Tremors ran up my chest, turned, ran down my arms. Tried to identify a sound I was hearing. Oh God, the grinding of my teeth. If I ever got out, I’d have a bath in liquid E. An hour passed, and I paced back and forth. The man in the other bunk ranted in his sleep, loud streams of obscenities, punctuated by sighs. Hard to say which was worse. At one stage, he began to vomit, and I turned him to prevent his suffocating. He clawed at my face. When I had him turned, I sank on the bed in near exhaustion. The smell of raw alcohol in the air was nearly overpowering. I felt it gag in my mouth. It being that rare of rarest days, not a drop had I taken. More time passed and the cell began to darken. Then the lights flicked and bathed us in harsh un-yielding light. I paced anew. A guard appeared, began to unlock the gate, said,
“Come on, you’re wanted.”
As I moved, he warned,
“No funny business... hear?”
I nodded.
He led me to an interview room and left, locking the door. There was a metal table, two chairs and a seriously misshapen ashtray. When I’d been charged, the contents of my pockets had been emptied, put in an envelope. I’d have murdered for a cigarette and caused untold mayhem for a pill, not to mention a double scotch. I sat on a hard chair, tried not to consider my situation. The door opened and Clancy breezed in. A shit-eating grin plastered on his face. He seemed elated, said,
“Well, well, well.”
“That’s a neat line. You should jot it down, trot it out at one of those golf club functions.”
His uniform was pressed to perfection. If anything, his grin widened. He said,
“Didn’t I tell you, boyo, one of these days you’d fuck up big time and I’d have you.”
“I don’t suppose due process applies.”
He cupped his hand to one ear, asked,
“What’s that, boyo. Speak up... don’t worry about shouting; there isn’t a soul will disturb us.”
“Don’t I get a solicitor, a phone call?”
He loved that, answered in an awful parody of an American accent,
“As the Yanks say, ‘Who you gonna call?’ ”
I waited, as if I’d any choice. He said,
“The fellah you put through the window, you couldn’t have picked a worse one.”
“I wasn’t exactly checking references.”
Big guffaw. He truly did seem to be having himself a time, said,
“You’re priceless, Jack. But yer man, the window fellah, guess who he is.”
“I’ve no idea.”
“Ah, go on, guess.”
“I could care less.”
His hand slammed down on the table.
“Begin to care. He’s one of the top businessmen in the town. He was one of the ‘Man of the Year’ nominations.”
My turn for a half smile, answered,
“I can see where he might have been.”
Now he sat. The table between us, his eyes bored into mine. He said,
“You won’t like prison, Jack.”
“I’d say you’re right.”
“More to the point, prison won’t like you. Especially when they hear you were a guard.”
“No doubt you’ll spread the word.”
“Story like that, Jack, gets round like wildfire.”
I didn’t answer. When they come to gloat, it’s as well to let them rip, get it done. He added,
“They’ll be lining up for you, Jack, know what I mean?”
He stood, asked,
“You’ve enough tea, cigarettes... have you?”
He let his eyes sweep the empty table, said, “And no doubt you’ve already made a connection for your drug habit. They say you can score almost anything in prison. I have to go, a round of golf before dinner.”
He banged on the door, looked back at me, said, “I’d like to throw you some lifeline, some words of comfort in your darkest hour.”
I met his eyes, said,
“On account of how we were friends once?”
“Alas, all I can offer is... if you think it’s bad now, it’s going to get much worse.”
The door opened and he was gone. I was taken back to my cell. The guy in the other bunk was snoring peacefully. Maybe the worst was over for him. A few hours later, a sergeant appeared in the corridor. He was in his fifties, his bad fifties. Moving over to the cell, he said,
“Jack... here... sorry I didn’t get down sooner.”
Passed me a Dunne’s bag, added,
“I didn’t want the young crowd to see these.”
And he was gone.
I couldn’t recall his name. The face had a vague familiarity, but I couldn’t say from when. Opened the bag: cigs and lighter, sandwiches, bottle of Paddy.
Wilfred Scawen Blunt was a prisoner in Galway Jail in 1888. He noted that in the jaiclass="underline"
There had been a pleasant feeling... between the prisoners and warders, due to the fact that they... were much of the same class, peasants born with the same natural ideas, virtues, vices and weaknesses.
From The Women of Galway Jail by Geraldine Curtin.
I rationed the whiskey, taking small sips, enough to ease me down. Held off on a cigarette till the artificial calm had begun. Then lit one. Ah... the hit... Was even able to contemplate the sandwiches. Not actually eat but at least consider the proposition. Stowed everything under the pillow.
When a young guard came to check, he eyed me suspiciously. If he’d come in to search, I’d have fought him. At least I think I would. Rattled his keys and marched off.
My cellmate began to stir. A series of groans, then he began to carefully sit up. Alcohol reeked from his pores. He was in his late forties, with receding hairline, a ruddy face and slight build. Wearing jeans and a sweatshirt. All Calvin Klein labels. I’d noticed when I had to turn him. He gingerly raised his head, and I could tell it hurt. He asked,
“Who are you?”
“Jack Taylor.”
“Are you my solicitor?”
“No.”
He shuffled his body, trying to find a position that didn’t ache, then,
“You’ve a suit... are you here to talk to me?”
“No... I’m nicked like you.”
“Oh.”
I waited a bit, asked,
“What would help?”
“Help?”
“Yes, right now... what do you need?”
“A drink.”
“OK.”
Offered the bottle. He stared in jaw-dropping amazement, said,
“It’s a trick.”
“No, it’s Paddy.”
A fit of the shakes walloped him. I found an empty cup, poured a small amount in, said,
“Use both hands.”
He did. Managed to get it in his mouth, then near convulsed as the liquid went down. I said,
“Wait and see if you’re going to be sick. Sometimes the first makes you sick enough so that the second can stay.”
He nodded as rivers of sweat broke out on his face. A few minutes and the storm passed. I could see the physical change as his body grasped at the treacherous help. He held out the cup, only a slight tremor, asked,
“May I?”
“Take it easy. This has to get us through the night.”
Poured him another, asked,
“Cig?”
Shook his head in wonder, said,
“Jesus, who are you?”
“Nobody... a nobody in deep shit.”
“Me, too.”