Dark Side of the Street

4

"Rehabilitation!" Youngblood shouted above the roar of the machine shop. "Marvellous, isn't it? Just think of all those clever bastards sitting in their private suites at the Home Office persuading themselves that just because they've given you the opportunity of learning a trade, you'll go out into the world a better and wiser man and lead a life of honest toil making car number plates for ten quid a week."

Chavasse positioned the plate he was holding carefully in the die stamping machine and pulled the lever. There was a slight hiss from the hydraulic press and he raised it to examine the number now etched firmly in pressed steel. He picked up a file and started to clean the rough edges of metal, thinking about what Youngblood had just said.

He was right, that was the damnable thing. After four weeks in the machine shop Chavasse had learned that lesson at least. He glanced across at Charlie Harker, a one-time chartered accountant doing seven years for embezzlement, and his machine partner, Rodgers, the mild-mannered little schoolmaster who was doing life for murdering his wife after finding her in bed with another man. How on earth did you rehabilitate such men by teaching them one of the lowest paid forms of semiskilled work in industry?

Such thoughts were dangerous, but difficult to avoid. He had, after all, become one of these men-was in fact treated with some deference in a society where the scale of one's crime determined position in the social structure. As Paul Drummond serving six years for armed robbery and the theft of forty-five thousand pounds, Chavasse could easily have found himself on the top rung of the ladder had that not already been occupied by Harry Youngblood.

Rodgers came across and put another batch of blank plates on the bench. "All yours, Drum," he said and moved away.

He looked tired and there was sweat on his face so that his spectacles kept slipping down his nose and Chavasse was aware of a sudden sympathy. The man wasn't fit for this kind of work-why on earth couldn't the screws see that? But there was no time to consider individual needs here-life was cyclical, revolving around a time-table that must be observed at all costs.

But to hell with that. He wasn't here to do a survey for the Society for Prison Reform. He was here to watch Harry Youngblood-to worm his way into the man's confidence and to find out as much about him and his future plans as possible.

Strangely enough they had become good friends. Youngblood, like most great criminals, was a highly complex individual, flawed clean down the middle like a bell that looked fine until you tried to ring it.

Even his fellow prisoners had difficulty in understanding him. He had an ability to adapt to the company in which he found himself that was uncanny and the death wish was present in everything he did, the reckless reaching out to crash head on with danger which had probably contributed to his downfall more than any other single reason.

There was a story told of him that on one occasion when casing a Mayfair mansion prior to a robbery, he had attended a soiree there uninvited, charming everyone in sight and leaving with the purse from his hostess's handbag. Stopped by a down-and-out with a hard luck story on the pavement outside, Youngblood had presented him with the twenty-five pounds the purse had contained and had gone on his way cheerfully.

Kind and considerate, he could be generous to a fault as Chavasse had already discovered, especially when there was no danger of any personal inconvenience. He could also be hard, brutal and utterly ruthless when crossed and in the final analysis, was only interested in his own well being.

He grinned across at Chavasse. "Cheer up, Drum. It may never happen."

Chavasse smiled back, avoiding a frown by only a fraction of a second. Youngblood was normally good-humoured, but for the past two days he had positively overflowed which must indicate something.

His train of thought was interrupted by the arrival of a convict called Brady pushing a trolley loaded with finished plates.

"Anything for me?" he demanded.

Chavasse nodded brusquely at the pile on the end of the bench. He didn't care for Brady who was serving ten years for housebreaking which had also involved the rape of a woman of sixty-five. He had the sort of face that went with the average citizen's conception of a thieves' kitchen and his voice was roughened by years of disease and liquor.

"How about some snout, Harry?" he asked Youngblood as he started to load the trolley.

"You owe me for three weeks already," Youngblood said. "No more till you've paid something on account."

"Have a heart, Harry?" Brady grabbed his arm. "I haven't had a fag for two days. I'm going crazy."

"Don't kid yourself," Youngblood said coldy. "You're already there; they should have had you in for treatment years ago. Now clear off. You're bothering me."

