The thing about being in the nick—doing time, doing porridge, whatever else you wanted to call it—was that, by definition, you weren’t free to make your own choices. It was like being a child again, if you’d been brought up in some sort of ‘it takes a village’ type of arrangement where the village in question was populated with a bunch of uptight, bad tempered nerks who hated all six hundred of their wayward offspring with a passion, with the occasional soft touch like Barrowclough thrown in who you could bat your eyelashes at and convince you’d learned your lesson and were a very good boy at heart every time they caught you with your hand in the sweetie jar.
And, come to think of it, when he’d been a child Fletch had been able to go on the doss and skip school to see a picture, or nick penny sweets from the shop (or at least he would have if sugar rationing hadn’t mostly put paid to that kind of light-hearted boyish prank for much of his childhood—particularly after he’d got nine months borstal for moving black market Fruit n' Nut bars), or go out after dark if he were quiet getting out the window. Not even that quiet, since his old man were doing his own porridge most of the time, and his mum had mostly worked nights.
So, on sober reflection, prison wasn’t quite the wild, unfettered and liberating experience that his boyhood had been. He might have been a kid through wartime London and the Blitz, but at least he’d been free for most of it. And at least, once he’d grown up most of the way, he’d had the chance to get his poor Isobel in trouble, which was more opportunity for diversion than was afforded to him in prison.
Fletch had spent more of his married life sharing rooms—sharing cells, more strictly speaking—with a motley crew of snoring, boring criminals with bad breath and worse conversation than he had sleeping in the same bed as his wife. He didn’t dwell on it much, because dwelling on things was the first mistake of a novice prisoner. That was the real prison, the aching regret and the longing for things that you would not and could not have for months, years, to come. What was the use in feeling sorry for yourself when the time would pass either way? Might as well keep your head down, your nose clean, and get through it. Do your porridge.
At least Lukewarm weren’t bad to share with. He was quiet, polite, kept the place right tidy. Fletch had often thought that Lukewarm would make someone a wonderful wife some day.
Fletch tossed again and sighed loudly.
“Fletcher, I hate to complain, but it does shake the frame quite a bit when you do that,” Lukewarm said from the bottom bunk. “I understand it’s a bit of an adjustment having all the cell assignments moved around while the roof is being repaired, but you’re luckier than most.”
“Oh yeah?” Fletch said. “Bit of a queue to snap you up, was there? Something of the belle of the ball, are you? Someone thinks well of himself, I tell you, good Lord.”
“Oh hush,” Lukewarm said. “You know as well as I do that I meant you didn’t have to give up your cell. Godber’s the one who had to move.”
And that was the thing, weren’t it? Godber was gone. Not forever—or at least not likely forever, since it didn’t do to take anything for granted—but in the big reshuffle of the deck, he’d been shuffled off to share with McLaren for however long the repairs were underway on the increasingly leaky roof.
It weren’t like Fletch were pining away for the kid or nothing, he was just worried about him. Young kid like that, first time offender, he was impressionable. He needed someone to look after him. Not some ne'er do well like Jim McLaren who’d be teaching him the best way to shatter a kneecap instead of giving him sensible life advice like the best way to break into a Ford Prefect without anyone noticing.
“I suppose there is that,” Fletch said quietly, not willing to give away the reason for his unrest and general disquietude. “Yeah, sooner ‘im than me, I suppose.”
“He’s a good lad,” Lukewarm said. “And hardly wet behind the ears anymore. You don’t need to worry about him.”
Well, so much for discretion anyway.
“Oh, I’m sure he is,” Fletch said. “I’m sure he is, indeed. Something of a smooth operator, our Lennie. Master bleeding criminal. Always lands on his feet, he does. Not at all the kind of rank amateur who’d get caught the first time he tried burglary. And look! He’s left his toothpaste here, the berk. First night he were here he needed a squeeze of my toothpaste and now what’s he going to do?”
“Maybe McLaren will give him a squeeze,” Lukewarm said. “They’ve been getting along like a house on fire from what I understand.”
“Right, well,” Fletch said. “And that’s another thing to be worried about, innit? He’s a young lad and he’s never been without as long as he ‘as here, not since he got the ball rollin’ on making moves with the fairer sex in the first place. I’d hate to see him get any big ideas about the unfair sex that would start him down the wrong path.”
“Oh Fletch, come on,” Lukewarm said. “The wrong path? I’ve never been on the right path, as it were, and, I can tell you, it’s a perfectly nice little ramble over my way. Not as well maintained by the council, perhaps, but a charming hike all the same even if it is a bit more rugged.”
“Of course, of course, no offence meant,” Fletch said. “But that’s hardly the same thing, is it? You’re … the way you are, and that’s fine, that’s what you’d be up to regardless if you weren’t in ‘ere, but he’s … . Well, that’s not ‘is cuppa tea, under normal circumstances, and it’s not a good idea to get in the habit if you wouldn’t on the outside, in my opinion. It’s hard enough retaining a sense of normalcy without making those kinds of compromises. If I’d started all that nonsense I’d never ‘ave stopped.”
