Dane Cobain's Blog, page 14

Solitude (Short Story)

NOTE: This is another of the early James Leipfold short stories which delves a little into the character’s past. It’s an unedited first draft, but I figured why not share it? Enjoy.

 

IT WAS AN EARLY AUTUMN EVENING, and Leipfold was sitting alone in the beer garden at the Rose and Crown and wondering how and why the last six years had happened.

Leipfold wasn’t drinking, and his mind and his body both felt better for it. Not that he had much else to do with his time. It was lonely on the outside. No girlfriend, no friends, and two dead parents who’d left the world too early. He was living in a halfway house, a hostel that agreed to take him in for thirty days while he sorted his life out. All he had were his meagre savings, and they wouldn’t last for long.

So he did the only thing that he could think of. He hopped on his bike and cycled off towards the unemployment agency. He needed to sign on.

The woman that he spoke to was a dowdy 50-something in a shapeless frock from a charity shop. She had a husky voice from too many cigarettes and smelled faintly of stale alcohol. Leipfold couldn’t stop thinking about it – the smell haunted him, and he had to constantly remind himself of all of the work that he’d put in to get there.

“What do you want?” she asked him. She sounded bored and angry at the same time, and if she was supposed to address people politely then Leipfold supposed that she hadn’t got the memo. Then again, he thought, why would they care? They’re doing me a favour, after all. I guess they don’t get paid extra for human kindness.

“I’d like to register as a jobseeker,” Leipfold said. “I need some money. Give me what you got.”

“Uh huh,” the woman said. “And what kind of work are you looking for?”

“Anything where I can use my brain,” Leipfold said. “I’ve always thought about becoming a private detective.”

“A private detective?” She laughed. “I don’t think so. The police force, maybe, a big lad like you. But you’ve got a record, so that’s gone. A bouncer, perhaps? And I’m sure we could get you some work in a warehouse.”

“I don’t want to work in a warehouse,” Leipfold said.

The woman shrugged. “Sometimes we just have to take what we get given,” she told him. “Okay, Mr. Leipfold, let me see what I can do. We’ve got a few potential matches. I’m going to get you all set up and then I’ll give you a call in the next few days once we’ve arranged an interview. Please can you double check your phone number?”

“I have an impeccable memory,” Leipfold said. “That’s the right number. And if it doesn’t work out, you can call my probation officer or the halfway house. Trust me, I’m not going anywhere.”

The woman frowned at him and pursed her lips. Then she shook her head. “You’re not very good at obeying authority figures,” she said. “Are you, Mr. Leipfold?”

Leipfold just ignored her.

 

***

 

The first interview was scheduled for the following Tuesday. Leipfold had been told to go along to a garage on the outskirts of town, and he dutifully turned up at the appointed hour. He was wearing his only suit, and the garage’s owner took exception to Leipfold immediately.

“Do you know what a mechanic does, boy?”

“Boy?” Leipfold repeated. “Who are you calling ‘boy’? I’m not much younger than you are.”

“That doesn’t matter,” the mechanic said. “When you’re working for me, I’ll call you whatever I want to.”

Leipfold growled, but he bit his tongue and managed to stop himself from replying.

“I’ll be honest,” the mechanic said, “I don’t like you.”

“You don’t know me,” Leipfold said. “You only just met me.”

“Still,” he replied. “I don’t like you. I haven’t liked you since I set eyes on you. But I believe in giving a man a chance where I can, so here’s what I’m going to do. I want you to start right away and show me what you’ve got. We’ve got a bunch of odd jobs that need doing and no hands to do them. You can start on grease duty. Go and help the boys, they’re refitting an engine in Bay C.”

“In this suit?”

“You can change into overalls,” the mechanic said. “We’ll have some spares in your size. Get someone to check the lost and found.”

“Great,” Leipfold said. He shook hands with the boss and followed him through into a back room.

It was a dull and tedious first day. Leipfold wasn’t exactly a petrol-head, but he liked to think that he knew cars. He certainly knew them well enough to identify a half dozen inefficiencies by the time that they broke for a brew and a sneaky cigarette. But none of the men would listen to him. It was as though they didn’t want to work more efficiently. As though they didn’t care about their jobs. Well, Leipfold didn’t care for the job either, but that didn’t stop him from wanting to make improvements.

At the end of the day, when the final vehicle had rolled off the premises and Leipfold was left alone with the owner, who didn’t look too happy to see him again.

“So how did I do?” Leipfold asked.

“About that,” the mechanic said. “You did a good job. The boys were impressed with your work, and so was I for that matter. But there’s just something I don’t like about you. I’m sorry, young man.”

“Don’t call me young man,” Leipfold growled.

“Exactly,” the man replied. He held out a couple of bank notes. “Take these. It’s your pay for today. But don’t come back tomorrow.”

Leipfold groaned. “Why not?” he asked.

“I don’t like your attitude,” the mechanic said. “You have thoughts above your station. I have no use for that. I need a man who can follow instructions. A cog in the machine. I don’t need a man like you.”

“I see,” Leipfold said, and he did. The man felt threatened. He knew that Leipfold wouldn’t stand for any shit, and he knew that his business was full of it. Leipfold wouldn’t be expecting a call in the morning.

It wasn’t until he got home and started running a shower that he realised he was still wearing the garage’s blue coveralls.

And that meant that his best – and only – suit was still inside.

 

***

 

The second interview was at Tesco. Leipfold hadn’t got his suit back, so he showed up wearing a smart blue cardigan and a pair of plain black jeans. They were complimented by a plain pair of trainers and a smart leather bag that hung from his shoulder. He was interviewed by an efficient young woman who could have passed for Leipfold’s little sister, but Leipfold wasn’t bothered by her age. He had no problem with taking orders from people that were younger than him, as long as he agreed with them.

It was going surprisingly well. Leipfold had made no secret of his bigger ambitions, but the woman was sympathetic and Leipfold guessed that she had big plans of her own – plans that didn’t involve working at a supermarket.

Leipfold had been shown around the warehouse and taught how to use the pricing machine, and he was looking forward to trying his hand behind the counter. If there was one thing that he thought he was good at, it was talking to people. But he wasn’t expecting them to station him behind the cigarette counter.

“It’s not the cigarettes that are the problem,” Leipfold explained. “It’s the bottles of brandy, and the whiskey. Even the vodka. I don’t want to be around them.”

“Why not?”

“I’d rather not say,” Leipfold said. “Would you ask a vegetarian to work the fish counter?”

“If they wanted the job,” the woman replied, doubtfully. “We have no use for specialisms, here. We’re looking for people to work on rotation covering staff that are on leave or otherwise absent. You don’t get to pick and choose what you work on.”

“Ah,” Leipfold said. “That might be a problem.”

“Why is that?”

Leipfold thought about it for a moment and then mentally shrugged. What the hell? he thought. So he told the woman everything, from his problems with the bottle to his time in jail. She seemed to take an interest when he told her how he’d helped the warden, but none of it looked good on his CV.

“I see,” she said eventually, when Leipfold had finished. “That’s quite the story.”

“Things happen to me,” Leipfold said. “I don’t know why, they just do.”

“I can see.”

“So do I get the job?” Leipfold asked.

She looked him up and down, as though she were trying to read his mind or guess his weight.

“Are you clean now?” she asked.

“I am,” Leipfold said. “I haven’t touched a drop since I got locked up. I go to meetings and everything. I’m a changed man.”

The woman nodded. “Okay,” she said. “Well thanks for being honest with me. I’ll be in touch.”

