You Ain't Seen Nothin' Yet.

You aint seen nuthin’ yet.

I used to get there about 11, sometimes 12 depending what sorta day it was. Id be standing in the corner with my back to the wall. Reading. That was a laugh. Coz in those days I’d get the feeling that the bookshop assistants didn’t think us folks could read. Usually I/d be starving, but I had this thing where I/d con myself that I was fasting. Well I had to just to get by. And believe me, up to a point it worked. I/d be losing weight like a speed freak. But in those days I was somekinda fanatic. I was driven. Nothing fazed me. So that in a nutshell is how I got by.

So I/d be scanning all the shelves checking out the dope writers. Man it was cool. Some of those authors really knew how to sockit to you. And some of em’, bless their literary souls, could put down a line with so much honest truth, it made you wanna SCREAM and HOLLER. My favourites were the yanks. The thing I liked about the those books I read was that they didn’t tryn bullshit you or frilly-up the page with fancy prose. I’m talking straight up Carveresque, Hemingwayesque, Bobbie Ann Mason, Hubert Selby Jr, Michael Herr, Dany Lefferriere, Richard Wright, Donald Goines, in your face no-horseshit-realist motherfucka’s. They’d school you on what was what, and if you couldn’t take their truth, then too bad buddy. Go tell it to the marines. Coz mister they were giving it to you hard, down-and-dirty. Usually I’d only be in there a coupla minutes when the fat slimy looking manager would come goose-stepping out from behind the two-way mirror at the back of the store and give me the once over. Jeez you’d think I/d gone in there to rob the joint the way that pompous arsehole stared.
Arsehole I/d be thinking. Rotten stinkin’ arsehole. I only came in here to check out the books. Fill a gap in my education.
Like sometimes I/d even buy the thing just the pacify the feller. But it didn’t help. The next time I came in hed treat me just the same; like a-born-to-be-dead-beat-looser.

Reading those books I practically forget the tough world existed outside. Didn’t matter who wrote ‘em book either. Black, white, red, Chinese, straight, gay, Martian. Long as the pros was down, then so was I.

Occasionally I/d get the urge to tell the damn fool, that just like those dudes up there on the shelve, I too was gonna be a writer someday. Weren’t nothing in the Bible or any other of those good books that said writers or readers had to look any particular way. Don’t think it would have helped though. The man just seemed to have it in for me.

I remember one time it happened. I’m talking about the same old tired-Negro surveillance-bullshit. I’m in the store checking out Somebody’s boots, by Nelson Algren. Has this blurb on the back. (Hemingway) If you cant take a punch…don’t read it. Read the first page. Liked it. Read some more….Christ, ol’ Nelson’s prose was so tight he could fell a man the way Mike Tyson put down Trevor Berbick.

Anyway guess who comes creeping up behind me. Yeah that’s right. The fat slimy manager in the blue button-down shirt. So I start getting all nervous. I’m pulling out books and shoving ‘em back on the shelf. I’m starting to get a sweat-on and the muscles on my neck are wound up so tight it feels like I’m going into traction.

So I’m like, screw you mister, I/ll buy the damn book if it/ll keep your self-important arse off my tail for a minute. Can’t a kid browse. Pleasssse! Well obviously not in your blinkered estimation. So I reach into my pocket, pull out a twenty and damn! Would you believe it? It’s the last bitta dough I have in the world.

The book cost 7 bills, which without pussy footing around the place is at least three dinners. That’s right. That little old book, crazy as it sounds, was gonna cost me my lunch three days on the trot.

Then just as I’m walking upta the cashier I think, now hold on mister. The hella you doing to yourself? Ain’t it enough that this arsehole is tryna disrespect you….So now you’re gonna starve yourself in order to placate the self-righteous dick? Hell no! So I slam the book down on the counter, turn on my heels and get the hell outta dodge.

Twenty minutes later I’m back in my pokey old flat. The heatings off and to borrow a phrase from Salinger, its colder than a witch’s tit. I decide ta treat myself. Make myself a cup of steaming coffee and a toasted tuna sandwich…Dolphin friendly of course. Then with the coffee on the floor, and the tuna on the side, I settle back on the sofa with my Charles Bukowski Reader.

What the hell, I think. As Bukowski would probably say:
Least you got four walls and a roof…And despite the dog-eat-dog-ball-breaking cold world out there. With a roof and four walls…A mans still got a chance. Ain’t that the truth when you’re living on thin air, prayer and good intentions. Hold your head up…PEACE!

