Billy Rags (11 page)

For about three days I never really minded; self-denial is good for the soul and when that line of thinking palled I took consolation in the longevity of the rats who were starved one day out of three.

I let it drift on another couple of days and then I mounted a propaganda campaign. The trouble was we'd committed ourselves to acting over this cold food runaround and we couldn't start eating spaniel over it and do nothing. I wanted to institute some kind of retaliation system against the screws like putting a pot of shit over their heads on a one-a-day rota basis. But a hunger strike is nice and safe and predictable; the heavy mob aren't going to slip into your cell one morning just because you're starving yourself. So a lot of the cons saw the strike as the lesser of a lot of other evils they could get sucked into. Or worse evils that they wouldn't be able to deliver on; for the weak, not eating was something they could do. It didn't really matter if they never reached their goal. So long as they stuck it out no scorning fingers would disturb their lives. Cold food or not eating at all were preferable to scorning fingers as far as the weak cons in Nick Society were concerned.

We only exercised in Threes and Fours and to reach everyone I had to go round the cells and talk through the doors. It was like trying to juggle with mercury balls: no one would come off unless everybody else did. Of course, Walter was the staunchest of the lot, seeing as he'd fetched up the whole bloody idea. He was responsible so he would be the one to come off last. He was revelling in it.

On the sixth day I'd managed to get a provisional Yes from everybody except Walter. I'd left him till last, hoping to shame him out of his minority, blackmail him with a unanimous front. But when I reached his door he got up to his window and started yelling: “Dave, Tommy, Benny?”

I heard them all answer. I yelled at Walter:

“Wally, listen, everybody wants to . . .”

But Walter ignored me and shouted to the others:

“You're all staunched up, are you? Not weakening?”

Like a shibboleth of loyalty they all chorused back exactly the opposite to what they'd told me.

“Good,” Walter shouted back. “We'll show them they won't bait us.”

So Walter bonded it off. You had to hand it to him. He was a propagandist in his own right.

When he'd finished he came over to his door.

“That you, Billy?” he said.

“As if you didn't know, Wally,” I said.

“What's your trouble, Billy?”

“You just undid three days' work in two seconds.”

I walked away and left him at his door. Of course, what most of the others didn't know was that one source of Walter's strength was the appeal visits he was having. His bird would come up and force sandwiches on him.

“Now you eat them, Wally,” she'd say.

“No, Chloe, I can't, I'm on hunger strike, in' I?”

“You eat them or I'll force them down your bleeding throat,” she'd say.

And so Walter would reluctantly eat. She'd been well pruned. I was indebted to Ray for this piece of information. He specialised in Wally watching.

Still, the strike had some compensations. Twelve of the cells overlooked one of the main prison paths and once the strike had got under way we'd gone completely anarchic and we'd get up at our windows and volley off anybody who used the path. Moffatt only took one dose of it and afterwards carefully avoided that path. It must have been quite hairy, having twelve screaming cursing starving maniacs turning their attention at you. The priest got his, the doctor, and every screw without exception. The best was when it first started. Someone would spot a screw and volley him off and the screw would get indignant and shout back in his very best official snarl: “Get down from that window!” The response would be instant and massive. Everyone would dive to their windows and rain a deluge of abuse on him. The screw's mouth would hang open in astonishment and then he'd scuttle out of sight in case he got into trouble for starting us off. Also the prison work parties had to be re-routed as we'd shout out all sorts of contradictory orders that had everyone marching in different directions.

On the eighth day they came round and weighed us. I got the shock of my life. I'd lost twenty pounds in body weight. I couldn't get over it. My muscles were being squandered to subsidise Walter's fantasies. By this time he was really out of his mind: he expected the Home Office to send up another director and when he came Walter was going to hold out for conjugal visits. The success of the demo had really gone to his head.

“We're doing ourselves a lot of good, Billy,” he told me. “All this publicity is getting us a lot of sympathy.”

I'd given up arguing with him. It only seemed to lend substance to his irrationality.

So, in the end, I decided to eat. But in such a way that it camouflaged my weakness by upping the stakes in the real issue—the test of endurance. I did it by changing my protest tactics into a sphere that few of them could emulate and that being the case it wouldn't damage my name.

In other words, I decided to have a tear up.

But first I pulled all the die-hards. I told them: “I'm going to eat tonight and tomorrow morning at breakfast I'm going to perform. You're the starvers who think it's great not eating. Fine. Well, I followed you for eight days and in the morning I hope you follow me in and make one after I've made mine.”

I told each of them this separately. No one condemned me to my face or said anything I could have taken offence at. So that was that part of the scheme taken care of.

It's an odd thing about fasting: after five days the hunger pains stop and then you feel a bit depressed and then even that comes and goes. People who at three and four days were craving to come off were now, at eight days, completely convinced of their cause, and of the value of what they were doing. It was almost a form of hysteria.

That night I went and got my tea and Ray and Tommy and Terry followed suit. There were no sounds from Walter as we passed by his door.

The next morning I went downstairs to get my breakfast. There were about five screws lounging around by the hot plate. They all gave me a look that was meant to say fancy that, Big Billy isn't so tough after all, he's the first to come off. But their expressions soon changed when I tipped over the hot plate and threw all the breakfast everywhere. When I'd done that I went to the remains of the previous day's grub and did the same with that. One of the screws was ambitious, either that or he just didn't think, because he made a move to go for me. But when he saw he was on his own he braced himself and stayed with the ranks.

The whole landing was awash with custard and tea and porridge and soup. Someone must have rung the alarm bell because by the time I'd finished there were about fifteen screws standing in the middle of the wing, all looking at me across the swill. Upstairs everybody was wise to what I'd done and they were all banging on their doors. With the possible exception of Walter.

