Borstal Slags Read Online Free PDF Page A

no nonce. I’m just the courier. It’s
them
what takes the pictures, sir, not me.’
    ‘I’m not really fussed about all that.’
    ‘They take ’em in one of the flats on the Hayfield estate. Dirty pictures, sir. I just deliver ’em. They pay me a couple of bob, I need the cash, but I don’t get involved or nuffing ’coz I’m not like that, honest I’m not, sir! Please, sir, please, you gotta let me out of here!’
    ‘Barton, take it easy. There’s nothing they can charge you with except some trumped-up nonsense about resisting arrest. And if you cooperate with me I can see that charge is completely dropped.’
    ‘Really? Really, sir?’ Barton pressed his face hard against the spyhole. ‘You’ll let me go? You mean it?’
    ‘Of course I mean it. But in return, I want to ask you a few questions.’
    ‘Oh thank you, thank you!’ grovelled Barton, thrusting his fingers through the spyhole and waggling them. ‘I knew you’d help me! I could see you were different, you’re not like the others. You’ve got kind eyes.’
    ‘I have?’ said Sam, suppressing a grin.
    ‘Yes, yes, sir, you have, very kind eyes! And a kind face, sir! A very, very kind face.’
    Sam laughed.
    ‘I mean it!’ Barton cried. ‘I know, I know, you think I’m a nonce talking like that. They
all
thought I was nonce, back in Friar’s. That’s why I don’t ever want to go back there. They gave me a hard time. A
hard
time, sir!’
    ‘Friar’s Brook is what I wanted to ask you about. What’s it like?’
    ‘Terrible, sir! They nearly killed me! It was awful. They said I was a nancy, they said I’d got my dick out in the showers and tried to – they said I wanted to – that I … It weren’t true, I swear it, sir! I never did nothing! I’m no poofter I like big tits and that!’
    ‘When were you at Friar’s Brook?’ asked Sam.
    ‘Last year.’
    ‘Rubbish. It’s a borstal. You’re way too old.’
    ‘Too old? I’m seventeen.’
    Sam was taken aback. The heavy features, the skin roughed by cold shaves and alcohol aftershave and a diet of instant mash and fish fingers – could that really be the face of a teenager?
    No moisturizers for men in the seventies. No skincare regimes, no fruit juice, no five-a-day. It’s all harsh winds and fag smoke and chips cooked in dripping for lads like this.
    ‘I can’t never go back to Friar’s,’ Barton hissed. ‘It’s hell on earth.’
    ‘The other inmates pretty rough, are they?’
    ‘Not the inmates, sir.’
    ‘What, then?’
    ‘If I tell you what’s so terrible about that place, sir, will you promise to get me out of here?’ Barton pleaded.
    ‘Sure. I promise.’
    ‘Okay. Since you’re kind.’
    ‘I’m all ears,’ said Sam. ‘
And
kind eyes. Go ahead, tell me what’s so terrible about Friar’s Brook.’
    Barton dropped his voice to a hoarse whisper. He pressed his mouth against the spyhole and breathed a single word, ‘
McClintock
.’
    And with that, he fell silent.
    Sam waited for something more, but he got nothing.
    ‘Is that it? “McClintock”?’
    Barton nodded. He glanced about in terror, as if by uttering the name he was at risk of summoning the devil.
    ‘And who is this “McClintock”?’ asked Sam. ‘An inmate? One of the warders?’
    ‘Go and find out for yourself, sir,’ Barton whispered. ‘Then you’ll see.
Then
you’ll see.’
    ‘Barton, I promised to help you, and I will. But in return you promised to give me information.’
    ‘And that’s what I did, sir!’
    ‘A single name and some veiled hints isn’t much for me to go on.’
    Barton crept forward again and peered out through the spyhole. ‘Just remember that name, sir.
McClintock.
Go to Friar’s Brook, sir. See what you will see.’
    Sam shrugged. ‘Well, what can I say? Thanks for your cooperation. Now – you get yourself some rest. I’ll make sure you’re out of here as soon as I can.’
    ‘You mean that, sir? You won’t be sending me back there?’
    ‘We’ve got