THE USUAL SHIT

Can't take a dig...Don't read it!

The usual shit.

They took down my name and address and radioed across to check the motor weren’t nicked. Then the big cop rifled through my pockets and ordered me to take off my Nike trainers and socks. I kept praying I didn’t have nothin’ on me. I was pretty sure I didn’t. Then again, if I did, it would have been just my bare luck.

It was when Harry give his name and address that things took on a different turn. Only turns out that one of the coppers went to school with Harry’s sister Kate. Well Bobs your uncle, Fanny’s your aunt, and the two of ‘em are rabbiting on like a couple of long lost pals. So as far as the rest of us are concerned, everything’s lookin’ sweet. Then would you believe it, halfway through the conversation the copper brings up the time Harry got nicked for selling puff.

So all of a sudden the coppers come over all fatherly. Wants to know if Harry’s on the straight and narrow.
Course I am, Harry’s gone.
I’m glad to here it son, the coppers gone. When you get home, say hello to your mum and dad. Perhaps one these days I’ll drop by for a cuppa. Who knows, maybe there’s even a career in the Met for one of you lads.

Harry was grinning like a nutter. Which was partly, ‘cause like the rest of us, he was well and truly mashed. Anyway, we all knew that Harry was never gonna mention anything to his dear old mum. And as for one of us becoming a copper...well let’s just say brov, it weren’t never gonna happen.

They was just about to let us go, when one of the coppers spotted this massive jiffy bag of weed stashed under the drivers seat. That’s it, I was thinking. Looks like I’m gonna have one hell of a shitty eighteenth birthday after all. All I could think about was the crap I’d be in if my parents found out.
So tell me lads. What’s in the bag? asked the copper that knew Harry’s sister.
He looked at each of us in turn. Only I swear to god brov, he looked at me twice as long everyone else. No one uttered a word. You could almost hear everyone’s brains ticking over-time, conjuring up their barefaced lies.

Has any body got anything else? asked the other copper…again looking at me, as if because I was black, I had to be a classic example of someone who peddled scag and crack-cocaine for a living. I pursed me lips, folded me arms and glared right back at him. Right then I was feeling like one of them kids I remember seeing in a Public Enemy rap music video. Still no one said a word. In the end the copper decided to take our nervous silences for No.
OK, he said. Well pretend this never happened. And just remember Harry, I know your old mum. And I know where you live.
Then just as I was thinking, that maybe not all coppers are dicks, his partner called me aside and asked me again if I was absolutely sure I had nothing on me. He was wearing this crafty grin on his face that I could see was supposed to charm me into breaking down and supplying him with one of those TV cop-show type confessions. I weren’t havin’ none of it blood, and to be honest it was a struggle to even answer that second copper back. I knew from experience, that he was looking for any bare excuse to get me down the station. I finally muttered something incoherent under me breath and turned around to look at me mates for backup. Anyway the copper got the message. He nodded to his partner, who grabbed the bag of weed, walked over to a drain and dropped it down the hole. It could’ve been my imagination, but for a second I think I actually heard old Harry groaning.

Anyway, can’t complain. Part from that, all we got was a caution about dangerous driving; which was a touch, cause if they’d found the rest of old Harry’s stash, mate or no mate of the blaggers big sister; the four of us would have been well and truly screwed. As it was, when my old man saw the wasted state I came home in, he beat me till I was well and truly sober.

BOXING CLEVER

Boxing clever.

Like the times we’d all go down there. There’d be me, Barney the slim 5 ft 11 white dude from S London, with the machine gun combinations, Henry the 6ft 1 Nigerian Tommy Hearns look-a-like with the lightning left. Leon the 6 ft 3 Jewish corporate lawyer, who was always giving me concussion, and Rav the Asian kid from some place up North, with the dynamite left hook, the dazzling footwork and the single double and triple jabs that taught me always to keep my guard up. That’s when I learnt about life the hard way. Namely that what you saw on the television was nothing like reality. Coz your TV set, didn’t rough you up on the ropes, butt you in the jaw, dig you in the ribs or hit you in the gut during those wonderful sessions when you and your pals were plotted round some gaff Saturday night/early morning Sunday, feigning left and rights, and screaming at Frank Bruno, Barry McGuigan, or Nigel Benn, to knock the other F**kers head off.

I Too Have a Dream!

