The Hill (15 page)

CHAPTER TEN

For the next three days Williams had the prisoners on the hill and punished them. He faulted their equipment, the way they laid out their kit. He punished them for dumb insolence, for talking. He was convinced that all he needed was a week. In one week he would break them. Stevens he dismissed from his mind. He was born broken, and Bartlett was hardly worth bothering about. A week on the hill would do him a power of good. Teach him to stay out of prison in future. He wouldn’t be so anxious to return the next time that he was needed up the line. He would chance bombs, shells and sudden death before he went inside again.

Roberts was the major problem. He wasn’t the toughest. McGrath and Bokumbo were tougher than Roberts, but Roberts had a hell of a lot of spirit. It wasn’t simply a matter of breaking him, of wearing him out on the hill. He had to break his spirit.

Bokumbo and McGrath were still strong but Williams thought he had detected signs that they were beginning to weaken. Another three or four days on the hill and they would be broken in and obey any order chucked at them. Williams looked at the prisoners lying on the cell floor. Stevens was lying on his back babbling away like a demented child. ‘When they’re all like Stevens,’ thought Williams, ‘then my job’s finished here.’ He smiled to himself and slammed the cell door behind him.

“Oh God, dear God. Oh Christ, what have I done?” moaned Stevens.

Bartlett opened his eyes and stared across the cell at Stevens and looked with disgust at the whimpering boy’s white tear-stained face. “You’ve been a naughty little lad,” he snarled.

“Leave me alone,” sobbed Stevens as he beat his clenched fists feebly on the cell floor like a petulant child. “Leave me alone.”

“Aw! Shut up,” yelled Bartlett.

“Oh God, dear God. Oh merciful Christ.” Stevens crossed himself and sobbed even louder.

“Oh no,” yelled Bartlett, even louder. “Shut yer bleeding trap.”

“Oh, Christ,” babbled Stevens. “Dear God, what have I done? I only wanted to go home.”

“Now ’e’s seen the light.” Bartlett threw his small pack at Stevens.

“Give over, Stevens,” McGrath didn’t even open his eyes. He was too weary to care about how much the boy suffered. He simply wanted him to stop moaning.

“Fay,” sobbed Stevens as he feebly got to his knees and crossed his hands in prayer. “I only wanted to come back to you, Fay. Oh Fay, darling, help me. Help me.”

“Oh Gawd,” yelled Bartlett as he glared at the kneeling figure. “I’ll put me boot in ’im in a minute, won’t I.”

Roberts spoke sharply. “Get off your knees, Stevens.”

McGrath opened his eyes. “Who’s he praying to now? His missus?”

Bokumbo said, “Williams boiled that boy on the hill. He don’t know what the hell he’s saying.”

McGrath nodded his head. “Aye. You could have had a brew up on me too. I was that bloody hot. But I dinna fancy witnessing this wee wet article offering up his prayers to his missus who’s gone off whoring with a Free French fighter, so he’d better cut it out.”

Stevens swayed and fell on his face, but still swayed in a kneeling position.

McGrath grinned. “He’s pointing East so now he’s gonna send a couple up to the wee woggies patron saint.”

“Stevens,” shouted Roberts, “will you cut it out.” He climbed slowly to his feet and moved towards him.

Stevens cringed away and crawled into a corner of the cell and hid his face. “No, sir. Please, sir. I can’t do any more. I want to lie down, sir.”

Roberts looked at the other prisoners. “He’s out of his tiny mind. Better bed him down.”

Bokumbo walked over and looked at Stevens and nodded his head. “Yeah. That hill’s cracked him.”

“Just a minute, Roberts.” McGrath stood up.

Stevens tried to burrow deeper into the comer. “Sir, I can’t do any more, sir. Please, sir, I want to lie down.”

Bartlett remembered a song from his almost forgotten childhood. There was a little Welsh nit in the home with him, he suddenly remembered. Taffy, the little bastard. But he had a lovely voice and he would sing in the dormitory after lights out. Bartlett sang out of tune. “So make me bed, there’s a pain in me head and I want to lie down.” He laughed. “Wonder what happened to the little bastard. I didn’t ’arf hate him.”

