Scrap CH TWO part 15

CH TWO 15
Routine has never appealed to Frank and he is ticking off the days to the end of his prison sentence, biding his time with his thoughts far from the grey cold surroundings in which he is incarcerated. No use wasting time asking how he got himself into such a spot so he daydreams of what he will do once he is free again, considering whether he should return to the Island, go back to his mother’s house or make a new start elsewhere.
Four months is a long time without contact with friends or family but he is having enough trouble coming to terms with the situation himself without having to worry about other people’s feelings. As a token gesture he has been cultivating a beard, which despite his white-blond hair has grown through slightly gingerish. Also his imposed abstinence from alcohol and calorie laden luxuries has seen his weight drop from over 20 stones to just above 17 and twice he has been issued with smaller clothes, much to his amusement.
He is minding his own business as usual washing up the dinner things and dreaming of better days to come when one of the screws calls him over. ‘Governor wants a word,’ says Philpott, ‘now.’ Frank hurriedly dries his hands and follows the man to the office. The governor looks up as his visitor’s name is announced. For some reason these people always like to peer at their subject over the top of their half-spectacles and the governor has perfected his condescending glare over his years in the post. ‘Ah, Ridley,’ he begins, opening a folder on the desk in front of him. ‘I see you did not ask permission to grow that facial hair. Didn’t you know that is an offence?’ Frank wants to make a smart comment but stops himself, apologising and declaring that as a first-timer there seems to be many regulations which are not yet clear to him. ‘Do you want me to shave it off sir?’ he asks politely. ‘Not if you don’t want to,’ comes the reply, ‘but in view of that and the fact you have shrunk substantially since your arrival it will be necessary to have another photograph taken for our records. And if you decide to make any further changes to your appearance perhaps you will have the courtesy to ask first.’ He waves the men away and Frank is led to a small room where a tall, bespectacled man is waiting for him.
Without saying a word, the man thrusts a chalk board into Frank’s hands, positions him in front of a wall which is marked with measurements and steps behind a tripod-mounted camera. He clicks the shutter then motions for Frank to move first to one side then the other as he takes both profile shots. He then takes the board back, erases Frank’s name and number and places it in a rack by the door, which he opens and gestures for his subject to leave. Frank has met some very odd people since he got banged up.
There is just time to return to the canteen and collect the thick slice of cake he has hidden under one of the cooking pots, fold a copy of The Sun round it and follow his escort back to the block. A free copy of the daily paper and a nice piece of fruit cake are a good little bonus for a day’s work and Frank is extra pleased with his efforts as his cell mate is downstairs cheating some mug at cards so he can eat his prize in peace.
It is easier these days to climb up onto the bunk, where Frank stretches out having kicked his boots off and shoved them under the cupboard where their odour is far enough from his nose to avoid causing offence. He runs his gaze over the front and back covers before turning to page 3, where his eyes linger for a few moments, reads a little about the power cuts and shortages and considers he is not so badly off after all.
His cell mate returns from the association area, his pockets full with coins, cigarettes and rolling tobacco after fleecing the latest batch of new inmates. Happy days, they won’t be so keen on playing cards with Roger Black once they cotton on to his extraordinary lucky streak. He snatches the paper from Frank’s grasp. ‘What’s going on in the world then?’ he sneers, ‘I see you got yourself a bit of scran,’ he points to the crumbs which decorate Frank’s belly. ‘Don’t suppose you saved any for me?’
Frank grabs the paper back and brushes the crumbs onto Black’s bed. ‘I don’t suppose any of that lot is for me either,’ he observes, indicating the pile of booty which is being stacked on the table for gloating over. ‘It’s every man for himself in here,’ Black reminds him, ‘but I could let you have a bit of rolling for a lend of your paper when you’ve finished with it.’ Frank agrees, as it will save him the bother of doing a similar deal with one of the other inmates. He has cut down drastically on his smoking habit on account of not being able to get much tobacco but the craving persists and anyway it gives him something to do. It’s surprising how little tobacco can be used to make a cigarette. Even if it only affords two or three drags it satisfies the need for a while. The problem is that cigarette papers are expensive in here and take up a substantial portion of his weekly wage for his work in the officers’ canteen. Much to his distaste he finds it necessary to make deals occasionally.
Giving up a precious tin of cling peaches or mandarin orange segments is a sacrifice he has to bear for the need to take a smoke now and then. Anyway, it helps the diet having to go without all his perks. He smiles to himself as he pictures the faces of all the people back home when they see how different he looks. He has drawn the line at joining the gym though. All those sweaty blokes leaping about and lifting weights put him right off. Also there is always a ruck going on and he doesn’t want to invite trouble. Only a few weeks to go then he can get out of this place and never see any of these criminals again.
Shortly before lockup, Bob ‘Drystone’ Wall puts his head round the doorway. ‘Did you get any?’ he whispers to Frank, who has just handed the newspaper to his cellmate. He beckons the old lag to come in and hands over a small package, which is inspected before being exchanged for 10 Woodbine cigarettes. Drystone leaves without another word but Black is quick to ask questions. ‘What was that you handed over?’ he demands to know. ‘Only a few slices of ham, nothing to interest you,’ Frank replies. ‘How did you get it out of the kitchen?’ Black is caught between jealousy and admiration. ‘Wouldn’t you like to know,’ says Frank, tapping his nose.
He toys with the idea of telling how he did it but thinks better of it. He had wrapped the ham in cling film and rested it on top of his foot for the short walk back to the cell then hidden it in the cupboard in an old magazine. There is a market for everything in this place. Of course the buyer of the ham has no idea that it has been in Frank’s shoe but he will probably sell it on for a profit anyway so in his view everyone’s a winner.