“Hmm,” Lukewarm said. “I see.”
There was a long silence and Fletch let out another gusty sigh.
“Oh what?” Fletch asked. “Come on, out with it. Say your piece—what has you so very fascinated about what I’ve said?”
“Nothing!” Lukewarm said. “I’m trying to sleep, Fletcher. It’s nice that you’re so loyal to your wife, but it’s of no special interest to me either way what you do, or don’t do, when you’re on the inside. I’ve my Trevor waiting for me.”
“I wasn’t saying you were interested!” Fletch said. “This is the thanks I get for being such a trusting and accommodating cellmate who never so much as blushed changing my clothes in front of you. Veiled little comments like that, oh dear.”
“And it’s much appreciated,” Lukewarm said, sounding none too sincere. “Now go to sleep. And if it helps you rest any easier, Godber isn’t squeezing anyone. You know the rumour mill here—if there were any new romantic intrigues on the horizon after the big switch then you’d know all about it. We all would.”
“Well, that’s true,” Fletch said, feeling somewhat relieved. “Yeah, that is true, innit. When Ives took up with that Italian fella it were all anyone would talk about for three weeks. Three weeks! He only wanted him for his mother’s amaretti an’ all.”
“Goodnight, Fletcher,” Lukewarm said pointedly.
“Goodnight, Lukewarm,” Fletch replied. “Sleep well.”
***
It wasn’t entirely easy to put the thought out of his mind once he’d had it, though, and, without meaning to, Fletch started to keep a careful eye on Godber whenever he saw him and McLaren together. They sat very close, bumping shoulders, laughing at whatever unheard jokes they were sharing, and just generally being altogether too free and easy with open displays of physical affection for comfort. Fletch saw the Scot ruffling Godber’s hair on no fewer than four occasions. Right where anyone could see! It weren’t decent.
Godber caught his eye and raised his eyebrows in question, but Fletch pressed his lips together and gave his head a small, tight shake while waving a hand dismissively, in a way that hopefully put the kid at ease and communicated nothing much in particular.
“I should think you’re missing young Godber,” Barrowclough said, hovering just behind Fletcher’s left shoulder and making him jump. “These repairs have been most disruptive for us all.”
“Oh, yeah, I can only imagine, Mr Barrowclough,” Fletch said, rolling his eyes. “When I think of you poor screws—pardon me, you fine and upstanding prison officers—having to remember to tick off different names when you’re looking in your little spy holes at us … why, it almost doesn’t bear thinking about, does it? The chaos! How do you cope, Mr Barrowclough, how do you cope? Makes me realise how fortunate we are to merely have to upend our entire routines and get used to new cellmates, and/or a new bleeding cell, while reflecting anew how truly little control we have over any small part of our lives anymore.”
“Now, Fletcher,” Barrowclough said, trying his best attempt at sternness, which was never exactly forbidding in nature so much as wet-hen adjacent. “That is not the most respectful of tones to take. I am, after all, a screw here—a prison officer!”
“Yes, so you are.”
“And as such, I feel that I—”
“No, no, you’re quite right,” Fletch said, sighing. “I’m very sorry, Mr Barrowclough, I suppose the disruption is just wearing on me, you know what I mean? It’s not easy being in ‘ere at the best of times, innit, but whatever else it is it’s usually predictable.”
“Lewis hasn’t been giving you any … trouble, has he?” Barrowclough said, shifting his eyes around furtively before looking pointedly in Lukewarm’s direction at another table. “He’s always kept himself to himself in that respect, as far as I know, but if you don’t feel comfortable … .”
“Oh!” Fletch said. “Oh no. No, no, no, not Lukewarm. He’s a perfect gentleman. Not even a kiss on the cheek goodnight after he takes me ‘ome from the pictures of an evening or nothing. Besides which, he don’t rabbit on when I need the quiet, he don’t get surly or morose with me, and he don’t leave his kit about the place for me to trip over, so, given the choice, I will not be rolling that particular set of dice again just because he’s got ‘is funny little ways that he’s never even bothered me with in the first place.”
“I’m glad to hear it.” Barrowclough cleared his throat. “It’s not the easiest subject to discuss, I appreciate, but—”
“Nah, not really, no. I’ve been doing porridge on and off most of my life, Mr Barrowclough, man and boy,” Fletch said. “Sharing with someone like Lukewarm is not exactly my first rodeo, you know what I mean? No, no I’m well used to that sort of thing even if it’s not something I’d partake in personally. But each to their own, eh? Once they leave me out of it.”
