Johnny No Luck

Johnny No Luck

Copyright 2014 Peter Harrison

Published by Barny Books at Smashwords

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Table of Contents

Prologue

Chapter One

Chapter Two

Chapter Three

Chapter Four

Chapter Five

Chapter Six

Chapter Seven

Chapter Eight

Chapter Nine

Chapter Ten

Chapter Eleven

Chapter Twelve

Chapter Thirteen

Chapter Fourteen

Chapter Fifteen

Chapter Sixteen

Chapter Seventeen

Chapter Eighteen

Chapter Nineteen

Chapter Twenty

Chapter Twenty One

Chapter Twenty Two

Chapter Twenty Three

Chapter Twenty Four

Chapter Twenty Five

Chapter Twenty Six

Chapter Twenty Seven

Chapter Twenty Eight

About Peter Harrison

Other books by Peter Harrison

Connect with Peter Harrison

PROLOGUE

Sandy Baxter was top dog at Medomsley Young Offenders Prison. His real name was Simon Baxter. No one dared call him Simon. He was nothing special to look at; average height, average weight, carrot-topped, only it was shaved to the bone but even then the dull copper sheen covered his head. One of the youngest inmates at the Centre, Baxter was eighteen years old with severe mental problems. He loved films and was an avid collector of Hollywood trivia and autobiographies. On the surface he appeared controlled and ordered, his room was spick-and-span with everything in its allotted place. Sandy Baxter could not settle or sleep if a book had been moved minutely out of sync. Texts had to be placed in alphabetical order with identical authors in strict order of release date. Pride of place was the blown-up photograph of his sister above his bed. Simon Baxter adored her. One month into his sentence he had tried to choke someone who had poked fun at the photograph. He had a touch-paper temper and woe betide anyone who struck the wrong match.

Some of the less sympathetic inmates said the youth lived in a world of fantasy because of his awful, abusive childhood. Rumours abounded that he came from a pig-sty of a home in Wolsingham, a small village west of Durham. It was said that his parents had systematically abused both Baxter and his older sister, Dottie. His father was a career criminal and a heroin addict, his mother a violent alcoholic. Both siblings tasted Council Care-Homes and protection-orders. Gossip hinted that Dottie escaped from the hovel when she was sixteen, took off with some criminal who lived near the coast, pulled herself out of the gutter and made something of herself. Sandy Baxter had remained at home, perhaps too fearful of change, without the gumption and guile of his sister. The youth stayed close to his home town and followed the usual apprenticeship of petty crime, progressed to stealing cars and moving drugs. He terrorized his village from the age of sixteen.

Sandy Baxter was a homosexual and did not hide the fact. The first time Baxter saw John Briggs he wanted him. He always got his own way.

Both boys were on kitchen duty when the initial approaches were made. Clever too, Sandy talking to the small newcomer, asking all the right questions and making him feel wanted and part of the crowd. Then momentum shifted as Sandy told the youth he was lonely and needed a friend. The naïve John Briggs fell for the spiel, even showed him some deft moves with a football when they were in the gymnasium. Shared secrets with the young criminal too. York City approached first, he told Baxter. Hartlepool was another club, but I wanted to play for Sunderland. Only club in the world for me. Dad used to take me sometimes, used to talk about Colin Todd. Rated him as one of the best, said he ran the team like a general. Who is the best player in the world, who do you think, Sandy? Pele, Charlton, George Best? Disagree there, Sandy. Jimmy Greaves. Jimmy Greaves was a God. If he had played in the world-cup there wouldn’t have been extra time! He was injured! Same man could run circles around Geoff Hurst.

The initial flirtations were obscure, harmless but leading inevitably to an obvious conclusion as the Durham youth boasted of his knowledge of irreverent and fatuous cinematic gossip. You must have heard of Navarro? cited the ecstatic Simon Baxter. He was as big a star as Valentino. John Briggs had never heard of either silent legends but pretended otherwise. Ramon Navarro was the star of Ben Hur, said Baxter. John vaguely remembered the film, could have kicked himself when he mentioned the movie star, Charlton Heston, especially when he saw the tide of anger rise over his companion’s sullen features. I’m talking about silent movies, Johnny! He continued spouting irrelevancies. Navarro was killed in the sixties by burglars who rammed a lead dildo down his throat. Baxter smiled at the image. The dildo was a present from Valentino. Then the punch-line was thrown to gauge John’s reaction. I’d rather have the real thing, wouldn’t you, John?

