Trying To Run In Prison Part 1

Trying to Run In Prison.

Emlyn Hall.

For MM, CMD and MD's.

Chapter 1.

The three bodies stank. Being left to rot in a room, in your own filth will do that.

The room was dark. The orangey brown flowery curtains were fully drawn with only the repeated flicker of the live Pink Floyd DVD set on an eternal loop providing any kind of illumination.

It was unusually warm and bright for a Sunday in February, and in the real world on the other side of the closed orangey brown floral curtains the world was busy getting busy. The room sat in a house that sat in a street of terraced houses in Tooting in South London. Cars went past slowly, impeded by the sleeping policemen strategically placed every few meters to warn off potential 'rat runners'.

Across from the house, with the room, with the dead, a man stood on top of a flimsily arranged scaffolding tower tapping away on a roof. The occasional break in tapping allowed him just enough time to reach back, collect a new tile and return to his overstretched and precarious tapping position.

Tap tap tap.

Dogs barked, children shouted, lawn mowers started, stopped and started again. Airplanes buzzed lazily overhead in the hazy smog saturated air. Leaves on trees and shrubs dripped dry as the morning frost melted and slid to the cold ground.

Tap tap tap.

The DVD turned again on its endless cycle and the dull light flickered and faded on the faces of the grey.

The orangey brown floral curtains contained the scene. On a brown leather sofa sat dead 2 men, the coffee table, the floor, the brown leather chair and 1 more. 2 of the bodies were slumped in a similar position. Hands limp at the side, heads leaning forward with a pool of congealed white vomitus between the legs which had cascaded to the floor and started drying, forming stalagmites from the stinking dead. The third lay arched eerily backwards over the side arm of the brown chair, arms crossed over the chest and, head near the floor the same white vomit spilt and congealing as the water escaped to add to the pungent stench entombed within.

Tap tap tap.

It was 10:21 on the bright side of the curtains and the postman approached. The postman was late and didn't noticed the two untouched bottles of milk that saluted from their static home next to the welcome mat. Neither did his nostrils notice the faint sweet smell of death creeping from the room with the coffee table, with the brown chair, with the stiffening dead. His fat hand crammed the letters home, he turned and was gone.

The DVD looped and the bodies remained still. The DVD looped and the bodies remained still.

The coffee table sat amidst the scene, cans of drunk and half-drunk Guinness cans sat atop, an ashtray overflowed with self-rolled cigarettes produced by the skillful, but now still nicotine soaked fingers of the dead men. Below the tables tainted and dirty top lay a wrapped plastic bag containing a fair sized lump of cannabis.

Tap tap tap.

The DVD looped and the bodies remained still. The carpet made home to many unexpected things: the white vomit, splatters of spilt Guinness probably lost from the can during the telling of a good joke, the strange white vomit, the urine that escaped on death and journeyed down legs, to socks to shoes without malice to ground.

Tap tap tap.

The DVD looped and the bodies remained still. The arched man in the chair was slim and tall. Wearing antique style Levi jeans and a fleece line hoodie with an antique Level 42 T-s.h.i.+rt beneath to compensate for the previous night's chill. His arms crossed his chest, no watch, no rings. Nicotine stains on the fingers told of a lifetime of smoking, probably beginning at the age of 13 or 14 and ending here at the age of 31, crossing the chest, with no rings, no watch, illuminated by the looping lights of the endless DVD.

Tap tap tap The DVD looped and the bodies remained still. Outside of the catacomb an engines drone drew near and stopped.

The walls hidden dark in the shadow of the curtained room sat behind an orange floral pattern as garish to the curtains which denied then of their rightful light. Soaked in tobacco smoke since the 70's when they were loving caressed into place on a Sat.u.r.day afternoon just after the wrestling and before Dr Who.

The Curtains, the wall paper, the lampshade of plastic orange covered in a sticky fuzz, the rug with its recent acquisition of an unspeakable white liquid all remain in a state of decay, untouched apart from the entropy that pulled them ever closer to a resting place out of existence. The home-made rickety TV and book unit, the poorly artexed ceiling flaking from a poorly administered paint job from 2 decades ago, the brown leather sofa, the brown leather chair worn and picked at by naughty fingers since aged.

