This is another short story in the short story series, ‘A Prison Journey’. If you’d like to read the first four stories just click on the links below.
Short Story – Sweat Box Odyssey (My Prison Journey part 1)
Short Story – Leaves on the Line (My Prison Journey part 2)
Short story – Mr. Shoes Pie (My Prison Journey Part 3)
Short Stories – Mental Dysmorphia (My Prison Journey part 4)
Wagbo’s pad-mate.
“That fu***r has nicked all my f***in furniture now – and you still won’t do nothing!”
The Wagbo was apoplectic.
If you had run a tape measure from the floor to the top of Wagbo on that day you’d be measuring about 5 feet of angry. But at least 6 inches of that was hair.
He had gotten his nickname from a character created on ‘Harry Hill’s TV Burp’. The original Wagbo was supposed to be the love-child of Susan Boyle (from Britain’s Got Talent) and Wagner (from X-Factor).
Our Wagbo was an altogether different abomination. If he had been an experiment or unholy union I would have described him as a mix between Christopher Lloyd’s (Doc in Back to the Future) hair, Shane McGowan’s (from The Pogues) teeth with the general hygiene of the wee one with the woolly hat from ‘Last of the Summer wine.’
By all accounts the Wagbo had been semi-feral on the out. Rumour had it that he had excavated a series of tunnels and caves in a public park and lived there like a Womble with Tourette’s syndrome and anger issues.
Wild as he was, he was looked after by both the Kangas *(Kanga’s=Kangaroos=Screws) and the cons. But he was not much for personal hygiene, so periodically we would be called on to intervene. Generally it would be Miss Kanga L who would suggest that ‘Wagbo needs shearing lads.’
The plan was pretty much the same. A team of us would corral the Wagbo and drive him towards Big Mark who would grab a hold of him in a bear-hug. Mark seemed to have a high pain threshold when it came to his shins being kicked and his arms bitten.
While the Wagbo thrashed and protested the clippers would come out and his head would be buzzed short and neat – generally once he saw the first strands of hair falling to the floor he would become submissive and allow the process to be finished. Hair done, the Wagbo would be held under a shower until soaked wet through – clothes and all I might add – nobody wanted to see a naked Wagbo! He would then be left alone in the showers with towels, soaps and a fresh set of clothes. Sure enough, a few minutes later the Wagbo would emerge like a butterfly, proud as punch and strutting like a mini-Travolta down the landings.
But on this day, events had built up and come to a head.
“Now calm down Wagbo (even the Kangas used it) – stop swearing and tell us who has nicked your furniture” Mr Kanga B was confused.
“That f***ing new padmate of mine – the one that works nights!” The Wagbo was physically hopping from foot to foot now. His face was turning crimson. The blank look on Mr B’s face was only making things worse.
The thing was, just as the Wagbo was screaming at the Kangas, all of his furniture was being returned to his cell by a recalcitrant rabble of mischievous, giggling prisoners. This was the culmination of a two week campaign to combat boredom.
Being bored is not a good look for wing cleaners. While the Kangas accepted that we weren’t hyper-industrious, they expected us to respect them by not making it obvious. Kangas are like parents – they can find chores from anywhere. Therefore it paid to ‘look busy’ and one day when we were ‘busy’ spraying and cleaning places that had not been touched in years, one of the cleaners found a key. Not a Kanga’s key that would open gates, but a cell key like the ones we had to our cells’ privacy locks. I don’t know what you do when you find a key, but I want to know what it opens. As I look back now I am minded of a safari park or zoo when the keepers devise some puzzle to distract the animals from their captivity by making them work for treats. For 6 bored wing cleaners this key became our activity for the day.
After we had each tried our own cells, Tully was given the task of trying the key in the other 70 cells on the wing. They were spread over 5 landings and we kept sketch as he started on the top floor – furthest from the Kangas. Tully would spray each door and wipe it with his cloth while trying the key. It took less than an hour for him to find the key belonged to the lock in the Wagbo’s cell – right in the corner of the 5’s landing.
The next couple of days were spent conducting minor mischief’s. When the Wagbo came back from his work he might find that his TV channels had been re-tuned in a different order. Another day he might find that he no longer had any spoons or knives in his cutlery mug, but that there would be 17 forks. But when the Wagbo didn’t seem to react in the manner that was expected, so the games continued. I was the #1 Wing Cleaner and wary about things getting out of control – I didn’t want a nicking. But I wasn’t a grass either. So, like Pontius Pilate, I washed my hands of the affair – but I did watch events unfold.
The Wagbo was a High Risk, single cell prisoner. He couldn’t have had a padmate even if he wanted one. The next logical progression in the wind-up was to give the Wagbo a friend. When the Wagbo came back from work he found an unwashed cereal bowl in his cell. The next day there was another cereal bowl, this time it was joined by a half-drunk cup of tea.
