Confessions from the Clink. Timothy Lea

to capture the flavour of Legend’s mouthwash as it stings my cheek.

      ‘No, straight up –’

      ‘ “Straight up”? You couldn’t get up with a step ladder. You’re bent, mate. I was giving you the benefit of the doubt but you’ve made it very clear to me now.’

      ‘But –’

      ‘No “buts”. Hopit, before I give you the pleasure of my boot up your backside.’

      I feel like blurting out the real reason for declining Arthur’s favour but deep down inside – so deep that many people never notice it – is a grain of family loyalty that occasionally comes between me and the fulfilment of my ambitions. I do not want to have to admit to Arthur, or anyone else, that Rosie is a ratbag with a one-track mind – and that a dirt track.

      I slink back to my room and try to come to grips with Frank Clegg and his powerful novel, but it is no good. I cannot concentrate. I give it a few tries and then go back to bed again. Maybe I will be able to sleep. I usually can whenever I try to read anything. But this time I cannot. I lie in bed and watch the square of blue sky and wonder how I am going to stand living in this place for twelve months with everyone thinking I am bent. Maybe I will be bent by the time I get out. ‘Knock! Knock!’ This time it must be Warren; no doubt offering me a nibble of his Milky Bar. Well, he is not dribbling little pieces of chocolate all over the floor of my cell – I mean room – Oh, dear me, no! I’ll soon put a stop to his nonsense. I sit up in bed expectantly but it is not Warren. This is another thing I dislike about the bloke. He is so unreliable.

      It is Daisy Deacon with a mouth you could post an ironing board in, tastefully picked out in dayglo paint that threatens to escape up her jumbo-size hooter. This feature trembles as if menaced by the potential avalanche of eye make-up poised above it. Nevertheless, despite a certain lack of subtlety, Daisy is still a sight for sore thighs.

      ‘Well, if it isn’t little Timmy Lea,’ she says breezily. ‘Do you remember me, love? I used to be a friend of your sister’s. I’m sorry to find you in here. Importuning males isn’t it?’

      This is too much.

      ‘What do you mean!?’ I yelp. ‘I’m as straight as the next man.’

      ‘I hope not, dear,’ she says. ‘I’ve just seen him. His blond hair was falling out by its black roots and he walked as if he had just sat on a birthday cake and stolen all the candles.’

      ‘Not him! Not him!’ I whine. ‘Listen, Daisy, I’ll level with you –’

      ‘Ooh. Sure you’re capable?’

      ‘Don’t take the piss, Daisy. I’m not really bent. It’s just an unfortunate set of circumstances that have got me misunderstood.’

      ‘Your mum, wasn’t it? I always thought she was inclined to smother you. Know what I mean?’

      ‘No. It was dad who tried to smother me. But it was an accident really. He didn’t know mum had put me in the laundry basket. Anyway, Daisy. That’s got nothing to do with what I’m on about. I only turned down Arthur’s offer because I was scared of bumping into Rosie. I saw her out of the window, you see.’

      ‘But she’s only visiting.’

      ‘Well –’

      ‘Now come on. I know some of the girls are on the game but you don’t think your own sister – Timmy, I’m ashamed of you.’

      ‘Yes – well – er, she can act a bit funny sometimes and I just thought that – well, you know. I’d rather not –’

      Daisy quivers with righteous indignation and a ripple goes through her knockers that would show up on a seismograph. ‘Your sister has been a good friend to Walt and me ever since we both got married,’ she bridles. ‘Isn’t it natural that she should visit him in his hour of need?’

      ‘Of course, of course,’ I bleat. ‘I want to believe you, Daisy.’ I really do, too. I would much rather accept her explanation even though I don’t believe it, than face up to the unpleasant truth. I am like that about lots of things.

      ‘Who are you to point the finger, anyway?’

      ‘Who indeed, Daisy?’

      I gaze up at her and turn on my bruised, innocent look. I reckon that this could appeal to the huntress in her and I am not disappointed.

      ‘Talking about my friend like that,’ she says, looking at the shape of my body underneath the bedclothes. ‘And your own sister, too.’

      ‘Yes.’ My voice dies away to a whisper and I turn my head towards the wall. Is it my imagination or is a large tear beginning to form in one of my eyes? It is my imagination. There is a moment’s pause and then I feel the reassuring weight of Daisy descending on to the bed. Her hand reaches out and touches my shoulder. I flinch as if I am surprised to feel it.

      ‘You were always a shy boy, weren’t you Timmy?’

      I feel like saying that compared to Daisy a rape specialist would be a blooming shrinking violet but I keep my mouth shut. When Daisy was knocking around – and I use the expression advisedly – with my sister Rosie, I was a little less experienced than I am now. In fact, I had not broken my duck. It was not until brother-in-law Sidney came upon the scene and introduced me to the window-cleaning business that I began to blossom out.

      ‘You’re quite good-looking,’ continues Daisy stroking my temple with fingers that feel as they have been used for stirring pre-cast concrete. ‘Pretty hair for a man. I wish my hair curled like that.’

      ‘Stick around, kid,’ I think to myself. ‘I may be able to save you the price of a home perm kit.’ I turn over on to my back and gaze up into her generous features hoping that the rest of her is also in a giving frame of mind.

      ‘Poor little Timmy,’ she says softly. ‘You never knew what it was for, did you?’

      I could give her an argument on that but once I have decided on my plan I must see it through to the bitter end.

      ‘I want,’ I murmur passionately, ‘I want –’

      This indication of volcano-like emotion struggling to find expression can work wonders with birds and I am not surprised when Daisy’s friendly pinkies start creeping under the bedclothes. I try to hold the expression of helpless innocence on my face but it is difficult because I know what Daisy is going to find.

      ‘Oh,’ she says.

      ‘I don’t know what’s happened to me,’ I gasp. ‘I seem different somehow. Do you think I’m all right?’

      ‘Very definitely,’ says Daisy climbing swiftly to her feet. ‘Look the other way – I’ve got a little surprise for you.’

      It always puzzles me this: how some of the biggest scrubbers in the world don’t fancy you seeing them in the altogether. Once they get to close quarters, anything goes, but they won’t let you grab an eyeful of what any kid wandering around an art gallery would get for nothing.

      Daisy has not got a beautiful body but there is a lot of it. You have to take the good with the bad. And it is presented with all the subtlety that those lingerie shops in Shaftesbury Avenue can muster. Her bra looks like one of those things your mum used to put round the Christmas cake when you were a kid. And her panties – well, it is not every girl that has ‘Chase me charlie, I’m the last bus home’ embroidered across her nicks in gold thread. Her suspender belt is a very welcome trip down memory lane as far as I am concerned and has little black roses where it makes contact with the stocking tops. I may not know much about art but I know what I like and Mrs. Deacon is bang on target.

      ‘You’re looking,’ she says reproachfully as she leans forward and unhooks her bra. When she does that, I duck instinctively.

      ‘You’re beautiful,’ I say as if a blindfold has just been removed from my eyes. Remember those words: ‘You’re beautiful.’