound notes. He stops when he sees us and looks us up and down suspiciously.

‘We’re looking for the Governor,’ I say.

‘Oh yeah. New boys, are you?’

We nod.

‘Welcome to Sinnerama Holiday. Follow me. I think he’s free at the moment.’

‘Is it nice here?’ twitters Fran.

‘It’s bleeding lovely, mate,’ says our guide. ‘You two together, are you?’

‘Yes.’

‘No!’ I yelp. ‘We came together, that’s all.’

‘That’s all?’ trills Fran. ‘Don’t knock it, ducky!’ Before he can pursue the subject further our guide taps respectfully on one of the doors and a voice that sounds like two pieces of sand paper having it away bids us enter.

The inside of the room surprises me. I had not been expecting the state apartment at Windsor Castle but certainly something a bit more flash than this. The Playboy Calendar on the wall strikes an odd note, too. What is most unexpected is that there are bars on the windows. I puzzle about this for a minute before it occurs to me that they probably have some deep psychological significance. Maybe it helps the inmates to identify with the governor if he gives the appearance of living under the same conditions as they do. Fascinating, isn’t it? Oh well, please yourselves.

‘Two new boys, governor,’ says our guide, waving us forward.

‘Thanks, Grass,’ rasps the figure behind the desk. ‘Harvest coming in all right?’

‘Fantastic. We’ve almost got more than we can process.’

‘Excellent. Excellent. Don’t let me hold you up, then.’

Our guide withdraws and I concentrate on the governor. He is a large, squarely built man with a couple of days’ growth of stubble and tattoos going right up his arms. He, too, is wearing a blue denim shirt with rolled up sleeves so it is easy to see the artwork. ‘Mum, I love you’ says one arm. ‘Per ardua ad astra’ says the other. A nice combination of the sentimental and the intellectual, I think to myself. Very rounded personality, obviously. I never thought that a nick would go to the trouble of making it so easy for the prisoners to identify with their surroundings. Fancy, even dressing the governor up like one of the inmates. Maybe life is better under the Conservatives.

‘Hello, boys,’ says the governor cheerfully. ‘Fancy a drink, do you? I’ve got a nice drop of Spanish Burgundy here, or how about Bristol Cream?’

‘Ooh, I thought you said Bristol queen for a moment,’ squeaks Fran. ‘You almost offended me. I come from Bristol, you know. It’s a rough, manly town absolutely bursting at the seams with Jolly Jack Tars.’

‘Hello, sailor,’ says the governor. ‘Who’s your shipmate?’

‘We’d never seen each other before today,’ I yelp. Blimey, if this goes on I’ll have to get a placard printed.

‘Two orphans of the storm whom fate has thrown together,’ simpers Fran. ‘Will we be sharing a cell?’

‘No! No!’ I shout before the governor can say anything. ‘I have these terrible nightmares when I start lashing out at anything that stands in my path. I can be uncontrollably violent. I wouldn’t ask anybody to risk that.’

‘Ooh,’ says Fran, ‘I’m a great soother. I bet you, if I massage your temples every night before –’

‘No!’

‘Ooh, you’re such a spoilsport. I know you want to, really.’

‘Yeah, yeah,’ says the governor, waving at Fran to belt up. ‘If you’ve got any complaints about the accommodation we’ll sort those out later. The Domestic Affairs Committee will deal with it. Now, what are you two boys in for?’

While we tell him and sip our drinks it occurs to me that it is strange that he does not know already. This must be a very free and easy place if prisoners can roll up unannounced. Maybe a lot of them escape too, so that it is difficult to keep track of numbers.

‘Do you have a large turnover?’ I ask.

‘About two hundred thou at the moment,’ says our genial governor helping himself to a generous slug of sherry. ‘But we’re pushing it up fast.’

‘Two hundred thousand prisoners?’ I gasp.

‘Two hundred thousand nicker, you berk,’ croaks the governor. ‘Blimey, you’re as green as the blokes what are supposed to be running this place.’

While I ponder that remark, the door opens and a tall pinched geezer comes in. He has watery eyes and a face so thin that you feel he must have caught his nut between a couple of mating elephants. What strikes me most about him is his clobber. He is wearing a navy blue tunic with silver buttons and two pips on the epaulettes. It is a bit dressy for this establishment and, of course, dead out of fashion. His best friend should tell him.

‘Legend!’

‘Yes, Governor?’

Are my ears deceiving me? Our tattooed friend behind the desk is addressing the newcomer as Governor. There must be some mistake.

‘There must be some mistake, Legend.’ The tone suggests that the speaker might burst into tears at any minute. ‘All prisoners – I mean, all residents reporting to the House are supposed to report to me before they go to their rooms.’

The man addressed as Legend claps his hands to his head dramatically and jumps to his feet.

‘Governor! I had no idea. Oh dear. This is awful. I can see how put out you must be. Otherwise you would never have used that nasty word.’

‘Yes. Yes,’ splutters the new governor. ‘I’m sorry about that. I don’t know what came over me.’

Legend holds up his hand. ‘Don’t say another word, Governor. We all slip up sometimes. I suppose that is why a lot of us are here.’ He says it so that you expect to see a halo come sprouting out of his bonce.

‘Of course, of course.’ The Governor seems embarrassed. ‘I’m sorry I burst out like that. It was unforgivable of me.’

‘Don’t worry about it, Governor. We forgive you, don’t we lads? Life has taught us how to turn the other cheek.’ We nod vigorously. ‘Now, go along with the Governor, lads. He’s a man we all respect. He’ll see you all right. You haven’t got time for a glass of sherry before you go, Governor?’