With a man like Brady it didn't take much. Chavasse had moved to the end of the bench to get some rivets and as he turned, caught sight of Brady's face contorted with uncontrollable rage. He snatched up a rat's tail file, the end pointed, sharp as any stiletto and swung it above his head, ready to plunge it down into Youngblood's unprotected back.

There was no time for any warning and Chavasse snatched up a hammer and threw it with all his force. It caught Brady in the chest and he cried out in pain and dropped the file as he staggered back.

Youngblood swung around, taking in the file and the hammer, the expression on Brady's face and when he turned and glanced at Chavasse his eyes were like pieces of black stone.

He picked up the file and held it out. "This yours, Jack?"

Brady stood there staring at him, sweat on his face. Quite suddenly he grabbed the trolley and pushed it away hurriedly.

Work had not flagged, the noise had remained at the same level and yet there wasn't a man at that end of the room who had failed to note the incident and Chavasse was aware of two things. Youngblood's slight nod to Nevinson, a tall heavily built Scot on the other side of the room, and the approach of Meadows, one of the screws.

"What's going on here?" he demanded.

"Not a thing, Mr. Meadows, sir," Youngblood said. "We're all working like the clappers."

Meadows was young and not long out of the army, the dark smudge of moustache on his upper lip an indication of his desperate attempt to always appear older than he was. He turned to Chavasse who stood at the end of the bench, hands at his sides. Meadows had never risen above the rank of lance corporal and ex-captains fallen on hard times were meat and drink to him.

"And what the devil do you think you're supposed to be doing, Drummond?" he demanded. "I know the idea of soiling those lily-white hands of yours doesn't appeal, but work is the object of the exercise."

Youngblood moved in very close and said softly, "He is working, Mr. Meadows, sir. He's working very hard. Now why don't you go back to the other end of the room like a good little boy."

And Meadows took it, that was the important thing. His hesitation was only momentary, his face quite white and he was afraid, which was all that mattered.

From the other end of the room there came a sudden cry of agony. Meadows turned, glad of the excuse and hurried away. Everyone stopped working, all noise dying as the machines were switched off one-by-one. Nevinson appeared, walking close to the wall, wiping his hands on an oily rag.

"What happened, Jock?" Youngblood called.

"Jack Brady's just had a nasty accident," Nevinson said calmly. "Spilt a bucket of boiling water over his legs in the blacksmith's shop."

Youngblood shook his head as he glanced at Chavasse. "Now that was careless of him, wasn't it?"

Chavasse said nothing and moved forward with the others. Brady was groaning in agony and kept it up till the first aid men arrived and one of them gave him an injection. He lay there writhing, his great, ugly face soaked in sweat as they got him on to a stretcher. He moaned again and lost consciousness as they lifted him up, but it was difficult to feel any sort of compassion for him. He had broken the code of the society in which he lived and had received in return justice of a sort.

More screws had arrived, Atkinson among them and he rapped his staff on a bench. "Get back to work, all of you." He turned to Meadows. "I'll want a report on my desk in an hour, Mr. Meadows. I'll send someone to relieve you." He walked to the door and paused. "You can bring Drummond with you when you come-his sister's here to see him."

The last Thursday in every month was a general visiting day and when the Duty Officer took Chavasse into the main hall, it was already pretty full. A row of cubicles stretched from one wall to the other, and in each one prisoner and visitor faced each other through a sheet of armoured glass and spoke through microphones.

They sat Chavasse in a cubicle and he waited impatiently, the voices on either side a meaningless blur and then the door opposite opened and Jean Frazer came in. She was wearing a white nylon blouse and a neat two piece suit in Donegal tweed with a pleated skirt. Strange, but he had never realised before just how attractive she really was.

Her ready smile faded as she sank down into the chair opposite. "Paul, what have they done to you?

Her voice sounded slightly distorted over the amplifier and he smiled. "Do I look that bad?"

"I wouldn't have believed it possible."