 

***

 

It was two weeks later, and Leipfold hadn’t heard anything from the friendly woman at the supermarket. He assumed, correctly, that he hadn’t got the job. It was a blow, but it was hardly a surprise – and at least he wouldn’t have to serve the other boozehounds and handle his nemesis on a daily basis.

Leipfold’s third interview was at McDonald’s. He wore the same outfit he’d worn to the supermarket, already resigned to the fact that he’d come home reeking of chip fat and desperation. He was expecting another failure of an interview, but he was offered the job there and then and started the following Monday.

He was working with a familiar face. Donnie Flowers was all grown up, but he still had the same mischievous face that Leipfold remembered from his youth. Flowers remembered him too, if only vaguely, and they struck up an unlikely friendship as they worked together behind the counter. It turned out that Flowers had served time in the same facility as Leipfold, although he’d been released a couple of months before Leipfold had been shown inside.

Neither of them liked their job, but for a certain type of person, it was the best they could hope for. The fast food chain, with its profits in the hundreds of millions of dollars, paid minimum wage, but Leipfold was still living in the halfway house and so the money went straight into his wallet. Better still, with no booze to bother him, he didn’t have to spend it on the bottle. Not that it wasn’t tempting.

Still, the job seemed to be going well, at least in the early days. Then, towards the end of his second week as he was finally making plans to move out of the hostel, disaster struck.

It all started with a troublesome customer who wouldn’t take no for an answer. It was a kid in a shell suit, maybe fifteen years old at best with a wispy little moustache that made him look like a potato that had started to go off, and he wanted his McNuggets.

“But sir,” Leipfold said, “we’re all out. You’ll have to pick something else from the menu.”

“Nah, mate,” the customer said. “I’ll have the McNuggets.”

“We’re all out,” Leipfold repeated. “Are you deaf? What exactly do you expect me to do?”

The kid’s face flushed and made him look like he’d had a sudden allergic reaction. Leipfold pictured stabbing the kid in the eye with an epi-pen.

“Get me the manager,” the kid said.

“I am the manager,” Leipfold lied.

“Then get me head office.”

Leipfold leaned in close to the kid and grabbed him by the collar. He dragged him across the counter towards him, not caring who was looking but wondering vaguely about the implications if his parole officer heard about it. He leaned in close until he was nose to nose with the customer, when the kid’s spotty nose took up half of his peripheral vision, and said those three fatal words.

“Go fuck yourself,” Leipfold said.

And that was the end of his career at McDonald’s.

 

***

 

Leipfold was depressed.

He’d been turfed out of his lodgings and called a timewaster by the employment agency, who’d told him they’d give him a call if something came up. Leipfold suspected that it wouldn’t.

So he’d fallen back into old habits and made his way to the Rose and Crown. Cedric was still the landlord, although he looked twenty years older. His hair had been clipped short on the top and sides, and it hung low in a little grey ponytail from the back. Still, his wizened face broke into a smile as his eyes alighted on Leipfold.

“It’s you!” Cedric said.

“It’s me!” Leipfold replied.

“How the devil are you?”

“I’m grand,” Leipfold said. “It’s been a while.”

“It has,” Cedric agreed. “What can I get for you?”

“Just a lemonade.”

“A lemonade? What happened?”

“I’d rather not talk about it,” Leipfold said, gloomily. “Just get me a lemonade.”

“Sure thing,” Cedric said. Leipfold waited for him to finish drawing it and then carried it over to his usual table, which was still in its usual place, though looking slightly more faded by the weight of time. Cedric was even still getting the papers in, although one of them had gone defunct while he’d been inside, and Leipfold found himself sinking back to his old habits. He opened the papers up and browsed through the job ads.

Half an hour or so later, when he’d reached the bottom of his glass of lemonade, he walked back up to the bar and ordered a lager.

“Are you sure?” Cedric asked. “I thought you were dry.”

“I was,” Leipfold said. “I am. Or maybe I was. I don’t know. Just go ahead and get me that lager.”

“If you say so.” The landlord stroked his beard thoughtfully and hesitated before he pulled the pump, but he did as Leipfold asked and poured out a tall glass of amber. He slid it across the bar to Leipfold, who thanked him and then took the drink back over to his table.

He spent twenty minutes examining it from different angles, smelling it, swilling it gently around the glass and watching the thin froth die down. He was barely aware of the thoughts that were running through his head, but even if he’d noticed them, he wouldn’t have been able to explain them.

Leipfold held the glass up to his face again and put it to his lips. Then he put it back down again as he spied a familiar face walking in through the doorway.

Rod was wearing a hat pulled low across his face and a heavy coat to ward off the weather, but it was unmistakably him and the time between their meetings had treated him kindly. He’d dyed his hair and grown a beard, but there was something in the way that the man held himself. His suspicions were confirmed when Leipfold caught his eyes and nodded at him.

Rod bought a drink at the bar and then came to sit down beside Leipfold. He sat with his back to the rest of the pub and kept his voice low as though he didn’t want to be overheard. That didn’t surprise Leipfold. Last he’d heard, the man sitting in front of him was under witness protection, living under a changed name so that the Scottish Scally gang didn’t hunt him down and kill him.

“Fancy seeing you here,” Leipfold said. “What happened to witness protection?”

“Shhh,” Rod said. “Keep your voice down. Nobody knows that I’m here. Let’s keep it that way.”

“Fair enough,” Leipfold replied. “So what do you want? I assume that you’re here to talk to me.”

“You assumed correct,” Rod replied. “How did you guess?”

“It’d be a bit of a coincidence if the two of us just happened to bump into each other,” Leipfold said. “Do you know the odds?”

“Nope.”

“I do.” Leipfold smiled. “How can I help?”

“I’ve got a job for you,” Rod said.

“I don’t need a job.”

“That’s not what I heard.” Rod grinned and took a swig from his drink, then lifted it up in a toast to Leipfold. “Nothing like being a free man, eh?”

“Yeah,” Leipfold said.

Rod leaned in a little closer. “Look,” he murmured. “I’ve got two grand with your name on it. It’s an easy job, nothing illegal, and you’re just the man to do it for me. I need you to tail a business associate of mine and report back on his movements.”

Leipfold looked at him, cautiously. “You’re not talking about one of your old Scally friends, right?”

“No, nothing like that.”

“Hmmm,” Leipfold murmured. “Well I guess I could use the money. Tell me a more.”

 

***

 

Rod and Leipfold spent the next hour hatching plans, and then Leipfold left the bar without touching his pint. He woke up the next morning with a clear head and an investigation to embark on, and he spent the next couple of days following the man that Rod had told him about.

Leipfold hadn’t been given the mark’s name, but he didn’t need it. Rod had given him a handful of Polaroids in a plain brown envelope and Leipfold had committed each one of them to memory so that he could follow his mark without having to constantly check his face against the photograph. He did have a forgettable face and the short of thinning thatch of hair that was the common uniform of men of a certain age. He had that going for him, at least. Luckily for Leipfold, he also had an unusual gait, and Leipfold could have pointed him out in a crowd from fifty paces, just by looking at the way he walked.

But for the first couple of days at least, nothing unusual happened. Then came the third day, where his suspect had broken his routine by cancelling an appointment and heading instead to a hotel that was just around the corner of the business centre. It was a grubby little place, a seedy dive that was quite clearly the domain of travelling students and shady businessmen. Leipfold’s mark fit into the latter category.

He watched from a distance as the man walked inside, then approached it as closely as he thought he could without giving his position away. He even tried to go inside, but the receptionist shooed him away when he was unable to prove any evidence of a booking. So he did the next best thing, waiting nonchalantly outside the building and trying to look like a part of the scenery. It didn’t really work, but no one told him to move on and so Leipfold just lurked there, literally just fading away into the background and as the tourists and the commuters worked their way around him.

