A Green Light: Book 2: The Kingdom of Men

A Green Light

Book Two

The Kingdom of Men

By

Ray Mooney

Contents

Title Page

Contents

Copyright/Dedication/Acknowledgement Page

Welcome to the nick

Advice from a Boobhead

Classification

The prison proper

A Division

The obso

One Shot

Settling in

The Activities Office

A new life

The meaning of life

Gate up

A lesson in civility

The Loudmouth

It’s not all that bad in the nick

The Dustcoats

Two sugars, no milk

More than one way to skin a cat

Hitting the brick wall

His beautiful sister

Goodbye, Misery

Saturday morning

Snaggle-tooth

A day in the big smoke

I need a favour, Johnny

Sambo and the Goose

The Kid

The Dustcoats up to their old tricks

The Prisoners’ Representative Committee

Trouble in C

The dog-fucker

A screw from the Slot

Egghead

The Debating Club

Reputation on the line

A bigger challenge

The emergence of the true crim

Old Ganger

Miss Royboy

Sweet dreams

Players Anonymous

Opening night in the nick

Midnight theatre

Locusta

The times, they are a-changing

The Fist

The passing of time

A new President of the PRC

The moment of truth

Half-time

Crunch time

On the cross

Home sweet home

Barrett

Blowing in the wind

Everynight, everynight

C Division

A second chance

My castle in old Denmark

Rolls Royce or Holden?

The acid test

Rainbow to Valhalla

I’m back

The battle of the minds

A loyal heart

Who dat? Who dat dere?

Postscript

Copyright © 2013 by Ray Mooney

All rights reserved. This book or any portion thereof may not be reproduced or used in any manner whatsoever without the express written permission of the publisher except for the use of brief quotations in a book review.

Printed in Australia

First Printing, 2013

ISBN 978-0-9875936-1-0

The main category of this book: 1. Crime. Other categories:

2. Prisons 3. Theatre 4. Debating 5. Violence 6. H Division .

Editor: Lois Jessop

Production: AWM Agency

Dedicated to:

Patricia Mooney, Autumn Mooney, Wilde Mooney,Trent Mooney & Tommy Hafey

Acknowledgments:

To Julie Watts, editor of the original book, A Green Light, published in 1988, but now completely rewritten. To Brian Johns and Bruce Sims from Penguin Books, Australia. To Julie Van Kesteren, Alex Miller, Alkinos Tsilimidos, Andrea (AB) Bishop and the late Peter Oyston for their creative support and encouragement. You’re the ones!

Welcome to the nick.

Morgan had no idea of the time, but it was dark and freezing inside his cell. He’d lain awake an eternity, his heartbeat an erratic cruel indicator to his distortion of time. Now there were locks noisily opening, gates slamming shut, signifying changing of the guards.

‘Lay down, you cunts!’ screamed a prisoner in another cell.

The noise increased. Morgan remained on a lumpy kapok mattress on the floor, his folded navy suit coat doubling as a pillow. Last night his escort van from the city courts was caught in traffic, so he was sloughed up without dinner, pillow and blankets. The oversight hadn’t registered because he was still in shock, having just copped twelve years for manslaughter and sexual assault.

In the van, crims told him he’d spend a week in the Classification Yard, before being moved to the Main Prison.

‘Been in the nick before?’ asked a nosy crim, who’d obviously spent most of his adult life inside.

Morgan didn’t feel like talking. He shook his head.

‘Fucken Squarehead, eh? Keep your arse to the wall, mate.’

‘If I’m a fucken Squarehead,’ replied Morgan, ‘what’re you?’

‘Boobhead, mate, fucken Boobhead,’ declared the crim proudly.

A bell rang. The commotion intensified. The repetitive sounds of cell doors opening made Morgan think of people running for cover. When his door was unlocked, he was standing almost to attention. Whoever unlocked it had moved on, without pushing it open.

Am I supposed to stay here, go out, or what?

He remained motionless. His door was pushed, so forcibly it slammed against the cell wall.

The first thing he noticed was the navy hat on the screw. It shadowed stern facial features, and honoured a navy uniform, with four shiny silver buttons down the middle, complementing smaller silver buttons over each breast pocket. For one moment Morgan thought the screw in the doorway was a policeman.