The DVD looped and the bodies remained still.

A break in the tapping drew the air in the room to a grinding halt. The man on the room spun, dipped and retrieved his mid-morning flask of tea. The strings on the bright red Fender Stratocaster slowed from their rhythmical buzz from the resonance and stopped.

The painting on the wall looked on. The painting was of a beautiful yet darkened coastline with a young woman dressed in white flowing sheets walking away from a cliffs edge. The dark tells of woe, worry and hards.h.i.+p, but the brightness of the dress, the return from the edge and the gait of the proud woman spoke loudly of hope.

The DVD looped and the bodies remained still.

An old room in an older house. Here it sat, out of place in a street occupied en ma.s.se by the suburban house proud. But not this house. Here it sat, aging badly like a opened bottle of cheap wine.

An old room where the dead lay twisted and judged. Judged by the newly married couple, the three year old wearing an elf costume, the happy boy wearing corduroy trousers with a 'basin cut', the brown chairs, the disheveled drained Guinness cans, the peeling ceiling.

The 2 bodies on the picked at sofa continued to rot. Microbes feasted slowly, turning the solid to liquid and the liquid to gas. Gas that rose from the openings of the body and sat in the air like a cloud of filth. Both wore jeans, similar in shade. One wore a plain black fleece and a plain white T s.h.i.+rt, the other a s.h.i.+ny bomber jacket, zipped up to the top, car keys in the pocket and a blue T s.h.i.+rt hidden below.

Tap tap tap Tea break up, thirst quenched.

The DVD looped and the bodies remained still. The stiff remains sat still unable to avoid the excreta they had created upon death. All 3 sat still, sat still in their spoiled jeans. Jeans once pulled on in pride, expensive names, double st.i.tched, rivet emblazoned. Now caked in faeces, saturated with drying urine and splattered with the unspeakable white. Smell upon smell, new formed gas upon gas. From the lap from the skin, from the rug from the ashtray.

The DVD looped and the bodies remained still.

Tap tap tap.

The inglorious dead lay waiting.

Chapter 2.

Thomas Mc Cann was a history teacher, a good history teacher. He was in his third year of the job which he had started straight after leaving university.

Thomas grew up in Enfield in North London. A comfortable upbringing, no dramas. His dad worked for the local paper 'The Enfield Tribute' as an advertising consultant and his mum worked part time as an accounting secretary. They were not a wealthy family, but didn't struggle. They lived in a terraced 3 bedroom house, just off Edmonton Green, drove sensible cars and lived well within their means.

As a 'normal' family in a 'normal' street, Thomas went to the local 'normal' school. Thomas was never an 'A grade' student, in fact he struggled his way through much of his early school life. It wasn't until he reached year 10 that he began to find his feet and start to push the grades up.

After gaining some respectable GCSE's and not quite knowing what else to do with his life, Thomas decided to stay on in 6th form and take on a few A levels. Whilst studying for his A levels he began to develop a pa.s.sion for History and in particular, anything relating to World War I and II. He began reading around the topics he was studying and even started watching doc.u.mentaries on the History channel. This new found love was in part thanks to Mr. Taylor, his charismatic and overtly enthusiastic teacher.

Mr. Taylor's influence grew and grew during his time in the 6th form and the seed to emulate his teachers chosen path was sown. Thomas pa.s.sed his A levels with flying colours, even scoring an A grade in History. Still not fully decided on exactly what he wanted to do with his life, Thomas followed his heart and enrolled thorough clearing to study for a BA in History at University College London. 3 years of student life and the seeds sown had grown. Thomas applied for and gained a place on a teacher training course at Roehampton University.

