Wildcat Screaming. Mudrooroo

on that screw. Put him to bye-byes with a king hit. Down like a log. Quickly, so quick that I catch his erection going down, I strip off his uniform coat, pants and boots. Pull them on. They fit enough. Unlock the door with his keys. Duck out. Lock the door behind me. This is my treat. Don’t want any other con along for the ride. The van is there. Very much the screw, I walk over to it. The back door is open. You might call it an open invitation, but I don’t accept. I duck under as it’s a big old Black Maria and wedge myself between axle and body. Tight fit, but this wild cat is slim. Back door slams; the motor starts: the van rolls to and through the gates. Out! Moving down the street, turning towards Perth. Wait until an intersection. Unwedge my bod. Let it down on to the road. Up and on my feet. Wildcat’s made it. Bloke in the car behind eyeballs me. I brush off my uniform, give him a wave and Wildcat is off and running free ... but he ain’t.

      The big screw in the office languidly gets to his feet and reaches for his keys. ‘Guess you’ll be on light duties till that arm of yours heals,’ he growls. ‘Put you on cleaning till then.’ He lumbers out and marches off as if he’s on a parade ground. He expects me to follow and I do. He goes to a cell across the way, opens the door and shows what is a large room compared to the cells in the older part. There is one catch. Someone’s sharing the peter. ‘This ain’t the Ritz,’ he growls, interpreting my look. ‘Space is at a premium now, and so you’re to share this cell with our librarian. One of your mob, a murderer, so you’ll be nice and cosy in here. Maybe you’ll take each other out and save the state your upkeep.’

      I gawk at him. He gets annoyed, shoves me in, then locks the door with that old familiar sound of jangling keys and the clunk, clunk as the door is double locked. I stand there just feeling the scream building up inside again. Then the peephole in the door swings open and the screw eye appears to glare, to gloat, as he informs me: ‘This is where that bloke who decided to check out permanently lived. He crossed your cell-mate, created a ruckus, so take this as a friendly warning of what happens to little pricks who think it grows longer when they shoot a cop. Don’t get on the wrong side of Singh. Him and the Chief Warder were in the Indian Army together. The Chief a major, him a subedhar, or something like. that. He loved that Indian Army and his men. Same thing here ...’ and then his eye and voice are gone leaving me on my lonesome.

      Stand there. The screaming in my mind goes on and on. At last, it lowers to a level I can stand. I go to stretch my arms out full length and my mouth shrieks in pain. Forgot about that bloody broken arm. Nursing it, I turn and survey my home. Big cell. Big enough to hold two bunks with space between for a small table, single, with a bolted stool in front of it on which of all things is a neat little cushion. Think about plonking my bod on it, but hesitate. Someone else’s territory? I remember what the screw said. Better be cautious. Examine the window instead. High and narrow, difficult to get up to peer out. In my last cell, I unscrewed the table, and so could lug it to the window, stand on it and stare out to the sea.

      There in the distance over the roof tops, it lies glimmering in the moonlight, like the back of some fabulous huge serpent. It helps me to do my time. I fall in love with it, and when I get out, I make a beeline for the beach to say hello to that old serpent. Well, something like that, and there is this girl there. We get to talking and I get to look over her curves. She’s something out of Carter Brown. Al Wheeler eyes her, running his insolent eyes along her long slim legs, the flat stomach, the overabundant curves of her breasts. He puts a smirk on his face, and sooner or later he gets what he wants. But Wheeler is a Lieutenant of Police, and what am I, but some little brown-skin ex-con not even knowing how to be on the make ... Oh hell, can’t even see the sea from this cell. I end up watching my reflection in the polished floor. I turn my attention to the two lockers at the foot of the bunks and I notice a strange thing. One of them has a padlock on it. One of those things with a combination lock so that you can’t pick it easily. Well, that’s the theory; but usually they’re so badly made that you can snap them open with a jerk. I try, but this lock seems better made than others. I twirl the numbers trying for the right combination. No go. Then it hits me. A lock on a con’s locker. Who is this con? What did the screw say: a friend of the Chief Warder and ex-Indian Army? Christ, I don’t know. Best to let things roll. I eye the bunks. My God, one has sheets beneath the blankets. We don’t get sheets in boob. Is this, what did that screw say, the Ritz? Suppose that’s some kind of hotel. This little Nyoongah is only nineteen years old and never been out of West Aussie, so how could he know after fucking up his chances of making it to the east. The only Ritz he knows is a cafe on Wellington Street and there’s nothing posh about that greasy spoon. Well, I’ll just have to wait until the bloke comes. The other bunk with the folded blanket must be mine. I stretch out on it and pass the time crying to think of some girl I like. Denise was always a gas. Man, she had something going for me too.