I usta hang out all day with my cousin, fantasizing about the day we were gonna be supa rich and famous. My cousin had a studio in the basement of his yard over on the West side of town; Powis Square. I rented a tiny room on the North side, though at the time West London felt like a home to me. Mainly coz I was always flexing around that way. ‘Grove, Notting Hill, Shepherds Bush, Warwick Ave.

My cousin’s studio had pretty dope acoustics. The place was basic with a concrete floor, four walls, a couch and little else. We were tight on funds, so we’d glued some egg cartons to the wall, cut out a piece of lino and thrown it down to give the place more glamour. Weren’t exactly EMI studios, but then again by comparison, just a few months earlier, me and my spars had had to make do with sampling and mixing in each others crummy gaffs.

We were always talking about how when we got some serious loot together we’d throw down some laminated flooring. Mostly we’d say it coz it was part of the dream, and in our desperation to make it real, it gave us something definite to shoot for. If we needed to chill, we’d crashed out on this dilapidated four-seated brown leather sofa; we’d stolen off somebody’s skip. We’d kickback for a while drinking, Kwik Save tea out chipped ceramic mugs and eating Oreo cookies. Wasn’t exactly the weed smoking, Hennessey and Alazy environment you’d see depicted in all those, keepin-it-real, rap music videos. But I guess it was aight though. Other times we’d be kickin-it over in Shepherds Bush, Acton or some other place, crowded round somebody’s portable set in, getting mad excited, watching cable or video re-runs of Yo MTV. Or listening to street-smart black kids from Long Beach and Brooklyn, talking about how they spent their days, shooting dice, drinking forties and smoking a pound of chronic. Then we’d look at each other, then look at the shabby eighth of weed next to the King size Rizla papers on the wooden speaker box and we’d be like: Shit, only in our dreams homeboy.

That’s when we usually took turns describing our versions of, The day I hit it big and won the National lottery. There’d always be one cat sitting there red eyed, baggy pants hanging off his bony malnourished arse, going on about blingin’ his wardrobe and pimping his ride; like a diamond encrusted Paris Hilton limited edition watch and an Escalade were the only things that mattered in his Get Rich or Die Trying hustlers playground. My cousin had other ideas. For him, it wasn’t just about the money. Though he definitely wasn’t one of those, I live in the ghetto die in the ghetto type of cats.

As for myself I was never that wild about that whole bling bling thing. I liked my low-key threads. I guess all considering, I didn’t have a lotta choice. Baggy discounted Levis, twofa a fiver T-shirts and a pair of cheap-arse trainers were pretty much my staple wardrobe. Had to admit those bling bling stones did look cool though. But then again, I didn’t wanna be part of that kinda exploitation. I knew that black brothers in South Africa were literally dying by the droves for that shit, while their fat rich bosses were living off the interest of their blood, sweat and labour. Instead going out looking like Pharaohs, my peeps were going out broken-up, beaten down and blooded, in cheap wooden boxes.

After a while we started performing gigs all over the country…A lot of universities. Two to six hour journeys squashed in the back of a second-hand transit van, peering out the dirty windows, mesmerised, watching the green countryside slide by.

But mostly we spent our time down in the basement studio. My cousin hunched in front of his old Mackintosh computer, mixing the same track thirty, forty or fifty different ways to get it just right.
Yeah but maybe if we drop a little snare drum in it would play better, he’d mutter to whoever was still sitting on the couch, dry-mouthed, rolling spliffs, at 4am in the morning.

Calling my cousin’s basement a studio was pretty generous though. Basically we had a sampling machine, a computer, a dat and a mike.
What more to you need? my cousin would say if any of the crew started bitching.
He was always cheery, always optimistic. Unlike the rest of us, who would usually get wildly depressed when things didn’t work out the way our 24-7 dedication, focus and crazy hard work, implied that they should. It was triple hard because none of us was making any real loot.

Most days my cousin pretty much never left his basement. I worked part-time in a bar over in Notting Hill so I wouldn’t starve to death, living off bottles of Super Malt, tins of Nourishment Drinks and cheap ASDA biscuits. I was nearly always skint, but I was one of the luckier ones, since part of my rent was being paid for by the social. We’d go out clubbing now and then coz you had to stay in the mix, keep meeting people and keep it fresh. We were guess list aficionados. Money was always scarce though. Gas, electricity and phone bills seemed to flow in all at once like a Tsunami. The mobile phone bills were ridiculous. Didn’t matter what networks we were on. And sometimes when it rained it seemed like the monsoon season had come to drown us out for good.

