said Mr. Perkins firmly.
“Oh, aren’t
you?” said Pat. “It’s just that I thought as you were wearing a wig, which you
didn’t have this time last year, you must be a lord.”
“Watch your
tongue,” said Mr. Perkins, “or I may have to consider putting your sentence up
to six months.”
“That’s more
like it, m’lord ,” said Pat.
“If that’s more
like it,” said Mr. Perkins, barely able to control his temper, “then I sentence
you to six months. Take the prisoner down.”
“Thank you, m’lord ,” said Pat, and added under his breath, “see you
this time next year.”
The bailiff
hustled Pat out of the dock and quickly down the stairs to the basement.
“Nice one,
Pat,” he said before locking him back up in a holding cell.
Pat remained in
the holding cell while he waited for all the necessary forms to be filled in.
Several hours passed before the cell door was finally opened and he was
escorted out of the courthouse to his waiting transport; not on this occasion a
panda car driven by Sergeant Webster, but a long blue- andwhite van with a dozen tiny cubicles inside, known as the sweat box.
“Where are they taking me this time?” Pat
asked a not very communicative officer whom he’d never seen before.
“You’ll find
out when you get there, Paddy,” was all he got in reply.
“Have I ever
told you about the time I tried to get a job on a building site in Liverpool?”
“No,” replied
the officer, “and I don’t want to ‘ear...”
“...and the
foreman, a bloody Englishman, had the nerve to ask me if I knew the difference
between a...” Pat was shoved up the steps of the van and pushed into a little
cubicle that resembled a lavatory on a plane. He fell onto the plastic seat as
the door was slammed behind him.
Pat stared out of the tiny square window, and when the vehicle turned south
onto Baker Street, realized it had to be Belmarsh .
Pat sighed. At least they’ve got a half-decent library, he thought, and I may
even be able to get back my old job in the kitchen.
When the Black
Maria pulled up outside the prison gates, his guess was confirmed. A large
green board attached to the prison gate announced BELMARSH, and some wag had
replaced BEL with HELL. The van proceeded through one set of double-barred
gates, and then another, before finally coming to a halt in a barren yard.
Twelve
prisoners were herded out of the van and marched up the steps to an induction
area, where they waited in line.
Pat smiled when
he reached the front of the queue and saw who was behind the desk, checking
them all in.
“And how are we
this fine pleasant evening, Mr. Jenkins?” Pat asked.
The Senior
Officer looked up from behind his desk and said, “It can’t be October already.”
“It most
certainly is, Mr. Jenkins,”
Pat confirmed,
“ and may I offer my commiserations on your recent
loss.”
“My recent
loss,” repeated Mr. Jenkins. “What are you talking about, Pat?”
“Those fifteen Welshmen who appeared in Dublin earlier this year,
passing themselves off as a rugby team.”
“Don’t push
your luck, Pat.”
“Would I, Mr.
Jenkins, when I was hoping that you would allocate me my old cell?”
The SO ran his
finger down the list of available cells. “ ‘ Fraid not, Pat,” he said with an exaggerated sigh,
“it’s already double-booked. But I’ve got just the person for you to spend your
first night with,” he added, before turning to the night officer. “Why don’t
you escort O’Flynn to cell one nineteen.”
The night
officer looked uncertain, but after a further look from Mr. Jenkins, all he
said was, “Follow me, Pat.”
“So who has Mr.
Jenkins selected to be my pad mate on this occasion?” inquired Pat, as the
night officer accompanied him down the long, gray-brick corridor before coming
to a halt at the first set of double-barred gates. “Is it to be Jack the
Ripper, or Michael Jackson?”
“You’ll find
out soon enough,” responded the night
“Oh, aren’t
you?” said Pat. “It’s just that I thought as you were wearing a wig, which you
didn’t have this time last year, you must be a lord.”
“Watch your
tongue,” said Mr. Perkins, “or I may have to consider putting your sentence up
to six months.”
“That’s more
like it, m’lord ,” said Pat.
“If that’s more
like it,” said Mr. Perkins, barely able to control his temper, “then I sentence
you to six months. Take the prisoner down.”
“Thank you, m’lord ,” said Pat, and added under his breath, “see you
this time next year.”
The bailiff
hustled Pat out of the dock and quickly down the stairs to the basement.
“Nice one,
Pat,” he said before locking him back up in a holding cell.
Pat remained in
the holding cell while he waited for all the necessary forms to be filled in.
Several hours passed before the cell door was finally opened and he was
escorted out of the courthouse to his waiting transport; not on this occasion a
panda car driven by Sergeant Webster, but a long blue- andwhite van with a dozen tiny cubicles inside, known as the sweat box.
“Where are they taking me this time?” Pat
asked a not very communicative officer whom he’d never seen before.
“You’ll find
out when you get there, Paddy,” was all he got in reply.
“Have I ever
told you about the time I tried to get a job on a building site in Liverpool?”
“No,” replied
the officer, “and I don’t want to ‘ear...”
“...and the
foreman, a bloody Englishman, had the nerve to ask me if I knew the difference
between a...” Pat was shoved up the steps of the van and pushed into a little
cubicle that resembled a lavatory on a plane. He fell onto the plastic seat as
the door was slammed behind him.
Pat stared out of the tiny square window, and when the vehicle turned south
onto Baker Street, realized it had to be Belmarsh .
Pat sighed. At least they’ve got a half-decent library, he thought, and I may
even be able to get back my old job in the kitchen.
When the Black
Maria pulled up outside the prison gates, his guess was confirmed. A large
green board attached to the prison gate announced BELMARSH, and some wag had
replaced BEL with HELL. The van proceeded through one set of double-barred
gates, and then another, before finally coming to a halt in a barren yard.
Twelve
prisoners were herded out of the van and marched up the steps to an induction
area, where they waited in line.
Pat smiled when
he reached the front of the queue and saw who was behind the desk, checking
them all in.
“And how are we
this fine pleasant evening, Mr. Jenkins?” Pat asked.
The Senior
Officer looked up from behind his desk and said, “It can’t be October already.”
“It most
certainly is, Mr. Jenkins,”
Pat confirmed,
“ and may I offer my commiserations on your recent
loss.”
“My recent
loss,” repeated Mr. Jenkins. “What are you talking about, Pat?”
“Those fifteen Welshmen who appeared in Dublin earlier this year,
passing themselves off as a rugby team.”
“Don’t push
your luck, Pat.”
“Would I, Mr.
Jenkins, when I was hoping that you would allocate me my old cell?”
The SO ran his
finger down the list of available cells. “ ‘ Fraid not, Pat,” he said with an exaggerated sigh,
“it’s already double-booked. But I’ve got just the person for you to spend your
first night with,” he added, before turning to the night officer. “Why don’t
you escort O’Flynn to cell one nineteen.”
The night
officer looked uncertain, but after a further look from Mr. Jenkins, all he
said was, “Follow me, Pat.”
“So who has Mr.
Jenkins selected to be my pad mate on this occasion?” inquired Pat, as the
night officer accompanied him down the long, gray-brick corridor before coming
to a halt at the first set of double-barred gates. “Is it to be Jack the
Ripper, or Michael Jackson?”
“You’ll find
out soon enough,” responded the night
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