“Indeed,” Barrowclough said, blushing. “Well, hopefully things will be back to normal soon. The repair work is almost complete and, provided people aren’t happier where they are now, everyone shall be able to return to their old cell assignments and their old cellmates soon enough.”
“What do you mean ‘happier where they are?’” Fletch said. “It’s hardly a holiday camp, this. I shouldn’t think personal preference came into the equation much at all. Aren’t we all just at the tender mercies of the governor’s whims?”
“Oh no,” Barrowclough said, putting his hands up. “We make every attempt here not to infringe on you lads more than is required by the Home Office in order that your debt to society is repaid. There is no desire on anyone’s part to mete out arbitrary punishment beyond that which is unfortunately necessary.”
“Fletcher!” MacKay shouted from the other side of the room. “What are you doing out of your cell? You’ve been lucky enough to stay where you are for now and I would not take that small comfort for granted if I were you. On your feet!”
“Right, well.” Fletch rolled his eyes. “I believe my chaperone is gently hinting that it’s time to turn in for the night. Thank you for the reassuring little chat, Mr Barrowclough, it warms my heart to know how much you miserable old scrotes try to do well by us.”
Barrowclough sighed as Fletch walked past a near-puce MacKay and went back to his cell.
***
“Barrowclough told me that if people were ‘appier where they are now that they might be able to stay,” Fletch said, lightly, when he sat down next to McLaren the next day at breakfast. “I’ll believe it when I see it, frankly. Not that it’d make any difference to me, I suppose.”
“Right, you’re still in the cell you were before,” McLaren said. “Same as. I’m glad I didnae have to pack myself up and move in with someone else on their home turf. You never know what you’ll get.”
“Too true, too true,” Fletch said. “With cells and with cellmates. I was lucky getting Lukewarm—blessed really, when you think about some of the violent buggers you could get stuck with. No offence.”
“None taken.” McLaren rolled his eyes. “Len’s all right too. You’ve trained him in well. Very respectful of sharing the space.”
“Oh, I wouldn’t say that,” Fletch said, not liking this ‘Len’ business one bit. “Once he gets comfortable all the unpleasant little habits come out with Godber, don’t they? Toe nail clippings on the floor, borrowing things without asking—I could not hold onto a tube of toothpaste sharing with ‘im, I really couldn’t. And then there’s the yodeling, of course.”
“Yodeling?”
“Yeah, yeah,” Fletch replied. “All night, sometimes. He likes that film The Sound of Music, see? Big Julie Andrews fan, he is, huge. And ever since seeing that marionette number about the lonely goatherd, he’s been determined to teach himself a vocal artform that is, to put it charitably, best suited to the great open expanses of the Austrian Alpine mountaintops in the rather less expansive confines of a prison cell, never mind who’s in there with him trying to get forty winks in. But if you want to take him off my hands then by all means feel free, because I wouldn’t mind giving him the old lay-ee-odl, lay-ee-odl, lay heave-ho and getting some peace of an evening. Not one bit, I tell ya.”
“I see,” McLaren said. “And why can’t the rest of the block hear him then, exactly?”
“You know, you’d be surprised how soundproof those cells are,” Fletch said. “Once the doors are shut at night, I mean.”
“Well that is true,” McLaren said, and cocked an eyebrow at him before picking up his empty bowl and walking off.
Bugger.
***
“Fletcher,” Godber said, grabbing him by the arm in the yard. “What’s all this about Julie Andrews?”
“I don’t really keep up with celebrity news,” Fletch said. “What’s she up to, then, you tell me. Divorced, is it? New baby? Am I getting warmer or colder?”
“I’ve never even seen The Sound of Music!”
“Oh, you should,” Fletch replied. “Masterpiece of 20th century cinema, it is, fun for the whole family. Absolutely buries My Fair Lady, and you can quote me on that.”
“Come on, stop this rot. Why did you tell McLaren I yodel, of all things?” Godber said, crossing his arms. “And all that other nonsense about toe nail clippings and nicking your toothpaste? It was one squeeze of toothpaste and I did ask you for it.”
“Three squeezes, per my recollection. You didn’t get your own tube for half a week.”
“And I gave you some Liquorish Allsorts for them!” Godber said. “You didn’t have to make things up to make me look bad when I were already coming straight back to our old cell. Or I was, anyway, before you started impugning my character behind me back; now I’m not so sure I don’t just wanna stick with McLaren—who knew you were full of it, by the way, and had the decency to let me know you were going around spreading ridiculous lies about me just to get shot of Lukewarm.”
“Who wanted shot of Lukewarm?” Fletch said. “What’s wrong with Lukewarm? He’s the best cellmate a man could ask for. He brought me a bun hot from the oven when he came back from working in the kitchens yesterday, just because he’d been thinking of me. And he’s got toothpaste of his own to beat the band.”
“So why all the—” Godber stopped and then a grin spread across his face. “You missed me.”