Thomas took to teaching like a duck to water, it was hard work, but he loved every minute of it. The kids in his training schools were tough, but he won them over with ease. His pa.s.sion for his subject shone through and his keenly developed enthusiasm was infectious. He turned up to cla.s.ses as a mult.i.tude of historical characters: Churchill, Nixon, Stalin, Was.h.i.+ngton to name but a few. Thomas brought History alive and the kids loved him for it.

It was during his final school placement that he met Janet. Janet was a math's teacher. A recently divorced, mum of 1 and s.e.x starved math's teacher. Despite the odd brief fling in 6th form and whilst at university Janet quickly became Thomas's first real girlfriend, but at the age of 36 and 9 years Thomas's senior he opted for the term 'partner' instead.

It was a cold February morning in Tooting. Thomas closed the door of his flat quietly so as not to wake his still slumbering flat mate Larry, opened the tall Victorian main house door, threw his rucksack over his back and walked out into a dark grey ice cold morning.

It took the usual 7 attempts to start the Yamaha 125 motorbike and the usual 25 minutes to reach his school, The Wimbledon Community College. The school was situated halfway between Wimbledon Common and Putney and the intake was comprised mainly of families which lived in the 'hidden estates' unable to afford the huge number of overpriced private schools in the area.

As usual Thomas spent 90% of the 25 minute journey thinking enviously about his flat mate dozing happily away in the warmth of their cozy, yet untidy flat. Larry worked in the city for a bank and not only earned a d.a.m.n site more than Thomas, but also started a d.a.m.n site later in the day. He spent the other 10% thinking about how much he hated cars and their tired, moronic drivers.

Thomas chained up his motorbike and walked into reception to sign in. It was 7:34 as he finished signing his name and walked off to fetch his morning coffee. The staff room was quiet as usual, just the way Thomas liked it. He located his favourite Pink Floyd mug, filled it with strong sugary coffee and left to prepare for his first cla.s.s of the day.

Tollund man, why did communism collapse in Central and Eastern Europe, Why the US Stock Exchange collapsed in 1929, the development of Church, state and society in Medieval Britain from 1066 to 1509 and then it was time for home.

Thomas arrived home to find Larry stretched out on the sofa playing Xbox surrounded by the remnants of what must have been a mid-day pizza banquet. Pizza box, severely gnawed chicken wings, partially digested garlic bread and a half finished bottle of diet c.o.ke complete with unspeakable floating things.

"Busy day?" asked Thomas sarcastically.

"Not really." Replied Larry, missing the sarcasm completely. "I did a little work at home this morning and then decided to play this." He continued gesturing at the TV with the game controller. "What do you fancy doing tonight? Pub?"

"No, can't I'm afraid, I'm meeting Janet at the Asian Rose. Are you planning on tidying up at all?" Asked Thomas "Yeah, I'll tidy up in a bit, just chillin' for a mo." Thomas knew d.a.m.n well that when he returned from his curry that the room would identical, except that Larry would be asleep.

Neither of them owned the flat, neither of them could afford that, South London had become extremely expensive and Tooting was now regarded as a real up and coming area. Thomas had met Larry when he was looking for a bed sit 2 years ago. They had both showed up to view a disgusting yet overpriced room in a run-down Victorian house on the outskirts of Colliers wood. Neither were impressed and left almost immediately in mutual disgust. The pair chatted as they made their way back to the tube station, sharing stories of the bed sits from h.e.l.l each had encountered. They decided to carry on the chat over a beer, which quickly developed into 5. Whilst Larry was at the bar, Thomas scanned the list of flats and bedsits up for grabs in the local paper when he stumbled upon a 'Tidy 2 bedroom flat, perfect for young professionals'. It was perfect, in tooting, close to the tube and the rent was surprisingly reasonable. Larry returned with 2 more pints of Guinness to a beaming Thomas. Thomas shared the advert with Larry, Larry rang the owner and the 2 new half p.i.s.sed friends set off to have a look.

"I will see you when I get back." Said Thomas, and with that, he stepped over the nutritional battlefield, made a cup of tea and retreated to the safety of his room. A spot of lesson planning, a little marking, a quick shower and Thomas was off to meet Janet at their favourite curry house.