‘Name?’

Morgan had decided to make life easy for himself; this was to be his home for at least a decade.

‘Morgan, Johnny Morgan.’

The screw checked Morgan’s name against his clipboard, then curiously looked at him.

‘Twelve years?’

Morgan nodded ashamed. The screw smiled pleasantly, and spoke politely.

‘When an officer speaks to you, or you speak to an officer, it’s always Sir. Hmm?’

‘Ar, yes, ar, Sir.’

‘It’ll save you a lot of heartache.’

‘Thank you, Sir.’

‘Leave your mattress, but take any property with you. Line up outside the Classification Yard.’

The officer moved on. Morgan had no property to take with him.

Hundreds of prisoners, in civilian clothes, emerged from three tiers of cells. They headed towards a complex of barred gates, where prisoners yet to front court, and those already sentenced, like Morgan, were contained.

He joined a line leading to the Classification Yard. Most crims in the line were Boobheads, and had been in the classification yard for days. There was a tension that screamed, I’ve been here before, so don’t fuck with me!

An aroma of porridge reminded Morgan he hadn’t eaten since yesterday morning, when he’d still been on bail. Although he hated porridge, he was hungry enough to eat a barrel full.

A Senior Prison Officer purposefully took his time ticking off names on a muster sheet, as each prisoner was patted down by a screw. Twenty minutes later, Morgan was third in line to enter the Classification Yard. The SPO glanced at a prisoner about to enter.

‘Name?’

‘Howard.’

‘Howard what?’ barked the SPO.

‘No, just Howard…Sir,’ answered Howard sarcastically.

‘Get in!’ ordered the SPO.

Howard sauntered in.

The next prisoner spoke before being asked.

‘Barrett.’

Barrett entered the yard, without being told.

‘Hey!’ screamed the assisting screw, but Barrett was already half way down the yard. Prisoners behind Morgan grew restless.

‘Come on, what’s the fucken hold up?’

‘Pull your finger out!’

An assisting screw looked at the SPO, who indicated to ignore Barrett. They both stared at Morgan almost challenging him not to say ‘Sir’.

‘Name?’

Morgan considered.

‘Morgan, Sir.’

‘Step in.’

As Morgan entered the yard, a skinny crim, who’d been leaning against the see-through metal gate, shook his head, implying Morgan weakened by answering ‘Sir’. Wearing faded jeans and a tight-fitting black jumper, he stepped in front of Morgan.

'We're on a hunger strike,' commanded the Kid, who was eighteen if he was a day, with a baby face to match.

'What?' asked Morgan, feigning deafness.

'You heard!'

The Classification Yard was a Charles Dickens’ nightmare.

Fifty crims shuffled within a triangular concrete compound. Two-storey high, bluestone walls, borded by knitted barbed wire, ensured nothing but the elements enjoyed any sense of freedom. Morgan watched crims shove each other, for the privilege of squatting on the only stainless steel dunny, open to everyone’s scrutiny.

'Breakfast up,' screamed a screw in an observation tower, overlooking all yards.

'Line up,' shouted another screw, outside the gate.

The gate opened. Half the yard ignored the Kid's dirty looks, and queued on a line bisecting the yard. Morgan moved to the line.

‘You fucken Sucks!’ screamed the Kid at those on the line.

Great, thought Morgan. First morning in the nick, a bloke's starving and I have to choose between the Sucks, as the Kid calls them, or the Boobheads, whom I don't know and who are now threatening the Sucks with violence.

Morgan casually masked his trepidation by refusing to eat, and watched the Sucks escorted from the yard. As the gate slammed, the Kid rushed up and called them for all they were worth.

'What happens now?' Morgan asked.

'Fucked if I know,' replied the Kid.

'They'll get the Gaffa,' added Howard.

'Gaffa?'

'The Governor. They always do when there's strife.'

'And then what?'

'Fucked if I know,' snarled the Kid. 'But they're not

getting over us. That's for sure.'

The Kid paced up and down the yard.