‘Regrettably not, Legend,’ says wafer-bonce, looking as if his moist eyes are going to start melting down his cheeks at any minute. ‘By the way, how is the spinach coming along?’

Legend’s wizened mug twinkles like the inside of an empty whelk shell.

‘Excellent, Governor, excellent. We’re very grateful for that manure you provided. It makes all the difference.’

‘And you’ve had no difficulty in finding someone to take it off your hands?’

‘No. Soap and water seems to work all right if you scrub long enough.’

‘I meant the spinach,’ says the Governor patiently.

‘Oh! That. No, Governor, no. Of course, the price isn’t all it could be, but I think it will get better when we can put more on the market.’

‘So you’re going to be a spinach baron, are you, Legend?’

Legend laughs uproariously at the joke. ‘Oh, no, Governor. Nothing like that. As long as we can scrape up enough to buy the lads a few little creature comforts, that’s all I’m interested in.’

‘Capital, Legend. Capital. Your initiative and fellow-feeling do you much credit.’ As Legend lowers his eyes humbly to the floor the Governor turns to us. ‘When I look at what’s happening in the world outside, I sometimes ask myself if the right men are behind bars.’

I think I could help him answer that one, but my natural sense of self-preservation keeps my cakehole firmly closed. Legend looks like a dab hand at instant plastic surgery. We leave him waving a couple of fingers at the Governor’s back and follow that gentleman down a long corridor and out into a courtyard which gives access to another part of the ‘Complex’ as the Governor chooses to call it. On the way he is rabbiting about ‘behavioural patterns’, ‘individual freedoms’ ‘society’s responsibility to the under-privileged’ and all that stuff you get on the telly when everyone has gone to bed, but I am not listening. I am watching the bird who has come willowing out of one of the doors on the other side of the courtyard. The fact that she is a bird and not a bloke is pretty impressive to start off with, but her own natural advantages would win wolf whistles in any company. Even with her hair in curlers and struggling under the weight of a plastic dustbin she is still mucho woman. I rush forward just as she is starting to lose a high-heeled carpet slipper and clap my mitts on the dustbin. ‘Allow me,’ I husk, giving her a look of smouldering passion calculated to perish the elastic in her knickers, should she be wearing any. ‘Where would you like me to put it?’

She holds my glance and as our eyes fuse across the top of the empty Kit-E-Kat tins, I think that this could be the start of something very beautiful.

‘Over there,’ she says and with that suppleness of movement that so characterises the Leas, I step backwards, trip over something and sit down emptying half a ton of fish-heads into my lap. It is not done in a way that would make Cary Grant envious and I sense that a magic moment has escaped for ever.

‘She looked a brazen bit, that one,’ sniffs Fran as we go on our way. ‘I didn’t think there’d be any of her type here.’

‘That’s Mrs. Sinden,’ says the Governor, whose name is Brownjob – diabolically bad luck, isn’t it? – ‘She’s married to one of the - er guardians.’

‘You mean warders?’ says Fran.

Brownjob winces. ‘We call them guardians, here, Warren. Our whole aim is to build a bridge between our community and the outside world. We want to avoid the creation of a convict mentality that cannot make its way in normal society. We eschew words like “prison”, “warder” and “cell”. You have a “room” in a “house” and are looked after by “guardians” who are there to help you. As much as possible we try to create an environment in which the house can be run by “the guests” – or yourselves. We have committees who operate in different areas and are composed of guests with a leavening of guardians to act as mediators should there be a divergence of opinions.’

I don’t understand everything he is rabbiting about but I can understand why the rozzers thought that Penhurst was a doddle. What a carve up! Brownjob spouting all that balls whilst Legend and his lads are making two hundred thousand quid flogging spinach. There must be a fantastic amount of it to earn that kind of money. Or maybe they do other things as well? They must do, if Legend reckons that they are going to expand as fast as he indicated.

To my relief, Brownjob explains that we will have individual rooms and adds, apologetically, that they will be locked at ten o’clock each night. I am dead relieved to hear it because I do not fancy Mrs. Warren’s little boy trying to massage my temples every evening. Without protection I might be tempted to respond with half a brick. We also learn that we are being allocated to a job and that I am being sent to help in the Prison laundry.

‘The irony will not be lost on you,’ chortles Brownjob as I stare at him stonily to prove it is.

Meals are self-service and eaten in a large airy cafeteria and I am amazed at how good the nosh is. I wish mum could come here to pick up a few lessons. Just to think of her cooking makes me see the label on a tube of Rennies.

Warren follows me around like I have him on a piece of string and I can see the two of us getting a few old-fashioned glances from the rest of the inmates.

‘Hello, sailor,’ says Legend every time he sees one of us and I am most distressed that he reckons me to be one half of a set of poofters.

The thought is much on my mind then next morning when I find myself despatched to collect dirty laundry from the ‘guardians’ quarters. It has now been a matter of weeks since percy last found gainful employment and to say that I am feeling frustrated is rather like describing Yul Brynner’s hairline as receding. Even Fran Warren is beginning to look like Shirley Temple and if I don’t do something fast I could be in more trouble than an octopus with smelly armpits.

I give a sharp rat-tat-tat on Mrs. Sinden’s door and look forward to the sight of a one-hundred-per-cent-red-blooded woman. In such cases it is usually my fortune to find her old man at home with flu, or half a dozen kids struggling on the doormat but this time the delectable crumpet factory flings open the door, to all intents and purposes, on her tod.

‘Oh,’ she says. ‘You’ve come to empty the dustbins, have you?’

