Chapter Two Setting the Scene

A Chapter by Neville

Chapter Two

‘Setting the Scene’

At precisely the same moment Jack kicked off, those with access to a television set were still trying to get their heads around the latest ‘Panorama’ special and the problems faced by spaghetti farmers across Europe. According to reports believed to be flooding in, the early spring harvest had been a complete and total washout. So bad it was said, the livelihood of whole towns and cities was thought to be hanging in the balance and children were already going hungry.

The accompanying news footage, over which the voice of one of Britain’s favourite TV sons had been dubbed, commenced with a series of black and white aerial shots depicting areas of sparse vegetation vaguely resembling the stunted fruit trees more typical of an old English cottage garden. Seconds later, the viewer’s attention was skilfully drawn toward more grainy images apparently documenting the suffering of lone individuals and small groups huddled together, the likes of which had not been seen since the war. Here, there and seemingly everywhere, clusters of distressed men and weeping women, surrounded by their children and presumably their grandchildren had the makings of a real tear jerker.

Solemn faced Richard Dimbleby went on to emphasise the impact such a catastrophic event would almost certainly have upon the health, economy, trade and the businesses of those whose lives depended on the production, consumption and export of a certain type of pasta. However, just as the estimated audience of nigh on eight million souls braced themselves for an anticipated emotional climax. The programme abruptly ended with a magnificently well orchestrated ‘gotcha.’

Until that precise moment, few Brits had ever even heard of the stuff they called spaghetti and many were taken in, hook, line and sinker before the penny eventually dropped and everyone had a darn good laugh. Some folk suggested, the elaborate ‘April Fool’ was intended as a subtle caution to the nation, ‘Never to put all yer eggs in the same basket.’ Whether or not true, the ingenious and superbly produced Dimbleby spoof proved to be a resounding success for the British Broadcasting Company and was later nominated for several prestigious awards.

For the majority of folk obliged to rely on a radiogram for news and entertainment, missing out on what would later become something of a TV classic however, was no big deal. Most were more than happy to swing it out with Bill Black and a bloke called Elvis, playing live from the Memorial Coliseum, Buffalo New York, before breaking in the week-end with a few jars. And for once at least, it seemed the five hour difference between New York Eastern Daylight and the UK’s British Summer Time would suit an awful lot of young Brits right down to the ground. Especially if the radio broadcasts lived up to their hype and the guy they called Elvis was half as good as they said, then everyone would have a grand old time.

Exactly one hour and twenty-eight minutes later, just as the newly appointed King of the ‘Nuevo-Edwardians’ was about to take his final bow and leave the stage in Buffalo New York. Young Jack Weaver found himself being roughly man-handled along a dingy corridor somewhere in the United Kingdom to a room with his name on the door. From then on, with the obvious exception of an assigned number and a few distinguishing scuff marks, each of the many other doors either side of the corridor was identical, except maybe to the most highly trained eye.

The painters had clearly done a remarkable job obliterating years of coarse satire and assorted graffiti in just two coats of battleship grey emulsion.

“Out of sight, out of mind eh son” Wally Fletcher mused as he casually ran a palm across the uneven but surprisingly smooth surface of number nineteen.

“Every-one of these lad, could tell a tale or two, and don’t you never forget it, TCP my son,” Wally spat.

Thomas Christian Paxton happened to be the youngest uniformed security officer assigned to what should have been a four man team. He was not the brightest of the bunch by a long chalk but had something about him that was immediately agreeable. TCP was certainly well liked by the ladies at ‘The Centre’ where he often worked 12 hour long shifts. He was also popular with most of the fella’s and in that respect, he seems to have been an all round good egg.

Wally Fletcher on the other hand, had neither age nor looks on his side, or for that matter, any other obvious endearing qualities. For some obscure reason, perhaps known only to his own ego, Wally would insist on being addressed as ‘sir’ by anyone he presumed might be younger than himself and therefore, in his mind, subordinate. If the truth was known though, Wally was nothing short of a bully and would soon revert to type, if he ever got half a chance.