When the flirting became obvious, John retreated from the younger lad, careful not to offend him. He had heard all about his hysterical, uncontrollable temper. Hovered around other lads, played pool or table-tennis but even then the atmosphere was becoming uncomfortable as most of the inmates knew about Baxter’s fixation. John withdrew to his room but the obsession ran unabated. Sandy was always calling, eager to talk, pushing and persuading. The older youth tried diplomacy, told him ever so gently that he preferred the company of females which led to the first assault. It was over in seconds. John Briggs was savagely beaten. It was the first time he had been knocked unconscious. Days later, further threats came from the bully.

In desperation, the young inmate spoke in confidence to one of the guards. He was laughed at; told it was rough justice. Spoke to another jailer who was more sympathetic to his plight. The guard listened but offered nothing positive. Johnny, he said. If I approach Baxter and warn him off, what’s going to be the outcome? He’ll find a way of damaging you, won’t he? Use your head. You seem like a clever lad. Think of a way of persuading Baxter to find another bed-fellow.

John felt totally isolated. He had tried to find help and failed. He decided to meet fire with fire. John griped for days before naively telling inmates and guards how he intended stopping the harassment. Trouble was, John was not a violent man and had rarely brawled. He’d had the odd bloody nose from his father but that was all the ring-craft he knew.

The day before the incident, John Briggs reported sick and, after whining to the medic, was given tranquilizers. The same evening he was assaulted again. The humiliation was worse than the battering. John knew he had to do something. The next day he swallowed a mouthful of pills and began work in the kitchens. By 10.30am he’d finished washing-up. Close by were two other inmates mopping the floor. Sandy Baxter was one, Stan Beckett the other. John’s head was fogged and fiery, he’d stolen whiskey from his cell-mate, Jason Ridley. The medication and the alcohol did little to lift his mood. He told himself it was time to act but lacked the courage to begin. He was too frightened, too fearful at challenging the psychopath so he stood, steel frying-pan in his hand, rooted to the spot.

Hello, lover, whispered Sandy Baxter. He had sneaked up close to the quaking youth who almost fainted when he felt the open palm caressing his rump. Changed your mind? Baxter continued the harassment with a permanent smile over his hungry features. Suddenly, impulsively, John Briggs swung the frying-pan at the leering face and caught Baxter flush on the open mouth. Blood and teeth flew in all directions as the aggressor careered across the room then collapsed in a heap. John should have finished the task, it would have been easy for him to deal the finishing blows to end the battle but it was not his way, he was too placid, too caring by nature. He did the worst possible thing. Flinging the frying-pan across the room, John grabbed a wet cloth and went to the aid of the fallen youth.

Moments later Sandy Baxter recovered enough to struggle to his trembling feet, grab a heavy steel urn and battered the wailing victim to the floor. John Briggs was knocked out. The other inmate, Stan Beckett, who had watched the whole incident with unmitigated joy, suddenly realized that the tables were being turned and poor John was about to be seriously injured. He ran screaming from the kitchen.

Moments later two burly guards ran into view. They saw Baxter battering the victim’s legs unmercifully with the metal frying-pan. Used like a truncheon, the weapon hammered at the unprotected knees, You’ll never play football again, Johnny! screamed Baxter. Never walk again! Suddenly aware of the guards storming at him, Simon Baxter left the unconscious figure and ran at the jailers. He was lightning fast and wielded the weapon like an expert. One guard was felled immediately with a severely dislocated jaw; the other, with a broken arm dangling useless at his side, ran for his life.

Ten minutes later the mayhem was over. Tough as he was, Baxter was no match for half a dozen baton-wielding officers. Battered into defeat, he was handcuffed and frog-marched out of the kitchen. Defiant to the end, Simon Baxter lunged at the lead jailer and clamped his teeth on his unprotected arm. He was like a human pit-bull in his ferocity and determination and it took several powerful head blows to weaken his grip. He was still howling with rage when he was driven out of the ground for medical treatment.

Baxter was badly hurt in the attack. His skull was fractured, his cheek-bone crushed and, thanks to John Briggs, his teeth were bloodied stumps. He never returned to the young-offenders institution in Medomsley but was moved instead to Kirklevington, south of Middlesbrough.

Because of his savage assault on the prison guards, Simon Baxter was given an extension to his sentence of eight months. For being instrumental in starting the fracas, John Briggs had his stay in Medomsley increased by an additional twelve months.

Outwardly it appeared that Briggs made a full recovery from the beating. He could walk, run and exercise but the aches and pains never left his knees. The teenager developed arthritis. His plans to pursue a career in professional football were abandoned; his dreams to play for his beloved Sunderland were at an end.