“You get permission to bed him down,” said McGrath.

“The boy’s sick, Mack.”

“Then he goes on sick parade, Roberts, or you get a screw’s permission to bed him down.”

“That’s right, Joe,” said Bokumbo. “Yell for one of the screws.”

Roberts moved to the cell door and shouted, “Staff, Staff. We’ve got a sick man here.”

A moment’s silence, then a prisoner in another cell laughed and mimicked Roberts. “Staff, we’ve got a sick man here.”

A shout of laughter from the other cells and voices picked up the chorus. “Staff, we’ve got a sick man here.”

Harris shouted along the corridor. “That’s enough. We’ll have less noise.” He stopped outside Cell 8 and Roberts gestured to Stevens who was still crouched in the corner of the cell. Harris unlocked the door and walked over to Stevens and looked down at him. “What’s the matter with the lad?”

“Williams has had him on the hill once too often,” said Roberts.

Harris looked at Roberts, then crouched down beside Stevens and placed his hand gently on his shoulder. “Lad. What’s the matter?”

Stevens feebly moved his arms and legs, seemingly trying to burrow into the wall. Harris stood up. “I’d better have a word with the R.S.M.”

“Why not get the M.O. to take a look at him?” said Roberts.

Harris nodded his head in agreement. “But first the R.S.M.”

“Staff. The boy’s sick.”

“Rules and Regs. I shouldn’t have to tell you, Roberts.”

“And what’s the R.S.M. going to do?” Roberts said, losing his temper. “Wave his magic wand? Staff, get the vet.”

“Big mouth bloody Roberts,” snarled McGrath. “All set to drop us in it again.”

“O.K.,” shouted Roberts, “I’ll keep my big mouth shut. Let the screws bury the poor little sod in an army blanket.”

Harris gripped Roberts’s arm and swung him round. “That’s enough out of you. One word, one more crack like that and I’ll have your guts.” He pushed Roberts away.

“Staff.” Bartlett stood to attention and faced Harris. “I’ve ’ad it. I want out from these lunatics, don’t I. There must be a job going in the cookhouse or the Waifs and Strays ’Ome, or some place.”

Harris looked at Bartlett and couldn’t help smiling. ‘Here’s the number one prisoner. The survival expert begging me for a posting,’ he thought. ‘He’s cracking. Going, going, nearly gone. If he had a tail he’d wag it, he’s that anxious to please.’ He shook his head and smiled and turned his back on Bartlett and looked at Williams as he walked into the cell.

“You want something, Staff?” enquired Williams.

“Yes. I’d like a word with you,” said Harris moving to the door.

“Where are you going then. You can say it here, can’t you?”

“Right.” Harris walked back into the cell and faced Williams. “You’ve a sick man on your hands.”

Williams glanced at Stevens. “I can deal with him.”

“Can you? Maybe you think you’re the second Messiah. Fancy you can make the lame walk, do you?”

“You know it’s an offence to talk like that in front of prisoners, Staff.”

“But it’s O.K. to cripple them, is it?” said Harris.

Williams pointed his cane to the door. “If you don’t get out sharp, Staff, I’ll put you on report and leave it to the R.S.M. to decide what’s right and wrong.”

“And maybe I can organize something. A visit from the M.O.” Harris marched out of the cell.

Williams walked over to Stevens and prodded him with his cane. Stevens tried to get deeper into the corner.

“What the hell’s up with him?” Williams turned and grinned at the prisoners.

“You’ve busted him,” said Roberts.

“When I want you to speak, Roberts, I’ll pull your bloody strings.” Williams knelt down beside Stevens and put his lips near his ear and said, “Boo.” Stevens jumped and burrowed away at the wall. Williams stood up laughing and shaking his head. “Funny way to carry on. Trying to work his ticket maybe.”

“Might be a touch of sunstroke, Staff,” said Bartlett.

Williams shrugged and prodded Stevens with his cane. “Stevens, on your feet.”

Stevens made little whimpering noises and burrowed away again. The prisoners watched Stevens in silence.

“I’m giving you an order, Stevens,” shouted Williams as he lashed him across his backside with his cane. “On your feet.” He turned to the prisoners. “Get your towels. You’ve all had a hard time so I’m putting you under the shower to sweeten you up, and we’re taking Stevens.”