We’d also go through spells when everything seemed to be on pause. When all we seemed to do was arrange meetings with people who according to my cousin, were supposedly gonna take us to the moon and back. They were usually fast-talking Tony Montana/Donald Trump/Alan Sugar-fake-arse-wannabes. And with a few moves here and a few moves there, they’d promise that they were gonna give us the world and everything in it. What we actually got were meetings upon meetings in fancy West End bars and restaurants, where the only thing the money in our wallets could cover was the carbonated Perrier water.

Some times the record label guys would sound so hyped they’d make it sound as if they’d already pencilled us in for the Grammy’s. They’d sip their designer beers, or glasses of expensive white wine, and order over-priced food on giant square-shaped plates, like they were printing their own dining-out money. Then they’d say stuff like:
Soon as I get back I’m gonna speak to Mickey or Charlie. We’ve got some great ideas for this. We really believe this could work. Here’s my card. I promise you whatever happens we’ll definitely do something together soon.
Most of the time their Richard Branson excitement didn’t amount to shit. And a lot of those times it was blatantly obvious that the industry guys were just stringing us along. Maybe they just liked hanging out with broke-arse singers and musicians. I don’t’ know. The worse part was that sometimes we knew that we were being played like fools, but we went along with it anyway. Sometimes we just acted like record label punks. Desperation can make you stupid.

My cousin was right thought. However basic the studio was it did its job. Production sounded wicked, especially when we were blunted on the weed. Sometimes just to deal with the frustration, I’d get so high I’d start pretending we were recording on Abbey Road, with the Stones and the Beatles.

My cousin was really the guy with all the musical talent. I could rap pretty good, but I couldn’t sing for shit. I helped out with the organisation, like arranging dates, making calls and putting out fliers. But mostly I usta just hang around for the girls. They’d walk in to the room and I’d think, goddamn. Most of the girls were that fine they hadta be catalogue models or something.

There was this one singer though, half Zambian half black America with a face and a voice like an angel. I’d just sit there and stare and feel like I’d smoked the ultimate spliff and finally gone straight to heaven. I didn’t realise how someone’s voice could make you fall in love so fast. I’d sit there hangin’ on her every syllable like a dog on heat, with my tongue practically falling out my mouth.
You were great, I’d say, raising my eyebrows, grinning and staring at her like she was gold bullion.
Thanks, she’d say, fanning the air with her a flier, coz it would get so unbelievably hot down there in the basement, you’d feel like you were on some day trip to Africa.
I’d ask her if she wanted anything to drink and then I’d run down to the store on the corner, just to hear her say, thanks babe and smile at me with those dimpled cheeks of hers.

Over time my cousins was offered more record deals than you’d believe...somehow they didn’t play out, pan out...whatever. Some how whenever it came to the proverbial, shit or get off the pot time, the record companies would have second thoughts and bail. One thing we soon learnt was that just because you had a record deal did’nt mean you were gonna be the next Dr Dre, 2pac or Michael Jackson.

Yeah, it was hard work and some times soul destroying. One of the hardest things was tryna convince our parents that we weren’t tryna screw up our lives following some insane dream that would never happen in a million years. Especially since all our parents had no doubt gone through their own form of bullshit in the 50’s, 60’s and 70’s. We knew they’d made certain sacrifices, so that hopefully their kids wouldn’t have to. Well I guess you can only be true to yourself; even if no one else understands who that is or the dream you’re busting your arse to make a reality. But of course there were some beautiful moments when the hard work and graft did pay off. Good times that made it all seem worth it.

Thinking back, one of the things that kinda sticks out in my mind is a memory I have of myself sitting at home, watching TV with my pops. And my pops looking at me in that serious way he always did when he was worried about my future, and then asking me if I’d finally figured out what I was gonna do with my life. Coz one minute you’re twenty-four years old and the next time you blink, your almost forty. And me rubbing my eyes, looking around the room and telling him that I knew exactly what I wanted to do with my life…Because right now I was trying to achieve that dream. Only when I started I hadn’t figured on it taking so long and having to take so many hard-knock backs along the way. And my pops giving me this half-smile of a look as if to say, son life isn’t something you need to beat yourself up over.
Then me coming back with,
Yeah but why are there always so many obstacles? Why is it always so hard?
Then my pops looking up at the ceiling as if he were remembering something important, and turning to me and saying something along the lines of:
That’s the thing about life. None of us know what’s going to happen, and maybe that’s the thing that makes us keep trying for our goals.
And me grinning back, cause I guess he had a point, even if it wasn’t what I was wanted to hear right then.
Yeah pops, I’d be thinking as I stared at the grey parts of his beard...I guess you gotta keep believing through thick and thin, and then maybe, just maybe, you get to live the dream your heart and soul believes in.

