Fidel - 5. Robert and Bart Worry & What Happened to Lance

Fidel dialled the number then passed the receiver to Arnold, who seemed nervous.

‘Bart? You probably don’t remember me, I'm Constable Jurgenz who… Oh you do? I'm flattered. I’m ringing from your parents’ place, Fidel gave me your number—I'm with him now. I wanted to speak to you about the other fellow… yes Lance, but not over the phone. Can we meet sometime?..... Today?..... Sure?..... Ok, sounds great… see you then. Cheers.’

He shook his head as if confused as he replaced the receiver. ‘We’ve been invited to lunch! And I thought he wouldn’t remember who I was.’

‘When?’

‘When what?’

‘Lunch.’

‘In an hour. He sounds exactly the same as when he was sticking up for his boyfriend. Are they happy do you think?’

‘Completely, I’d say. Well, let’s find you something to wear.’

*****

Robert and Bart were nervous. They had wisely decided never to tell anyone the truth about Robert’s killing of the headmaster and setting Lance up. It was hard enough for them to pretend to others that Robert was innocent without burdening anyone else with such an explosive secret. As Sanjay had warned, a secret is only a secret until you tell the first person. Robert’s parents didn’t count, of course, as they had as much to lose as their son. But what could Jurgenz have to say? Surely he didn’t suspect the truth! And what about Fidel? They'd never spoken about the murder.

‘We’ll tell Fidel the official story one day.’

‘Of course. But nothing else. He’s such an honest bloke he'd never be able to dissimulate.’

‘I don’t like it. Why’s that cop coming?’

‘Yeah. After nearly three years I’d finally stopped feeling guilty every time I see a cop, telling myself it’s all over, we've nothing to worry about. And now this—whatever it is.’

‘Probably nothing. Perhaps Lance has suicided or been stabbed to death in prison.’

‘I’m nasty enough to wish that were true. I feel sick.’

‘Calm down, Robert. Jurgenz didn’t sound official. He just thought we’d be interested to know something about Lance.’

‘Perhaps he’s escaped and is coming for us?’

‘I think we’d have been told officially. Come on, help me prepare lunch.’

Forty minutes later, Fidel and Arnold, both wearing Fidel's shorts and tank tops, knocked at the door. One relaxed and cool, the other panting and sweating.

‘Robert opened the door, invited them in, asked how long it had taken to jog, congratulated Fidel on his obvious fitness and laughed good naturedly at Arnold’s heaving chest. ‘I thought policemen were supposed to be fit, Constable Jurgenz?’

‘Please, call me Arnold. No, fitness isn't a priority—haven't you seen the fat guts on most cops?’

‘Bart has just popped down to the corner shop for a couple of things. Come in, sit down and I’ll get you some water.’

Bart arrived, was reintroduced, everyone expressed surprise at how little they'd changed, then they sat down to lunch and Arnold satisfied their curiosity.

‘I received a note in my inbox that Lance Ozbairne is appealing his conviction.’

‘Robert’s eyebrows rose. ‘His conviction, not the sentence?’

‘His case is to be reopened. The father has been belatedly throwing money at lawyers and there seems a good chance he’ll win.’

‘On what grounds?’ Robert managed to sound politely interested, as if it had nothing to do with him.

Arnold shot him an odd look. ‘All the evidence is circumstantial in both the headmaster’s murder and the poisoned kid. There’s a hearing next week. Probably nothing will come of it, but I thought I should let you know.’

Robert answered Fidel’s questioning look with a brief explanation. ‘Lance hated me and because I reported him for gay bashing, he now blames me for getting caught.’ He turned back to Arnold. ‘Do you think he might come after us?’

‘He was already a nasty customer, and unless he’s become a saint, prison will have made him ten times worse.’

‘Why were you informed? Are you still attached to the case?’

‘No, I quit detecting and am now involved in keeping tabs on recently released prisoners, ostensibly to be useful, but in practice just waiting to nab them when they make a mistake.’

‘Sounds unpleasant.’