Legend had it he was once stabbed in the head with a dinner fork by a youngster who had learning problems, all for being a total twat and deserved everything he got. It was also said Chrissie Bates was sent to Rampton for that single act, and where they had apparently, thrown away the key.

Under normal circumstances, the night security team, or ‘Owls’ as they called themselves would be comprised of four fella’s. Archie Stamp however called in sick at the last minute and had not been replaced, which went down like a lead balloon with the remaining three. It was certainly not a good start to the shift, and possibly a bad omen, Wally thought quietly to himself.

“You never know what might kick off with that lad.” He shook his head from side to side.

Considering they were a man down, it was just as well the team was being led by Big Jock Taylor, who was, as his name suggested, a big b*****d and mean with it. He also had the annoying habit of always being spot on, regardless of the argument he found himself involved in, and consequently, did not always hit it off with the other lads. Nevertheless, his sheer physical presence more than adequately compensated for his lack of charisma and at the end of the day, no-one really relished the idea of him being in the opposite corner, so usually, they just shut up and put up with him.

As well as Big Jock, Wally Fletcher and TCP on the business side of things, a dog handler known to each of the lads as ‘Doberman Dave’ and two German Shepherds patrolled the modest grounds outside. Communication between Dave and the others was maintained by means of an agreed flashlight system, except in an emergency, when either of the two outside telephones might be used to summon additional assistance.

Considering the covert nature of the whole affair, there was often surprisingly little information to convey to those arriving for duty at the changing of the guard. In which case, the formal handover could prove to be a monotonous and boring exercise for those concerned. All the same, a full and accurate exchange was considered an important part of the job and no-one tried to bunk off early, or avoid it. At least not since the new clocking in machine had been introduced anyway.

As a result of the increased numbers of staff present at the beginning and the end of each working shift, it became something of an in-house joke that Jack had more guards about him than Buckingham Palace and the Crown Jewels put together. Therefore, when security levels allowed, those not directly involved in the handover might be given the thumbs up for a quick smoke with the off duty lads outside. Although, it was customary for whoever drew the short straw, to do a quick ‘once round the block’ with an oppo before the shift was considered well and truly over.

“Well lo and soddin behold” Wally hissed under his breath as he prised half a match stick from between the thumb and fore finger of Big Jock Taylor’s huge fist.

“What a bloody set up” he shrugged.

“Oooh, I am honoured” quipped ‘Blubber Blake’ who was possibly the heaviest uniformed colleague Wally had ever encountered in all his years on the job.

“What do you mean by that Fat Lad” Demanded Wally?

“Now’t sir, I was just considering what a privilege it is to do the grand tour with yer good self, before we knock off, that’s all, nothing to get aerated over.”

“Okay then big boy, let’s get this soddin freak show on the road and be done with it,” Wally spat.

Fat Lad’s previous sarcasm was wasted on thin air, as they began to work their way along the main corridor, stopping every now and again to double check a door, a lock, or a window.

As they slowly shuffled forward, Fat Lad became aware that Wally possessed the most impressive bunch of keys imaginable and always wore them on the front of his belt, like a badge of office, suggesting some kind of rank or status.

Fat Lad knew very little else about his colleague, except he was longer in the tooth than most and mentioned more than once, it was his intention to eventually retire and live by the sea. He certainly had no idea Wally knew precisely the place he wished to lay anchor, or where he and Winnie, his crippled twin sister might eventually see out the rest of their days. But then, if the truth were known, he wasn’t the slightest bit interested. Consequently, few words were exchanged between them and Fat Lad was forced to settle for an emerging mental image of Wally trying to remove a fork from his head with one hand and deftly dodging seagull s**t somewhere else on the coast.

They had progressed no more than a dozen yards or so, when without warning, Wally stopped dead in his tracks.

“Shush, do yer hear that?” he whispered.