Leipfold’s mark came back out an hour later, but this time he had a beautiful, dark-skinned young woman on his arm. Leipfold didn’t recognise her, but he didn’t need to – he’d seen enough, and even from a difference he knew it was the same woman that was shown in some of Rod’s photographs.

He tailed them along a couple of sleeps for as long as he dated and then lost them when they hopped into the back of a taxi cab.

 

***

 

That night, he met Rod in the Rose and Crown and gave the man an update. The ex-con was in a good mood to begin with, but that soon changed when Leipfold provided his update. When Leipfold told him about the rendezvous at the sleazy hotel, Rod dropped his head into his hands and cursed into his pint of lager.

“God damn it,” he murmured. “That little bitch.”

“She’s a friend of yours?”

“Something like that,” Rod said. “She’s my lover.”

“Aren’t you married?”

“Yeah,” Rod said. “So what?”

“Carry on, then.”

“Yes, well,” Rod said, taken aback somewhat and losing steam with every passing setting. “Well, she’s supposed to be mine. She’s supposed to be waiting for me. But she’s not, is she?”

“Apparently not,” Leipfold said. “Who’s the guy?”

“That’s Steve,” Rod said, dismissively. “He’s an…uh, an old business acquaintance.”

“Is he a Scally?”

Rod hesitated for a moment and then slowly nodded his head.

“You bastard,” Leipfold said. “You told me that this wasn’t dangerous. I was following a gangster?”

“Retired,” Rod said, “but I get your point. Sorry, Leipfold, but you know how it is. He knows me, he would have recognised me. I needed help and I figured you were the only person in the world that might be able to give it.”

“Well, I’m sorry to be the bearer of bad news,” he replied. “You asked me to carry out surveillance so I did. You can’t complain about what I saw. That’s not how it works.”

“You’re right,” Rod admitted begrudgingly. “But I knew if I told you the full story, you wouldn’t help me. That son of a bitch. I’m going to kill him.”

“No,” Leipfold said, shaking his head. “Don’t do that. Beat him up if you need to, but no weapons. It’s not worth it. You’ve got the chance at a new life. Why risk it all to get even?”

Rod sighed. He looked down at the table and cracked his knuckles absentmindedly. He picked up his drink and took a deep gulp from it, then set it back down on the table.

“You’re right,” he said. “Of course you are. But he’ll get what’s coming to him.”

“Do what you’ve got to do,” Leipfold said. “But keep the woman out of it.”

“You’re too much of a gentleman,” Rod said. “I’m glad you’re not on the inside.”

“Likewise.”

“You’re good at this.” Rod grinned at Leipfold, then reached into his wallet. He withdrew a handful of notes – more notes than Leipfold had ever seen in a single place – and then threw them on the table in front of them, not even bothering to count them. “Maybe you should do it for a living.”

Rod finished his drink and set the glass down, then shook Leipfold’s hand, stood up and walked out of the pub. Leipfold looked down at the table and started to gather the bank notes in his fist.

“Maybe I should,” he murmured.”

Introducing the Tribute Set

Hi folks! As many of you know, I put a lot of effort into memorising my poetry and my songs so that I can perform them at open mic nights, and I work on memorising new stuff every day when I go for a jog.

I’ve already memorised a set of ‘cover‘ poems – that is, poems by other people. So it seemed only fair for me to do the same with the songs that I cover when I play guitar. Here’s the list of what I’m working on:

Bob Dylan – Knockin’ On Heaven’s Door
Bright Eyes – Seashell Tale
Cornershop – Brimful of Asha
Daniel Johnston – True Love Will Find You in the End
Donna Summer – Hot Stuff
Elliot Smith – The Biggest Lie
Jeff Buckley – Hallelujah
John Lennon – Working Class Hero
Johnny Cash – Folsom Prison Blues
Natalie Imbruglia – Torn
R.E.M. – Losing My Religion
Simon Joyner – My Side of the Blues
Soft Cell – Tainted Love
The Beatles – All You Need is Love
The Brian Jonestown Massacre – Anemone
The Lemonheads – It’s a Shame About Ray
The Mountain Goats – See America Right
Tom Waits – Chocolate Jesus

Keep your eyes peeled at open mic nights if you’re a Wycombe native, and be sure to check out some of my original music if not – you can listen to it on iTunes, Soundcloud and Spotify.

Of course, you can also follow me on Facebook and Twitter for further updates. I’ll see you soon!

Album #4: Title Reveal!

Hi, folks! Today, I’ve got something a little bit different for you – that’s right, it’s the title reveal for my upcoming fourth album.

It’s called ‘Echoes‘. Job done.

There’s a vague reason behind it. All of my other albums (Nocturne, Sketches and Discordia) have had single word titles and so I wanted to continue the theme. I sat down with a notebook and jotted down some potential titles, and ‘Echoes’ was the winner!

 

 

I don’t have a release date in mind at the moment, but it’s likely to be sometime in 2018. I still need to write and record maybe ten new songs to go on there, and I’ll also be recording a few of my older songs – including one or two that I wrote when I was seventeen.

In the meantime, the current track list is as follows:

Lean Down On Me
Cigarettes and Dollar Signs
It’s Not Easy Being Free
Up in the Country

Thanks, as always, for reading, and be sure to check out my first three albums on iTunes and Spotify for further information. You can also follow me on Facebook and Twitter for further updates. I’ll see you soon!

Assault

Note: This is another of the short stories in the collection I’ve been writing about the early exploits of James Leipfold, the private detective character from my upcoming series. In this first draft, he’s still serving his time in Reading Jail.

 

LEIPFOLD WAS MINDING HIS OWN BUSINESS when the guards came in. He was alone in his cell, lying back on his bunk and staring absentmindedly up at the ceiling. Even up there, the paint and the plaster was covered with the rambling graffiti of a dozen different prisoners. Sometimes, when he was bored, he’d allow his eyes to wander over it again, just in case he saw something he’d missed. But that was unlikely, not with his memory. Like an elephant, he never forgot.

The screws ordered him to stand with his back against the wall, and he quickly obeyed them. He knew what happened if you tried a little civil disobedience, and he didn’t feel like being cuffed and taken to the hole. So instead, he stood back and allowed them to cuff him and drag him unceremoniously out of his cell, along the ganty, down the steps and through the administrative building towards the warden’s office.

“What’s this about?” Leipfold asked.

But the guards just shook their heads and continued to lead him on in silence. When they arrived at the warden’s office, the guards were quickly dismissed, and Leipfold was shown to his usual seat in front of the warden’s mahogany desk.

“Ah,” the warden said, “Leipfold.”

“Good morning, sir,” Leipfold said. “To what do I owe this pleasure?”

“Yes,” he replied. “About that. Thing is, Leipfold, your name has been brought to my attention in connection with an assault.”

“An assault?”

“An assault,” the warden repeated. “Your good friend Bear, to be more precise.”

“I heard about that.”

“Yes,” the warden said. “Well, about that. You see, my network of…uh, informants, believe that you’re responsible. I don’t need to remind you, of course, that this is a series matter. Bear is in the hospital wing.”

“Is he okay?”

“He’ll live,” the warden said. “But he’s livid. If he hears these rumours, he’s going to want to ask you a couple of questions. The attack left him blind in one eye, for god’s sake. It doesn’t look like there’s any neural damage, but it’s not always easy to tell.”

“What happened to him?” Leipfold asked.