I don’t say anything because I am concentrating on her cleavage which looks deeper than a fisherman’s wader. No obstacle obstructs my peepers because her frilly housecoat sweeps across her bristols at nipple height.

‘Er, no,’ I gulp. ‘It’s your laundry I’m after.’

‘Oh, dear,’ she says. ‘I’d forgotten it was Wednesday. You’d better come in while I sort some out. Do you fancy a cup of tea?’

‘That would be very nice, if you can spare the time,’ I say.

‘No trouble at all. Come in.’

I am across the threshold before you can say ‘Bring back the Cat’ or ‘Pussy Galore’ as Ian Fleming has it.

‘I’m not certain I should let you in,’ she says archly as I settle myself down before a packet of Wonder Wheaties, ‘the cereal that put men on the moon’.

‘You mean because I’m a – a guest?’ I say. ‘I feel such a berk using that word.’

‘Because of what you’re here for,’ says Mrs. S. waggling her fingers at me roguishly. ‘I know, you know. My hubby told me all about it.’

It is indeed amazing how quickly details of my ‘crime’ seem to have spread round the camp and I have been aware of a good deal of ‘nudge, nudge, wink, wink’ dogging my petal footsteps ever since I left Brownjob’s office. This, coupled to the attention of the dreary Fran has made me feel about as inconspicuous as Sammy Davis Junior at a Klu Klux Klan rally.

‘Oh. That,’ I say studying the small print on the back of the Wheaties packet: ‘build your own spacecraft. Unbelievable offer. No experience necessary. All you need is a screwdriver. Hours of good, clean fun for all the family’.

‘Yes, that,’ she says eagerly. ‘You’re a naughty boy, aren’t you? I’d never have thought it to look at you.’

‘Still waters run deep,’ I say giving her the old smoulder.

‘I don’t think I want to let you see my smalls.’

‘Depends whether you’re in them or not, doesn’t it?’

‘Cheeky!’

In her case the word ‘smalls’ is blooming ridiculous. I look at her cleavage and go weak at the knees. How much is a man supposed not to take?

‘I’d better empty the laundry basket,’ she says. ‘Make yourself at home.’

She swings out of the room and I gulp down my tea and wonder what to do next. It is always a bit tricky, this. Follow her upstairs and I could be accused of rushing things. Sit where I am and she probably reckons I don’t fancy it. What would you do? Jot down your answer on the back of a five quid note and – no, don’t bother. There isn’t time. I know! I leap to my feet and trot to the bottom of the stairs.

‘Can I use the toilet?’ I holler.

Not the most romantic invitation to a nooky carnival, but it does sound more convincing than asking if she would like to see my stag beetle.

‘First on the right at the top of the stairs,’ she shouts. ‘I’ve got something to show you when you come down.’

I am getting so excited in the khasi that I have to be very careful not to spoil the décor. What has Mrs. Sinden got to show me that I have not nearly clotted my sporran on already? I pull the chain and race downstairs reckoning that if I get to the bottom before it reaches its crescendo a spot of in and out with Mrs. S. is a certainty. I used to do the same when I was a kid only then my end was slightly different – slightly smaller, too.

‘What do you think of this?’ says Mrs. S. coyly as I slink into the kitchen.

I tear my eyes away from her boobs and focus on the photograph she has handed me. By the cringe! It is none other than her lovely self in a state of undress I can only describe as stark naked. It is not a very good photograph but there is no mistaking our girl’s best features.

‘Very nice,’ I say. ‘A bit over-exposed, but – er very nice. When did you have this done?’

‘About two months ago. I had a whole lot done. That was the best one. Though the smile’s a bit unnatural, isn’t it?’

I reckon my smile would be a bit unnatural if I was a tart standing naked with a loaf of French bread between my legs, but I don’t say anything.

‘I sent them up to “Bedside Winkie”, but they didn’t publish them,’ continues Mrs. S. ‘I got a very strange letter from a man who said he wanted to retouch my originals.’

‘I know just how he felt,’ I husk. ‘Who took them?’

Mrs. S. blushes and fiddles with her hair. ‘One of my husband’s friends. He got a photograph in the “Royston Crow” once.’

‘Not one of these?’

‘Oh no. It was of a couple of pumpkins.’

Not so blooming different, I think to myself.

‘What does your husband think of them?’ I ask.

‘He hasn’t seen them. He’s a bit old-fashioned. I wouldn’t want him to be upset.’

Thoughtful, isn’t she? I do like that in a woman – amongst other things. It occurs to me that Mrs. S. is referring herself to me in a professional capacity, obviously reckoning that a man in my line of business must be able to recognise a couple, or three, of good things when he sees them. I am not slow to act upon this thought.

‘You’ve certainly got tremendous potential,’ I say, seriously. ‘I just wonder if it has been properly exploited.’

‘What do you mean?’ Mrs. S. cranes forward eagerly and it is like peeping over the edge of the Grand Canyon to gaze down between her tits.

‘Well, of course, I’ve had a bit of experience of this kind of thing and –’

‘ “A bit!”’

I smile modestly. ‘I’d say his equipment wasn’t up to scratch.’

‘There was nothing wrong with his equipment,’ says Mrs. S. firmly. ‘I’ll vouch for that.’

‘Must have been the lighting, then. He was flashing, was he?’

‘Just to start with.’

‘U-m-m-m. What a pity we’re not in my studio at the moment. I could show you what I meant. Maybe when I get out.’

Mrs. S. leans forward again and I have to avert my eyes.

‘Oh yes. That would be marvellous. I’d be ever so grateful.’

‘You’re very keen, aren’t you?’

