This story is written by David, please send comments and appreciation to voondave@yahoo.co.uk

                      JAILHOUSE  BLUES.      Part 1  (of 3).

PROLOGUE:    The ‘LOWE INSTITUTION for MALE BEHAVIOURAL OFFENDERS’.   (L.I.M.B.O.)

                                                                            DECEMBER – 2070.

To the eyes of any casual, or uninformed observer, it might appear that the 2 elderly gentlemen, who were sitting listlessly in their wheelchairs, each with a rather rough-looking blanket draped over their knees to help stave off the creeping cold that wanted to invade their old-aged joints, like a malevolent and tormenting virus, and staring rather vacantly, at the forlorn images of themselves that reflected back at them from the mirror on the wall of the Patients Lounge, were just waiting, were just simply waiting – for ‘the end’.

And as if they thought, that their meaningless lives, and their cheerless and inconsequential existence, might as well be over.

Then, the angle of view of the 2 elderly, time-worn, and all-but inanimate gentlemen changed, when 2 of ‘L.I.M.B.O.’s volunteer female Carers took hold of their wheelchairs.

All of ‘L.I.M.B.O.’s Carer Staff were female volunteers, and they were composed of kind and compassionate ladies (for the most part, at least!), who were retired from their former jobs and careers, and who gave so generously and selflessly and freely of their very valuable time, purely on a voluntary basis, to ‘put something back’ into the community, and they did so, at a time when the need for Carers of the elderly was becoming increasingly desperate, and was at an all-time high – almost a National Emergency.

And, it was volunteer Carers Billie Jo and Bella Donna – who were, themselves, no spring chickens anymore, being well into their 70’s – who now turned the 2 wheelchairs around. So that their lethargic occupants – the Carers’ subdued charges – faced each other.

I, David, occupied 1 of the wheelchairs, while the other conveyance of the elderly or infirm, was occupied by my friend and companion of more than 50 years – Ross.

Then, and as Ross and I stared into each others eyes, with barely a flicker of recognition – let alone, acknowledgement, for, such was the measure of the great depth of our lassitude – the 2 ‘L.I.M.B.O.’ volunteer Carers, Billie Jo and Bella Donna, stared raptly and intently at the hypodermic syringes that, born of years of practise, they so expertly manipulated, as they slowly and carefully depressed the plungers until dirty-yellow-tinged droplets of the sedative drug spurted, then seeped from the tips of the wicked looking needle points.

Then, the 2 ‘L.I.M.B.O.’ volunteer Carers, Billie Jo and Bella Donna (who I had often thought were – apart from their physical appearances, that is – almost like 2 peas from the same pod: in their uncanny sharing of character traits, which were born, I believe, not just as a result of so closely sharing each others working and social lives for so many years, but, because of a close, and seemingly natural psychological affinity, between them), said, in unison, and with their malicious and sadistic satisfaction plainly evident, in the malevolent glint of their eyes, and in their cruelly gloating voices, “OK, boys! Let’s see your bottoms! It’s time for your weekly meds!”

                                                                                    H.M. PRISON  ‘GREYSTONE’.

                                                                                          NOVEMBER – 2020.

I suppose my story really starts, from the life-changing moment when I received my Prison Sentence at the Crown Court, for unwittingly falling foul of the new ‘Crimes Against Women’ Legislation, that had only just come into being, and of which, the ink had barely dried on the pages of the Statute Book.

The new and highly innovative ‘Crimes Against Women’ Laws, that were designed to protect and encourage respect towards females, were the brainchild, and the ‘2020 Vision’ of the Justice Minister, Cybil Frost.

Not realizing, or even suspecting that I could possibly be perpetrating an illegal act – but, of course, an ignorance of the Law is no defence – I had committed, and was duly found guilty of, 5 separate Counts, of the new and highly innovative ‘Crimes Against Women’ Legislation.

I had been duly found guilty of 5 separate Counts, of ‘Un-Gentlemanly Conduct’.