“I was hoping you might be able to tell me,” the warden said. “It looks like he was attacked by some sort of heavy weight inside a sock. It must have been personal. They did their best to kill the guy.”

“That’s awful,” Leipfold said. “I’ll be sure to send him a bunch of grapes.”

“I don’t think you’re taking this seriously,” the warden replied. “Do I need to remind you that you’re up for parole?”

“No,” Leipfold said. “I’m aware of that.”

“This could seriously compromise your chances, sonny Jim.”

“I didn’t do anything,” Leipfold protested.

“Would you tell me if you did?”

“No,” Leipfold admitted. “But that doesn’t mean I did it.”

“You might be right,” the warden said. “But I have to do something. I’m giving you a week. Find out who did it and report back to me. If you don’t come up with the goods, I’m going to have to hold you on suspicion of the assault.”

“Why don’t you just ask Bear?”

“Bear isn’t in much of a state to talk to anyone at the moment,” the warden said. “And besides, I get the feeling he’ll keep his mouth shut. Honour amongst thieves and all that.”

“Bear is no thief,” Leipfold murmured.

The warden turned his head sharply and looked over at him. “What do you mean?” he asked.

“Oh, nothing,” Leipfold said, shaking his head. “Just something that the other cons have been saying.”

“What?” the warden asked. He leaned in towards Leipfold until their faces were barely a foot apart. “Tell me.”

“I don’t know if I should,” Leipfold said. “I haven’t decided whether I believe it.”

“God damn it, Leipfold,” the warden bellowed, smashing his fist into the table and upsetting a half-eaten plate of wilted salad. “Tell me what you know right now.”

Leipfold sighed and leant back in his chair to try to avoid the worst of the warden’s spittle. It settled in Leipfold’s raggy, ginger beard like little flecks of dandruff or the food leftovers of a heavy meal.

“There’s a rumour,” Leipfold said. “Just a rumour, mind you. It’s going around that Bear was up for appeal and he might be getting out. The boys on the yard think that maybe there’s someone who doesn’t want him to get out. And there’s more.”

“More?”

“Bear’s in for armed robbery, right?” Leipfold said. He didn’t wait for the warden to reply. “Well there are people who think he’s paying karma’s price for something else. They say he’s a sex pest. That he’s done a few things that he shouldn’t have done, to put it mildly. And as you can imagine, that puts him pretty low on the prison’s pecking order. You want me to find out who beat him up? It could have been anyone.”

“I’ll search his quarters, see what I can find,” the warden said. “But you’re going to have to work with me on this one.”

“Okay,” Leipfold said. “I’ll see what I can do. Will there be anything else?”

The warden shook his head and said there wasn’t.

Leipfold heard about the search a couple of days later. The warden didn’t take the time to update him, so he had to hear it on the grapevine. A Scotsman named Rod – one of Bear’s cronies and a strong contender for the hardest man in the facility – gave Leipfold an update in hushed towns in the rec room.

“They found some nasty shit in there,” Rod said. “Photos beneath his bed. Photos you’d never want to see.”

“Photos?” Leipfold repeated. “What were they of?”

“Kids,” Rod said, but he left it at that.

The news had spread halfway across the jail by the evening, and it was the main topic of conversation in the morning. Leipfold had spent the night thinking, catching just an hour or two of sleep, but he’d had an idea and after a careful evaluation, he’d decided to go with it.

He cornered Rod in the exercise yard – if you could call it that, when the man could have ploughed Leipfold into the ground without breaking a sweat – and outlined his proposition while the sun was still climbing up the sky.

“I need a favour,” Leipfold said.

“I’m listening,” Rod said, which in itself was a good sign. Leipfold had expected the man to laugh in his face. So he steeled his nerves and told Rod what he wanted from him.

Rod stroked his chin thoughtfully and looked at Leipfold, weighing up all 5”6 of him. At length, he asked, “What’s in it for me?”

Leipfold thought about it for a moment. “Well for a start,” he said, “you’d be helping me to get out of this dump.”

“Not interested,” Rod said.

“Okay,” Leipfold replied. “Well perhaps there’s something I can help you with. Something I can do in return.”

Rod thought it over for a moment. He looked Leipfold up and down again, trying to figure out how much he could trust him. “Well,” he said eventually. “There is one thing. But I don’t think you’ll be able to help me.”

“You’d be surprised,” Leipfold said. “What is it?”

“I was in a gang,” Rod explained. “Back in Glasgow. I won’t tell you which one, just trust me when I say that there are a lot of them. I wasn’t exactly spoiled for choice.”

“I can imagine,” Leipfold said.

“I’ll cut to the chase,” the man said. “I hear you’re a good thinker. Well, perhaps you can think on this. I’ve been offered a reduced sentence if I testify, and our Joan has a kid on the way. I want to talk. I want to get out of here.”

“So what’s the problem?”

“You don’t understand,” Rod replied. “If I talk, they’ll kill her. They’ll kill me too. They’ll kill everyone I care about.”

“It could just be a threat,” Leipfold mused.

But Rod shook his head, exposing the tattoos on his thick, bullish neck. They wormed their way across his veins like lines on a cartographer’s work-in-progress.

“Okay,” Leipfold said. “I can see how that might be a problem. And if I help you, you’ll help me, right?”

“Right.”

“Then let’s do it,” Leipfold said. “Can you give me any names?”

“Yeah,” Rod said, and so he did. Leipfold jotted them dutifully down inside his notebook and promised he’d do his best, a plan already forming inside the brain that hid beneath his thick crop of ginger hair, directly behind the perpetual frown lines. Leipfold nodded at Rod and then quickly walked away to spend some time alone to mull things over.

 

***

 

Leipfold and his prisoners were allowed one call a week, and they had to be placed from a dreary communal room with grey walls and no windows. He was separated from inmates on either side by a pair of thin metal wings and a half-length curtain that was designed to give prisoners ‘privacy’ while still allowing the guards to see what – if anything – was going on.

But Leipfold had a good reason for not wanting to be overheard. He was putting a call into his local police station, and he asked the receptionist if they could put him through to Jack Cholmondeley.

Cholmondeley didn’t let him down.

“Leipfold,” he said. “Calling in from Reading Jail, no less. How’s it treating you?”

“Ah, you know,” Leipfold said. “Can’t complain.”

“Right.”

There was an awkward pause, and Leipfold and Cholmondeley both fell back into detective mode, listening to the ambient noise that was filtering in from the other end of the line and trying to picture the other man’s surroundings.

“Listen, Jack,” Leipfold said eventually. “I need a favour.”

Cholmondeley whistled softly through his teeth. “You’ve got a lot of guts, James,” he said. “You’re a convict and I’m a policeman. By rights, I shouldn’t even be talking to you. Why should I help?”

“Easy,” Leipfold said. “Because if you help me, I’ll help you to catch a criminal.”

“Interesting. Tell me more.”

“It’s out of your jurisdiction,” Leipfold said, “You’d need to work with the Scottish cops. Get it right, though, and you’ll be on the front page of the papers. This isn’t just any crime. It’s international.”

“Have you got any proof of wrongdoing?”

“I wish,” Leipfold said. “But I’m working on it.”

“If there’s no proof, my hands are tied,” Cholmondeley said. “Sorry, bud.”

“What if I get you your proof?”

“Then perhaps I can help,” Cholmondeley said.

“Great,” Leipfold said. “Listen, I can get you the proof you need. But I need you to put in a call for me.”

“Why can’t you do it yourself?”

“I get one call per week,” Leipfold said.  “And I just used this week’s call on you.”

“So wait until next week,” Cholmondeley replied.