Well, that's a relief, thought Morgan. We're not getting fed. The screws are probably preparing to rush in and kill us, but the Kid reckons everything's okay because nobody's getting over us. This is straight out of the nut-house: the lunatics are in control, and I'm putting my life on the line for a bunch of Boobheads, who couldn't give a stuff if I'm doing life, or in for a gig.

'What're we striking for?' he said aloud.

The Kid looked Morgan up and down, shook his head, and shuffled off.

'What're we striking for?' he asked Howard.

'Dunno.'

'Well, who bloody does?' hollered Morgan, with tempered control.

'More food. We're striking for more fucking food!' shouted the Kid.

Well, that's sensible, thought Morgan. We want more food, so we're going on a hunger strike. Is this Kid for real?

But it wasn't time for flippancy. Tension was building among the Boobheads, and although Morgan knew he wasn't part of their scene, he felt a sense of obligation, and joined them. They walked in twos and threes, up and down the concrete yard, avoiding bumping each other, with an adroitness cultivated from years of repetition. It didn't mean anything to Morgan, that the Kid was slamming his fist into his hand each time he turned.

The gates opened and the Sucks returned.

'You should've been there,' Greedyguts said to Morgan.

'That much, they had to chuck it out.'

Aware of the Kid's dirty look, Morgan acknowledged Greedyguts with a half smile.

'Enjoy your brekky, did you, boys?' the Kid derided. 'You fucking Sucks!'

'What's it to you?' snapped Greedyguts.

The Kid's eyes rolled. Howard grabbed him, and indicated that the screws were watching.

'You'll keep,' snapped the Kid.

'Ar, grow up,' quipped Greedyguts, staying close to the gate.

'Muster up. Fall in,' voices shouted to all yards.

'Alright, you heard. Fall in,' bellowed the tower screw. The Squareheads immediately stood on the line, but the Boobheads acted as if the order had never been given.

'On the line!' screamed a screw, and Morgan didn't know whether to line up and betray his new-found alliance, or stick staunch, thinking that backing a cause was one thing, but defiance for provocation's sake was stupidity.

'You there!' screamed the tower screw, and Morgan realised the screw was pointing to him.

'Me?' he asked, looking round.

'You were given a direct order. Get on that line.'

Before Morgan could respond, the Kid and the Boobheads ambled to the line.

'Come on. They're not getting over us,' said the Kid, brushing Morgan's arm.

‘Fuck, it's the Human Ashtray,' complained a Boobhead.

'Human Ashtray? What's that?' asked Morgan.

'Deputy Governor,' the Boobhead answered, in a tone that indicated he should've known.

'Attention!' yelled a screw.

The Sucks snapped their feet, but the Boobheads didn't flinch. Morgan moved uneasily.

'Answer your names,' called a screw, as the Ashtray opened the muster book and read the names.

Everyone answered 'Sir', the Boobheads with a taint of derision. As Morgan responded, he realised he had submitted to the magistrature and become a loyal subject in the kingdom of men.

The Ashtray's shirt was saturated under the armpits. His trousers had been slept in, and the stains on his tie could've been sauce or blood. He delayed the muster, knowing everybody wanted to get to the food issue. Finally, he asked if there were any requests. Nobody responded.

Come on, Morgan wanted to shout. Isn't this what we've been waiting for?

The Ashtray turned to leave.

Someone yelled, 'We want food!'

The Boobheads joined in, and a slight sneer appeared on the Ashtray's wavy lips. He trudged to the end of the line, and glared at the Boobheads. The noise subsided.

'If you have a complaint, the correct procedure is to step

out and see the Governor.'

The Kid turned to Morgan and sneered.

'Anyone who wants to take matters into his own hands will be dealt with accordingly.'

The Ashtray savoured the thought.

'Do I make myself clear?'

There was no reply.

'Good. Well, if that's all there is…'

The Boobheads looked at the Kid.

'What about the food?' asked the Kid, taking up the cudgel.

'If you've got a complaint, put down to see the Governor,' responded the Ashtray, walking to the gate.

'I'm telling you!' yelled the Kid.

'Yeah!' added a Boobhead.

'You'll have to see the Governor.'

'Fuck the Governor!'

'Who said that?' queried a screw. 'Who said that?'

The Ashtray was getting flustered.

'What's wrong with the food?' he asked.