‘Well, you get fed up with doing the same thing all your life, don’t you? Being a warder’s – I mean – guardian’s wife isn’t much to write home about. I long for a change sometimes. And I’ve always reckoned I’m as good as those girls you see in the papers.’

‘Better.’

‘Are you serious?’

‘Very. Of course, I can’t be absolutely certain when you’ve got that thing on.’ I smother a non-existent yawn to show that my interest is on the level.

‘Would you – would you be prepared to give me your professional opinion?’

I pretend to give the matter serious thought.

‘I don’t know if I should, really,’ I say eventually. ‘I mean, your husband probably wouldn’t like it.’

‘He won’t know. He’s picking up a new intake from town.’

Boy, oh boy! When Percy hears that, he is jumping up and down the front of my jeans like a restless bull mastiff being told it is walkies time.

‘We’d better go upstairs,’ I say, a shade too hurriedly. ‘The light’s not so good down here.’

She leads the way and I can hardly keep my hand on the bannister.

‘I’m afraid the bedroom is a bit of a mess,’ she says. ‘You’ll have to forgive me.’

‘I won’t look,’ I say skittishly.

‘Of course, I know I’ve put on a bit of weight since those photos were taken. I can get that off again if you think I’ve got the potential.’

You’ve got the potential all right, darling, I think to myself. Lots and lots of it.

‘Shall I do some poses?’ says Mrs. S. eagerly.

Why not? In fact, what a good idea.

‘Yes, you do your stuff and I’ll see if I can make any suggestions.’

Mrs. S. takes a deep breath – and with those knockers the breaths have to be deep, believe me, and wriggles out of one sleeve of her housecoat. A tasty titty pops into view and she cocks her head to one side. I darn nearly head my cock to her side, but manage to restrain myself. With difficulty.

‘How’s that?’

‘Very good, but a little more posed, if you know what I mean. Try and flex your – yes! That’s it. Smashing.’

‘Shall I do another one?’

‘Please.’

This time both bristols gallop out into the open and a spontaneous burst of applause would not be out of order. This girl has certainly got what it takes and I can’t wait to take it. She arches backwards and her robe flops on to the floor. There is not much else flopping, I can tell you.

‘How’s this?’ she gasps.

‘Unbelievable. Now, careful. Don’t break anything. Let me – that’s it. Now, a bit more. Fantastic! Back a bit more. Hey, wait a minute. I know what. Get on the bed. Yes. Good. Oh, that’s great!’

‘Yes it is,’ she squeaks. ‘But should you be doing it?’

‘Tones up the flesh a treat,’ I mumble idiotically from the gorge between her breasts. ‘My goodness me, but you’re gollumptuous. I can’t see what “Bedtime Wankie” were on about.’

‘Bedside Winkie,’ she corrects me. ‘Oh. Do you really think I’ve got a chance?’

‘Chance?’ I tell her, kicking my jeans over my heels. ‘I think you’re a blooming certainty.’

CHAPTER TWO

When I leave Mrs. Sinden’s, a large weight is off my mind and the rest of me is feeling much lighter, as well. What a performer that lady is! I feel as if I have been through a suction cleaner a couple of times. Talk about being taken out of yourself. I have to skate round the rest of the lodgings to pick up all the laundry before lunch and the strain of my morning obviously shows.

‘Ooh, you’re looking completely drained,’ says Petal resting his hand on my forearm. ‘Are you all right?’

‘Don’t do that,’ I tell him. ‘How many times do I have to tell you? I’m allergic to being touched.’

‘Ooh, you are sensitive. I can see you had a bad morning. I had a lovely time in the library. They’re ever so nice there. One of the boys, well he’s called Jeremy and he’s my favourite. He said that his whole life-style had been changed since he worked there. His basics have been broadened out of all recognition.’

This comes as no surprise to me and I only hope he will be able to cope with Mr. Warren. Maybe they will be able to strike up a deep and meaningful relationship that will relieve the pressure on my toecap.

Before I can comment further on the subject I hear the crunch of motor car against gravel and look out of the window to see a Rolls pulling up outside the front door. To my amazement, four groovy chicks pile out of it, all fun furs and thigh-length boots, giggling and looking up at the windows.

‘Who the hell are they?’ I say to myself as much as to anyone else.

‘They’re wives, ain’t they?’ says the inmate Legend addressed as Grass, matter-of-factly.

‘Wives!?’

‘Yeah. Every Wednesday your wife can visit you for the afternoon.’

‘Ooh, there’s no getting away from them,’ says Fran distastefully.

‘Supposing you don’t have a wife, then?’ I ask.

‘Well, you’ve had it, haven’t you? Old shit-face is dead against immorality.’

‘But I’ve got feelings. Just the same as any married bloke.’

‘If you had ’em strong enough, you’d get married. That’s what the Governor thinks, anyhow.’

I return my eyes to the crumpet, thinking how unfair it all is. At least, it is good to know that there is some advantage in being married – if you ever got stuck in the nick. Looking at those birds it is difficult to believe that they are spliced. They seem so blooming cheerful compared to most of the wives I know. Maybe this is another result of their old men being in the chokey. Absence makes the heart grow fonder and all that sort of rubbish. They are certainly receiving a lot of attention from the windows and when they disappear inside it is to a sound like someone testing a leaking set of bagpipes. I have hardly got used to their absence when a charabanc arrives, and then another. They are all jam-packed with real sporty looking birds and I feel like I must be one of the few unmarried blokes in the prison. Me, and Fran, of course.

‘Ooh, they’re like ravening beasts, aren’t they?’ says Fran. ‘I think it’s disgusting, myself. Like Honeymoon Holiday Camps. All of them arriving down here for only one thing. I’d have too much pride myself. It must take all the romance out of it.’