Of course, there had been no need to squander the hard-earned money of The Tax Payer on a needless Trial – heaven knows! The importunate demands for Government money was tight enough, these days – since all of my offences had been captured and recorded by the ubiquitous lenses – the omnipresent and all-seeing, privacy-invading, and intrusive and prying eyes, of the Nation-Wide and comprehensive network of CCTV surveillance cameras.

I can still quite vividly remember, even all these years later, just exactly how dumbfounded, I was – quite literally, dumbfounded – when the Judge, ‘Her Worship’ Delia Downing, had perfunctorily asked me if I had anything to say for myself, after she had, stonily voiced, duly pronounced her Sentence upon me. And after she had added – almost as an afterthought – that it was a Prison Sentence, to which I had no rights of appeal.

Had I anything to say? My tongue felt super-glued to the roof of my mouth, in incredulous and immobilizing shock, and, it was all that I could do, to lamentably shake my disbelieving head, by way of answering the question of ‘Her Worship’ Delia Downing, in the negative, as the seemingly over-severe and disproportionate weight and gravity, and over-the-top harshness of my Prison Sentence slowly sank in, and came fully home to me.

The emphasis, of the new and highly innovative ‘Crimes Against Women’ Legislation, was on Punishment first, and on Rehabilitation second – the soft-hearted, touchy-feely, mamby-pamby, pussy-footed do-gooders, had had their day!

‘Her Worship’ Delia Downing had gravely intoned, “So, in summary, you have been duly found guilty, of 5 separate Counts of the ‘Crimes Against Women’ Act, of ‘Un-Gentlemanly Conduct’. And, in feeling it my bounden duty to make a salutary example of you, in hopes of deterring others from following the same ruinous path that you have chosen, I have no compunction, in awarding you the maximum Sentence that is available to me in Law, of 5 years per Count, to run concurrently, and with no possibility of parole, or of remission of Sentence.

“In short, you are to serve your Full Term, of 25 years in Prison. And, you will serve your 25 years Prison Sentence in Greystone Prison, where the correct and proper way for you to behave and to conduct yourself towards females, will be drummed into you – every single day!

“Now, have you anything to say for yourself, before I have you taken down?”

Had I anything to say? I could only stand there, speechless, and rigid with grief-stricken shock and incredulity – 25 years! ‘This’, was Justice? – 25 years! In Greystone Prison!

Upon the order of ‘Her Worship’ Delia Downing that I be “taken down”, I was handcuffed to 2 ‘Securi-Fem’ Officers, whose duty it was to accompany me in their Prison van while I was transported to Greystone Prison. “Come along, Prisoner!”, ordered 1 of my female guards, sharply. When I failed to respond – still rooted to the spot, immobilized in my profound shock, and feeling so sorely let down and so cruelly wronged by the British Justice System – to get my attention, and to roughly drag me back to this awful new reality, the other Securi-Fem Officer pulled sharply, almost savagely on her handcuff (jerking my chain, so to speak), as she forcefully repeated her colleague’s order, “Come along, Prisoner! Are you deaf? You have been given an order! We haven’t got all day! Let’s be having you on your way to Prison!”

After a thoroughly miserable 3 hour journey, accompanied by and handcuffed to the 2 stern and reticent Securi-Fem Officers, the Prison van at last arrived at Greystone Prison.

The 2 Securi-Fem Officers were then relieved of their responsibilities for me, when they formally handed me over to 2 female Greystone Prison Officers – Greystone Prison is run by exclusively female Prison Officers – which is, of course, the whole point of that dreadful Institution: to primarily focus on the punishment of male offenders, while the matter of their rehabilitation, as I would soon discover, was a decidedly distant – and token-like – secondary aim.

While the 2 Securi-Fem Officers engaged in banter with the 2 Greystone Prison Officers, and exchanged their paperwork in connection with my transportation from Court and with my admission into Greystone Prison, I looked about me, taking in the gloomy and depressing sight of the forbidding edifice, and the foreboding, soul-sapping atmosphere of that awful, grim place – Her Majesty’s Prison ‘Greystone’.