“I can’t,” Leipfold said, and then he explained why. Cholmondeley listened with mounting interest as Leipfold told him about the attack on Bear, the deal with Ray and the parole that he was hoping – perhaps naively – to be awarded. Then he dictated names, numbers and instructions, and Cholmondeley jotted them down as quickly as he could, occasionally asking Leipfold to repeat himself.

They were just in time. Leipfold’s call hit the threshold and was automatically cut off just as Cholmondeley was repeating his instructions back to him.

 

***

 

It was a couple of days later, and Leipfold was starting to worry. His usual fortitude had been replaced by a perpetual state of nail-biting nervousness, and he spent most of his time sitting in his cell and working on his case. Although he had no idea whether he’d even get to plead it.

In the afternoon, Leipfold was called into the warden’s office. He allowed himself to be manhandled along the gantry with unusual aplomb.

“Sit down, Leipfold,” the warden said, but Leipfold was way ahead of him and had already lowered himself into his usual seat in front of the warden’s desk.

“What’s up?”

“I thought you’d like an update,” the warden said. “I’ve just had your pal Jack Cholmondeley on the phone.”

Leipfold tensed and leaned forwards in his chair. “What did he want?” he asked.

“Seems like you provided him with some information,” the warden replied. “He wanted me to tell you that the Scottish police have made an arrest. He said, hang on…ah, here it is. He said, ‘Tell him his boys did good. They caught the Scallies in action and called it in. By the time the Scot cops arrived, they had three members of the Scally Gang trussed up at the scene. Wrapped up in masking tape and everything. Like I said, his boys did good.’”

“Uh huh,” Leipfold said. “Well that’s good news.”

“But what does it mean?”

“Just a little justice,” Leipfold said. “Don’t worry about it.”

“Okay,” the warden said. “Well what’s the latest with Bear?”

“I’ve got nothing new for you,” Leipfold admitted. “But bear with me. I have a feeling that I’ll have something for you any day now.”

 

***

 

The next stage of the plan went without a hitch. Leipfold gave Rod the nod, and the two of them met up in the canteen, facing away from each other as they ate and talking in low voices so that they wouldn’t be overheard.

“We got them,” Leipfold said. “Your boys, the scallies.”

“Yeah?”

“Yeah,” Leipfold said. “Three of them, but they matched the descriptions you gave me. You sure that’ll be enough?”

“I hope so,” Rod said. “We got the ringleaders.”

“So you’ll testify?”

“I might do,” Rod said. “I’ll think about it.”

“But you’re going to help me,” Leipfold said. It wasn’t a question. “I held up my end of the bargain. Now it’s time for you to hold up yours.”

“All right,” Rod said. “I’ll see what I can do.”

 

***

 

The Scotsman disappeared the following day, and Leipfold later heard a rumour that he’d agreed to testify against the Scallies and been placed on witness protection. Good on him, Leipfold thought.

He was unsurprised when the guards rattled his door and ordered him to follow them to the warden’s office.

“How can I help?” Leipfold asked, once he was safely sitting down in his usual place in front of the mahogany desk.

“Ah, Leipfold,” the warden said. “I have news for you. Looks like you’re off the hook. I’ve received some new information on the attack on Bear.”

“You have?”

“I have indeed.” The warden paused for a moment, his lips twitching like the curtains on a suburban street. They broke into a smile. “I’m sorry for ever suspecting you, James.”

“So who was behind it?” Leipfold asked.

“Oh,” the warden said. “Just some Scottish chap. Rod, I think his name was. Maybe Rob, I don’t know. Who cares? He came clean and told me all about it. Must have had a guilty conscience.”

“Must have,” Leipfold said. “So what happened to him?”

“Oh, I’m sure he’ll get away with it,” the warden said. “What with those photos we found, I’m sure the guards will turn a blind eye to it. And besides. He testified against his old gang and your pal Cholmondeley’s lot locked them all up. Rod’s getting out early and joining his family. They’ll be given new identities and we can all sleep easier knowing there’s a little less scum on the streets.”

“Well I never,” Leipfold murmured.

“Anyway,” the warden said, clapping Leipfold on the shoulder. “That’s good news for you of course. I’ll be giving you a clean bill when they put you up in front of the probationary board. I’ll even recommend that they release you, as much as it pains me to do so. We’ve got a date, too. Six weeks, think that’ll be long enough for you to polish your suit?”

“Only six weeks?” Leipfold replied. “Well damn, I’d better start getting ready.

 

***

 

That night, alone in his cell as the other convicts slept off another eventful day in the jailhouse, Leipfold was settling in for the night. He was lying on his bed and scoring a narrow gash in the wall with a fingernail, ticking the first day of many off in the first bar of a tally chart that would count out the way to freedom.

When the graffiti was complete to his satisfaction, he turned to the sock beneath his bed. It was just a plain, white, prison issue gym sock, but with a few red stains on it that looked like little spots of rust. And it was heavy, bulky, like a foot was already in it. Leipfold held it up to the light.

He climbed out of bed and surveyed his cell, then spent a few cautious seconds listening at the door. When he was as sure as he could be that he wouldn’t be disturbed, he upended the sock and scattered pebbles and grit across the floor.

He swept them beneath his bed with a bare foot, then spent the next two hours unpicking the sock and flushing the threads down the toilet. He whistled while he worked.

Fair’s Fair? Thoughts On Feminism and Publishing

Confession time: I don’t consider myself to be a feminist.

Don’t get me wrong, I subscribe to most feminist beliefs – I just prefer to think of myself as an equalitarian (because ‘egalitarian’ is a stupid word), and that’s kind of the problem.

You probably already know that I spend a lot of time on the internet. One of the problems with that is that you see a whole heap of pointless arguments. A case in point is the “Black Lives Matter” versus “All Lives Matter” debate. I can see both sides, and I’m pretty sure that people are arguing semantics. The “Black Lives Matter” people aren’t saying that only black lives matter, and the “All Lives Matter” people aren’t saying that black lives don’t. What they’re both actually in favour of is equality – they’re just approaching it from different perspectives.

To me, that’s a shame. Granted, I’m a heterosexual white male and so I don’t have a whole lot of experience when it comes to discrimination, but it often seems to me as though we’re all on the same side. Instead of arguing semantics, we should tackle the serious repercussions of oppression instead of arguing about whether thinking Emma Watson is attractive makes you a sexist pig. Or maybe I’m naive.

One of the things that’s been annoying me lately is the number of literary magazines that publish female writers only. The idea is usually to redress the fact that women have been underrepresented in the literary community for hundreds of years, but I don’t buy that. I’m not denying the fact that women have been underrepresented – I just think it’s less of a problem now, especially thanks to self-publishing putting power into the hands of readers.

Personally, I think the book market is now so saturated that your gender doesn’t matter – at least, not to me. At the same time, I have a friend who writes under the name of ‘J G Clay’ instead of his actual name, ‘Pardip Basra’, and that’s at least partly because readers are more likely to buy from Clay than Basra. It’s an unfortunate consequence of our inbuilt prejudices as a society. I also know a few men who write erotica under female pseudonyms because for some reason, female erotica writers are fine but it gets a bit weird when erotica is written by a man. There’s a perception that it’s the same guys who are still inexplicably buying X-rated magazines from the top shelves of newsagents and carrying them home in the pockets of their flasher macs.

But to me, that’s exactly the point. It shouldn’t matter who the author is – in fact, I always said that if I launched my own lit mag, I’d read all submissions blind so that I can’t be subconsciously biased towards a writer based on the name they provide.