‘Yeah,’ I say, thinking how blooming lucky it is that I had my little session with Mrs. Sinden in the a.m. Without that I could be contemplating knotting myself. You may think it strange that I am wandering about casing the frippet but this is what the place is like. Nobody has asked me to pick any oakum yet – which is just as well as I wouldn’t know which shade to choose – and the only time they lock the door of your cell – oops sorry – room, is when you are bloody grateful because it is time to start worrying about Fran Warren. At this rate, boredom is going to be my chief enemy unless I can pick up Mrs. Sinden’s washing article by article.

I am contemplating this course of action as a serious possibility when another coach-load of bird-life rolls up. I don’t know how many blokes there are in the nick but at this rate a lot of them must be moslems. I look down and allow my mince pies to fondle the curvy limbs as the bints trip down the steps of the bus. Blimey! There is a face from the past I recognise. Daisy Deacon. One of sister Rosie’s friends from my old Scragg Lane days. She was a raver, was Daisy. I remember her well. Rosie was no angel but Daisy left her standing. I can recall Dad having to lock the door of the potting shed because she was always in there breaking his flower pots. Not intentionally, mind. They just got in the way when she had about three fellahs with her. I might have guessed she’d end up marrying a villain. I wonder – Blimey! Mark II!! There is Rosie large as life and twice as tastelessly dressed. What is she doing here? I did not know it was an ordinary visiting day as well. I wonder how she found out where I was? Good old Rosie. I always knew she had a soft spot for me. She does not say too much, but when the chips are down she’s in there – one way or another. Not like dad. Dad’s attitude really got up my bracket to eyebrow height. Dropping me in the S-H-you-know-what like that.

I abandon thoughts of my evil old man and head for the front entrance where scenes of touching reconciliation are being enacted. Not so much touching as downright groping in some cases.

‘Oh, my little lovie-dovie, you’re looking marvellous,’ says one lecherous old sod folding himself round a chick who looks about half his age.

‘Hang on a moment,’ she says coldly. ‘Are you ninety-nine?’

What a funny question, I think to myself. Surely she knows that by now. What does it matter as long as he’s still got some lead in his pencil. He can’t have been love’s young dream when she first met him.

‘I’m sixty-six,’ he says.

‘Well, I’m ninety-nine,’ she says. ‘You’ve got the wrong girl.’

The poor bloke looks flabbergasted as well he might. What is she on about? And then I see it! The bird is showing him a lottery ticket which he has read upside down. Could it be that there is hanky panky afoot? My shrewd nature tells me that the answer to that question is a wacking great YES! In that case is it possible that my sister Rosie could be offering herself for the gratification of the lewd and base instincts of the inmates – in some cases, no doubt, almost equal to her own? Again, previous experience suggests a fat ‘yes’ to be the answer to that question. What a carry on! Meanwhile, back at the old homestead, Sidney is probably packing his bucket and spade ready for the Sardinian adventure and imagining the first Cuba Libre of the holiday. The base ingratitude of it all brings tears to your eyes, doesn’t it? Not to mine, it doesn’t! After what Sidney has lumbered me with I would be prepared to hum ‘In a Monastery Garden’ while Rosie walked naked through an Italian prisoner of war camp. If she wants to come to a sticky end by charabanc – good luck to her. What I want to know is: where’s mine?

I am about to address this question to Arthur Legend who is disappearing down the corridor with two birds, when Brownjob suddenly appears beside me and tugs at my sleeve.

‘Have you ever thought about it?’ he says.

I feel like telling him he must be joking but you have to humour the poor old sod, don’t you?

‘You mean, dirty thoughts and all that?’ I ask him.

Brownjob closes his eyes and winces. ‘I meant the sacred state of marriage. I know only too well that your thoughts have erred in the other respect. When you see those fortunate men united with the ones they love does it not make you think there is a piece missing from your life?’

I can only nod my head in agreement. ‘Yes sir,’ I say humbly.

‘I took special care to examine your record, Lea, and I found, just as I expected, that you had never rested your finger on the nuptial knot.’

That’s all you know, you stupid old berk, I think to myself. There is not a part of the female body I have not had a go at in my time. Since I got those books out of Battersea Public Library I have become an artist at finding parts of the body birds never knew they had. I would have done even better if some thieving bugger had not torn all the diagrams out of the back.

‘Lea,’ continues Brownjob seriously. ‘Lea, I think that your descent into depravity may have been caused by the lack of a steadying home influence. Faced with the joys and responsibility of a wife and family you could be a new man. Imagine the satisfaction of returning home after a day’s honest toil to find your loved one warming your slippers in front of a roaring fire.’

‘We live in a smokeless zone.’

Brownjob shakes his head sadly. ‘Lea. That response is so typical of your predicament. You are so inhibited, self-orientated and retarded that you cannot be outward going in your feelings for other people. You protect yourself from involvement behind a stockade of insignificant minutia.’

‘You’re probably right, sir,’ I say. I mean, it is difficult to disagree when you can’t understand a word the bloke is saying, isn’t it? What disturbs me most about his words is that the stupid old basket realises I am not married. It is therefore going to be difficult for me to get issued with a ‘wife’. Why can’t he mind his own bleeding business? Does every bloke inside for making pornographic films have to put up with this invasion of his privacy? I would write to my M.P. about it if I did not know that he was on a fact-finding trip to the Bahamas: studying how Nassau handles its traffic problem or something like that. They don’t spare themselves, these blokes, you know. ‘I’m only saying this for your own good, Lea,’ burbles Brownjob. ‘And because I’m a trifle worried about your relationship with Warren.’