At my first sight of Greystone Prison, I had stood aghast and dismayed, as I beheld the physical reality of that notorious and nefarious Prison, that looked like a squat and ugly, monstrous, miserable grey cube, and, I found myself hugging my arms across my chest, tightly – as if that small and instinctive gesture of self-protection, might help ward off the ‘negative waves’ that seemed to emanate from the very walls of the pernicious Prison like harmful radio-active pulses – and ease my acute sense of deep dread.

I was rudely roused from my dreary reverie, when, the 2 Securi-Fem Officers having departed in their Prison van, the 2 receiving Greystone Prison Officers, in perfect unison, yelled harshly into my distracted face, “Prisoner David!!”

The first thing that I had noticed about the Greystone Prison Officers, was their distinctive hairstyle – which I would later learn was called a ‘Concave Bob’.

To me, their hateful hairstyle – I hated it from the first moment that I saw it – seemed, in some inexplicable way, to somehow de-feminize, and to effectively nullify the underlying attractiveness of the facial features of the Prison Officers, as the plains and angles of their faces were seemingly hardened, made harsh and hostile, and denuded of any semblance of warmth.

The hairstyle of the Prison Officers was such, that they had bangs – straight fringes – on their foreheads, and their hair on the sides of their heads hung straight down, and then curved inwards just under their jaw-lines, while the napes of their necks was free of hair, and, just the sight – just the very sight – of their newly-growing, soft and downy hair on the backs of their necks, somehow made the hair on the back of my own neck stand on end, as though in an uneasy and disturbed reaction to some inexplicable and nameless fear.

I would later learn, though (and with not a small measure of relief!), that it was not just myself, who reacted this way to the Prison Officers’ ‘concave bob’ hairstyles, but most Prisoners.

The Greystone Prison Officers’ ‘concave bob’ hairstyle was actually an integral and key component of their Prison Officer Uniform – and, I never did lose my initial and seemingly irrational fear, just at the very sight of it.

The clothing of the Greystone Prison Officers’ Uniform, consisted entirely of garments that were pale blue in colour: cotton short-sleeved blouse; tie, embossed with the Greystone Prison logo; denim skirt; and, on their bare feet, they wore pale blue, thin rubber soled flip flops.

Their blouses were deliberately designed to fit suggestively and seductively, so as to enhance and to make the most of their womanly attributes.

Their denim skirts were ‘hot-pants’ short, tight-fitting and bottom-hugging, exciting and enticing, and very sexy.

One notable exception, though, was that, except for short ‘periods’, the item of clothing that was conspicuous by it’s absence, and that the Greystone Prison Officers routinely did not wear, under their pale blue, ‘hot-pants’ short, tight-fitting and bottom-hugging, exciting and enticing, and very sexy denim skirts – either pale blue, or any other colour – was underwear.

And, these were the Greystone Prison Officers, who were colloquially known – among Prison Officers and Prisoners alike – as the Jailhouse Blues.

The attractive and alluring appearance of the Prison Officers’ Uniforms – and the almost sanity-threatening effect that they had upon most Prisoners, was, of course, no accidental coincidence – but was carefully calculated, cunningly conceived, and cruelly contrived and devised by the Prison psychologists, precisely because, of the Uniform’s – the combination of hairstyle and garments – unsettling and disturbing effects upon the sex-starved Prisoners, and precisely because, it made the Prisoners simultaneously loathe and desire the Prison Officers, and precisely because (if my own experience was anything to go by), it had Prisoners simultaneously salivating with desire and all-but pulling their hair out, in an intolerable ferment of confusing emotional conflict, mental torment, and sexual frustration.

And, precisely because, it so effectively served as a constant and cruel, graphic and taunting – and goading – reminder to the Prisoners, of just exactly what they were missing, and just exactly what they couldn’t have.

And, needless to say, the Prison Authorities did not have ‘something’ put in our tea.

Of the 2 Greystone Prison Officers who had received me into custody, and who brandished wicked-looking canes – as all Greystone Prison Officers did – and who I guessed were both in their early to mid 20’s, one of them was blonde, while her fellow cane-carrying colleague was brunette.