CHAPTER ONE

Frank Briggs squatted uncomfortable on the kitchen chair in the council semi in Moore Terrace, Shotton Colliery. He looked at his pendulous belly and sighed loudly. Promised himself he would definitely start the diet tomorrow. Expelling air like some giant bellows he began struggling with his shoe-laces. It was ten in the morning and the man had decided to spend a pleasant hour in the small allotment before returning home for dinner. Then it would be a quick change of clothing and an afternoon session at The Comrades pub. It was a daily ritual for the ex-miner. He liked routine.

Frank used to work at the coastal colliery of Dawdon, Seaham, three miles north-east of Shotton. That was a long time ago. The fellow was forty-eight, overweight and on long-term sick-benefit. There was nothing ailing Frank Briggs, he simply couldn’t take the daily grind of employment. Told folk he had spinal trouble. Said it long enough and loud enough until he had fooled every naive doctor and specialist that ever treated him. Granted there were some days he could hardly get out of bed, but usually it was Saturday mornings when he’d had a skin-full of liquor the night before. Frank didn’t grumble, he managed well enough on the weekly invalidity benefits from the Potto Street Post Office. Was not only the State Benefits that made him smile. There were the miscellaneous kick-backs from the state coffers - free prescriptions, free dental treatment and a boatload of tablets every few weeks that he sold to the local riff-raff for cash - that allowed him to enjoy the good life. Same daft Government even helped him buy a new motor every few years so naturally he believed in the Welfare State and the good old Labour Party. It was a double whammy for the Government because his skiving wife, Elsie, also claimed Sickness Benefit. For the last ten years the woman had collected her sick-note proclaiming she suffered from depression. Frank and Elsie Briggs deserved Oscars for their roles as life-long fakers.

The man had sired two very different offspring. Robert, the oldest, was hard-working, mature and happily married. Staid and dull, and apart from a strong work ethic, he was a virtual clone of his father. John was something else; he was a feisty, irrational lad and lived life in the fast lane and, according to his father, had more in common with his wife’s side of the family.

Elsie Briggs, short and solidly-built, wandered in from the living-room, I’m worried about John, she said.

Frank, wheezing like a consumptive, lifted his sweating head and glowered at his wife. Didn’t wait for an answer, Must cut down on the grub.

John’s been through hell and high water, she repeated, He’s never been the same since Medomsley.

Self-inflicted woman!

He’s your son, said Elsie grumpily. All said and done!

Frank stood, his jowly features blotched crimson. He’s a grown man, he answered, subconsciously pushing fingers through his thick oily locks. Let him look after himself!

He’s only a bairn, Frank.

The man was adamant, Lead a horse to water, Elsie!

How can you talk about your own flesh and blood like that? admonished the woman.

The man glowered at his wife, his head shaking with annoyance, It’s a pity he doesn’t take after me.

What are you saying, Frank?

You know fine well what I’m saying, woman, said the man petulantly. The little beggar takes after your side of the family!

Elsie stood proud, arms over chest, pouted defiantly, What’s wrong with the Motsons?

You want me to talk about your brother! mocked Frank. There’s not the hours in the day!

Leave Micky out of this, Frank, said Elsie, raising her voice. He’s had some bad luck is all!

Bad luck, you say, he whined sarcastically, bad luck!

Yes, rotten luck!

How many times in prison, eh? said Frank haughtily.

Ran with the wrong crowd, said Elsie. Micky has a heart of gold!

Just as well it’s not made of gold, spat the man, because he’d have weighed it in at the scrap-yard!

Shut up, Frank!

Same man would steal off everyone!

You wouldn’t say it to his face, replied the woman defiantly. She pondered for a moment, He’s done you some good turns.

All I’m saying is that John is as daft as!

He’s nineteen, Frank!

Almost twenty! derided the man. And already father to three kids! Two of the brats to different women … and both of them under-aged when he made his mark! Married three years and two of those years locked up!

Elsie grimaced but did not retaliate.

You’d think he had a hard paper-round! commented Frank Briggs. He pulled on an ancient coat and strode towards the door. He’s the double of his Uncle Micky now that he’s started to lose his hair! Frank pondered before adding, Should take a leaf out of his brother’s books! Robert’s twenty-five and not a bit of bother!

John called in this morning for a cuppa. He’s determined to get a job...

Frank interrupted, There’s no chance of that! A big fat smirk filled his bull-dog face, Not after all the trouble he’s caused!

He was always a good worker, replied Elsie proudly. John was well-liked at Suncrest!

He’s an ex-jailbird, woman!

Don’t say that!

Frank’s reply was to open the back-door and break wind. Back in about an hour, Elsie, he said. Try and have dinner ready. I’ll try one plate today, must cut down!