“Yeah, Staff. Thanks very much, Staff,” said Bartlett.

“Then get him on his feet. Get him up.”

“Yeah, Staff.” Bartlett grabbed Stevens. “Come on, kidder, come on.”

Stevens moaned, “Leave me alone, please. Leave me alone,” and tried to pull back to the corner of the cell that he had taken such a strong fancy to, but Bartlett relentlessly pulled him back.

“Aw, come on,” he shouted. “Staff wants you upsy daisy.”

But Stevens still weakly struggled and repeatedly moaned. “Please, please.”

In a sudden fury Williams grabbed him and sent him staggering across the cell. Roberts caught him just in time to prevent him crashing into the wall and Stevens clung to him like a child and sobbed. “Make him leave me alone. Please, you’ve got to make him leave me alone. You’ve got to help me.”

“Now ain’t that nice,” grinned Williams as he watched Stevens clinging to Roberts. “I’ll get the preacher in to you two and get you married. Bartlett, drag that bloody fairy out of here.”

Bartlett pulled Stevens away from Roberts and pushed him out of the cell.

“If I’d known you two were on your honeymoon,” grinned Williams, “I’d have you in a separate cell. Double out, you bugger.”

Roberts knelt down and took out his towel and soap from his small kit then looked at Williams and wondered just how much more he could take from him. He willed himself to remain calm as he slowly walked towards the door.

“Double,” yelled Williams.

McGrath and Bokumbo doubled out of the cell.

Roberts paused and looked at Williams then doubled along the corridor. In the corridor Williams gestured to Tom. “You, here.”

“Yes, Staff,” said Tom as he ran to him and stumped to attention.

“Tidy up this hole. If the M.O. sees it there’ll be hell to pay.”

“Right away, Staff. Leave it to me, Staff,” fawned Tom and went to work with his broom in the corridor and swept his way into the cell, then tip-toed back and peeped into the corridor and watched Williams’s retreating back until he was out of sight. Then he moved to Bartlett’s kit and with quick expert fingers opened his pack and searched through it, touching the clothing and holding it close to his face and inhaling deeply.

When he came to the bandage pack his eyes gleamed and he eagerly sniffed it and got a whiff of tobacco up his nostril, but at the same moment he heard heavy footsteps echoing along the corridor and in a panic he dropped the bandage back into Bartlett’s kit-bag and picked up his broom and began sweeping the cell floor.

The R.S.M. followed by Harris walked into the cell and stopped when he saw Tom sweeping away. “What the hell are you on?”

Tom, in his panic, handled the broom like a rifle and sloped arms. “Sir. Staff told me to clean up this cell.”

The R.S.M. pointed to the cell door with his cane and Tom ran out. The R.S.M. moved about the cell disturbing the prisoners’ kit with his cane, his nose wrinkled in disgust as he glared about him. “Well, Staff, where’s everybody?”

“It’s funny, sir.” Harris looked puzzled.

“You as good as tell me that Stevens is at the gaping door of death.”

“I’m telling you, sir, the lad was in a bad way. I’ve tipped off the M.O.”

“Have you?” said the R.S.M. quietly as he looked at Harris.

“Crouching in that corner trying to dig his way out.” Harris pointed with his cane. “Maybe the M.O. should take a look at his head.”

“Go back and tell the M.O. he’s not needed, Charlie.”

“Sir. Didn’t you ought to see Stevens first?”

“Where is he?”

“Well, sir. He was here.”

“Where the hell is he now?”

“It’s damn funny, sir. I agree.”

“If he was knackered as you said he was, he couldn’t be running wild around the prison could he? Go on. Get about your business.”

“Yes, sir. It’s damn funny.” Still puzzled, Harris walked away.

The R.S.M. moved towards the window and looked at the hill. A squad of prisoners were working on it but no prisoners were running over it. He took a last look at the cell and walked into the corridor and, taking his time, he inspected every cell in the block.

Tom sneaked back into Cell 8, still carrying his broom. He made straight for Bartlett’s kit-bag and dived his hand into it but again he heard footsteps. He picked up his broom and began sweeping the floor.