‘Now, wait a minute –’ I yelp.

‘I know, I know. It’s nothing to be ashamed of. I know that the early days in – in an establishment like this can be lonely ones.’

‘You don’t think I’m a –’

‘It’s not at all unusual if that is any comfort to you, and could, I think, explain your decision to make films which insult and degrade womankind.’

The worst thing about all this is that I am beginning to think he may have a point. Perhaps I do hate women. Maybe I am not making love to them, but attacking them. And I did give Fran – I mean, Warren – half my Milky Bar yesterday. Oh, my gawd! ‘Settle down with a wife and children. That’s my advice to you. Bring some stability into your life.’

‘Yes sir. But it’s a bit difficult at the moment.’

‘I know, Lea, I know.’ Brownjob gives me a fatherly pat on the shoulder.

‘All you can do at the moment is derive what comfort you can from observing the love of others.’

A cell door we are passing closes quickly but not before I get a glimpse of what he means. Blimey! They don’t waste any time, some of them.

‘Think about my words, Lea,’ says Brownjob, stopping to dismiss me. ‘If you want psychiatric help it can be arranged.’

‘On the National Health?’

‘On the National Health, Lea.’

Sounds too good to miss, doesn’t it? If it’s free I’m all for it. Dad has got three pairs of false gnashers, two hearing aids and six pairs of specs back at Scraggs Lane. He reckons the Tories are going to take them back and believes in having a few spares up his sleeve.

Brownjob pads off and I go back to my room and try not to feel sorry for myself. Again, thank God I had my little session with Mrs. Sinden, otherwise I might start chewing one of the chair legs. I have just settled down with a stirring epic entitled ‘Soccer Thug’ by one Frank Clegg, when there is a sharp rat-tat-tat on my door. Never one to misinterpret the significance of such things, I bid the knocker enter expecting to see Warren’s two-tone bonce sidling round the corner primed for another chat on togetherness. In the light of my address from the Governor, I am ready to tell him to push off and start peeling his nuts with a spoke shave but it is not Warren. It is Arthur Ian Legend, Penhurst’s other governor.

‘How’s it going, then?’ he says. ‘Enjoying your book, are you?’

‘It’s very good,’ I say. ‘It’s a searing indictment of the sex and violence world of the teenage tearaways. Fearless and outspoken.’

‘How do you fancy a bit of the other, then?’

Well, I have a lot of respect for Mr. Clegg and his book but nooky does have a greater short-term appeal.

‘Very much,’ I say. ‘I mean, with birds that is.’

I feel it worth making that clear because there are a lot of funny people about.

‘Of course, with birds, you berk,’ says Legend contemptuously. ‘You don’t think I want to travel round your Circle Line, do you? Do I look like a pouf?’

The answer, most assuredly, is no and I try and bring this home to Arthur.

‘You must have seen all that totty rolling up,’ he says. ‘Some of it is genuine, most of it isn’t. Wives and sweethearts. Friends of friends. You know. That kind of thing.’

I give him my man of the world nod.

‘You’d be amazed how many birds like coming here. They’re not getting enough outside and they reckon the thought of a gaol full of sex-starved men rearing to get at them. They feel they’re performing a public duty, too. They can justify everything if they can believe that they’re saving some poor bastard from going round the twist. They’ve got what every bird wants, an excuse for doing just as she bleeding well likes.’

‘So somebody wants to help me, do they?’ I say hopefully.

‘Any number, son. I’ve got a right little raver scratching the door of my room at the moment.’

‘Inside or outside –?’

‘Outside, of course. Don’t be funny, son. I’m doing you a favour. I’ll leave you alone with your friend if you’d rather.’

‘No, no,’ I say hurriedly. ‘She sounds fantastic, this bird. Great! Lead her to me.’

‘Are you sure you’re up to it?’

‘Up to it? I’ll be out the other side. Don’t you worry about me. Give me a couple of minutes, that’s all.’

I see Arthur on his way and wonder how best to present myself for the love match. Half a bottle of Aqua Velva down the front of my Y-fronts is a foregone conclusion but I reckon this occasion needs more than that. There is not room to swing a cat, so why not return to my bed and await developments? I have always fancied the drowsy, somebody-climbing-in-beside-you bit and here is a first class opportunity to give it a whirl. I shed my threads like they are white hot and kick them under the bed – one does not want to appear untidy, does one? Pausing only to marvel at my mouth-watering loveliness, I slide between the cold sheets and wonder whether you could actually rub down a piece of wood with them. They must make a sandpaper that is several grades finer.

I am looking forward to my encounter with Arthur’s friend for a number of reasons, not least being the opportunity it will give me to silence the knockers – I mean the tits with two legs as opposed to the other kind – who have been casting nasturtiums at my relationship with Fran. When this lady has staggered away to find a full fire bucket my reputation will be restored to its normal Everest proportions.

I turn my head away from the door and burrow into the sheets. I wonder what she will be like. One of the little ravers I saw tripping down the corridor with Legend looked decidedly my cup of Rosie. Wait a minute! The very mention of the name sends cold shivers down my spine. Rosie has no relations in the nick that I know of.

Is it not possible that even now she is padding swiftly towards my cell to do good works? My own sister! How disgusting. With my luck, I cannot afford to lie waiting for the door knob to turn. I leap to my feet and rummage under the bed for my pants. With a bit of luck I may be able to catch up with Legend before he sets the wheels in motion. I race down the corridor and collide with the great man as I dash round the first corner. He has been delayed in a conversation with one of the screws – ‘and make sure there is plenty of ice. I hate bleeding lukewarm champagne. Yes, what is it?’