Morgan sensed that some of the screws considered the Ashtray’s response to be a show of weakness.

'It's shithouse!'

'You try and eat it.'

'What's wrong with it?' demanded the Ashtray, with a degree of anger that attempted to cover his compromise.

'What's right with it?'

'There's not enough of it.'

'It's always cold.'

'It's shit!'

'Eat it and see for yourself.'

The screws’ looks conveyed to the Ashtray that he was encouraging the prisoners, but his disregard suggested he knew what he was doing.

'How many of you people had breakfast?' he asked.

As the Squareheads put their hands up, a big grin spread over the Ashtray's enormous face.

'See,' he said directly to the Boobheads, 'it can't be that bad.'

In the long silence, the Ashtray smirked triumphantly to the screws.

'You should've been here in the good old days, when my old man was Governor.'

He talked more to the screws than to the crims.

'You had porridge morning and night. And don't worry about it being hot. Now you’re fed good tucker three times a day, and you’re still complaining.'

The Ashtray hurried to the gate, indicating the muster was over.

Without moving a muscle, the Kid let out a piercing rooster scream. The screws were furious. The Ashtray strode up and down, trying to find the beast.

'If anyone's got anything to say…,'

The Ashtray paused long.

‘…step out and say it.'

Nobody moved.

'Course not,' fumed the Ashtray. 'That type's never got any guts.'

Morgan heard a slight chuckle from the Kid, and bit his lip to stop laughing. The Ashtray gave a threatening look, then turned towards the gate.

'Parade…' screamed a screw.

But the Kid cock-a-doodled again. The Boobheads roared laughing.

'You've just forfeited your film for the week.'

The Squareheads looked accusingly at the Boobheads, but as the Ashtray turned, true to form, the Kid emitted another call, short but loud. The Squareheads groaned, as they looked along the line, trying to indicate for the screws who the animal was. Greedyguts pleaded with his eyes to the Ashtray, that it wasn't his fault.

'Add to that your wireless for a week.'

The moan was genuine. The wireless was the only direct contact with the outside.

'If I hear it again, I'll cancel all visits and letters for a week.'

The Ashtray had thrown down the gauntlet; the ultimate loss of privilege. Films and wireless were one thing, but visits another.

'Come on, chaps. Do the right thing,' reasoned the Squareheads.

Morgan felt like adding: 'Yeah, come on, Kid,' but a bond had developed because he hadn't given the Kid away.

'Dismiss them,' the Ashtray spat.

'Parade…'

The screw held the order, as the Ashtray hesitated at the gate.

'…dismissed.'

They broke off.

He was only a kid with a chip on his shoulder, but Morgan felt himself wanting to be in his company. The way he confidently moved around the yard among the Boobheads, without their challenging him for not giving another rooster call, indicated that he held their respect. He swung his arms high behind his back, portraying his youthful arrogance then stopped abruptly at the gate.

‘Hey, Boofhead,’ the Kid shouted to the screw in the observation tower.

‘Speak to me like that, son, and you’ll find yourself on a charge!’

‘Speak up, Boofhead. I can’t hear.’

The tower screw walked away to the derisive laughter of the Boobheads. The Kid removed his arm from the sleeve of his jumper, then wobbled the empty sleeve.

‘Boofhead!’ the Kid shouted.

The tower screw angrily raced back.

‘What d’you fucken want?’

‘Someone’s knocked me arm,’

Even the Squareheads laughed as the tower screw hurried to the phone. The Kid continued walking up and down.

Morgan sensed something was about to happen, as each time the Kid neared the gate, he looked to see if the tower screw was watching but he was still on the phone. Suddenly, the Kid falsed to one side, and simultaneously threw the best king-hit Morgan had seen. Greedyguts was stone cold by the time he hit the deck.

'I saw that,' screamed a Squarehead.

'Sir, Sir!' yelled another Squarehead, pointing to the unconscious Greedyguts, and then the Kid. 'It was him, Sir.

Him.'

Half a dozen screws, wielding 'pig-killers', rushed into the yard.

'That's him!' shouted the tower screw, pointing to the Kid.

'What's going on?' asked the Kid, holding his hands in the half-surrender position.

