Goatie 7

The Securicor Guard is mid-thirties, dark eyes, high cheekbones, and Roman nose. ‘They were going to ship you to Peterhead, but it’s too much hassle.’  He puts me in one of those a horse boxes, with a dark slit for a window to look out as the van moves. But he keeps the door open, because he likes to talk. Neither of us are going anywhere although we’re moving. ‘So the high-heid yins are sending yeh tae Greenock till they decide.’ He shakes his blonde mop of hair. ‘There’s been some weird shit happening.’

He stares in at me as we bump along. ‘You don’t look like no devil tae me.’

‘We never dae.’

He slaps his thigh. ‘Good yin. Met the devil once myself.’

I stare back at him. ‘Did yeh?’

‘Aye, married the cow.’

He snorts with laughter. My lips settles into something sharp.

‘No seriously, she was pregnant and…’ His voice drops and I know he’s going to confess to something I don’t want to hear.

I cut him off. ‘Whit’s Greenock like then?’  

He flicks his hair and giggles with a slight snort. ‘Usual shithole. Maybe a bit better than most. You get all sorts: murderers, rapists, arsonist, and paedophiles. Nobody would care if Jimmy Saville was sharing a cell with them. Cause they’re up tae their ears in their ain shit.

I remind him. ‘That’s right. Cause Jimmy Saville wasnae in prison. He died a free man. Although they did burn doon his cottage as if that did any fuckin good.’

‘Yeh, you and me know that. But they’re handicapped. They don’t gee a fuck whits outside the gates until they’re outside the gates. That’s how you survive, without going doowally, but sometimes yeh go doowally anyway. That’s whit you’ve got to watch out for. About eighty-five percent are on some kinda medication.’ His skull makes a slight knocking sound as he taps his index finger against his temple on the side of his head ‘But your some kinda goat freak, aren’t yeh?’

The van turns a corner and I fall to the side, right myself. ‘I suppose I’m ur, but yeh never see a crow or a duck wae a cross around their necks. Or a dog wearin a dog-collar, even though they’re name after them. Aw that  religion messes yer brain and yer dress sense. If yer gonnae dress stupid,  yeh need tae be twelve or thirteen tae pull it aff, but I understand it’s younger noo. I no longer wear full goat wear.’

Yeh widnae want a dog to dress like a grown-up paedophile priest. No that I’m saying aw priest are paedophiles, that’d be like sayin aw dogs are cocker spaniels. I mean, I like cocker spaniels. Lovely dogs, but a bit stupid, if yeh know whit I mean?’

‘Whit’s that got to do with goats? He doesn’t wait for an answer, but pushes the door shut and locks me in. He looks through the peephole and whispers, ‘They’ll be waiting for you.’  

Greenock Prison is like any other office block, but with higher walls and more keys. I got processed quickly and efficiently. My clothes were beginning to stink, but I kept them even after having a rudimentary shower. Like any other remand prisoner I was kept locked up for 23 hours out of 24 for some reason nobody could explain without bothering to lie. My first night there the goat whispering started and the walls melted. There was a mini-riot but I slept through it.

Harry the Hatchet told me about the next day. Everyone knew Harry the Hatchet. He’s the friendly type, joshing you, touching you, measuring your biceps and having that disappointed look on his face because you don’t measure up, don’t exercise more or eat the right shit. Nobody tells him he’s short, small even. A middle-weights biceps and long abs. Shirt cut off to the chest that wouldn’t fit a toddler. Shorts so short they’re the size of his small dick. Every day I hear him working out in his cell. It’s his own gymnasium. ‘The good news wiznae the riot.’ He chuckles with long white teeth that have never imbibed sugar, ‘I missed it tae. The bad news is Vic wants tae see yeh.’

‘Who’s Vic?’

His smile is unbroken. ‘Vic is the devil.’ He confirms with a nod. ‘Yer jist a stupid cunt.’

‘Yeh mean I should be scared o im?’

Harry shakes his head and shuts his eyes. I’m wasting time when he could be away doing squats and press ups. Jumping Jacks that make the cell vibrate. His hand tenderly cups the muscles on his arms. He licks his lips. ‘I’m no scared o im, but I dae respect im. Yeh’d be daft no tae.’

It’s as close as Captain Courageous would admit to the fear of being caught without a headband.

‘How dae I get tae see Vic?’

He squeezes my upper arm, not too hard, but sympathetically, through my shirt. ‘Oh, no yeh don’t get tae see im. He gets tae see you.’

He whirls away, jogging on the spot and back into his cell.