‘It’s as depressing as all police work. There's no attempt at rehabilitation, because it seems the sole aim of the so-called corrective services is revenge with as much pain and humiliation as possible. A sane society would only lock up people who are dangerous; everyone else should be given a location bracelet and allowed to work off their crime while also attending classes that will give them the skills, self confidence and self respect to enable them to live at peace in society. That would save the billions of dollars annually that are currently spent on prisons, and would almost eliminate recidivism—saving billions more. Our prisons take naughty men and turn them into vicious criminal thugs through a system based on punishment instead of rehabilitation. Hundreds of inmates are put in solitary for no reason—alone for twenty-three hours a day. The United Nations says solitary confinement is torture, and we’re not supposed to be a country that tortures people, but we do! It drives them crazy. No exercise, no books, not enough food because of the system. Non-contact visits only twice a month, their families bankrupted and thrown into poverty, it is cruel and insane and shames me to the core.’

‘I had no idea.’

‘No one does, it’s one of thousands of secret shames of our very imperfect society. It seems they don’t want reformed criminals; they want them to come back and back forever to keep the system flourishing. And nothing changes because the media only focus on violent crime, making ordinary people want to hurt prisoners as well as lock them up—as if locking them up isn't punishment enough—instead of understanding they're ordinary people who've made silly mistakes. If the truth were told about the innocents who've only given the cops the finger, or argued about moving on, and been incarcerated and abused for a year or more, turned into criminals and made unemployable forever, then things might change. But we’re governed by self-serving fuckwits who care for nothing except the polls and getting re-elected so they’ll get their generous superannuation package.’

‘I guess prisons are the same in most countries.’

‘The Australian journalist imprisoned in Egypt for two years was better treated than inmates of Queensland maximum security jails—he was able to socialise and take a university course that gave him another degree—so he left in better shape than he entered. There's no education program in Queensland prisons. There’s no charter of rights, no attempt to follow practices that will reduce criminal behaviour and turn misguided people into useful citizens. It’s like a death—death of all that’s decent.’

‘That’s terrible! But you're not going to get in trouble for telling us this are you?’

‘Don’t care if I do. Like Inspector Kareltin I'm disillusioned with the justice system, but can’t see my way out.’

‘We’re very grateful.’

‘Don’t be. As I said to Fidel, ever since that night at your place I've been thinking about you guys and your family; wondering how you were.’ He grinned boyishly. ‘Perhaps this was just an excuse to find out. According to Fidel, you're as nice as I imagined.’

‘Fidel’s paid to promote us. What about you, are you married?’

‘Yes, unfortunately.’ With a little prompting from Fidel, Arnold elaborated.

‘As you’ve no kids and your wife’s never stopped work, you can solve all your problems in three easy steps,’ Bart said with a slight frown. ‘Get yourself fit so you feel able to take on the world again; divorce your wife, and work out why you’re so interested in Fidel.’

Arnold’s head swivelled from Bart to Fidel and back in alarm. ‘Fidel you haven't…?’

‘No, I haven't.’ Fidel said trying not to laugh. ‘Bart looks like a sweet old man, but he’s as sharp as a dagger and misses nothing.’

‘I’ll deal with you later, Fidel!’ Bart waggled a finger.

‘The thing is,’ Robert said with a predatory gleam in his eye. ‘You haven't told us what happened last night after realising your wife was trying to make you look ridiculous. And forgive the curiosity, but why are you wearing Fidel’s shorts and singlet?’

‘You tell them, Fidel,’ Arnold whispered. ‘I'm too embarrassed.’

Fidel spared Arnold’s feelings and kept to the bare facts.

‘I can’t see what you're embarrassed about,’ Bart grinned.

‘I’m a cop! I'm married. I…’

‘Which begs the question, how come you’ve managed to switch from married heterosexual to gay libertine overnight with no obvious mental trauma? Most guys agonise for ages over their sexual orientation and then still feel guilty.’

‘When I joined the force I volunteered for gay sensitivity training, and someone lent me an excellent novel in which a teacher with an odd name, takes fifteen teenagers into the rainforest and teaches them about what it means to be a real man. When a couple of the kids asked about guys having sex together he said something like: “Sex is just sex, no matter who you do it with; perfectly normal if you enjoy it, abnormal if you don’t. There are as many ways of being normal as there are humans, so decide for yourself, don’t let others pressure into being what you're not.” And that kept bugging me. You see my relationship is crap and fucking her was about as exciting as fucking a cushion. I felt nothing. So when Fidel kissed me and I thought I’d explode from sensual overload and lust, I realised I’d been fooling myself about what was normal for me, and the sooner I dumped the heterosexual act as well as the woman, the better. Simple.’