He cracked suddenly, a savage, cutting edge to his voice. "For God's sake, Jean, what do you think it's like in here? I'm not Paul Chavasse playing a part and going home nights. I'm Paul Drummond doing six years for armed robbery. I've been inside four months now. I think like a con, I act like one. Most important of all, I'm treated like one-tell Graham Mallory to stuff that in his blasted pipe."

There was real pain in her eyes and she reached out to touch him, forgetting about the glass. "I feel so damned inadequate."

He grinned. "A good thing there's glass between us. You look good enough to eat, never mind the other thing."

She managed to smile. "Do I?"

"Now don't go making any rash promises. They'd only get you into trouble. After all, I do anticipate getting out of here sometime. How is Mallory, by the way?"

"His usual charming self. He told me to tell you to get a move on. Apparently he could use you elsewhere and thinks this business has gone on long enough."

"The answer I'd like to send him is completely unprintable," Chavasse said. "But never mind. We'd better get down to business. We're only allowed ten minutes."

"How are you and Youngblood getting on?"

"Fine-in fact I managed to stop someone sticking a sharp implement into him this morning."

"I thought they put people in prison to prevent them doing that sort of thing?"

"That's the theory-worked out by people who don't know what they're talking about as usual."

"Have you found anything out about the Baron?"

He shook his head. "I've heard his name mentioned in general gossip amongst the other prisoners, but he's as much a question mark to them as he is to me. I tried to talk about him with Youngblood-told him I'd heard the Baron had got Saxton and Hoffa out. He seemed to think the whole idea was fairy tales for the kiddies."

"So you've really wasted your time?"

"Not on your life. Youngblood's on his way out of here. I've never been so certain of anything in my life. He hasn't said so in so many words, but everything about him confirms it. His general manner, the remarks he makes and so on."

"You've no idea how or when?"

He shook his head. "Not a clue. There is one thing. He seems to be feeling his oats a bit at the moment. I think something's in the air."

She shook her head. "It doesn't make sense, Paul. I've read the file on this place. He couldn't get out- nobody could."

"He's going to go, there's nothing surer and I'd like to be there when he does."

"You'll stop him, of course."

"Not on your life, angel," Chavasse grinned. "He doesn't know it yet, but I'm going with him."

There was immediate dismay in her eyes, but as she opened her mouth to reply, a prison officer approached. "Time's up, miss."

She got to her feet. "Goodbye, Paul. Look after yourself."

"You, too," he said and turned and followed the Duty Officer out.

Meals at Fridaythorpe were taken in a small canteen on the second floor of each tower block and when Chavasse arrived, lunch had already started.

The officer in charge signed for him and he went down to the counter and filled a tray quickly. Youngblood was sitting at the first table near the wall and he waved, pointing to a vacant place next to him.

"A sister, eh?" he commented as Chavasse sat down. "You've been holding out on me."

"I wasn't sure she'd want to know me any more," Chavasse said. "I must take a lot of living up to."

"I hear she looked pretty good."

Chavasse had long since got over being surprised at Youngblood's apparently inexhaustible supply of information. "Is there anything you don't hear?"

"If there is, it isn't worth knowing."

Atkinson arrived on one of his periodical tours of inspection and a few minutes later, the bell rang for the end of the session. They queued to return their plates and then stood in line at the lift to be returned in batches to their cells for the rest period before the afternoon session in the workshops began.

Smoking was allowed as they waited and Youngblood produced a cigarette, put it in his mouth and searched unsuccessfully for a match. Atkinson stopped beside him, took a box from his pocket and held it out.

"You can keep those, Youngblood, but make 'em last." He shook his head as he moved away. "I don't know what some of you blokes would do without me."

There was a certain amount of dutiful laughter, particularly from those who wanted to stay in his good books. A moment later, the lift arrived and as they moved forward, Youngblood put his cigarette away and slipped the matches into his pocket.

Chavasse was conscious of a sudden surge of excitement. The whole incident was completely out of character. There was no love lost between Atkinson and Youngblood, both men made that quite plain, and yet the Principal Officer had gone out of his way to do Youngblood a kindness. It just didn't make sense.

During the rest period the cell doors were left open and there was a certain amount of coming and going, but any prisoner was at liberty to lock himself in if he didn't feel sociable.