But before he could throw a punch, they crashed him to the ground. It wasn't until a screw hit another on the hand, that they stopped batoning him.

Two medical crims carried Greedyguts away.

'What'll happen to him?' Morgan asked.

'Get a night in hospital, lucky cunt.'

'The other guy?' he asked.

'Who knows?'

'Get sent to the Slot,' said a Boobhead.

'Slot? What's the Slot?'

The Boobhead walked away.

'What's the Slot?' Morgan asked another Boobhead, feeling he had more in common with them than the Squareheads.

'The Slot, mate, is…the Slot.'

Morgan shuffled up and down the yard by himself.

'Get in yesterday?' asked Howard, joining him.

'Yeah,' replied Morgan, looking at the mass of tattoos on the Boobhead's skinny arms.

'How long?'

‘Twelve…years.’

‘What for?’

‘Manslaughter,’ answered Morgan almost proudly.

‘Good one. Musta been a willing go, to get twelve.’

Suddenly he was embarrassed.

'And an assault. You know, ar, unlawful assault, you know, on a chick.'

'Sour?' the Boobhead asked, without changing his expression.

'Eh?'

'Sour grape, mate?'

Morgan still didn't catch on.

'Sour grape. Rape.'

Morgan recoiled at the word 'rape'.

'Was she worth it?'

'Ar, I didn't do it,' he lied.

'Yeah, I know how you feel, mate. Fucking cops! Verballed me too, mate. But I've got a good mouthpiece, so I'll be out soon on appeal. Never know, might be able to do something for you.'

Morgan knew the Boobhead was talking shit, but he didn't care.

'Ar, what'd they charge you with?' Morgan asked, talking in hard phrases to suppress any Squarehead traits.

'Just shit, mate. Got a smoke?'

'Sorry. Don't smoke.'

'Pity.'

'Why's that?'

'You get visits, don't you?'

'I will.'

'Get 'em to leave some. Havelock Dark. You can get two ounces.'

'But I don't smoke.'

'Can change it for chocolate. Eat chocolate, don't you?'

'Mate, at the moment I'd eat anything.'

'Titch, mate,' said the Boobhead, holding his hand out.

Doesn’t matter where you are, thought Morgan, footy club, pub, there’s always a Titch.

They paced up and down the yard. Titch initiated each turn, with Morgan falling into step, like some jailhouse waltz. Morgan noticed Titch continually checking the tower screw, and relaying his observations to other Boobheads, with an upward glance, or sometimes a subtle shake of his head. Before long Morgan found himself also checking the whereabouts of the tower screw; a game of reverse psychology.

'What's the Slot, Titch?'

'That's one place you give a heavy swerve. Right?'

'Why?'

'H Division, mate. H for fucken hell!'

'You been there?'

'Ha, ha, me? I fucking live there, mate.'

'What for?'

'You name it.'

'Like what?'

'Ar, fighting, stiffening a Suck, trafficking. Even went there for dumb insolence once.'

'What's that?'

Titch paused, looked sideways at Morgan, then grinned.

'Asking a stupid question.'

Morgan laughed.

'Fall in!' the tower screw screamed.

The tall, handsome figure, covered in braid, could have been Douglas MacArthur, as he entered with a flourish that dismissed the ambience of screws. Morgan was struck by his haunting eyes and rich grey hair.

'I'm the Governor of this prison,' he said, for the benefit of the new inmates.

He walked close to the line, as if to parody the excessive security.

'And I'm not happy about this morning's proceedings.'

Morgan wondered what the Kid would make of that remark. The Gaffa's pause was for the crims to digest his comment.

'I won't waste time. What's the problem?'

There was no response, so he turned to the Ashtray.

'Seems the rooster's lost its head,' quipped the Ashtray.

There was cunning laughter from the screws.

'Then what was all the fuss about?' demanded the Gaffa.

'They had plenty to say this morning,' added the Ashtray.

'Well, now's your opportunity.'

Morgan couldn't understand why they didn't speak up.

'You?' the Gaffa asked, pointing to a Squarehead. 'Got any complaints?'

'No, Sir. Not me, Sir.'

'What about you, O'Brien?'

O'Brien looked at the ground.

