said—’
‘Yeah? What did you say, you fucking frag? Why you on this wing, Pulford, if you’re not a fucking snitch?’ The orderly throws the tray on his bed and the mulch of spuds and fish spills onto his sheets. ‘Or a fucking fiddler.’
Pulford knows the orderly. This is Beef, one of the hardest men in the jail, on the verge of acquiring don status, as well as being a senior partner in the e.gang.
‘Levi,’ says Pulford, to Beef.
‘Don’t call me Levi,’ says Levi Salmon. ‘Name’s Beef, you frag.’ Levi Salmon is known as Beef for good reason. He has shoulders like a bull and is over six foot but his waist is narrower than his neck. His trick in the yard is to give a con a free hit. Pulford saw it the other day and Beef didn’t even blink when an armed robber from Canvey Island punched him full on the nose. The crunch of the blow resounded across the yard and the assailant stood briskly back, his jaw dropping. Silence fell in the yard and Beef stepped forward, said something to the con that made his face turn grey. That night, an ambulance came, went, and the armed robber from Canvey hasn’t been seen since.
Pulford peers over Beef’s shoulder, sees Mister Crawshaw withdraw onto the landing.
‘What the fuck you got to be scared about, sergeant? Or do you need to watch your tongue?’ Beef puts his hand to Pulford’s mouth and grabs it, like you would an apple from a tree. He breaks Pulford’s skin where the window had grazed him.
Crawshaw sneers, ‘Careful, Salmon, he’s bleeding. Don’t catch AIDS.’
Beef puts his face right up to Pulford’s. He licks the blood from his wound and whispers, ‘I ain’t ’fraid of fuckin’ nothing, me. You get me? I’m an animal. Everyone says so.’ With one hand still squeezing Pulford’s mouth, Beef reaches behind him, pulls a piece of paper from his waistband and holds it up to Pulford. ‘See this? I gave you a copy.’
Pulford focuses on the piece of paper, sees it is the printout from Google Earth. He raises a hand, grabbing Beef’s neck, but he makes no impression.
Beef says, ‘Mummy’s house. We been there and her next door, Jean, she reckons your mummy thinks you’re wasting yourself in the police. Maybe it’s ’cos you can’t do your fuckin’ job. People like us, we’re above the law and you can do fuck all about it.’ Beef drops the piece of paper and takes something from his pocket. He squeezes Pulford’s mouth even tighter until his lips part. His jaw cranks open and Beef presses his handful into Pulford’s mouth, puts his hand over and holds it there as Pulford gags.
After ten seconds, he lets Pulford go and steps back, laughing as Pulford spits out the mouthful of dog hair.
He spits and spits, but his mouth is dry and he has swallowed some. The taste is rank and it spikes all the way down his throat.
‘Simba,’ says Beef. ‘That’s mummy’s dog, right?’
‘You cunt,’ says Pulford, rushing at Beef, but just before he gets to him, Beef shouts, ‘Thor!’
Now, Crawshaw steps in.
Pulford has his hands on Beef’s throat again, but barely covers half the circumference.
‘Don’t use that language, Pulford,’ says Crawshaw, stepping up and twisting him.
‘Thor,’ says Beef. ‘That’s the name of my dog. A proper name for a dog.’
The PO has Pulford bent double, his arm up the back and his shoulder right on the edge of its socket. His bleeding cheek is pressed to the cold floor and Mister Crawshaw says, ‘You’re on a Governor’s. See how that looks in the case for the defence.’
Eight
Earnest waiters glide through Les Ambassadeurs, heads erect like Deco silhouettes. ‘You remember the first time we came here?’ says Finbar Hare.
The bar is softly lit, and crystal glasses and bottles of Armagnac glisten like jewels. Beyond, through the dining room, a private garden deludes you into thinking you are not in London at all. ‘We were younger then.’
‘And wild.’
‘Some of us still are,’
‘Yeah? What did you say, you fucking frag? Why you on this wing, Pulford, if you’re not a fucking snitch?’ The orderly throws the tray on his bed and the mulch of spuds and fish spills onto his sheets. ‘Or a fucking fiddler.’
Pulford knows the orderly. This is Beef, one of the hardest men in the jail, on the verge of acquiring don status, as well as being a senior partner in the e.gang.
‘Levi,’ says Pulford, to Beef.
‘Don’t call me Levi,’ says Levi Salmon. ‘Name’s Beef, you frag.’ Levi Salmon is known as Beef for good reason. He has shoulders like a bull and is over six foot but his waist is narrower than his neck. His trick in the yard is to give a con a free hit. Pulford saw it the other day and Beef didn’t even blink when an armed robber from Canvey Island punched him full on the nose. The crunch of the blow resounded across the yard and the assailant stood briskly back, his jaw dropping. Silence fell in the yard and Beef stepped forward, said something to the con that made his face turn grey. That night, an ambulance came, went, and the armed robber from Canvey hasn’t been seen since.
Pulford peers over Beef’s shoulder, sees Mister Crawshaw withdraw onto the landing.
‘What the fuck you got to be scared about, sergeant? Or do you need to watch your tongue?’ Beef puts his hand to Pulford’s mouth and grabs it, like you would an apple from a tree. He breaks Pulford’s skin where the window had grazed him.
Crawshaw sneers, ‘Careful, Salmon, he’s bleeding. Don’t catch AIDS.’
Beef puts his face right up to Pulford’s. He licks the blood from his wound and whispers, ‘I ain’t ’fraid of fuckin’ nothing, me. You get me? I’m an animal. Everyone says so.’ With one hand still squeezing Pulford’s mouth, Beef reaches behind him, pulls a piece of paper from his waistband and holds it up to Pulford. ‘See this? I gave you a copy.’
Pulford focuses on the piece of paper, sees it is the printout from Google Earth. He raises a hand, grabbing Beef’s neck, but he makes no impression.
Beef says, ‘Mummy’s house. We been there and her next door, Jean, she reckons your mummy thinks you’re wasting yourself in the police. Maybe it’s ’cos you can’t do your fuckin’ job. People like us, we’re above the law and you can do fuck all about it.’ Beef drops the piece of paper and takes something from his pocket. He squeezes Pulford’s mouth even tighter until his lips part. His jaw cranks open and Beef presses his handful into Pulford’s mouth, puts his hand over and holds it there as Pulford gags.
After ten seconds, he lets Pulford go and steps back, laughing as Pulford spits out the mouthful of dog hair.
He spits and spits, but his mouth is dry and he has swallowed some. The taste is rank and it spikes all the way down his throat.
‘Simba,’ says Beef. ‘That’s mummy’s dog, right?’
‘You cunt,’ says Pulford, rushing at Beef, but just before he gets to him, Beef shouts, ‘Thor!’
Now, Crawshaw steps in.
Pulford has his hands on Beef’s throat again, but barely covers half the circumference.
‘Don’t use that language, Pulford,’ says Crawshaw, stepping up and twisting him.
‘Thor,’ says Beef. ‘That’s the name of my dog. A proper name for a dog.’
The PO has Pulford bent double, his arm up the back and his shoulder right on the edge of its socket. His bleeding cheek is pressed to the cold floor and Mister Crawshaw says, ‘You’re on a Governor’s. See how that looks in the case for the defence.’
Eight
Earnest waiters glide through Les Ambassadeurs, heads erect like Deco silhouettes. ‘You remember the first time we came here?’ says Finbar Hare.
The bar is softly lit, and crystal glasses and bottles of Armagnac glisten like jewels. Beyond, through the dining room, a private garden deludes you into thinking you are not in London at all. ‘We were younger then.’
‘And wild.’
‘Some of us still are,’
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