I backed off down towards the end of the wing till I was opposite the punishment cell. None of the screws said anything. After about a minute the PO turned up and picked his way round the edge of the swill.

“You try and grab me,” I said, “and I'll break your fucking jaw.”

The PO held up his hands.

“No, no, Billy,” he said. “I'm not going to do anything like that. Are you away to your cell now?”

“No,” I said. I pointed at the punishment cell. “You're going to have to put me in there.”

“You're being silly, you know,” the PO said.

“You know how silly I am,” I said.

The PO looked at me for a moment. Then he went back to the bunch of screws. A few of them were fingering the straps on their sticks. I thought, well, you're committed now.

I stood there for another five minutes. Nothing happened. I picked up a loose orange from off the floor and ate it. Then the PO came back.

“Look, Billy,” he said, “we're not going to put you away. You can stand there till the governor comes in if you like. It's up to you.”

He paused, looking at me calmly.

“So why don't you just go away to your cell?”

I knew what his meaning was: I could go back now, no trouble, or I could try and sort out fifteen screws with sticks. I didn't feel so tough at that moment, what with the effects of the hunger strike and the thought of all those bad bastards just waiting to get at me with their sticks. So I turned my back on them and went back upstairs to my cell. Everybody was shouting out for me to tell them what had happened. I told them that I'd come back up because I'd felt silly just standing there with none of the screws making a move for me. When I got behind my door I broadcast the fact that I'd be performing again tomorrow and for the rest of the day I sang, “What have all the starvers done?” to really get up Walter's nose.

About eight o'clock that evening my door opened and the biggest screw in the nick stepped in.

“Pack your kit, Cracken,” he said. “We're moving you over to the other side.”

“You're sure about that, are you?”

“Cracken,” he said wearily, “you're going to be moved whichever way you go. I've orders to move you with whatever force is necessary and there's a doctor and a magistrate out there acting as witnesses.”

The screw moved out of the way of the door. There were screws everywhere. The doctor and the magistrate were standing by the railings.

“Why just me?” I said to the screw.

“Don't worry. Some of the others are going as well.”

The others were Walter, Tommy, Ray and Benny. We spent the night in the strong box over there. The next morning I got an ordinary cell in the main prison, on the bottom landing away from Walter and the rest. I settled down to read and make the best of it. I never spoke to anyone and I never saw anyone I knew. I would pace up and down on a patch of ground near the hospital for half an hour in the morning and half an hour in the afternoon. To the cons I was a bit of a tourist attraction. They had to line up outside my door before going to labour and I'd hear them saying, “Christ man, twenty-three years . . . I'd top myself . . . I couldna do it . . . he doesn't look different . . .” and so on. Sometimes, when I was slopped out late, I'd have an audience and I used to ham it up a bit. It's hard to resist a bit of free ego stocking.

After about a week a running battle developed over the original cause of the demo. I'd come over to the main wing in plimsolls, overalls, shirt, vest, pants and socks and every now and again a funny little screw would casually open my door and try to check off a little clothing list he'd have in his hands.

“Just a stock check,” he'd say. “Have you got a tie, shoes . . .”

That word.

“Look, pal,” I'd say, “don't come in here with your silly little list. I've got exactly what I need.”

“I'm only checking what you've got.”

“Yes, I know, and I'm not bothering anyone so don't force any animal tactics on me. I'm not wearing shoes, ties or greys.”

In the main wing of any prison, escape-risks have to put their clothing, knives, spoons, razor and mirror on their chairs outside their doors. Naturally this rule applied to me. One morning the door opened and the chair was pushed quickly inside and then the door was slammed shut. The swiftness of the operation was ominous.

I got up and had a look. On the chair was a nice new pair of shiny black shoes and no plimsolls.

I picked up the shoes and stuffed them out of the window. Then I waited to get unlocked. But they let me stew for a while and didn't unlock me until it was time to slop out.

The screw who'd shoved the chair round my door was standing by the recess. I walked over to him.

“Take my plimsolls, did you?” I said.

I didn't raise my voice. I just asked him nice and quiet. The screw stretched his neck a bit as if his collar was a bit too tight for him.

“No, I never took them,” he said. “Never even knew you had any.”

“You fucking well took them, you cunt,” I said, still nice and quiet and polite.

The screw began to sweat. I gave him a long smiling look and went back to my cell. When you've got them frightened enough to lie you've got something to kid yourself with.

The next time I slopped out, I slopped out barefoot. As I went out of my door I saw that the shoes had been put back. I picked them up and flung them across the landing. As I came back out of the recess a decent screw called Dickinson came up to me.

“What are you walking about like that for, Billy?” he said, looking at my feet.

I told him I'd had my plimsolls nicked and that I couldn't wear shoes.

“Well, we can't have you walking about like that,” he said. “I'll get you a pair of slippers. What size do you take?”

I told him and he came to my cell half an hour later with a pair of slippers. But the next day Moffatt ordered that I should have my exercise stopped unless I wore regulation shoes. So I stayed in my box and I didn't move out of it for a week. Not until the Home Secretary visited the nick.

When a couple of screws visit you and tell you that the Home Secretary wants to see you you're justified in telling them to fuck off. But it was right. The Home Secretary had been over in the Security Wing and had asked Moffatt what had happened to me. Moffatt must have told him because the Home Secretary requested my presence.

I hadn't shaved for about four days and they don't like to see it. With all the bird I'd done it had got to be a habit. But you've got to make some sort of a show for a Home Secretary, so I brushed my hair even though it was cropped almost to a stubble.

I went out, slippers flopping on the tiles. The screws showed me into a small office near my cell.

The Home Secretary was sitting behind a small plastic table, facing the door. Moffatt was sitting to his left, in the corner, legs primly crossed. The Chief stood by the door to my right.