‘Most interesting,’ Bart murmured gently. ‘It’s a relief to know that becoming a cop isn't always the path to red-necked bigotry and intolerance. So you don’t think last night was merely a reaction to your wife’s traitorous behaviour?’

‘No way. That was real.’

‘So what're you going to do about it? Aren't you worried that if you go home tonight she’ll convince you she was really proud of you and suck you back in? Probably cry as well. Women are very, very good at manipulating men.’

‘You're right, Bart. I'm a sucker for female tears; always give in and they walk all over me.’ Arnold turned a red face to Fidel. ‘Would you…? Would it be alright if…? Do you think…?’

‘Sure. No probs. Be a good idea to stay away another night, it'll show your wife you don’t need her.’

‘Meanwhile,’ Bart continued, face serious, ‘we have to think about Lance and his bid for freedom. ‘

‘Ninety percent of guys come out of prison worse. They enter as silly men, and exit as cunning, skilful criminals, partially insane because of the solitary that’s handed out as easily as a slap on the wrist for even minor infringements. The authorities either don’t realise that solitary confinement is a serious form of torture that renders many men crazy, or they don’t care—I suspect the latter. Queensland prisons are the cruellest in the country and they're proud of it. They reckon it’ll teach them not to be bad, whereas it teaches them to be worse.’

‘I wonder how Lance is faring,’ Robert said thoughtfully. ‘He was a nasty bully at school, but scrawny. He’ll either make everyone so angry with him he’ll get murdered, or he’ll spread lies and make everyone else hate each other. I can’t begin to imagine what it must be like in prison.’ He shook his head and looked down.

‘Lance was actually a very smart, albeit twisted kid,’ Bart said softly. ‘I don’t think he’d leave himself open to trouble—he gets others to do his dirty work.’

The talk turned general and, among other things, Arnold admitted he’d neglected his fitness and agreed to accompany Fidel to the next 3V session.

*****

Lance Ozbairne

Lance had been seventeen when accused of murdering his headmaster and causing the death of another student. In the weeks until his final court appearance he'd had plenty of time to repent. Instead, he protested his innocence and got up the noses of more people than was wise with arrogant assertions that his father would get him off. His father, whose sole contribution had been to provide a lawyer, did not even attend the sentencing of his only offspring to life imprisonment in an adult facility.

On arrival at the jail, Lance watched in anger as his personal details were taken along with his property. Almost catatonic with embarrassment he stripped and endured a medical examination. After a shower, the prison issue clothes added insult to mental anguish. He scowled at the photographer, insulted the counsellor and couldn’t think of anyone to phone. Screaming insistence that he wasn’t guilty didn’t prevent an identification badge being pinned to his chest. Exhausted and finally silent he was handed a small bundle of clothes and toiletries and escorted to a cell.

According to the Queensland Government website, almost all inmates in Queensland correctional centres are housed in single cells which contain a bed, shower and toilet, the cleanliness for which inmates are responsible. What no one had told Lance was that Queensland has a problem with overcrowding. At that time there were about 1400 more inmates in the eleven high-security prisons than there were cells to accommodate them.

Lance froze in the doorway.

The cell was narrow with off-white stuccoed concrete walls, a bed with a white pillow and green blanket against the right hand wall, a small, stainless steel wash-basin-toilet combination unit in the left corner against the window wall, a varnished set of open shelves containing a few clothes along the left hand wall and a small desk at the near end of the bed. Occupying almost all the floor space between the bed and the shelves was a narrow mattress with a white sheet and green blanket, the pillow hard up against the toilet bowl. On the main bed lay a solid looking man in his forties wearing the same uniform as Lance; arms under his head, expressionless eyes observing his new cellmate.

‘I can’t! You can’t expect me to sleep on the floor. It’s unhygienic! His piss will splash onto the bed.’

‘Its only until we get a bunk bed screwed up.’ The warder turned to the occupant. ‘Greg, this is Lance. I’ll leave you to show him the ropes.’ He retreated, closed the door quietly and slid the bolt home.

Wide eyed in horror Lance stared at the man with whom he would be sharing this cell for the foreseeable future. Greg smiled and Lance’s heart momentarily ceased pumping. It was the smile his father bestowed on customers. The smile of avarice, calculation and the certainty of profit. A smile Lance understood and imagined he knew how to deal with, so he didn’t smile back.