Chapter 3.

It was a quiet day on the forecourt, Craig Mandeville walked across the silent showroom and poured himself his 5th cup of coffee of the morning and slumped down on the 'customers only' brown leather sofa. It had been quiet for weeks, it was always slow after Christmas but it was now February and business was at best painful.

The car lot was large, especially for one situated in busy South London and it was all his. Craig had inherited the business from his dad a little over 2 years ago when he pa.s.sed away.

Craig lost his mum when he was only 12, she developed an aggressive form of breast cancer and despite a strong battle, first cla.s.s treatment and 2 claims of remission she weakened and withered.

The death hit Craig hard, he transformed from being a bright and outgoing young boy to a pale and withdrawn sh.e.l.l. He lost interest in school and would talk to no one, n.o.body that is apart from his dad.

As Craig and his dad grew closer, the world moved further and further away from him. He stopped attending school and started spending more and more time with his dad at the garage. And so it went on, each using the other as a crutch to limp their path through life. Craig left school at the age of 16 with very few GCSE's and went to work full time with his dad at the garage.

They would wake, eat breakfast, sell cars, eat lunch, sell cars, eat dinner, watch TV and sleep. The cycle carried on that way until Craig was 29, when the routine was finally shattered.

Craig was eating his cereal one morning alone and wondering when his dad would join him. He finished eating, rinsed the bowl and placed it on the drainer to dry. He left the kitchen and headed upstairs to wake his dad.

Tap tap tap "Dad? Are you awake yet?" Craig paused, knowing in his heart that there would be no reply.

He opened the door slowly. In part allowing his dad if awake, to maintain some dignity and in part prolonging the impending discovery he correctly foretold.

His dad was indeed dead. He had pa.s.sed away in his sleep from an aneurism. The doctors in all their dead pan and emotionless delivery a.s.sured Craig that it was a 'time bomb' and he was lucky to have lived as long as he did.

This was of no comfort at all to Craig. He had lost his dad, his beloved dad. He had lost his final remaining link to his mother. As far as Craig was concerned, he was lost.

Craig drifted further and further away from reality. The car showroom went ignored as did any degree of personal hygiene. Craig started drinking. This made Craig even more unhappy, so he drank even more.

Craig was never a big drinker before the death of his father, a few cans on a Friday night, the occasional trip to the pub to celebrate a good day's business or a few gla.s.ses of wine with a meal at their local Italian restaurant. Craig had no friends, Craig did no other socialising.

The day of the funeral was when the drinking began. A pitiful affair for a man in his late 60's. Along with Craig there were a few distant members of the family that Craig only remembered from his mother's funeral and a small scattering of a few loyal customers and neighbors.

Craig left the funeral and went straight to the pub down the road from his home, fortunately it was empty. He ordered a beer, retreated to the quietest and most discreet corner of the bar that he could find and started to cry. He returned to the bar and ordered another, then another and so the cycle continued.

The barman found Craig face down on the floor while collecting gla.s.ses, it was only 7pm and fortunately the bar was still empty. It was fortunate because Craig had urinated himself and was covered in his own sick. The barman knew Craig and knew where he lived, he left one of the locals propping up the bar in charge and carried the groaning body the 50 meters to its front door, located the keys in its pocket and set him down on the sofa in an approximation of the recovery position.

Craig woke up the next morning with an evil hangover. This was the start of Craig's slippery slope. Feeling like death, Craig wiped himself down in front of the sink with a damp flannel, changed his clothes and staggered off to the local off license for more alcohol. Over the next few weeks things got worse. Beers turned to stronger beers, turned to wine, turned to spirits.

Craig stopped going out, opting instead to get his alcohol delivered by the local supermarket. He eventually stopped eating altogether, his skin began to take on a yellow tinge. This scared Craig, but there was no comfort other than that in the sickly sting of that day's hard undiluted liquor. Craig was scared of dying, but drank through it hoping that this would change. He wanted the lights to go out, he craved the blackness of the peace he felt awaited. Craig would have for a time welcomed death with open arms. He felt as if he were trapped within his own head, stuck in a vicious downwards spiral, rotting his body slowly from the inside out.