I just think everything should be fair, for everyone. But y’know.

When literary magazines only accept female writers, it’s divisive. To me, as a male writer, it’s a bit of a kick in the teeth. It’s like when you see a group of your friends in a pub, go over to say hello and they all just ignore you because of your genitals. I should point out that this doesn’t happen often. Only when I try to gatecrash hen parties.

Now, I understand the idea of promoting women in literature. I think it’s a noble idea. I just don’t think that excluding people based on their gender is the way to do that. Why not create a site that’s inclusive – while still meeting the same objectives?

It doesn’t have to mean huge differences. Instead of only accepting submissions from women, why not only accept submissions about women? Welcome people to contribute no matter what their genitalia, as long as they write about strong women. After all, that’s not divisive – it’s a theme, and people love themes.

When you only accept female writers, you alienate men. When you only accept writing that features a strong female character, you encourage men to think more like a woman – to try to understand them, to portray them more realistically, and basically to become better writers. And you can still have blind submissions if you don’t trust men to pull it off, so to speak.

The funny thing is that this entire blog post was inspired by David Mitchell (the comedian, not the novelist). I was reading one of his books and he pointed out that sometimes things have to be unfair against men – because if things were unfair against women but not against men, it wouldn’t be fair.

He’s right, and I hate that we live in a world in which that’s a truism. It made me rethink my entire thought process on sites that only publish women – and it seems like a small price to pay considering the pay gap.

Sometimes you’ve just got to gracefully accept a situation that goes against you. Women have to do it all the time.

Heroin

Note: This short story is another entry in a series that I’ve been writing to explore the back story of James Leipfold, the main character in my series of detective novels. In this story, he’s in the middle of serving his jail time at Reading Jail. Enjoy!

 

LEIPFOLD WAS READING The Brothers Karamazov again. It was the third time he’d read it, and it was up there in his top five books of all time. It was a long book that took a lot of commitment, but he was in Jail – and he had nothing else but time.

There was a noise from outside his cell and the door unlocked. Leipfold looked at it suspiciously, then smiled when he saw that it was Simmonds, one of the younger guards who’d struck up a rapport with Leipfold over a shared love of puzzles and trivia. Simmonds had a habit of remembering brainteasers and then asking Leipfold for the answers, but that didn’t look like why he was opening up the cell door.

“Leipfold,” Simmonds said, “the guvnor wants to see you.”

“Me?” Leipfold replied. “Uh oh. You’d better take me there.”

Simmonds cuffed Leipfold and led him through the labyrinth towards the warden’s office. The jail was in the shape of a cross with three tiers, and Leipfold was on the top floor. He had to walk through half of the prison to get to the administration black where the warden’s office was, but he liked to take the walk – in prison, it was the closest he got to a holiday.

Simmonds ushered him up to the warden’s door, knocked on it and then turned around and walked away before the warden had a chance to answer it. Leipfold was still cuffed, but it didn’t bother him. He’d built his own prison inside his head, and it didn’t much matter what anyone did to him.

The door opened and the governor stepped out. “Ah, Leipfold,” he said, grabbing Leipfold by the arm and leading him inside the office. “Thanks for coming.”

“It’s not like I had a choice,” Leipfold murmured.

“What was that?”

“Nothing.

“Good.” The warden paused for a moment. He stared at Leipfold with his shrewd, appraising eyes. “Leipfold,” he said, “I need another favour.”

“Oh no,” Leipfold said. “What is it this time?”

“I just thought that after the success of your last operation–“

“That was a fluke!” Leipfold insisted.

“Whatever it was, you got results. I want you to do it again.”

“Why would I do that? I’ve got my books.”

“And I can take them away again if I want to,” the warden said. “Help me out with this one and I’ll get you some more books.”

“I don’t need any more books,” Leipfold said.

“I don’t care,” the warden said. “Take it or leave it. But if you leave it, you’re going down to the hole.”

“Eurgh,” Leipfold said. “Okay, what do you need?”

“That’s more like it,” the warden said. “Okay, here’s the problem. Someone’s bringing drugs into the jail. Heroin, to be more specific. I’ve had word that people have been smoking the stuff inside the prison. That won’t do. Not on my watch.”

“And you want me to find out who’s been taking the stuff?”

The warden shook his head. “I already know who’s taking it. You might want to talk to that Bear of yours.”

“Bear’s taking heroin?”

“Afraid so,” the warden said. “He won’t be a bear for long. I’ve seen what that stuff does to people.”

“But if you already know who’s responsible, what do you need me for?”

“You think Bear is the only one?” the warden asked. “No, he’s just a symptom of the disease. We need to cut off the head and go straight to the supplier. I need you to find out how it’s getting into the jail in the first place.”

“Why me?” Leipfold asked.

“I don’t have anyone else that can get the job done,” the warden said. “And besides, I know you can do it.”

Leipfold sighed. “And if I don’t, you’ll take my books away?”

“Correct.”

“Well then,” Leipfold said, “It looks like I don’t have much choice.”

Leipfold started the investigation immediately. Ever since he’d investigated the jailbreak, the warden had allowed him to keep his pens and his notebook as a token of gratitude. He was about to get some more use out of them.

After the failed escape attempt, which had resulted in the arrest of the white supremacists’ outside accomplices and the prisoners’ transport to a new facility, Leipfold had been on edge. The skinheads were being held up as heroes, and their escape attempt was already sure to go down in prison history. If the rest of the cons ever found out that Leipfold had a hand in stopping them…well, he’d rather not think about it.

But that meant that he was already on edge, and the idea of snooping around for drugs didn’t sit well with him. And as for Bear, forget about it. He was Leipfold’s protector, the closest thing he had to a friend there. He had no desire to start poking around and upsetting the only backup he had.

Still, there were plenty of other convicts, and Leipfold spent the next couple of days putting out some feelers and finding out what he could find out. The junkies were easy to intimidate, but Leipfold couldn’t get them to talk. Either they didn’t know anything, or they didn’t want to say anything and risk cutting off their supply. Then he started to tail them, and he learned to recognise the faces of the dealers as they handed the goods over in the shower block or took even bigger risks by throwing them from cell to cell in what the prisoners called ‘kites’.

He thought he was even making a little progress. Then the warden took the war to the next level with a formal announcement in front of the inmate populace.

“Right, you lot,” he said, marching up and down the middle gantry with his chest puffed out like a hot air balloon. “Listen up. Someone is bringing drugs into my facility. I don’t know who it is, but I do know who’s been taking them. I can assure you that the long arm of the law has got its boxing glove on. I hope you sleep well tonight.”

He paused for dramatic effect, but the threat didn’t carry as well as he’d been hoping. He could feel the eyes of the convicts upon him, but if it made him nervous then he didn’t show it.

“Now,” the warden continued, “as none of you have been forthcoming with your information, I’m going to escalate the situation. Here’s what we’re going to do. We’ll start by cancelling all visitations until further notice.”

A grumble of outrage surfaced from the inmates, but the warden wasn’t worried. They were all safely locked up, and after the riot that had accompanied the escape attempt he’d been sure to keep things that way. Still, he felt a chill along his spine when he realised that hundreds of eyes were staring at him from out of their metal viewing slots.

The warden held his hand up and the rabble died down. “I know, I know,” he said. “But needs must. If I can’t find out who’s bringing the drugs in, I can’t let people come in. So I’d advise you to think about that when you’re spending those long days alone, wondering how your family are and whether they’re missing you. Some of you have baby children. I’m afraid we won’t be able to allow the kids in either. Protocol, you see. It’s out of my hands.”

