It Can't be October Already Read online

  “Oh, aren’t you?” said Pat. “It’s just that I thought as you were wearing a wig, which you didn’t have this time last year, you must be a lord.”

  “Watch your tongue,” said Mr. Perkins, “or I may have to consider putting your sentence up to six months.”

  “That’s more like it, m’lord,” said Pat.

  “If that’s more like it,” said Mr. Perkins, barely able to control his temper, “then I sentence you to six months. Take the prisoner down.”

  “Thank you, m’lord,” said Pat, and added under his breath, “see you this time next year.”

  The bailiff hustled Pat out of the dock and quickly down the stairs to the basement.

  “Nice one, Pat,” he said before locking him back up in a holding cell.

  Pat remained in the holding cell while he waited for all the necessary forms to be filled in. Several hours passed before the cell door was finally opened and he was escorted out of the courthouse to his waiting transport; not on this occasion a panda car driven by Sergeant Webster, but a long blue-and-white van with a dozen tiny cubicles inside, known as the sweat box.

  “Where are they taking me this time?” Pat asked a not very communicative officer whom he’d never seen before.

  “You’ll find out when you get there, Paddy,” was all he got in reply.

  “Have I ever told you about the time I tried to get a job on a building site in Liverpool?”

  “No,” replied the officer, “and I don’t want to ’ear—”

  “—and the foreman, a bloody Englishman, had the nerve to ask me if I knew the difference between a—” Pat was shoved up the steps of the van and pushed into a little cubicle that resembled a lavatory on a plane. He fell onto the plastic seat as the door was slammed behind him.

  Pat stared out of the tiny square window, and when the vehicle turned south onto Baker Street, realized it had to be Belmarsh. Pat sighed. At least they’ve got a half-decent library, he thought, and I may even be able to get back my old job in the kitchen.

  When the Black Maria pulled up outside the prison gates, his guess was confirmed. A large green board attached to the prison gate announced BELMARSH, and some wag had replaced BEL with HELL. The van proceeded through one set of double-barred gates, and then another, before finally coming to a halt in a barren yard.

  Twelve prisoners were herded out of the van and marched up the steps to an induction area, where they waited in line. Pat smiled when he reached the front of the queue and saw who was behind the desk, checking them all in.

  “And how are we this fine pleasant evening, Mr. Jenkins?” Pat asked.

  The Senior Officer looked up from behind his desk and said, “It can’t be October already.”

  “It most certainly is, Mr. Jenkins,” Pat confirmed, “and may I offer my commiserations on your recent loss.”

  “My recent loss,” repeated Mr. Jenkins. “What are you talking about, Pat?”

  “Those fifteen Welshmen who appeared in Dublin earlier this year, passing themselves off as a rugby team.”

  “Don’t push your luck, Pat.”

  “Would I, Mr. Jenkins, when I was hoping that you would allocate me my old cell?”

  The SO ran his finger down the list of available cells. “’Fraid not, Pat,” he said with an exaggerated sigh, “it’s already double-booked. But I’ve got just the person for you to spend your first night with,” he added, before turning to the night officer. “Why don’t you escort O’Flynn to cell one nineteen.”

  The night officer looked uncertain, but after a further look from Mr. Jenkins, all he said was, “Follow me, Pat.”

  “So who has Mr. Jenkins selected to be my pad mate on this occasion?” inquired Pat, as the night officer accompanied him down the long, gray-brick corridor before coming to a halt at the first set of double-barred gates. “Is it to be Jack the Ripper, or Michael Jackson?”

  “You’ll find out soon enough,” responded the night officer as the second of the barred gates slid open.

  “Have I ever told you,” asked Pat, as they walked out on to the ground floor of B block, “about the time I tried to get a job on a building site in Liverpool, and the foreman, a bloody Englishman, had the nerve to ask me if I knew the difference between a joist and a girder?”

  Pat waited for the officer to respond, as they came to a halt outside cell number 119. He placed a large key in the lock.

  “No, Pat, you haven’t,” the night officer said as he pulled open the heavy door. “So what is the difference between a joist and a girder?” he demanded.

  Pat was about to reply, but when he looked into the cell was momentarily silenced.

  “Good evening, m’lord,” said Pat, for the second time that day. The night officer didn’t wait for a reply. He slammed the door closed, and turned the key in the lock.

  * * *

  Pat spent the rest of the evening telling me, in graphic detail, all that had taken place since two o’clock that morning. When he had finally come to the end of his tale, I simply asked, “Why October?”

  “Once the clocks go back,” said Pat, “I prefer to be inside, where I’m guaranteed three meals a day and a cell with central heating. Sleeping rough is all very well in the summer, but it’s not so clever during an English winter.”

  “But what would you have done if Mr. Perkins had sentenced you to a year?” I asked.

  “I’d have been on my best behavior from day one,” said Pat, “and they would have released me in six months. They have a real problem with overcrowding at the moment,” he explained.

  “But if Mr. Perkins had stuck to his original sentence of just three months, you would have been released in January, mid-winter.”

  “Not a hope,” said Pat. “Just before I was due to be let out, I would have been found with a bottle of Guinness in my cell. A misdemeanor for which the governor is obliged to automatically add a further three months to your sentence, and that would have taken me comfortably through to April.”

  I laughed. “And is that how you intend to spend the rest of your life?” I asked.

  “I don’t think that far ahead,” admitted Pat. “Six months is quite enough to be going on with,” he added, as he climbed on to the top bunk and switched off the light.

  “Goodnight, Pat,” I said, as I rested my head on the pillow.

  “Have I ever told you about the time I tried to get a job on a building site in Liverpool?” asked Pat, just as I was falling asleep.

  “No, you haven’t,” I replied.

  “Well, the foreman, a bloody Englishman, no offense intended—” I smiled—“had the nerve to ask me if I knew the difference between a joist and a girder.”

  “And do you?” I asked.

  “I most certainly do. Joyce wrote Ulysses, and Goethe wrote Faust.”

  Patrick O’Flynn died of hypothermia on 23 November 2005, while sleeping under the arches on Victoria Embankment in central London.

  His body was discovered by a young constable, just a hundred yards away from the Savoy Hotel.

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  NOVELS

  False Impression

  Not a Penny More, Not a Penny Less

  Shall We Tell the President?

  Sons of Fortune

  Kane & Abel

  The Prodigal Daughter

  First Among Equals

  A Matter of Honor

  As the Crow Flies

  Honor Among Thieves

  The Fourth Estate

  The Eleventh Commandment

  SHORT STORIES

  A Quiver Full of Arrows

  A Twist in the Tale

  Twelve Red Herrings

  To Cut a Long Story Short

  PLAYS

  Beyond Reasonable Doubt

  Exclusive

  The Accused

  PRISON DIARIES

  Volume 1: Hell

  Volume II: Purgatory

  Volume III: Heaven

  About the Author