Craig's romance with ethanol finished abruptly 4 weeks and 5 days after he buried his father. He woke up with an unholy thirst gasping for air in a hospital bed. Craig found himself hooked up to beeping machines and covered in the remains of charcoal used to pump his stomach of alcohol the previous evening. Although he felt more unwell than he has ever felt in his life, he had woken with a new found clarity.

Craig had managed to drink himself unconscious and remained so, missing 3 attempts by the local supermarket trying to deliver his weekly shopping. When Craig's elderly neighbor Jerry was informed by the delivery man that he could get no answer from the house, he took it upon himself to have a look over the back garden fence, which is when he caught sight of Craig, lying face down on his kitchen floor surrounded by an a.s.sorted range of empty alcoholic drinks.

A phone call, an ambulance, a stomach pump and a night in a hospital bed later and here Craig was. A crippling thirst and a new outlook. Craig never drank again.

Chapter 4.

The bar was quiet, even for 10pm on a Tuesday in February. Howard Phillips was sat at the bar with his two oldest friends in the world, his only friends in the world.

Howard, Robert and James met every Tuesday at the Red Lion for a few beers. They would usually meet up around 8pm and spend the evening reminiscing about their days back in school and growing up together. They would watch football, play the quiz machine on occasion but mostly just laugh about old stories.

Howard worked in a record shop in the town centre selling vinyl to a handful of customers that still collected. He also sold vinyl on line which was the only thing that actually kept him going. He had no money, no girlfriend and apart from Robert and James, no one else to really talk with. His parents had pa.s.sed away a few years ago, so at the age of 29, Howard was a bit of a loner.

Howard was born in Tooting to an unemployed father and a mother who worked as a dinner lady at the local primary school. Needless to say, they had very little money and lived in a run-down council flat above a greengrocers on Tooting high street. Coming from a long line of non-working cla.s.s Howard grew up with very little in the way of ambition or aspiration. He drifted through school, largely unnoticed by teachers and other students, that is apart from Robert and James. The trio were first united on the first day in primary school and remained close friends ever since.

Howard left school with a mediocre set of GCSE's, a mediocre appreciation of education and a lack of appet.i.te for life in general. He began working in the greengrocers below the family flat which was where he remained for 5 years. At the age of 23 Howard lost his father and his mother fell ill shortly after, eventually pa.s.sing away 2 days after Howard's 24th birthday. It was after the death of his father that Howard decided to do something with his life. Howard's only real pa.s.sion was for music. He did not play an instrument himself, but loved to listen. His father was a huge Pink Floyd fan and this really rubbed off. Whenever Howard came home from primary school, secondary school or work he would undoubtedly enter the flat to the high volume sounds of Pink Floyd. The Wall, The Dark Side of The Moon, The Final Cut or Wish You Were Here were the usual anthems that adorned the air as he entered the small council flat. Howard began collecting LP's when he was just 8. The first LP he bought was a battered old copy of The Wall. He paid 5 for it at the dive of a record store he would visit regularly over the next 15 years buy something new each week with money saved from his birthdays, Christmas or hard earned on his paper round. When Howard's father pa.s.sed away he took up the lease of the record shop with the money he had saved from his greengrocer years. Howard moved out of the flat and into the flat above the record shop and despite his mother's failing health, he was happy. Howard put all of his energy into the store and it paid off, business was good. He developed a web site and the business grew. After his mother pa.s.sed away he was alone. He had a handful of Aunts and Uncles, but they were scattered across the UK and that had been the way of things all of his life.

As the years pa.s.sed, the business started to dry up as did Howards enthusiasm for the shop. He felt chained to it, a prisoner, he longed for some kind of escape, but what?

"Do you remember that time in History?" Said James.

"f.u.c.king h.e.l.l yeah!" Replied Howard.

"Which time, what are you going on about?" Asked Robert.