Hollablak

5th Feb 2009

Sex, Drugs, Crime. Anti-literature. The antidope to safe mainstream mediocrity.
Challenge the mind.

Mad as hell and ain't gonna take the bullshit anymore!

Lock up

I’m nineteen years of age. I’m standing in the dock. There’s a Judge. A right snooty fuck. He’s staring at me. Got a twinkle in his eye. And for all I know, he’s as bent as a nine Bob note, and wearing ladies knickers and push-up bra in the bargain. Or he’s one of the old school. Fancies a tipple. Got a flask of Johnny Walker concealed under his gown.

So the Judge squints at me and says:
Have you anything to say before I pass sentence?
Yes your honour. I’ve gone. I’ve got plenty.
I snatch out my notes. I start to read. I’m getting worked up. I can’t find my place. I hear someone cough. I stand to attention. Clasp my hands behind my back. I raise my chin. I open my mouth...And out comes the old legal banter:
In conclusion, I say...Number one. It weren’t me. Number two. I’ve never even met the feller. Number three. The police are all liars. And number four. Well, (I cough) ‘nuff said your honour.

So the Judge looks me up and down and says in a voice that makes him sound like he’s got a turd shoved up each nostril:
Murder is a very serious crime. You have destroyed a human life. For this you must be punished. The police have testified they saw you with a gun. We are all architects of our own destiny. The fact that you claim not to have fired the weapon does not preclude you from guilt. You are a known criminal, and a menace to society...20 years!

The first night I stuff my head in a pillow and cry myself to sleep. I’m nineteen years old. I won’t be going home until I’m nearly forty. The walls are caving in on me. There’s barely room to swing a cat. I’m getting claustrophobic. Every second in my cell is making me ill. I break out in hives. My skin feels all prickly. My face is hot, and my shoulders, and arms, and legs are drenched in sweat.

In the middle of the night I hear my cellmate moaning in his sleep:
Barbra my lovely Barbra, he says.
The bunk above my own begins to shake. We’re all alone. The doors are bolted shut and no one cares. I’m innocent, completely innocent...I might have done a lot of things, but I’d never harm another living soul. Suddenly it all gets too much for me. I get an awful feeling. I spring out of bed, and vomit everywhere.

I wipe up the mess and climb back into bed. I lie there and stare at the bunk above me. I look around the four dirty walls. I looked at the tattered pictures and the faded Playboy posters. I wriggle about, and try to stop my body shivering from the cold. I’m a nineteen-year-old kid. I’m doing a twenty-year stretch for a murder I didn’t commit.

In jail I’m mostly scared. I try and stay out of everyone’s way. Its not the first time I’d been in trouble. But it is the first time I’ve been in stir. It’s the first time I’ve been separated from my parents. And it’s the first time in my life I’ve felt so utterly alone.

There’s fights’ erupting over nothing. Twenty-three hour lock up. Horrible shitty smells. Horrible cramped living conditions. Nosh you wouldn’t torment a rabid dog with. And the fear of being grabbed in the showers, by a nonce the size of an Olympic shoot putter.

There are all sorts of nasty blokes on my wing. But out of the blue I get a nice surprise. I’m sweeping up the floor, when who should I bump into but the terrible twosome. I’ve known the pair of ‘em for years. We grew up on a council estate in South East London. Moochies the tall one and Errol’s his light skin friend.

The first time I got nicked was with boys. We were using stolen credit cards in a tailors shop in Savile Row. We were getting kited up for Errol’s sisters wedding. Moochie and Errol did 6 months, and I got a suspended sentence. I was 8 days shy of my eighteenth birthday.

It’s my second month inside and things are looking up. I get a pile of letters from my mum and dad. I’m scared, but at least I have my mates around me. If anyone tries to strong it, as they sometimes do, a word to my spars and my problem is solved. Unfortunately for me this cushy number doesn’t last. Moochie gets parole. And a shortly afterwards, Errol gets ghosted to an open nick. So all in all I’m buggered. I’m left on my own. And that’s when my troubles begin.