The Prison Officer who was brunette – I couldn’t fail to notice – had the menacing appearance and demeanour, of someone who was very definitely not to be crossed or messed with. She was solid, substantial, and powerfully built, and – as I would soon be finding out – she was a highly formidable woman, who was not to be taken lightly or otherwise trifled with. Unless you were looking for trouble – and then you would have it in spades!

The Prison Officer who was blonde, who, with her concave bob hairstyle, and in her facial features, and with her slight and sylph-like figure, very strongly – startlingly, I felt – resembled the blonde BBC News presenter, Louise Minchin.

And, as I had gazed at the dreadful spectacle of Greystone Prison, it was in such loud and harsh tones – as I had certainly never heard issue from the cultured lips of the blonde BBC News presenter, Louise Minchin – that, it was her look-alike, the blonde Prison Officer, who, while pointing her cane at me, threateningly, addressed me sharply, “Prisoner David! What do you think you are doing? Admiring the view? Perhaps you would like to take a photo, to hang on the wall of your cell?” she sneered, sarcastically. Then, her voice hardening even further, she all-but snarled at me, “Come on! Get moving! Unless you want a taste of our canes! Come with us, and move smartly! You are not on holiday now!”

Handing me a grey-coloured, rough-to-the-touch 1 piece garment, like a boiler-suit, the blonde Prison Officer informed me, “here, Prisoner David. Take this. This is your Prison Uniform. You can change into it in your cell. You may find it a bit uncomfortable at first, but you will just have to get used to it, won’t you, just like all the rest of the criminals in Greystone. Anyway, you’ve got the next 25 years to get used to it. Now, come on, and move yourself, unless you want an early introduction to our canes! Come and meet your cell-mate”.

I knew I was not checking in to an hotel, and I was hardly expecting the interior to be much of an improvement on the singularly unprepossessing exterior, but, seeing the unrelieved grey of the interior – unrelieved, that is, except for the pale blue Uniforms of the Prison Officers – of the austere and depressing, and very aptly named Greystone Prison, came as another jolting shock to the system, and, the sinking feeling of depressed spirits that had already assailed me, sank even further, as I viewed with dismay, the grey and miserable environs of Greystone Prison, and as I listened, to the irritating and highly annoying slap-slap-slap-slapping sound of the Prison Officers’ pale blue, thin rubber soled flip flops, as they slapped against their heels as they escorted me to my Prison cell.

The Ground Floor of Greystone Prison, on which the Administration, Laundry, Kitchen, Staff Cafeteria, etc were situated, had no Prison cells on it, as they were all situated on the upper 5 Floors of the Prison.

As the 2 Prison Officers escorted – frog-marched, me – up 3 sets of identical, grey painted metal spiral stairways, in the enormous (or monstrous!) square-shaped, 6 storey Correctional Establishment, with the irritating and highly annoying slap-slap-slap-slapping sound of their flip flops slapping against their heels as we went, I couldn’t help but notice, that there was some kind of curious-looking, small and circular platform – of about the same dimensions as a family-size dining-table – set into the floor at the centre of each cell-block Landing, with what looked like set-apart footplates, and with 2 leather straps attached to an overhead, grey painted metal bar.

I was just about to inquire of the 2 Prison Officers, as to the purpose of the curious-looking circular platforms, that were situated at the centre of each Landing, when ‘blondie’ rattled her cane against the grey painted bars of a cell on Landing 3, as she announced, maliciously, “we’re here! Here you are, Prisoner David! Cell 3 B. Your new home, for the next 25 years! I’m sorry if the décor is not quite to your taste, I’m sure. But don’t worry – you’ve got the next 25 years to get used to it”.

Then, after opening the grey barred cell door, ‘blondie’ gestured with her cane, meaningfully, as she ordered me, “go on, Prisoner David! In you go, and make yourself at home. Put the kettle on! Watch a bit of TV. Or take in a movie. Hahahaha! Meet your cell-mate – Prisoner  Ross. I’m sure you’ll find you’ve got lots in common. Prisoner Ross – meet your new cell-mate – Prisoner David.