The Wagbo was now intrigued enough to ask if anybody had seen somebody in his pad. He spent hours checking the door hinges and trying to pick his lock. But all in all he seemed to be coping. Suspicious, but coping. The game continued.
He came home to find that the second bunk in his cell had been made up AND appeared to have been slept in. There was an extra toothbrush by the sink (that had been used more than the Wagbo’s ever was). The first major chink in the armour came when the Wagbo found that his new padmate had forgotten to flush the toilet. He came out onto the landing demanding to know who had been in his cell.
One of the cleaners managed to keep a straight face as he said, “It’s your new padmate Wagbo lad! The old fat guy.”
“Can’t be! I’m single-cell!” Wagbo replied defiantly.
“Yeah, but he works nights, so technically you’re both still single cell cos yez are never together!”
That was enough, the Wagbo was off down to the office and screaming at the Kangas. Like the boy who cried wolf, they paid lip service to the Wagbo and calmed him down. They hadn’t shown much interest in what he had said, why would they? Wagbo obviously didn’t have a padmate.
The following morning the Wagbo stood at the edge of the landing by his cell and announced to the wing, “I’m going to work and my padmate had better not f*** around today or I’ll kill him. Right? So if you see him, tell him that from me.”
The majority of the Kangas and Cons merely ignored the Wagbo’s declaration. On the other hand, 6 wing cleaners had already designed their next diabolical act.
The Wagbo returned from work to find that the 2nd bunk had been slept in again. There was a newspaper on his table. A pair of reading glasses lay on the newspaper. On the side was a half drunk cup of tea and a corned beef sandwich – minus one perfect bite. The Wagbo went storming out of his cell, trailing expletives as he barged past people on the stairs and rocked up to the office. After much frantic haranguing, the Wagbo had convinced one of the Kangas to come up to his cell. Unfortunately, by the time they arrived there was no trace of the Wagbo’s padmate or his possessions. The Wagbo started hopping like a cartoon character, the Kanga warned him about wasting his time and a group of wing cleaners rolled around the floor laughing at the show. The rest of the wing mostly ignored proceedings.
The final straw came when the Wagbo came back to find his cell had been completely stripped. There was nothing but walls, a sink and a toilet. While he had been at work the wing cleaners had taken every scrap of furniture and every possession, stashing them in the showers. As soon as the Wagbo had left for the office the cleaners set about returning everything just as they had found it. When the Wagbo returned with Mr Kanga B in tow there was nothing amiss with the cell, but the Wagbo was resolute.
“Check the cameras Mr B. There’s something not f***ing right here!”
That put the shits up the wing cleaners. About an hour later I was called to the office in my capacity as a diplomatic wing number #1. I walked into the office and saw Kangas B, H, L and R respectively. Mr B did the talking.
“Now Moose, whatever has been happening to the Wagbo stops now and I want assurances to that effect. If I have to look at the CCTV I will nick every f***er involved and send every one of them to G-wing, having no gym and no extra diets will be the least of their worries.”
G-wing was a shithole. Mr B was serious. I called the cleaners together and demanded the key. They were glad to be rid of it. An hour later I went back to the office and handed over the offending key.
“Where did you get this then?”
“One of the cleaners gave it to me. It is an old key to the Wagbo’s pad. They weren’t really out to upset him, I guess things just got out of hand. Anyway, you have the key now so it won’t happen again, right?” I was about to turn and leave.
“Who had it? Which cleaner?” Mr H chimed in.
“Well I can’t really tell you that. I mean, I sort of guaranteed him immunity – you know, for doing the right thing.” I replied earnestly.
Mr B chimed in, “Well we never authorised you to give anybody immunity. Who do you think you are? The FBI?”
“Look Moose, somebody has to get a nicking here. Either you tell us who had the key or we have to nick you – we’ve seen you in possession of the key.” Messrs. H and B looked to each other and then back at me. My arse fell out. How the hell was I going to get out of this? I couldn’t grass on the lads – but I didn’t deserve to take the fall. I took a breath and it hit me. I smiled as I answered.
“I would love to tell you who gave it to me, but I can’t break confidence. One of the cleaners approached me in my capacity as a Listener. He was in crisis, very ashamed that his actions had upset the Wagbo. He gave me the key and asked me to return it. If I told you who it was I would be breaking the Listener’s Code – and you wouldn’t want that would you?”
As a Listener I had been trained by the Samaritans. Listeners follow the same strict guidelines on confidentiality. As I spoke I saw that the Kangas were smiling right back at me. The tossers were only on a wind up.
“Oh well if it’s a Listener issue I guess we had better consider the matter closed. Perhaps you might have a cup of tea with the Wagbo and let him know that you’ve fixed his problem. Here, give him these, it should make him happy.” Mr B threw me a few sleeves of Penguin bars. I left the office a relieved man.