What I remember...the two of them bearing down on me. The skinny white bloke, laughing, and spitting in my face. Then calling me a dirty queer bastard. Telling me he’s gonna make my life a misery, now that my bodyguards have chipped. Give me such a god almighty kick-in, that I’ll shit my pants, and bawl like a kid. Then his mucky little partner opening his fly, taking out this cock and telling me to hurry up and suck him good and proper. And when I refuse the smaller one getting me in a headlock, while his mate grabs my arm and tries to rip it off.

2 months later

So they’re standing on the wing. Paddy tells me where to find ‘em. It’s the tall skinny one with the tattoos I want the most. He’s the one that broke my arm. The little midget’s just his stupid sidekick.

I’m that scared I can barely stop myself from toppling over. I clench my fist again and a sharp stabbing pain shots up and down my arm. My bones still ache from where they did the damage. The skinny one twisted my elbow back like he was trying to literally dislodge it from the socket.

It’s three weeks since by arms been out of plaster. I’ve been calmly and patiently biding my time. I’ve been lying on my bed trawling through the possibilities. I’ve been planning how to get the dirty bastards back.

So I’m running towards them. I smash my fist into the little one’s face. I hear a crunch and his nose splits apart. His eyes go all droopy. He slips backwards and cracks his skull against the metal rails. Blood spurts everywhere. People are running to get out of the way. He curls up in a ball. He rolls about moaning. He’s paws at his face, and screams out in pain.

Three months ago, I could never have been that ferocious. But being locked up for twenty-three hours has focused my mind. I’m obsessed with my own self-preservation. From now on it’s survival of the fittest. It’s the law of the jungle, kill or be killed. We’re in prison and there’s no one to protect us. There’s no place to hide. And nowhere to run.

I look up and see the tall skinny one looking back at me. Before I can move he’s up on his toes. He’s moving fast along the landing. Somebody shouts that one of the screws is coming our way. Meanwhile this 18 stone con called Big Nigel steps outside his door and inadvertently blokes the landing. Big Nigel’s got one of his famous jigsaw puzzles spread out on a plastic tray. So the skinny one has to stop. He’s forced to turn round and face me.
Piss off you cunt, he says. You ain’t got the bottle.
He’s standing with is fist bunched up, and I can see by the haunted look in his eyes that he’s buzzing on gear.

My knees start to wobble, and in my heart I know he’s right; I ain’t got the bottle. I’m a small time crook. I’ve never been one for senseless violence. I’d rather blag my way out of trouble, than stick a prison shiv in anybodies back. But as usual people are watching. If I don’t do him, I’m done for. Soon or later every cunt in the nick ‘ll be having a pop.

So I clench my fist again. A shooting pains runs all along my elbow. I’m standing there. I actually feel physically sick. I’m terrified but there’s no way out of it. It’s him or me. I run towards him and as he swings at my face, I duck and throw the hardest punch I’ve ever thrown in my life. It’s the punch I’ve been practising in my cell for the past three weeks. And even before he reacts I know I’ve broken his jaw.

Big Nigel’s starts squealing, and one of the other prisoners, a black guy name Foxy, guides him back to his cell.

The skinny geezers head rolls to one side. He lets out a wail that rises up from the back of his throat. He drops to floor and one of his teeth slides along the landing. He’s lying with blood and saliva trickling out of his mouth.

For a second I wonder if he’s dead. Then I hear one of the older cons shout, do the bastard. So I smash him in the face with my shaking fist. And now my hands are covered in blood, my hearts pounding and I’m going berserk. I’m venting my anger against all the Judges, and all the lawyers, all the police and all the screws and all the cunts that locked me away for 20 years. I stomp on his face and watch his body twists and his legs fly up into the air. People are shouting that the screws are coming. They’re yelling that I’ll kill the poor bastard.
So what if I do? I scream back. After all, isn’t that what everyone wants?

I stand there looking down at him and let the chunk of iron fall out of my hand. The second it hits the ground it’s whisked away from sight. There’s blood everywhere and the skinny geezers face is battered to a pulp. And then I hear the trample of heavy feet. Loads and loads of bodies and heavy feet. And the first screw in the mob fly kicks me to the ground. Then somebody else grabs, my arms, legs and my ankles. Somebody calls me a nasty evil bastard, and they lift me high and carrying me away.