Morgan noticed Titch shrug his shoulders. A comment came from the bottom of the line. The Gaffa strolled down.

'Well?'

'It's the food.'

'I know it's the bloody food!' snapped the Gaffa. 'That's why I'm here.'

Morgan understood why no one wanted to be spokesman.

'Well, it's…' continued the Boobhead, seeking encouragement from the others.

'…We don't get enough of it.'

'Yeah, that's right,' said another. 'And it's cold.'

'Hang on!' shouted the Gaffa. 'We'll get nowhere if everyone butts in.’

The screws looked at the Ashtray, indicating that that was how crims should be treated, but Morgan thought the Ashtray could be a bigger swine than all of them.

'I've just come from the kitchen, and the officer in charge assures me you're actually getting more than you're entitled to.'

The moan of disapproval irritated the Gaffa.

'What you're entitled to is laid down by an Act of Parliament and it hasn't changed in fifty years. You're not denied cabbage, carrots and dozens of other vegetables. That's because I've added them. You boys know that, and, I might add, although I shouldn't be saying this, it was against the advice of some of the officers.'

Morgan expected the Gaffa to glance at the Ashtray, but he didn't.

'I'm also responsible for putting cooks in the kitchen, instead of poisoners.'

The crims laughed, and the Gaffa looked at the Ashtray, who politely smiled.

'Now I'll attend the lunch meal, and if there's anything wrong with the meal you point it out. But I won't stand for any nonsense. I won't have my prison disrupted, and good officers ridiculed for the sake of triviality. Fair enough?'

The silence affirmed the request. The screws quickly left.

'Just watch,' said Titch. ‘Lunch'll be the best meal we've ever had. He'd've made a good crim, the Gaffa.'

But Morgan was only interested in how long it’d be till lunch. When the order came to line up, there were no dissenters.

Advice from a Boobhead.

Titch gave Morgan the benefit of his experience, and Morgan promised him weed.

'You've gotta get yourself a top job, mate.'

'How?'

'You just tell them where you wanta work.'

Morgan smiled. He might’ve been a Squarehead, but he knew this wasn’t a place where you simply asked for what you wanted.

'I'm telling you, mate. You’ve gotta let them know who's boss, otherwise you'll end up on the farm, or worse, in fucken A Division.'

‘A…?

‘Fucken Sucks, mate. All fucken tamperers, dropped outa arses.’

'What's a top job?'

'Well, what you don't want, is to be a fucking Silver-tail.’

'No?'

'Mate, they're fucking screws,' he said, giving the Squareheads dirty looks.

'So what do I ask for?'

'Well, if it was me, mate, I'd ask to be classified to the

Mat Yard. It's the top gang, mate, deadset. No fucken Sucks. Then you gotta get a top Division. C's ratshit - full of

old stiffs; E's dormitories. Give that a swerve. Y's the Yoggies…'

'Yoggies?'

'Flue-bums.'

He checked Morgan for a reaction.

'Boys, mate. Boys. Forget it. Gotta be eighteen. You've too many hairs on your arse for that, mate.'

Morgan thought it time to set him straight.

'I hate poofs, Titch. Fucking hate them!' declared Morgan, exaggerating something he’d never really considered.

'So do I, mate. Fucking place is full of 'em. Gives you the shits. Especially fucking A. That's where you could go. No offence, mate.’

‘I thought you said…’

‘Yeah, but it’s also for first-timers, fucking Squareheads. But geez, mate, fucking twelve! What was she, the judge's daughter?'

Morgan blushed. He didn’t want to explain it again, that he’d actually killed someone, and only copped two years for the sexual assault, so he remained silent.

'Don't let them stick you in A, mate. Stack on a blue.'

'Where will you go?'

'B, mate. I always go there. All the top blokes are in B, deadset. No one trying to get up you, and you know where you fucking stand.'

'Yeah?'

'Because they give you fucking nothing, mate. Nothing.

And when you’ve got nothing, they can’t take anything away from you.'

Classification.

'Morgan!' yelled a voice from inside the classification office.

'Sir,' replied Morgan.

'Don't forget, mate,' said Titch, flicking his nose with his thumb. 'Let them know who's boss, and the Mat Yard, mate.'