“Hear what?” Fat Lad replied as they simultaneously turned off their torches and listened.

For a second or two, everything seemed to be fine, if not perhaps too quiet, they each thought, but then, the darkened corridor suddenly came alive to the loud, reverberating sound of hastily opened and slammed doors, heavy boots and laboured breathing.

“Summat’s going off down there for sure Fat Lad. Go and check it out, there’s a good un.” Wally insisted, again determined to pull rank.

A mixture of sounds which both men immediately associated with an approaching scuffle seemed to emanate from along the corridor somewhere between doors twelve and fifteen. There, within the restricted space available and amid many flailing limbs, the barked order to hit the lights was made and responded to intuitively, but nothing happened. Strew’th, both the fluorescent light and the newly fitted alarm system had failed, just when they were needed most. Not surprisingly, no sooner had the post incident de-brief been concluded, an urgent repair requisition was immediately submitted for the attention of the maintenance team supervisor.

What was more important though, and proved absolutely crucial on the day, was the heavily reinforced door to Jacks room was immediately opened flush to the wall by one of the uniformed bods, without any dithering or messing about whatsoever. No doubt, that relatively simple, but well practiced manoeuvre allowed Jack to be half dragged, half carried and finally shoved face down onto his mattress, where he was restrained by a further two officers.

The Black Aspirin was subsequently administered via a large glass syringe, directly through the rear pocket of his shorts by an orderly, who seemed to appear from nowhere. Bang, all his lights went out in a haze of chemical induced swirling black fog and a single descending wave of purple floaters. Then prior to his being placed in something far removed from any text book recovery position, Jack was dealt a final well rehearsed but unnecessarily harsh blow to the small of his back.

The official ‘restraint handbook’ circa 1950 clearly outlined the application of a similar technique but with the palm of the hand and not the fist against a submissive shoulder. In effect, procedure number 309 was meant solely to assist in the safe and speedy exit of appropriately trained personnel from an otherwise potentially dangerous seclusion room or cell.

Whether or not genuine good fortune smiled down on Jack during that single frenzied moment, remains a frequently debated topic. What seems highly probable now though is that the uncontrolled and certainly vicious blow, forced Jacks cyanosed lips to part and to jettison the previously lodged cherry sized tip of a uniformed officer’s nose, onto the linoleum and thus, allowed his lungs to fill again with air.

It would be several hours at least before the heavy black draped curtain of paraldehyde induced sleep lifted from him and the fog to dissipate, slowly giving way to a kaleidoscope of blinding colour, as first one eyelid and then the other flickered open. His head hurt and his lips were cemented together with dried blood and mucus, yet he did not move or give any outward indication of being conscious. This was a game Jack knew well, after all, he had invented the rules, or so he thought.

Observations were maintained throughout the period of heavily enforced sedation via a spy hole in the door, and since his respiration and colour could both be thus determined, those present agreed, there was no need to take any additional risks. Furthermore, providing he maintained a reasonable tint and his chest continued to rise and fall in time with the superbly amplified sound of his breathing, everyone could step down and take it easy for a while.

What a lame joke that turned out to be, it would surely be a very long time indeed before Thomas Christian Paxton might relax, or for that matter, breathe easily again. No doubt, those with an ounce of decency would all feel sorry for the young lad whose prospects had just been dealt a seriously vicious blow. Sympathy however, was not known for putting bread on the table, whereas a financial or compensation payout was increasingly known to do just that.

“Mind you stick a bloody claim in son as soon as ya feel up to it” each of his colleagues chorused. Whether he heard or not is another matter.

It took a lot longer to get young TCP settled into the back seat of the Rover than anyone might have imagined. Of course, everyone knew it was important to get to the hospital swiftly, so it seemed odd the delay, was caused by the fella they all called Mouse, nipping back into the main building for some obscure reason.