The warden waited for his words to sink in and basked in the uproar. He gave it a few moments and then held up a hand again. This time, there was still some muttering, but the warden allowed it to continue. He simply raised his voice to shout over it.

“Of course,” he bellowed, “if someone was to provide me with information as to where the drugs are coming in from, perhaps I could lift the ban. Just something to think about.”

The warden turned on his heel and left them to it, and Leipfold sank gloomily back onto his bed. The cancelled visitations weren’t a problem for him – after all, no one came to visit him – but it would change the status quo amongst the convicts and he wasn’t looking forward to the inevitable power struggle.

Bear wanted to know what Leipfold made of it. Leipfold shrugged.

“Doesn’t affect me,” Leipfold said. “Although…”

“Although?”

“If everyone’s bringing stuff in, why did nobody tell me?” Leipfold said. “I could murder a bottle of brandy.”

“Brandy, huh?” Bear was a man of few words, and this was the most that Leipfold had heard him talk for weeks. “I can get you that.”

“Don’t sweat it,” Leipfold said.

“I won’t,” Bear said. “But I’ll get you some brandy. I know what it’s like to need something.”

Leipfold thought about it. He’d been dry since he handed himself in to the police, but he still felt the same old urge.

“What the hell?” he said. “Let’s do it. But how are you going to bring it in? Did you not hear the announcement?”

Bear laughed. “Leave it to me,” he said. “There are other ways of bringing in contraband. Especially contraband like brandy that comes in heavy bottles.”

Leipfold pushed Bear for further details, but the man wouldn’t tell Leipfold any more than he needed to know. So Leipfold started to watch him instead, and when he finally learned what Bear’s plan was, on the day of its arrival, he laughed so hard he nearly vomited.

That evening, locked alone in his cell with his bottle of brandy, Leipfold thought back over the events of the day. He opened up the bottle and took a sniff from it. It smelled angelic, like a taste of home. He sniffed it again. Then he sighed and put the cap back on the bottle.

“Not tonight, old boy,” he murmured. He slid the bottle beneath his pillow and fell asleep.

The following day, the warden called Leipfold back into his office. Leipfold had spent so much time there since his incarceration that it was starting to feel like a second home to him. Leipfold was cuffed and ushered inside. Then the guards were dismissed and the warden gestured for Leipfold to sit down in the chair on the other side of his desk.

“I’ve got something for you,” Leipfold said. “Have someone check my cell and look beneath my pillow.”

“Why?” the warden asked.

“I managed to get something smuggled in,” Leipfold replied. “A little bottle of brandy. Cheap stuff, I’m afraid, but you’re welcome to it.”

“Interesting. How did you manage it?”

“Well,” Leipfold said, “that’s the whole story, isn’t it?”

The judge placed a call to get one of his men to check Leipfold’s cell, and then he leaned in close to hear what the man had to say.

“I’m not going to tell you who I got it from,” Leipfold said, “but if you really want to know, I’m pretty sure you can figure it out. What I can tell you, though, is how they did it.”

“Go ahead.”

“You’re not going to believe this,” Leipfold said. “But it’s the truth. I saw it with my own eyes.”

“Damn it, Leipfold,” the warden said. “Just tell me how they did it.”

“They made a bloody blimp,” Leipfold said. “Rigged it all up using a couple of balloons and a paper basket. Then they just floated it over the wall.”

“Bullshit.”

“I swear,” Leipfold said. “I saw it. Once it cleared the walls, someone brought it down with an air gun.”

“From inside the walls?”

Leipfold shook his head. “No,” he said. “From the outside. Although if they keep this up, there could be guns on the inside any day now. I’m surprised none have made their way inside already. That brandy wasn’t exactly lightweight, not like a couple of baggies and a lighter.”

“Point taken,” the warden said. “I don’t know, Leipfold. It seems a bit far-fetched. Are you sure?”

“Positive,” he said. He smiled.

“How do they get rid of the evidence?”

“Simple,” Leipfold said. “The gas disappears and the balloons and the paper get flushed.”

“Hmm,” the warden said. He thought it over for a minute. “I don’t know. But it’s better to be safe than sorry. I’ll order a search of the cells and sweep away any contraband. And I’ll get a man on the roof to keep watch. See if we can’t catch these bastards in the act.”

Leipfold laughed, slowly at first before descending into a cacophony of wheezes and giggles.

“What?” the warden asked. “What’s so funny?”

“It’s nothing,” Leipfold said, pulling himself together between breaths. “Well, almost nothing.”

“Go on.”

Leipfold cleared his throat. “I wouldn’t bother if I was you,” he said. “Especially if you were planning on asking Simmons.”

“Simmons is a good man,” the warden said.

“Yeah,” Leipfold said. “I guess he is, if you’ve got the money.”

“What are you talking about?”

“He’s taking bribes,” Leipfold said. Bringing stuff in for the cons, if they give him the money. You wanted to know how drugs are coming in? You’d better have a little chat with Mr. Simmonds.”

“Simmonds?” the warden murmured. “I don’t believe it.”

“Take it or leave it,” Leipfold said. “It’s either that or the hot air balloons.”

“You mean the balloons didn’t happen?”

“Of course the balloons didn’t happen,” Leipfold said. “Jesus, if you believe that then you give these idiots way more credit than they deserve. It was Simmonds, I saw him. Who do you think brought me my brandy?”

“Have you got any proof?”

“Pah!” Leipfold said. “What do you think? I saw it. That’s enough. Besides, have you seen Simmons’ watch?”

“Of course,” the warden replied. “What about it?”

“It’s a Rolex,” Leipfold said. “One of the best. You think he paid for that on his prison salary?”

“Perhaps it was a gift.”

“Some gift,” Leipfold said.

The warden thought about it for a moment. “Hmm,” he said. “Well okay then. I’ll look into it.”

Leipfold waited expectantly for the governor to reward him, perhaps with more books or with a better cell. Maybe he’d even knock some time off the sentence. But no, there was none of that. Leipfold heard nothing from the warden, and he never saw Mr. Simmonds again. He didn’t even get to drink his brandy.

But a couple of weeks later, when Simmonds’ name came up in conversation, Bear shook his head sadly.

“We won’t be seeing Mr. Simmonds again,” Bear said. “The guy’s been dismissed pending a hearing. Turns out someone found out about the little scam he was running. You wouldn’t know anything about that, would you?”

Leipfold looked Bear up and down, all 6”8 of him. He gauged the weight of his fists and decided that he didn’t want to be on the wrong side of them.

“No,” Leipfold lied. “I don’t know anything.”

 

New Recording: Cigarettes and Dollar Signs

Hi folks! Today, I’ve got some music news for you – I’ve decided to revisit my archives and to dig up a few of my old songs. 99% of them are unusable, but there are a few tunes here and there that I’m pretty happy with.

I’ve only got a half dozen to work through, and today I’m releasing the first recording – an oldie called Cigarettes and Dollar Signs, which you can listen to either on Soundcloud or in the player below.

 

 

In the coming weeks, I’ll be recording a few more of these, so be sure to keep your eyes peeled for more music and stuff. You can also listen to my first three albums – Nocturne, Sketches and Discordia – on iTunes and Spotify.

Thanks as always for stopping by and be sure to follow me on Facebook and Twitter for further updates. I’ll see you soon!

The Ballad

Note: This is another of the short stories that I’ve been writing that focus on the history of James Leipfold, my private detective character. In this story, he’s imprisoned in Reading Jail after handing himself in to the police because of his guilt in a fatal traffic accident.

READING JAIL WAS A MISERABLE PLACE.