‘I’ve decided I don’t fancy it after all,’ I blurt out.

‘Yerwhat!?’

‘I’ve got this pain. It comes suddenly. I never know when it’s going to strike.’

‘Psschaw!’ These letters try to capture the flavour of Legend’s mouthwash as it stings my cheek.

‘No, straight up –’

‘ “Straight up”? You couldn’t get up with a step ladder. You’re bent, mate. I was giving you the benefit of the doubt but you’ve made it very clear to me now.’

‘But –’

‘No “buts”. Hopit, before I give you the pleasure of my boot up your backside.’

I feel like blurting out the real reason for declining Arthur’s favour but deep down inside – so deep that many people never notice it – is a grain of family loyalty that occasionally comes between me and the fulfilment of my ambitions. I do not want to have to admit to Arthur, or anyone else, that Rosie is a ratbag with a one-track mind – and that a dirt track.

I slink back to my room and try to come to grips with Frank Clegg and his powerful novel, but it is no good. I cannot concentrate. I give it a few tries and then go back to bed again. Maybe I will be able to sleep. I usually can whenever I try to read anything. But this time I cannot. I lie in bed and watch the square of blue sky and wonder how I am going to stand living in this place for twelve months with everyone thinking I am bent. Maybe I will be bent by the time I get out. ‘Knock! Knock!’ This time it must be Warren; no doubt offering me a nibble of his Milky Bar. Well, he is not dribbling little pieces of chocolate all over the floor of my cell – I mean room – Oh, dear me, no! I’ll soon put a stop to his nonsense. I sit up in bed expectantly but it is not Warren. This is another thing I dislike about the bloke. He is so unreliable.

It is Daisy Deacon with a mouth you could post an ironing board in, tastefully picked out in dayglo paint that threatens to escape up her jumbo-size hooter. This feature trembles as if menaced by the potential avalanche of eye make-up poised above it. Nevertheless, despite a certain lack of subtlety, Daisy is still a sight for sore thighs.

‘Well, if it isn’t little Timmy Lea,’ she says breezily. ‘Do you remember me, love? I used to be a friend of your sister’s. I’m sorry to find you in here. Importuning males isn’t it?’

This is too much.

‘What do you mean!?’ I yelp. ‘I’m as straight as the next man.’

‘I hope not, dear,’ she says. ‘I’ve just seen him. His blond hair was falling out by its black roots and he walked as if he had just sat on a birthday cake and stolen all the candles.’

‘Not him! Not him!’ I whine. ‘Listen, Daisy, I’ll level with you –’

‘Ooh. Sure you’re capable?’

‘Don’t take the piss, Daisy. I’m not really bent. It’s just an unfortunate set of circumstances that have got me misunderstood.’

‘Your mum, wasn’t it? I always thought she was inclined to smother you. Know what I mean?’

‘No. It was dad who tried to smother me. But it was an accident really. He didn’t know mum had put me in the laundry basket. Anyway, Daisy. That’s got nothing to do with what I’m on about. I only turned down Arthur’s offer because I was scared of bumping into Rosie. I saw her out of the window, you see.’

‘But she’s only visiting.’

‘Well –’

‘Now come on. I know some of the girls are on the game but you don’t think your own sister – Timmy, I’m ashamed of you.’

‘Yes – well – er, she can act a bit funny sometimes and I just thought that – well, you know. I’d rather not –’

Daisy quivers with righteous indignation and a ripple goes through her knockers that would show up on a seismograph. ‘Your sister has been a good friend to Walt and me ever since we both got married,’ she bridles. ‘Isn’t it natural that she should visit him in his hour of need?’

‘Of course, of course,’ I bleat. ‘I want to believe you, Daisy.’ I really do, too. I would much rather accept her explanation even though I don’t believe it, than face up to the unpleasant truth. I am like that about lots of things.

‘Who are you to point the finger, anyway?’

‘Who indeed, Daisy?’

I gaze up at her and turn on my bruised, innocent look. I reckon that this could appeal to the huntress in her and I am not disappointed.

‘Talking about my friend like that,’ she says, looking at the shape of my body underneath the bedclothes. ‘And your own sister, too.’

‘Yes.’ My voice dies away to a whisper and I turn my head towards the wall. Is it my imagination or is a large tear beginning to form in one of my eyes? It is my imagination. There is a moment’s pause and then I feel the reassuring weight of Daisy descending on to the bed. Her hand reaches out and touches my shoulder. I flinch as if I am surprised to feel it.

‘You were always a shy boy, weren’t you Timmy?’

I feel like saying that compared to Daisy a rape specialist would be a blooming shrinking violet but I keep my mouth shut. When Daisy was knocking around – and I use the expression advisedly – with my sister Rosie, I was a little less experienced than I am now. In fact, I had not broken my duck. It was not until brother-in-law Sidney came upon the scene and introduced me to the window-cleaning business that I began to blossom out.

‘You’re quite good-looking,’ continues Daisy stroking my temple with fingers that feel as they have been used for stirring pre-cast concrete. ‘Pretty hair for a man. I wish my hair curled like that.’

‘Stick around, kid,’ I think to myself. ‘I may be able to save you the price of a home perm kit.’ I turn over on to my back and gaze up into her generous features hoping that the rest of her is also in a giving frame of mind.

‘Poor little Timmy,’ she says softly. ‘You never knew what it was for, did you?’

I could give her an argument on that but once I have decided on my plan I must see it through to the bitter end.