'Step in, Morgan. Give the committee your name.'

He stood in front of the half-moon table. Even the civilian wore a hat.

'Morgan, Sir. John Morgan.'

'Sit down, son.'

He knew the Gaffa, and the sign in front of the civilian read, 'Director of Prisons'.

That must be Earle.

'Don't tangle with Earle, mate,' Titch had said. 'He reckons all crims should do six months in the Slot first.

Give him a swerve, mate.'

They were all reading from identical folders. First to finish was the officer in charge of classification. He closed his folder and placed it on a pile of similar folders, then spoke while the others were still reading.

'We try and take into consideration your best interests, when we classify you. Have you any preference where you'd like to go?'

The polite and sensitive manner threw Morgan.

'Ar…'

'Well, speak up,' snapped Earle, who looked like a 1940s gangster in his broadbrim.

'Ar... as I've never been here, I thought you'd have a better idea of where I should go.'

The Gaffa raised his eyebrows.

'You in that strike the other day?' snapped Earle.

Morgan noticed the skin on Earle's hands had lost elasticity, and small scabs had formed.

'Ar, it was my first morning in prison, Sir.'

'That's not what I asked.'

'Mr Earle means did you join in the hunger strike?' asked the OIC, adjusting his hat.

Morgan considered denying it.

'Ar, yes I did, Sir.'

'Yes, we know,' mused the OIC, looking specifically at the Gaffa.

'Not a very auspicious start, would you say?' asked Earle.

'Ar, no, Sir,' replied Morgan, guessing that not very auspicious wasn’t a complimentary term.

'Your first day inside, and you've joined the troublemakers.'

They looked for his reaction. He decided not to respond.

'You've been given a long sentence, son,' said the Gaffa.

Morgan nodded. Their stares made him apprehensive. He wanted to tell them he was really a Squarehead, that he didn’t mean to kill anyone, and if he had his time over he definitely wouldn’t have touched the girl.

'And I see you've appealed.'

He nearly said that he was innocent, but the Gaffa didn't give him the opportunity.

'It says here you've managed a pub. Is that correct?'

'Yes, Sir,' he answered proudly.

He knew that was the one thing separating him from the others. He couldn't be a crim if he'd managed a pub.

'You'll find that doesn't count for much in here. I've had doctors, lawyers, even a member of parliament and most were only good for causing trouble.’

They all nodded. Morgan knew he'd be classified to the farm.

'Now, I'm going to take a punt on you, and I might add, against some very good advice. We need a good man as writer in the Activities Office. It's an important job. A job of trust. If you do the right thing by us, we'll do the right thing by you. You'll have an opportunity to earn full remission. Do you think you can handle it?'

He hadn't the faintest what a writer, or the Activities, were, but he could tell that the 'good advice' probably came from Earle.

'I can handle it, Sir.'

'Good, because I'm counting on you. Now, we're sending you to A Division.'

'Thank you, Sir,' he said genuinely.

'But one wrong move,' added Earle, 'and you'll find yourself down the Mat Yard.'

'That's all, Morgan,' said the OIC.

He was escorted back to the Classification Yard. Titch was unable to conceal his jealousy.

'Geez, mate, the fucking Gaffa. What is he, a relation of yours or somethin'?'

'What's a writer?'

'No wonder they sent you to fucking A.'

'Why? What's Activities?'

'I'll only tell you because you're a mate. Normally I wouldn't be seen nagging to a fucking writer.'

'What is a bloody writer?'

'Silver-tail, mate. Fucking screw. They run the joint. The only thing you don't have is keys.'

The Boobheads supported Titch with their nods.

'They're all fucking Sucks. Couldn't you have said no?'

Morgan didn't answer.

'Look at the fucking shit you gotta live with,' said Titch, indicating the Squareheads. Morgan felt as if he'd let the team down.

The prison proper.

The classified prisoners were marched over to the prison proper.

Must be at least a hundred acres, Morgan thought, as they passed a large oval, surrounded by vegetable gardens.

'The farm, mate. It's where they empty all the stiffs,' explained Titch.

Morgan looked at the old unfortunates leaning on their tools, or sheltering from the bitter wind,