I come back from the block a changed man. In the block I’m alone and afraid. The air is stale. I can hardly breath. At times I feel alarmingly close to suffocation. The mattress I sleep on is smeared with come stains, dry shit and blood. The four walls are carved with inmate’s names. I’m driven to despair and the guards play on my unstable emotions. They look through the spy-hole to see if I’m awake. Only twenty-eight more days, they hiss. They flip up the cover and laugh out loud.

There are times when I revert to being a child. I scream and groan and beg to be let out. I scrap my nails along the wall and plead for mercy. There are times when I feel giddy with exhaustion. There are times when every muscle cramps inside my body, like hundreds of little bundles of stone. There are times when I don’t feel quite human. There are times when I wonder if I’m already dead.

I loose track of time, and for hours I focus on tiny spot on the wall above my head. For hours I attempt to run away to the land of dreams. For hours the only sounds I hear are jingle of the screws keys and the squeak of their rubber soles. Sometimes I’m aware there are others around and I bang my bed against the floor. I call out, shout and scream. And at last I am triumphant. I hear the desperate moans. I hear the rush of thuds. I hear the sound of muted screeching. And thank God, I know I’m not alone.

I’m miserable and desperate for any human contact. I dream that someone dropped the bomb and outside a dying world is slowly grinding to a halt. I’m the last man alive. The final testimony…I’m a pathetic wretched animal, in a damp barbaric cell.

Sometimes I think I was forgotten long ago. I anxiously wait for the familiar squeak of the rubber soles with bated breath. There are times when I wonder if I ever existed at all. There are fears I am afraid to contemplate crawling around like millions of ants inside my skull.

I remind myself that I have a family. I remember running through fields, climbing trees, and splashing through puddles as a kid. But for all I know that’s just something I invented. For all I know I’ve spent the last nineteen years dreaming my life, and now all of a sudden, I am awake.

I’m afraid that I will die alone in my underground dudgeon. I sink my teeth into my arm and bit my flesh. I stab my thumb against my eye to remind myself that I’m alive. I scratch the plastic knife across my arms because at least the pain tells me I can feel.

I find a spider in the corner of my cell. I watch its eight legs slowly crawl across the floor. I spend an hour talking to the spider. I tell the spider that I’ll call him Jim. I hear the spider saying, call me anything you like mate. I jump to my feet and pull out my hair. I let out a scream and gouge my eyeballs. I wring my hands and crack my head against the wall. I slide to the floor and hide my face. I lay their sobbing terrified. I’ve finally reached the moment of reckoning. I’ve actually gone out of my mind...But I survive, and now I’m back on the wing, and there are lots of people glad to see me.

I’m not a hardened druggie, but I have my vices like every one else. Like a lot of the guys, I smoke cannabis to pass the time. I lie on my bed for hours and travel to a world of my mind. I reach into the vaults of my memory. I think of girls I have known. I think of my family and my friends. I pray that God will help me. I spend beautiful hours dreaming I am free. I dream I go to college and get myself a proper job. I close my eyes and clenched my teeth, and suddenly the anger and frustration bubbles up inside me.

I smoke because sometimes I get so angry and so depressed I want to hurt someone. I smoke because at least it makes me happy for a while. There are days when I imagine I hear voices. I become convinced that people are out to get me. I make secret plans to murder them one by one. I walk about the wing, muttering to myself, ready to pounce and unleash my fury. Then association is over, I curse and I shuffle back to my cell.

Almost three years into my sentence and I meet a prisoner called Mr K. Mr K’s a right character and we whined up being cellmates. After 4 years and nine months my old cellmate Clive is given Parole. All and all, Clive turns out to be a stand up geezer. We fall about laughing talking about the old days. And afterwards, he sits there almost crying. He clutches hold of his bible, and swears and he won’t be coming back.

I show Mr K the ropes and in return for watching his back he agrees to get his lawyer to look into my case. Since the fight with the skinny geezer, no one gives me grief. I’ve now got friends. But I’ve also got 20 yrs inside a tiny stone and metal box. If I ever get out of the nick, I promise myself a life worth living.

At night Mr K and me share a joint together. Mr K tells me he hasn’t smoked a joint in 20 years. Instead he confesses slyly,
I drinks Champagne and do a little coke from time to time.
Without meaning to he has reminded me of my twenty-year sentence. Fortunately I’m now a hardened man. Still, as tough as I am, I’m only human. I stare at the picture on the wall of my family and chuckle sweetly to mask the pain.