Elsie Briggs walked into the living-room, grasped the copy of Woman’s Own and moved towards the stairs. She glanced at the clock above the fireplace. It read 10.15am. She had intended going to the Co-op first but then her stomach began to rumble in earnest. Elsie ponderously climbed the steep staircase, her head filled with thoughts about her youngest son, wondered if she should write any more letters to those football people, wondered if it was too late now for her son to be famous and rich. She sighed. It was too late, a year too late.

She pictured her brother, Micky Buff Motson, scourge of Wingate, once. Elsie’s favourite, a few years younger and a character if ever there was one. He was full of life, bursting with energy and fun. Errol Flynn, her dad had called him, Robin Hood of the colliery. He was a dashing, lovable lothario. Captain Blood himself, a brigand and a pirate, always in bother, always in scrapes. Wild at school and ever wilder when he tried to find work.

Elsie reached the top of the steep staircase and gasped for breath. She wondered if she should join her husband and start dieting. The idea was pushed aside as she moved into the main bedroom and looked out of the window. With elbows resting on the window-sill she gazed across the garden and the street and thought about her brother. Visits went down the plug-hole once he attached himself to the Middlesbrough girl. He drifted apart then and started running with the wrong crowd. She whispered his name and agonized. The years in prison had changed Micky so much.

*

John Briggs couldn’t return to his old job at the factory once he had been released from prison. He did not want the flak from his former work-mates so he applied for a job at Easington Colliery. At the interview he omitted to mention his time in detention at Medomsley Young-Offenders’ Institution. Told them he wanted to leave Suncrest Fire Surrounds because he had a young family and needed a bigger wage packet. Don’t mind working a shift system, he had told the overweight, lecherous-looking, training officer. And weekend work will be a piece of cake. He stood humble, his stomach on fire with nervous apprehension as he watched Gilbert Pawden, the colliery recruitment-officer, solemnly scan his glowing, fraudulent, reference from Suncrest.

Alice Drinkwater, almost nineteen, had been employed at the same firm as John Briggs. She worked in the office complex and John laboured on the factory-floor. It was Alice who had supplied the letter-headed paper and written the fake testimonial. The pair had known each other for years, attended the same school, same class too, and had been friends for ages. Before his incarceration, John could sense that Alice wanted him and had taken advantage of her good nature. The pair enjoyed a passionate ten minutes in the larger-than-normal invalidity lavatory on the ground floor of the factory. Their shift was over, and apart from the cleaners who were at the far end of the complex, they were alone. I’ll do anything for you, she promised. He remembered Alice saying that as she stared wide-eyed in amazement as John unzipped his pants. God! she’d gasped with incredulity. It’s right what they say about you, Johnny! So naturally, months later and free from jail, young John Briggs had reminded Alice Drinkwater of her promise. She was straddled over his car at the time, gasping with pleasure, Yes! Yes! she cried and John did not know if she was talking business or pleasure at the time. However, the very next day she fulfilled her oath and a well-written, up-to-date reference was handed to the smiling youth. He gave his solemn vow to meet up with her the very next week.

Gilbert Pawden, N.C.B. Recruitment Officer, was in his early forties. He eased his ample frame on to the office desk and looked again at the young man. Saw the bulge in his trousers and gasped with pleasure. He was swayed, especially when the youngster smiled innocently at him and looked too long into his eyes. Gilbert asked if the newcomer was literate and handed him a standard file full of miscellaneous safety and warning signs relevant to the colliery. He listened patiently as the recruit whizzed confidently through the miscellaneous lists.

Fine, fine, said Gilbert, you can read!

I really need the work, Mr. Pawden, begged John Briggs, using a little psychology to oil the cogs.

The teenager was on his best behaviour. He smiled constantly at the man and was attentive and charming; fawning and grovelled as if his future depended on it. The mind games worked because the colliery official decided to hire the lad. Pawden looked at the wall clock and realised he would have to act quickly. An hour ago a dozen newcomers’ had started their initial five days training at the pit. He knew if he didn’t allow the youngster an immediate start there would be a three month delay before the next recruitment.

He waltzed out of the dusty office and into the enormous acreage of the colliery grounds and gestured for the lad to follow.

Have I got the job, Mr. Pawden? John asked.

Start today, if you want, said the recruitment officer. You’re only an hour late.

Gilbert Pawden was right of course. Moses Harris was still in the canteen with the youngsters, drinking tea and telling tall tales. He had taken the recruits on a slow circuit around the main areas of the colliery: the lamp-cabin, timber-yard, pit-showers and the like. After refreshments the old man would show the kids the stores where they would be decked-out with heavy boots and overalls. After a few minutes of harmless banter he would take the newcomers to the belts and let them see first-hand a bit of grafting. Had the spiel all ready, ‘Only way to separate the shite from the coal!’ he’d spout. Might let a few of the bigger kids stand next to the moving conveyor-belt and grapple with