Greg noted Lance’s reaction with calm satisfaction. The scrawny kid wasn’t a fool. Not the sort to make many friends. A shifty-eyed little murderer with zero bargaining power except for…

‘Take my stuff out of the left hand shelves and put yours in.’

The pleasant, warm voice woke Lance from his stupor. He stared at the shelves.

‘Where’ll I put your gear?’

‘Just stuff it on any other shelf.’

After placing his meagre possessions on the left side, Lance sank onto his hard mattress and leaned against the wall, staring at his feet.

‘You're a bag of bones,’ Greg said conversationally. ‘Are you sick?’

‘No. It’s my metabolism.’

‘What a big word. People don’t like big words in here, they think you're trying to make them feel stupid and they’ll take you down a peg.’

‘I… I didn’t mean anything. It’s just that no matter how much I eat I don’t put on weight.’

‘Get any exercise?’

‘No.’

‘Rumour has it you put your headmaster out of his misery.’

‘I didn’t! That was a slimy queer who set me up.’

‘Yeah. Everyone’s innocent in here. So you don’t like queers?’

‘I’d slowly slice every queer into small bits.’

‘You'll fit in here then… unless…’

‘Unless what?’

‘Nothing. You're young and don’t look very tough. So stay out of trouble.’

Lance was sweating profusely and desperately in need of the toilet. ‘What sort of trouble? How?’

Greg’s smile wasn’t calculated to calm.

It fuelled Lance’s fury. Never in his life had he been forced to take control of or responsibility for himself. His father had always been there to pick him up by the scruff of the neck, so to speak, and extricate him from the latest mess, in the process ensuring his son learned no tricks of survival other than abusing weaker people and throwing his father’s money at problems. He used, abused and discarded; devoid of both fear and empathy. He shot a sudden, calculating look at the older man. ‘I was told I’d be mentored. So I guess it’s your job to keep me out of trouble.’

‘Don’t believe everything you hear.’

‘I can make it worth your while.’

‘How?’

‘My father’s rich.’

‘I don’t need money.’

‘You must need something.’

Greg’s smile stirred something in Lance’s guts.

‘I need a shit. Don’t look!’

Greg rolled onto his right elbow and gazed impassively at the toilet bowl. ‘You'd better get used to doing it in front of me, not to mention guards who happen to look through the peephole.’

In agony, Lance fiddled with the unfamiliar trouser fastenings and was almost in time.

‘Fuck, that sounded sloppy and sure stinks. Better check your under daks for skid marks.’

Wiping himself was even more embarrassing than doing it, and when Lance realised he’d smeared his buttocks he sagged back onto the seat, buried his head in his lap and silently cursed Greg, the prison, the world.

Greg stood over the angry young man and looked down. ‘Your daks are shitty but the trousers are clean, better get them off.’ He removed Lance’s shoes and pulled the trousers from unresisting legs, then slipped the T-shirt over his head as if undressing a little boy.

‘Come on, into the shower with you.’ Greg pulled Lance to his feet, shoved him into the shower and turned on the taps.

Lance roused himself enough to adjust the temperature and had just finished washing his underpants and soaping and rinsing himself when he felt something behind him. He froze as a pair of muscled arms wrapped around his chest, trapping his arms.

‘If that's what you want, tough luck,’ Lance sneered, vainly attempting to extricate himself from a naked and immensely strong Greg. This needed careful thought.

‘I have no intention of hurting you, or doing anything you don’t want.’

‘Then let me go.’

Greg released his captive and turned off the taps. ‘You're a sensible bloke; I saw it the minute you walked in, so let’s do a deal. I’ll show you the ropes, stop people spitting in your food and knocking you around, get you fit and strong enough to take on all comers, and introduce you to useful people. In exchange…’

‘You want to fuck me.’

‘I’ve been here fifteen years with nothing but my hand for relief. Yeah, I want a body in my bed to screw, but only a willing one.’

‘I’m not willing and I'm not queer.’

‘Neither am I. Having sex with another man isn't queer—it’s just sex—no more and no less. It’s what men without women have done since the beginning of time. Queer is thinking and acting like a woman, or having sex with someone who behaves like that. If I thought you were queer I wouldn’t touch you with a barge pole. I'm a man and proud of it and assumed you were too. Seems I misjudged.’

‘Oh very funny. And how often do you want to shove your non-queer fat cock up my arse?’