Mr K and me are sitting on our respective beds giggling like schoolboys. I’m on the top bunk and Mr K is on the bottom. It is around eight o’clock at night. Mr K opens his wallet, holds it out and shows me a picture.
What d’you reckon? he says.
Very nice...bit young for you ain’t she? I say.
Cheeky fucker. I’d do anything in the world for that girl, he says holding the picture up to the light.
There is a moment of silence, during which time I suspect that Mr K is reminiscing. I think about myself, and I realise that I have no one waiting for me at home. The last girlfriend I had was almost three years ago. Though I dream of girls nightly, they exist as only fantasies to filled the sexual void. My ex-girlfriend gave up on me long ago. That’s not to say I blame her…I sometimes feel sad because, I cannot say that I have a special person. Someone that I could love. Someone that would love me back.

Sometimes I daydream about porno stars. I focus on perfect steamy bodies. I’m a red hot blood male so of course it’s only natural. But I’m always amazed when I see a gorgeous pair of tits. They are such a visual part of a woman’s anatomy. I try to see each girl as an individual, though in truth, there is little to distinguish one of my phantom girl friends from the next. But the girls play an important part in making me feel manly. But like all the good things inside my head they don’t last.
‘Long you got left? I say.
I sometimes ask this question and imagine that I’m the person giving the answer.
Four months…You? says Mr K.
Seventeen years, four months, I say.
I’m Sorry.
S’alright...Fuck it. I shrug my shoulders the way I always do.
When’s you’re next appeal date? says Mr K.
Not for another couple of years.
From what you’re told me it don’t take a genius to see you’re innocent.
Yeah, well...Fuck’em.
So Linvall, what’s the first thing you’re gonna do if when you get out?
Sit in my own kharzie and take a shit without being watched. Then visit that big gaff you’ve got in Kensington, and rob the place.

Mr K likes my humour and we both crack up. Mr K stops laughing before I do. His tone becomes deadly serious, which catches me off guard.
No seriously, what you gonna do? he says.
I am being serious, I say lowering my head over the side of my bunk.

For a long time now I have taught myself not to get too hung up on my future. I feel cheated by life and cheated by the law. But fortunately I’m no longer that kid I was three years ago. I’m no longer nineteen and wet behind the ears. I’m older and wiser. I won’t weep or crawl for anyone. I don’t want pity. All I want is to be treated like a human being. I want dignity and respect like any normal man.
Really? says Mr K. His voice goes quiet. I can tell that he is unsure whether I’m joking or not. He wants to believe that I’m just being flippant. Its hard, because despite what he knows of my particular circumstances, I’m still a prisoner serving twenty-years for murder.
Nah...I say still trying to stay on the up and up. Get married have a coupla kids, stay out of trouble, I add.
You gonna go straight? says Mr K. He sounds relieved.
I’m looking up at the ceiling and I don’t know what to say. It’s a very odd question...What exactly does he mean by going straight? To be perfectly honest, I’m not sure myself. I’ve been in prison for almost 3 years and in order to survive I’ve had to play dirty. I’ve seen more drugs and violence in here than I ever saw on the outside. I’m constantly looking over my shoulder. Arguments are frequently settled in the most brutal and primitive fashion. I’m surrounded by: murderers, rapists, robbers and other colourful sorts. I have spent so many years in the company of criminals that violence and extortion are practically the norm.

I don’t expect the world to welcome me back with open arms. I’ve spoken to enough cons to know that won’t happen. I’m lucky in the respect that I’m reasonable educated. Unlike some other cons I am able to read and write. I went to school with great ambitions, but somehow for reasons I can’t explain, I ended up a thief. The only thing I will know with certainty after my release is how to rob and beat a man to death with out letting it affect my conscious. In some respects I’m more of a criminal than I have ever was. At least in my thinking. And as my cellmate Clive once told me. One man’s crime is another mans necessity. So to me, the idea of going straight seems slightly ludicrous.
Yeah give it a go...why not? I say grinning, because I wonder if I’m conning myself.
Listen, the day you get out, come see me I’ll give you a job, says Mr K.
Thanks Mr K, I say. But by the time I get out of here I’ll be ready to retire.
We smoke the rest of the joint and I spend the night dreaming about a school trip to the Arc D’Triumph. In my dream I speak French though the only words I recall on my awakening are Bonjour and Garcon.