“Now, Prisoner Ross, listen carefully. Billie Jo and me are going for our Lunch-Break now. We’ll be back in an hour. Meanwhile, for his own good – and for yours – teach your new cell-mate the ‘facts of life’, as they pertain to him now, about living and serving here, in Greystone Prison”. “Yes, Officer”, replied my cell-mate, Ross, compliantly and meekly.

“Yes, Officer! Yes, Officer!”, I mimicked my cell-mate, sarcastically and derisively, just as soon as the 2 Prison Officers had departed for their Lunch-Break (and were safely out of earshot!), and after I had descended the 4 grey painted steps into our cell, as the grey bars of the cell door had banged loudly closed behind me, had slammed shut, with wholly unnecessary violence, clanging shut, with disconsolate, resounding and reverberating and resonating grey waves of irrevocable finality – the dismaying, soul-sapping sound, of freedom being a thing of the past – the grey and dismal sound, of lost liberty.

“Come on then, Ross. What sort of a welcome do you call this? Put the kettle on, then”, I said to my cell-mate, facetiously. For, of course, our grim cell contained no such luxury as a kettle – let alone a TV – and the remarks of the blonde Prison Officer were simply sniping and taunting barbs, and just an example of the Prison Officers’ cruel humour, that I could expect in the future.

I changed into the 1 piece, boiler-suit-like Prison Uniform that ‘blondie’ had issued to me, and, it was the most horrible thing that I have ever worn.

It felt gritty, coarse and scratchy, and as though made from re-cycled coal-sacks, and, to say that it felt highly uncomfortable and unpleasant next to the skin, would be a classic understatement. Still, never mind – as ‘blondie’ had told me, I had “25 years to get used to it”.

The Prison Uniform was no great shakes to look at, either – offensive to the eye, it was the grey, depressing and lifeless colour, of cold cigarette ash.

After donning the disgusting and grievous garment, I facetiously further observed, to my cell-mate, “They didn’t get these threads from Armani, did they?” 

So far, my cell-mate, Ross, had not said a word as he eyed me, warily, as he watched me take in the bleak reality of my new surroundings – of my “new home, for the next 25 years” – as though fearing that I might be bringing trouble his way: as if all he wanted was a ‘quiet’ life, and that I was making too much ‘noise’.

Realizing that I was in danger of getting off to a bad start with my cell-mate – and, after all, none of my troubles were his fault – I broke the ice by asking him, “what’s her name, then, the blonde witch? I heard her call her friend – the brunette – Billie Jo”.

“My advice to you, David”, replied Ross, in dire-filled tones, “is to never – and I mean, never – let her hear you call her that. Trust me, you are going to have a miserable enough time in Greystone as it is, without antagonizing ‘The Blues’.

“But, to answer your question, her name is Bella Donna. But, not to you though, or to any other Prisoner – you must always address her, as ‘Officer’, or as ‘Miss Bella’. Always remember that, David. Always! Oh! She is poison, that one!”, advised my cell-mate, gravely.

“Ok, Ross! Ok, calm down. I get the message”, I assured my cell-mate, Ross.

I had noticed that the grey linoleum floor of our cell was about 3 feet below the similarly colour-schemed floor outside, on the Landing, and this was the height, at which the grey bars of our cell protruded out of the grey painted concrete cell wall – level with the floor outside, on the Landing.

What had caught my puzzled attention, though, and what had piqued my curiosity, were the 4 cylinder-shaped holes at the bottom of the cell wall – that reminded me of torpedo-tubes – and that ran under the cell bars, and under the Landing Floor outside.