‘As often as I feel like. Think of it as a business proposition. You'll be protected, won’t have to sleep on the floor at risk of being pissed on, you'll be under the guidance of an experienced fitness trainer who’s respected, and in return all you have to do is willingly offer your scrawny body. Think about it.’ He turned the hot tap on full, dried and dressed and left the cell to join his mates in the yard.

Lance narrowly avoided being scalded, dressed, sat on his mattress and thought about his last year at school when he’d got Mandy and another girl to prostitute themselves for drugs. He’d told them it was just sex and didn’t mean anything. Nor did it mean anything when he had fucked them. Although he’d enjoyed it more when his mates were watching. Made him feel powerful. And, he admitted with a slight internal blush, he’d quite liked the feel of being held by Greg in the shower. It was the first time since… He couldn’t remember how long, that he’d felt safe. Perhaps. No rush. He’d see what happened.

The exercise yard was the size of a small tennis court and precious little exercise was going on. He stood pressed against a wall watching Greg shooting goals through a sagging hoop with half a dozen tattooed, muscled, shirtless men. A variety of others were standing around, talking, doing nothing, squatting against the wall muttering, looking as depressed as he felt. It wasn’t a pleasant atmosphere. Above, guards were silhouetted in their stations. The basketball suddenly slammed into his head and knocked him to the ground. He looked across and Greg was laughing with the others. At dinner he was jostled in the queue so lost most of his food onto the floor. What was left disappeared when he turned to see who was pushing him. When he went for more they’d run out. Greg was sitting with the men who’d caused him to go hungry.

Locked in their cell that night, Lance sat on his hard mattress in his underpants and stared up at Greg who was reading. ‘Ok,’ he said quietly.

‘Ok what?’

‘I’ll do what you want.’

‘You haven't understood, Lance, it isn't what I want. I’m perfectly happy as I am, apart from one small thing—it’s what you want.’

‘You can fuck me.’

‘You're a disgusting whore and have understood nothing.’ Greg turned on his side away from Lance and turned a page.

Wisely controlling an urge to hit the older man, Lance swallowed and said words he could never have imagined uttering only hours before. ‘Greg, I want to sleep in your bed so you can have sex with me.’

‘You want me to fuck you up the arse?’

‘Yes please.’

‘Mmm.’ He pulled a face as if considering the request. ‘Ok. On condition that if you ever give anyone, anywhere, in or out of this place the slightest indication that we’re more than normal cellmates, then you'll wish you’d never been born.’

‘What about condoms?’

‘Queensland doesn't issue them because they reckon it encourages sodomy. But I’m as clean as a whistle, according to every medical report. What about you?’

Lance shook his head. ‘I'm healthy, never had an STD, always wore condoms.’

Greg nodded and raised the sheet, exposing an impressive erection.

Lance stripped and slid nervously in beside him.

Greg took care to prepare his bedmate properly, so it hurt much less than Lance expected, and then only for a short while.

Two days later a bunk bed was screwed above Greg’s, which was useful for storing things, and left the floor free for press-ups and other fitness exercises that Lance hoped would turn him into someone to be feared.

Their contract was never spoken of, and never broken; both intuitively appreciating the mental/spiritual strength to be gained from having regular intimate contact with another human. Lance never found the act itself pleasant, but he did enjoy sharing his bed and body with no complications. Neither asked themselves whether they liked or disliked each other, the question was irrelevant. They’d discovered a mutually beneficial way to share a tiny cell without fighting, and that was all that mattered.

Thanks to Greg’s training, Lance became lean instead of scrawny, visibly strong, lethally adept at irregular fighting, and utterly ruthless. The poverty of the other inmates caused by criminally low benefits and increasing cost of prison provender, enabled him to use his relative wealth to make several potentially useful contacts, as well as three cringing dependents prepared to do literally anything for a handout.

The week after their second anniversary Greg was transferred to another prison. Neither shed any tears. Lance was allocated a single cell, and his father made his first visit, bringing news of an appeal the lawyer was convinced would succeed. Despite being visibly proud of Lance's obvious fitness, health and mental adjustment, Mr. Osbairne left in some disquiet at the transformation of his gormless son into a hard, sharp, cunning, cold and self-contained individual who never let his guard down. Perhaps, he thought traitorously as he drove away, it might be better if he remains in prison.

*****