‘I want,’ I murmur passionately, ‘I want –’

This indication of volcano-like emotion struggling to find expression can work wonders with birds and I am not surprised when Daisy’s friendly pinkies start creeping under the bedclothes. I try to hold the expression of helpless innocence on my face but it is difficult because I know what Daisy is going to find.

‘Oh,’ she says.

‘I don’t know what’s happened to me,’ I gasp. ‘I seem different somehow. Do you think I’m all right?’

‘Very definitely,’ says Daisy climbing swiftly to her feet. ‘Look the other way – I’ve got a little surprise for you.’

It always puzzles me this: how some of the biggest scrubbers in the world don’t fancy you seeing them in the altogether. Once they get to close quarters, anything goes, but they won’t let you grab an eyeful of what any kid wandering around an art gallery would get for nothing.

Daisy has not got a beautiful body but there is a lot of it. You have to take the good with the bad. And it is presented with all the subtlety that those lingerie shops in Shaftesbury Avenue can muster. Her bra looks like one of those things your mum used to put round the Christmas cake when you were a kid. And her panties – well, it is not every girl that has ‘Chase me charlie, I’m the last bus home’ embroidered across her nicks in gold thread. Her suspender belt is a very welcome trip down memory lane as far as I am concerned and has little black roses where it makes contact with the stocking tops. I may not know much about art but I know what I like and Mrs. Deacon is bang on target.

‘You’re looking,’ she says reproachfully as she leans forward and unhooks her bra. When she does that, I duck instinctively.

‘You’re beautiful,’ I say as if a blindfold has just been removed from my eyes. Remember those words: ‘You’re beautiful.’ I know I labour the point but if you never said anything else to a bird you would get more than your fair share of nooky. That is, basically, what any piece of frippet wants to hear when you open your cakehole. And it has opened more doors than a Metropolitan Police Vehicle Removal Officer – with infinitely more satisfying results, too.

‘Do you think so?’ she says. That is the kind of stupid thing birds usually say at moments of melting tenderness and though I feel like saying ‘no, I only said it because I wanted to get my end away’ I control myself and continue to gaze into her mush like a moody moggy. She is now climbing out of her panties and revealing a pair of thighs like the entrance to a waste disposal unit. Looking at her and remembering her reputation I am not certain if I dare trust my delicate equipment to her tender mercies – I say tender because she is built a bit like one.

I recall that when the American sixth fleet came to town she and Rosie welcomed them so enthusiastically that half the complement of an aircraft carrier had to be helped on to the train back to Portsmouth. The U.S. Navy had to ring up the Russians and ask them to postpone the next Middle East Crisis for a couple of weeks while they recovered. Faced with that kind of animal enthusiasm, am I going to be able to cope?

Now without a stitch, apart from anything left behind in her appendix scar, Daisy pulls back the sheets and slips in beside me.

‘Oh,’ I gulp. ‘Oh, oh.’

I try to sound like a chocolate tester being subjected to a new taste sensation. My barely restrained enthusiasm obviously communicates itself to Daisy because she slumps across my chest so that I can feel her breasts like two heavy bags being dumped on a customs officer’s desk.

‘Have you ever done this before?’ she says. ‘With a girl?’

I am not certain I like the last bit very much. Have you noticed how difficult it is to try and change people’s minds once they have formed an impression of you?

‘I’ve tried,’ I say bravely.

Her hand is toying with my action man kit again and there is no doubt that percy is eager for action.

‘You shouldn’t have any problems,’ she says encouragingly. ‘Why don’t you put it in?’

‘Put it in?’ I croak.

‘Gordon Bennet!! Give it here.’ With an impressive display of champion skills Daisy Deacon puts a hammer-lock on my hampton and manoeuvres it into the position where it can do the most damage. ‘Now push. There we are. That’s nice, isn’t it? It’s nice for me anyway.’ Just in case I should try and make a bolt for it, Big D grabs hold of the cheeks of my ask-me-no-questions and applies sufficient pressure to make me think she may be attempting a crotch swallow. This is a tempting proposition but the time has now come for me to shed the Robin side of my nature and make with a bit of Batman. From Cock Robbing to Batterman, in fact. With one bound – or extensive wriggle – I am free and directing my energies to a sustained bout of pelvis pounding.

‘Oh!’ squeaks Daisy. ‘Oh! Oh! Oh!’

It is as well that my morning exertions with Mrs. Sinden have taken the edge off my appetite as it would be very easy to come to the boil too soon with Daisy. She has the happy knack of giving you the happy knackers and should wear a flashing sign saying ‘loves it’ across her wide Miss Houri bosom.

‘You’re a quick learner,’ she gasps. ‘I’ll say that for you.’

‘There’s nothing to it, really, is there?’ I pant. ‘I must have had some kind of blockage in the past.’

‘You want to stick to girls, dear. It’s much better for you in the long run. Much better for them, too. Ooh, that is nice. I feel as if I’ve just had a champagne enema.’

‘You don’t look as if you have an enema in the world,’ I say wittily. ‘Oh, I’m so glad you looked in.’

‘So am I.’ And so saying the good lady hauls me to her and proceeds to try and batter a hole in the mattress. Two can play at that game and in less time than it takes to explain to an Irishman that he can move a wheelbarrow from one place to the other without using another wheelbarrow, we are thundering into what I hope is a grandstand finish. Our happy howls are almost too large for the cell and when we at last collapse into a panting heap there falls a silence in which I can sense the rest of the prison holding its collective breath and wondering what is going to happen next.

What happens next is that the door opens and Rosie comes in. There is a pink flush in her cheeks and her eyes appear to be watering but I do not pay too much attention to that.

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