“I did not!” Fletch said. “I may, perhaps, have been a little … worried about you fending for yourself, all alone—”
“With Jim.”
“Yes, with Jock McLaren: the terror of Greenock!” Fletch said. “Toothpaste left behind with me and God knows what you had to trade for some more.”
“He just gave it me.” Godber shrugged. “Nice guy, actually, once you don’t mention Celtic or Rangers in a way that suggests any slight on Morton.”
“Oh is he, indeed?”
“Yeah, he is,” Godber replied. “It were a big generous squeeze too, not the miserly ones you give that wouldn’t cover the head of a pin.”
“Oh yeah? Well far be it from me to get in the way of you getting generously squeezed,” Fletch said. “He’s a handsome lad, I’ll give you that. If you’re that way inclined.”
Godber stared at him in silence for a second.
“You can’t be serious,” he said, finally.
“Why not?” Fletch replied. “I’ve been in and out of different nicks for over twenty years, my son, and you’d hardly be the first I’d seen get fed up waiting around to see their old lady again and start looking elsewhere. Bad idea, if you ask me, to get yourself in the habit of such indulgences, but then from what I can tell I seem to be in the minority. So, fine! Stick with McLaren, and I wish you both joy of it. Go ahead and have your dessert before you’re finished your porridge, never mind your dinner. For all that I care.”
“Fletcher, if I got tired of waiting around, which I haven’t, it would have been—” Godber cut himself off again and turned around, pressing his lips together firmly, before turning back to continue in an undertone, “well, it wouldn’t have been Denise I’d gotten tired of waiting around for, okay?”
“What?” Fletch asked. “What do you mean? You’re always naffing on about how much you miss Denise and her feminine comforts and how very deprived you are.”
“Because I’ve been trying to make a pass at you for months, you daft bastard!” Godber said.
The screw on yard duty turned to look at them and Godber ducked his head. Fletch cleared his throat.
“Slade Prison five-a-side football club,” he said, and the screw shook his head slightly before moving on. Fletch turned back to Godber, who was now bright pink. “What are you talking about, eh? Me?”
“Look, it’s fine. I know better than to expect anything at this point,” Godber said. “And if you’re happier sharing with Lukewarm now you know, then that’s no skin off my nose. But, for the record, I ‘aven’t been unfaithful to you, be my affection ever so unspoken, unrequited, and un-bleeding-consummated, you giant twat.”
“Oh right,” Fletch said, blinking, and then made a show of sniffing indifferently while turning his head to avoid looking Godber in the eye. “Well … that’s all right then, I suppose, innit?”
“Yeah?” The surprised smile in Godber’s voice was audible. “Really? Do you mean what I think you mean?”
“Okay, all right, keep your knickers on,” Fletch said. “Gawd, it really is just my luck that the minute, the very minute, I start entertaining these kind of ideas, the object of my ardour is, once again, separated from me by cruel and fickle circumstances beyond my control.”
“Don’t worry, Fletch,” Godber said, patting his arm. “I’ll wait for you.”
“Well just see that you do,” Fletch replied. “Although, that said, I may be a jealous man, but I’m not going toe-to-toe with bleeding McLaren to fight for you, because something tells me it would not be Marquess of Queensberry Rules. I’ve gone this long without, I think I can just about manage the deprivation of your companionship and the warmth of your loving embrace if I truly must.”
“Yeah, you don’t have to though.” As Godber bumped his shoulder into his, Fletch let himself lean back into his side for a second. As a matter of fact, it was pretty warm. Compared with the chill in the air. “Not once the roof is done, anyway.”
“‘Once the roof is done’ tchah,” Fletch muttered. “Sod that for a game of soldiers. Meet me in the library after tea when we’re having association; maybe you’re all right waiting, but I think I’ve waited enough. Hardly anyone goes in there anyway, and right now it’s where the worst of the damp is, so we’ll have a decent window of time to get it sorted before anyone’d think to look for us there if we’re missed.”
“Getting it sorted in the library after tea? Be still my beating heart,” Godber said, smiling again.
“Oh naff off,” Fletch said. “And go on, get moving. That screw on duty over there keeps looking at us. He’s gonna think we’re up to something.”
“Perish the thought.”
“I meant something exciting, Len,” Fletch said. “Gambling, stealing, some kind of a caper.”
“The romance is gone already,” Godber said, nudging him. “Well, if you’d still like to do something boring with me, then I’ll meet you in the library later.”
“I could do that, yeah,” Fletch said. “There’s only so much excitement a body can take, after all, innit? I can think of worse things to do than spending some dull, tedious time alone with you.”
And the thing was … it was true. Fletch tried not to smile as he felt Godber press his palm against his lower back for a moment before walking away from him as ordered, but it was a losing battle. One that, frankly, Fletch wasn’t all that interested in winning anymore.