I was just on the point of asking Ross, as to the purpose of the 4 torpedo-tube-like holes at the bottom of our cell wall, and also – while I was about it – about the curious-looking, circular-shaped, family dining-table sized platforms, that had set-apart footplates and overhead leather straps, and that were set into the floor at the centre of each of the open, and square-shaped Landings, when my cell-mate pre-empted me, saying, “Ok, David. Let’s get down to brass tacks. Chit-chat can wait until later. We’ve got less than an hour, before the Prison Officers get back from their Lunch-Break, and, as Bella Donna said, I had better use the time to teach you the ‘facts of life’, as they are known as here, about Greystone Prison”.

Before my cell-mate could begin his lecture, I asked him, “What’s your story then, Ross – I mean, why are you here, and for how long?”

At my question, my cell-mate dejectedly cast his eyes down at the grey linoleum of the cell floor, as he replied, with a heavy sigh, “I’ve only been here for 2 weeks, David – but, that’s plenty long enough to have learned the ‘facts of life’, about Greystone! Why am I here? I was Sentenced to 25 years – 25 years, David! – for 5 separate Counts of ‘Un-Gentlemanly Conduct’: I failed to offer my seat on a Tube train to a lady who was standing – I hadn’t even seen her, David! – I was engrossed with reading my morning paper, about Miss England winning the Miss World contest. My second offence, was------“. “It’s for exactly daft stuff like that that I’m here for, Ross! – 5 separate Counts of ‘Un-Gentlemanly Conduct’!”, I exclaimed, cutting my cell-mate off in mid-sentence.

I went on, feeling, all over again, my bitter and burning resentment, at the seemingly over-severe and disproportionate weight and gravity, and over-the -top harshness, of the Prison Sentence that ‘Her Worship’ Delia Downing had seen fit to award me.

“I was in a restaurant, Ross, with my girlfriend, Alison – it was her birthday, and so I was treating her to the proverbial slap-up meal. Anyway, only having eyes for Alison – who was absolutely drop-dead gorgeous, that night, let me tell you! – I saw another lady, who was struggling a bit with taking off her coat – and I failed to help her off with it. That was my first ‘Un-Gentlemanly Conduct’ charge. Then, I failed to assist another lady into her seat, at her dining-table. Then, I failed to-----“. Interrupting me, Ross said, “this is all very interesting, David, but we are wasting time! The Prison Officers will be back from their Lunch-Break soon, and I still have to tell you the ‘facts of life’, about Greystone Prison.

“What’s important now, David, is that I need to tell you about the ‘Foot Service’, and about the punishments for infractions against the Prison Rules, and about the day-jobs here – where you might be sent to work: in the Laundry; or in the Kitchen; or in the Staff Cafeteria; or sweeping the Exercise Yard; or mopping the Landing Floor; or------“ “Foot Service’, did you say? What on Earth is that?”, I asked, interrupting my cell-mate again.

To which, Ross replied, and with increasing exasperation, “Oh! David, you need to listen to me, mate! Can’t you be quiet for 2 minutes, and just listen? I’m trying to tell you about the ‘facts of life’, before the Prison Officers get back here! You asked me about the ‘Foot Service’? Well, do you see those holes at floor-level, at the bottom of the cell wall, that go under the bars, and that look a bit like torpedo-tubes? Well, they are for------“. “Yes, I was going to ask you about those”, I said, interrupting my would-be lecturer yet again, and I could see, from his increasingly frustrated expression, that he was again about to urge me to be quiet and listen to him, when there suddenly came the menacing sound of canes being meaningfully rattled against the bars of our cell.

It was, of course, the 2 returning Prison Officers, Billie Jo and Bella Donna, back from their Lunch-Break.

At first, the 2 Prison Officers said nothing, but merely stood side-by-side, with their backs to us, leaning against the bars of our cell, and positioned directly above the 4 torpedo-tube-like holes at the bottom of the cell wall – the torpedo-tube-like holes, that I had wondered about, and that Ross had been just about to inform me as to their purpose – when I had interrupted him again.

Then, it was the harsh, stentorian, and no-nonsense voice of the brunette Prison Officer, Billie Jo, who ordered, sharply, “Ok, you two! ‘Foot Service’!”.

                                                           JAILHOUSE BLUES continues, in Part 2.