The Troubles of Vincent Malone

'The defendant will rise.'

            Vince felt his mouth go dry and his stomach tense. He glanced over at Kitty in the gallery and tried to lose himself in her deep brown eyes. He had to tear his gaze away. The judge was talking, but Vince was thinking about how he'd let her down, how he'd miss the kids, how she'd miss his money coming in, the sense of security she got from having a man in the house.

            The sonorous tone of the judge forced his attention back to the courtroom. It was a long list of his failures and past lapses. He heard his full name, which was only ever used when he was in trouble; now the bit he was dreading. Five years! That was longer than he'd expected - the bastard had taken no notice of how Copeland had driven Gerry to kill himself. This wasn't on. Numb, he looked over at Kitty – all colour had drained from her face. Her sister was holding her. Vince mouthed 'I love you' as he was taken down to the cells.

            Three days later, after he had revisited the humiliations of processing at Pentonville, Vince met his lawyer, Michael Thomas. Thomas was tall, greying at his temples with restless dark eyes.

            'Hello, Vince,' he said, uneasily. Vince smiled.

            'It's not your fault, Michael. The bastard had it in for me and my previous went against me.’

Michael’s shoulders relaxed.

‘Now what are my chances at appeal?' asked Vince.

            'Well, the sentence is very high and we can argue that the judge didn't take the extenuating circumstances into account,' said Michael.

            'I can't stay inside for five years, Michael. Kitty's been really good to me, straightened me out, kept me clean. She's got the kids to think about, and Barney's autistic. It's a lot for her to cope with and I'm scared I'll lose her.'

            'OK Vince, I'll get onto it. We've got grounds.'

            'I don't know what I'll do.' Vince sat and shook his head.

            Over the next few weeks, Vince settled into the prison routine. He had a visit from Kitty and the kids, which made his day. Kitty gave him every indication that she would stick by him, but warned him not to mess her about. Barney was fidgeting and wobbling his chair. The screws kept looking daggers. Kitty said she'd explained about his condition on the way in, but it was rarely any use.  Vince’s mood was good as he asked for another visiting order and thanked his stars he was in a local prison.

            Roger Maplethorpe picked up the files from his desk. The governor had asked for twelve names to transfer to the Isle of Wight. He had eighteen files in front of him. He was a thorough, conscientious man, which meant it would take a few hours to check on these men's circumstances and who would suffer most from a move to the relatively inaccessible Isle of Wight. He didn't notice the loose sheet of paper fall out of the last file and slip down the gap between his desk and the next.

            Maplethorpe began reading the files, placing those with a direct local family connection on the left, others on the right.  After sixteen files, he had eleven to transfer. File seventeen was Salvador Fernandez, a Colombian national with a conviction for drug smuggling. There were lots of supporting letters from the man's local priest, his probation officer and community groups. He had no obvious family mentioned, but Maplethorpe knew they might actually be here, just not legally. Any letters in support of Fernandez would not mention this.

            He decided to see what was in the last file. Vincent Malone, GBH. Against a supervisor in the sorting office. Maplethorpe frowned.  The file was quite thin, he'd not long been inside, no next of kin information. There was nothing in the file to indicate Malone would suffer from loss of contact if he was moved. He put the manilla file headed Malone BZ8542 in the right hand pile and allowed himself some inner congratulations for reading between the lines on the Fernandez case.

            Vince rose and started washing. The screws would come banging on the door in a few minutes and he liked to be ready. His cell-mate Ray was still snoring. A minute later there was the customary clang on the door, but then the latch slid back and prison officer Norris shouted through.

            'Malone, get your stuff together, you're moving out!'

            'You what?' replied Vince. 'I've got a visit this afternoon.'

            'Nothing to do with me, Malone, Governor's orders. You're off across the water.' Vince's heart sank. That meant one of the prisons on the Isle of Wight. It wasn't just their reputation as hard places to serve time, it meant there was no way Kitty would be able to visit.

            'Coach leaves at 11. You can call your missus and let her know, but you're on that bus.'

            Vince blagged a phonecard off Ray and headed to the phones as soon as they were let out. Kitty would be just getting ready to drop the kids at school. This wasn't going to be easy. She answered.

            'Hello love,' Vince said.

            'Oh sweetheart, what you doin' callin' me when I'll see you this afternoon?' She knew how hard it was to score phone cards. Vince hesitated. 'Vince?' There was uncertainty in her voice now.

            'They're moving me, Kitty.'

            'Where?' she asked.

            'Parkhurst.' It wasn't called Parkhurst any more.

            'Bloody hell, Vince! What did you do?' He could hear her anger. His shoulders sagged.

            'I didn't do anything, love, I swear. I was told this morning. I don't know why they're moving me, I really don't. I wanted you to know so you didn't come over and find me gone... '

            'This is just too much to cope with at the moment. First you get sent down, now you're out of reach. I know it ain't far but it's too far with Barney the way he is. I can't take him that far in a day.' Vince sighed. He knew from experience her anger would subside and there was nothing to be said.

            'I've gotta go. I'll be in touch.' She sounded exasperated.

            'OK love, bye,' Vince replied. He turned away in a daze, wondering how much worse things could get.

             

            Four weeks ago, Vince was transferred to the Isle of Wight. He has lost weight, his hair is untidy and his face covered in coarse stubble. He trudged into the yard at exercise time, his shoulders drooped inside his creased prison-issue sweatshirt. He kept his eyes on the ground, avoiding eye contact with his fellow cons.

            'Alright, mate.' He felt a tap on his shoulder and turned to see Denis King, an old lag he had got to know.  Den has been in and out of gaol since the mid seventies. First sent down for what he called 'armed resistance', he has been back plenty of times for 'crimes of necessity'. As he put it, 'I needed money and drugs, so I took them. Unfortunately, I got caught.'

            'Hello Den.' Vince tried to summon up enthusiasm but his voice betrayed him.

            'How you doing?' Den asked in his broad Scottish accent.

            'Not too good, mate,' Vince replied.

            'You did a good thing, you know, tackling that bully. Just because the law disnae see it that way.' Den said.

            'I know he needed tackling, but look at what it's cost me,' said Vince, amazed at the emotion he found.

            'I know, I know. But doing the right thing always costs. If you fight against an injustice, you can expect the people who benefit from that injustice to hit back. Where was the union when all this bullying was going on?' Den asked.

            'They were useless. The rep was in Copeland's pocket. It blew up a bit before the trial but they didn't support me at all,' Vince said.

            'Well, they should've.' Den was emphatic. 'You need to think about what you need, Vince. I can have words with people on the outside to get you some support, but you have to take the first step. Moping around won't help. Sort yourself out.'

            It was nearly yard-in. Vince had a lot to think about.

            'Cheers, mate,' he said to Den as he headed back to his cell.

            Vince steadied his hand and carefully drew the brightly coloured disposable razor up his neck to his chin. He rinsed out the coarse bristles in the bowl that, not long ago, he had used for his cornflakes and repeated the process. He combed his hair and checked the results in the tiny mirror. He smiled at his reflection and thought of Kitty. He had a goal.