"You don't mind if I close the door, do you?" Youngblood said to Chavasse when they reached their cell. "I'm not in the mood for fraternising today."

"Suits me." Chavasse stretched out on his bed. "What's wrong-aren't you feeling so good?"

"Restless," Youngblood said. "Let's say I feel like cracking the walls wide open and leave it at that."

Chavasse opened a magazine and waited and after a while Youngblood got to his feet and moved to the washbasin. He lit a cigarette, keeping his back turned and then placed the box of matches on the side of the basin.

Chavasse took a cigarette from one of his shirt pockets, got to his feet and moved forward quickly, reaching for the matches. Youngblood was staring down at his open palm. He closed it quickly, but not before Chavasse had seen the small brown capsule.

"Mind if I have a match, Harry?"

"Help yourself," Youngblood said.

Chavasse lit the cigarette and returned to his bed. So Atkinson was the contact man? They must have paid him a small fortune, but then, there was a lot at stake. He lay down and behind him, Youngblood filled a plastic cup with water and drank it slowly.

There was a strange fixed expression on his face as he sat on the edge of his bed and Chavasse said,

"You sure you're okay, Harry? You don't look too good to me. Maybe you should go sick."

"I'm fine," Youngblood said. "Just fine. Probably the spring and all that jazz. I always get restless at this time of year. It's the gypsy in me."

"Who wouldn't in a dump like this," Chavasse said, but Youngblood didn't seem to hear him and sat there staring at the wall, a strange far-away look in his eyes.

It was hotter than usual in the machine shop that afternoon, mainly because the air circulating system had broken down, and most of the men had stripped to the waist.

Chavasse worked at one end of the bench cutting plates with a hand guillotine and Youngblood was grinding steel clips to size on a high speed wheel. He had been sweating profusely for some time now and there was a strange dazed expression in his eyes.

"You all right, Harry?" Chavasse called, but Youngblood didn't seem to hear him.

He paused for a moment, leaning heavily on the bench, rubbing sweat away from his eyes and when he reached out to pick up another clip from the stack on the bench beside him his hand was trembling. He groped ineffectually for a moment and then the whole pile went over, one of the clips ricocheted from the wheel like a bullet in a shower of sparks.

And then Youngblood started to shake. He staggered back, rebounding from the bench behind, driving headfirst into the mass of working machinery opposite.

Chavasse got to him just in time. Youngblood's eyes had retracted, sweat poured from his body and his limbs jerked convulsively. There was no question, but that he was undergoing a perfectly genuine fit, however it had been induced-the second stroke for which the governor had been waiting, the one which would earn him a fast trip in an ambulance to Manningham General Hospital. And afterwards …?

There were cries of alarm from all parts of the workshop, a rush of feet and as Youngblood's body was racked by another convulsive spasm, Chavasse did the only possible thing and allowed himself to fall backwards across the bench still holding him. When he ran his left forearm along the edge of the grinder, the flesh split open in a nine-inch streak and blood spurted across the bench in a satisfying stream.

He started to slide to the ground, clutching at his arm, letting Youngblood fall and Nevinson caught him just in time. Strangely enough there was no pain and Chavasse sat there pressing his thumb in to the brachial artery in an attempt to stop the bright flow.

For a while there was considerable confusion and then Atkinson arrived, pushing his way through the crowd.

"What in the hell happened here?" he demanded of the Duty Officer.

"Youngblood threw another fit. He'd have gone into the machinery if Drummond hadn't caught him. He opened up his arm on the grinding wheel."

Atkinson inspected it briefly. "Doesn't look too good, does it?" He turned to the Duty Officer. "I want a couple of stretchers up here fast from sick bay and tell them to ring through to Manningham General. Tell them Youngblood's had another stroke and we're on our way."

"What about Drummond?"

"Him too, of course. You don't think we can deal with an injury like that here, do you? He's going to need a dozen stitches in that arm. Now get moving."

Strangely enough it was at that precise moment that Chavasse's arm started to hurt like hell.