I concentrate on the road, lit up, raindrops like stars. They burst as my focus shifts.
And something catches my eye. It shines white against the tarmac. I pull myself closer on my hands and knees.
A tooth.
That tooth.
I finally got the bastard out.
And it hurts to laugh, but I do it anyway.
PART THREE
Blue Skies for Everyone
Parole is granted on the basis of reports by prison and probation staff, on the nature of your offences, your home circumstances, your plans for release and your behaviour in prison.
An Irish guy with a soft voice gave me a book about the American penal system.
'Read this,' he said. 'But I want it back. It's part of my library.'
I read it in a day.
Six months before the Parole Eligibility Dates and thereafter annually you will be asked whether you wish to apply for parole.
This book was about the Depression in America, made up of all these first-hand accounts of convicts over there. And they were fucked from the start. See, these guys had no education, they were mostly black, and had fuck all in the way of civil rights. No money in your pocket, you're sent down for vagrancy. You stay too long in one place, you're loitering.
Four months before your PED you will have the opportunity to see the reports and to make written representations stating why you believe you should get parole and what you will do on release.
God help you if you wanted a little action. The girls might have been pros, but they were being employed by the law to snare these guys. You got drunk, thought that girl with the come-to-bed eyes actually wanted a slice of you, the next thing you knew you were behind bars.
Three months before PED you will be seen by a member of the Parole Board who will write a report for the Board. You can see and comment on the report. He will be a kindly-looking guy in a beige shirt, white collar. He won't ask you if you feel like you've been rehabilitated, because that's a bullshit question.
In '30s America, convicts were leased out as slave labour to wealthy landowners. When their sentences were up, they were pressured into signing contracts they couldn't read. Then they were slaves for another ten years. Couldn't leave, either. Not unless they wanted armed guards with hounds on their tail.
Two months before PED — a panel of Board members will consider your case. You will not attend. They will focus pri- marily on the risk to public of a further offence being committed were you released, although they will consider the benefits of early release under supervision.
A Glaswegian called Harry Beggs collared me when the news filtered along the spur. He threw an arm around my shoulder and said quietly, 'Don't think about it, son. You think about it, you'll go nuts instead of flying, ken? Dinnae let them clip yer wings before you get a chance tae use 'em.'
I didn't, which is why I read so much in those final months. But it weighed on me. When I heard I'd been approved on condition that I report to Paulo's club, it felt like my stomach was lined with lead. This was what freedom was about, moving from one cage to another. When I gave the Irish guy his book back, he said, 'The Irish are the niggers of Europe.'
'What about the Scots?'
'The Scots are the Irish who could swim.'
Bloke had an answer for everything.
When Paulo came by before that final hearing, I was in no state for his usual bullshit. We argued hard. Part of me
wanted to tell him to go fuck himself, that I'd wait until the last moment of my sentence before I agreed to work for him.
We fell into silence. I focused on the tattoo on Paulo's arm. A blue heart with three names: Mam, Dad and Keith.
It was fear that kept me inside, but a greater fear that made me back down and agree to his terms.
Back then, I was my own worst enemy.
Nothing's changed.
FORTY-ONE
It's a long night and a longer limp back to civilisation. Or Sunderland, which is the next best thing. Road signs point the way north, and the freezing wind lets me know I'm getting there. As much as I want to slump into a ditch by the side of the road and sleep for forty hours, I know I can't. Things to be done, loose ends flapping in the breeze.
So I follow the signs along the side of the road, a constant whoosh of cars flying by. I watch the night crack into morning, grey skies above. Dishrag clouds. More rain. I let a downpour wash away the self-pity, replaced it with anger once I started walking, and now all I have are images of Stokes, George and Alison. The rage keeps me limping, even though every bone in my body wants to rest. Muttering to myself, it's no wonder people don't give me a ride. Well, shit on 'em. If they don't fancy giving a lift to a stranger covered in blood and mud and piss, then that's their loss. I could have paid them well, made their day with a stack of cash, but no. The great British public, otherwise known as It's None Of My Fucking Business.
Another thing to keep me going: the promise of a service station. The signs have been pointing to one for the past six miles, and I'm desperate enough to believe in them. Anything to get out of the cold for a while, get myself cleaned up and rested before I work out my next move.
When I finally get to the service station, it's in the arse end
of nowhere and somewhere in my battered head I wonder if it's the same one I passed when I drove up here. I hobble into the carpark, lean against the side of an articulated lorry and catch my breath. I've resisted smoking until now, but after the walk, I think I've deserved it. I light up an Embassy and break into a nasty, painful cough.
I ditch the cigarette. I haven't healed enough to enjoy it, but it kills me to see it wasted, so I move on.
Into the rest area, past the blaring arcade machines and into the Granary Restaurant. The woman behind the counter looks like she just caught a nostril full of something rancid. It's probably me. I make the mistake of talking to her, and her top lip pushes further into her nose.
'I'm sorry, sir. But the toilets are for customers only.'
'I just want to clean myself up, love.'
'And I'm sorry, but the facilities are for customers.'
'I'm a customer.' I look around, grab a muffin wrapped in plastic and slam it onto the counter. 'There you go.'
She looks down at the muffin. When I follow her gaze, I notice the muffin's all mashed up. And when I look up again, she's staring at me like I'm a psycho.
'How much?' I say.
'Three pounds.'
'For a fuckin' muffin?'
Her face crinkles. One step from calling the police or hammering a panic strip. I root around in my jacket, pull out my wallet. Stokes and his mates are a bunch of amateurs: from the looks of the wad in my wallet, they didn't even have the sense to rob me. I hand the woman a tenner. When she takes it, there's dirt on the note.
'Have you anything smaller?' she says.
'Is testing my fuckin' patience part of your job descrip- tion?'
'I just asked — '
'Keep the change. Call it a tip. Customer service like yours, you deserve one.'
She points to a sign for the toilets and I drag myself across the restaurant. I manage to stun a couple of kids in the process. They were happy enough throwing their breakfast around, but one sniff of me seems to have killed their appetites stone dead. As I push open the door to the toilets, I hear the mother say, 'Don't stare.'