Despite feeling exhausted and aching all over from the recent scuffle with Jack, Big Jock Taylor caught Mouse’s shadow out of the corner of his well trained and beady eye. Squinting in the dim light, he glanced up from the incident report he was about to sign, and gave the slightest of nods before allowing the little guy to pass unchallenged. Mouse blew a silent involuntary sigh of relief and proceeded on to the corridor. Once there, it was only a matter of seconds before he managed to locate and retrieve the severed portion of TCP’s nose and placed it in an old tobacco tin, before dashing back to the Rover.

There can be no question, what happened that evening at the Centre was unfortunate, but what happened later, at the infirmary was evidently nothing short of a shambles and required a full investigation before blame could be firmly and rightfully apportioned.

As it happens, it was to take a full six weeks before the finger eventually pointed squarely at the most expendable of hospital employees, and after which the sacking of a young foreign domestic cleaner went ahead without even an eyebrow being raised. A simple course of action specifically designed to take the heat off senior hospital personnel as well as those also back at the base.

Nevertheless, the investigation would eventually demonstrate how the fiasco in question appeared to follow on the heel of a series of grave miss-communications that occurred between Mouse and an emergency doctor outside Reception in the first few seconds after his arrival.

“You a doctor?” Mouse enquired.

“I am indeed but”

“Here take this and no buts, I gotta get back sharpish”

“Very kind but I’m afraid I don’t smo…”

“Just take it.” Mouse interrupted thrusting the small brown and gold container into the bemused medical officers’ hand, who in turn, discretely placed it on top of a radiator where it was eventually found by a cleaner and handed to lost property the following morning.

When they eventually summoned TCP to a small screened off area for investigation, the duty surgeon proved far from reassuring in respect of a prognosis or where future aesthetics were concerned.

“It might have been, a different kettle of fish altogether if they had bothered to find the bit that was missing, put it on ice and handed it in.” The prematurely greying House Officer reflected as he began to tidy his own clinical notes.

There was no doubt about it, the ‘Casualty Department’ was exceptionally frantic and disorganised and Thomas Christian Paxton was not the only injured person requiring attention that evening. The auburn haired, former note taking secretary who witnessed the whole bloody affair, back at the Centre, continued to shake uncontrollably until it was eventually agreed she ought to be sedated, for her own good.

“What on earth’s been going on up there, my dear?” Asked middle aged Staff Nurse Maggie Knowles as she skittered backwards and forwards between vomit bowl and kidney dish.

“Don’t ask luv, you’re better off in the dark, believe me” came the stern but decidedly weary reply.

Whatever one might begin to imagine, it was certainly very hush hush up at the Centre, and everyone had signed an official document to ensure it stayed that way.

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© 2019 Neville

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Featured Review

Chris Shaw

Setting the scene regarding the security arrangements in place for the detension of young Jack. Shifts, shift changeovers and a team of four plus a dog patrol at night. Again done in context with what was occurring elsewhere at precisely that time. Introductions to each individual and highlighting the problems of staff not being available for their shift and the terrible consequences of that failure. Quite gruesome. Also highlights the awful practices of controlling violent criminals in that decade and passing the buck when stuff went wrong and under a blanket of secrecy, We do not know what Jack has done yet. We have yet to find out. I find myself wanting to know what it is, knowing full well it is going to be violent and nasty and what led to it. Wanting to read more to find out. You are building up the suspense nicely Neville.

Chris

Posted 5 Years Ago

1 of 1 people found this review constructive.

5 Years Ago

thank you kindly Chris

Neville

Reviews

barleygirl

Your storytelling is top notch, especially becuz of the slightly caustic tongue-in-cheek tone of your narrator, making this feel like a spoof on many aspects of "the establishment" -- in this case, regarding the psychological industry, but it could also apply to many other industries. Your characters are painted so vividly, they are memorable, so it's easy to get my head around the cast (me being forgetful, this can be a problem with forgettable characters!) Your naming of characters is hilarious. So many fun artful expressions used thru-out that convey the flippant attitude of the narrator. Reading this just gets better & better (((NUGS & NUBS))) Fondly, Margie