Leipfold had already spent a couple of months there, and he was glad that there was talk of the facility shutting down – even if that meant he’d be transferred to someplace with a more imposing reputation.

Life behind bars was a life of routine, which suited Leipfold just fine. The prisoners woke with the rising of the sun, showered and dressed themselves and then made their way down to the canteen for breakfast. After they ate, the guards watched on as they headed out into the yard for some exercise before being cooped back up in the cells for most of the rest of the day. On Sundays, the monotony was disrupted by the weekly church service. Leipfold wasn’t religious, but he went along anyway. He’d even befriended the priest who led the service – and promised to look him up on his release date.

Leipfold had already earned a little respect from his fellow inmates. It helped that they didn’t know what he’d done to get himself locked up in there, but he’d also served his country. That counted a lot in certain circles, and he hadn’t found it difficult to make friends. Well, maybe not friends, but there were people who’d have his back if a fight broke out.

Seven weeks in, Leipfold had already earned himself a nickname. They called him The Fixer, because he fixed things. He helped when they needed help, he knew things that the other inmates could never have even dreamed about, and he knew how to talk to the guards and the warden. Nobody really knew him, but everyone knew of him – he was The Fixer, and people went to him when they had a problem.

But Leipfold’s adjustment from disgraced ex-soldier to popular prisoner wasn’t easy. It didn’t take long, but like a quick trip to the dentist that wasn’t much consolation. He’d cemented his reputation as someone you shouldn’t mess with by punching a con called Bear, the biggest guy he laid eyes on the first time he was let out into the yard. For that, he earned himself a sprained wrist and a trip to lockdown.

On Leipfold’s next trip out, he was jumped by five guys from Bear’s posse, but he redeemed himself by swinging his fists like a champion boxer and fighting toe to toe with the meanest guys in the unit. The brawl had landed Leipfold in lockdown again, but only after his discharge from the hospital wing. When he was finally allowed back out, he was on his final warning. But there was no more trouble after that, and Bear and his crew adopted Leipfold as one of their own after witnessing him in action.

Politics in prison, Leipfold reflected, aren’t much different to the politics in Whitehall.

The other inmates thought he was fearless, but that wasn’t the truth. Leipfold was full of fear and racked with remorse to boot. He just didn’t care what happened to him, and if he was destined to wake up one night with a shank in his back then…well, he probably deserved it.

He couldn’t undo what he’d done.

But as dangerous as it was, it also made Leipfold feel alive, and he hadn’t allowed it to stop him from the pursuit of knowledge, the only thing that had kept him going throughout his tumultuous life. It had all started after the second fight, when the warden had requested a face-to-face meeting.

“What’s the problem?” the warden asked. He was an older man called Simon Mogford, a dour-faced, unshaven chap whose only concession to his personality was a single photograph of his son that sat in an old iron frame on his desktop.

“What do you mean, sir?” Leipfold replied, politely. His voice was muffled slightly by his swollen face, but he could still see through one of his eyes and he could tell from the warden’s expression that the state of his face had made an impression.

“You’re a former soldier, Leipfold,” the man said. “And an educated man to boot.”

“I went to Walthamstow Comprehensive,” Leipfold said.

“You know what I mean,” the warden snapped. “What I’m trying to say is, you’re not like the rest of the cons. You could have made something with your life. Why didn’t you?”

Leipfold shrugged.

“You want my advice?”

“No,” Leipfold said.

“Tough,” the governor replied. “You’re about to get it anyway. Find something to keep your mind busy. Don’t give up. And for goodness’ sake, don’t cause any more trouble.”

Leipfold paused for a moment and thought about it. He shuffled uncomfortably from foot to foot.

“What is it?”

“Icoulduseabook,” Leipfold mumbled.

“What was that?” the warden asked.

“I could use a book,” Leipfold repeated.

“Oh,” the warden said. “Is that it? What do you read? I’ll get some books sent over. Hell, you can have all of the books in the world if it’ll stop you from getting into trouble.”

So Leipfold recited a long list of books from memory. There were a few specific ones, the ones from his youth that had some personal meaning, and the rest of the titles formed a weird mixture of Greek classics, self-help books and detective novels.”

When all was said and done, Leipfold had given the warden a total of 73 books, and some of them were rare or out of print. The warden stared across his desk at the prisoner, his sunken eyes like big black holes in the void of space. He whistled.

“Seventy-three books,” he said. “That’s a lot of books, Leipfold. I can’t do that.”

“That’s a shame,” Leipfold said.

The warden nodded. He stroked his chin theatrically and stared morosely into the distance.

“All right,” he said. “Here’s what I’ll do. I’ll get you your books, Leipfold. I’ll get you those and more, if you want them. But in return, I need you to do something for me.”

“Here we go,” Leipfold murmured.

“Can I trust you?”

“It depends what for.”

“Hmm.” The warden looked thoughtfully at Leipfold and stroked his beard again. “Well, what the hell? I need your help. I’ve heard rumours about an escape attempt. I need you to find out if there’s any substance there.”

“Who’s planning it?” Leipfold asked.

“I don’t know.”

“I see,” Leipfold said. “Well what’s the plan? When’s it going to happen? What are they going to do?”

“I don’t know that either.”

“Hmm,” Leipfold said. “There’s not much to go on.”

The warden shrugged. “Take it or leave it,” he said. “Get me some information and I’ll get you your books. Otherwise you’ll have to take what you can find from the library.”

Leipfold accepted the challenge, albeit reluctantly, and his investigation started immediately. He didn’t know what he was looking for, of course, but he had the kind of nose that could track down information as easily as a police dog could chase a criminal. But Leipfold didn’t want to start asking around. That sort of thing could get a man killed, and there was a big difference between feeling indifferent about life and death and having an outright death wish.

So he thought about the problem in his own special way and approached it from a different angle. He sat back and asked himself, “How would I do it?” The trick was to first solve that problem and then to work his way back from the solution.

Strictly speaking, prisoners weren’t supposed to have unrestricted access to writing material. But for Leipfold, he was willing to make an exception, and the convict was presented with a cheap pad of paper and a set of thin wax crayons. Leipfold was mortified.

“You can’t write in a Moleskine with a crayon,” he protested.

“You’re going to have to,” the warden said. “You shouldn’t have these at all. But at least with the crayons, you can’t hurt anyone.”

“Not true,” Leipfold replied. “I could melt them down and recast them.”

The warden sighed. “Very well,” he said. “I’ll arrange for you to have some pens. But please understand that if you step out of line one more time, the deal is off.”

“Understood,” Leipfold said.

The next couple of weeks passed slowly and unremarkably, and Leipfold made remarkably little progress. Still, he took notes on everything he could, and he also kept an ear out for gossip amongst the inmates. It wasn’t an easy task, because most of them kept themselves to themselves. If gossip was traded freely, it was traded between cellmates or purchased from the guards in exchange for cigarettes.

By the start of the third week, Leipfold still had no books and barely any notes. He could count the gossip he’d learned on a single hand, and the most interesting little nugget was that Oscar Wilde had been an inmate almost a hundred years earlier. His theoretical approach had worked a little better and he’d been able to identify a couple of weak spots, but he didn’t know what to do with the information.

The first weakness was the changing of the guards. Paradoxically, though there were more people to keep the cons in check, the exchange of information was at its weakest and the guards were less focused on the job in hand. The Sunday morning church service was another one. Security was lax and the cons could take a hostage by subduing the priest – but that’s as far as Leipfold got, and he couldn’t take it seriously as a viable option. If anything, it would lead to the convicts forming a smaller prison within the prison, stuck inside the chapel in a siege situation until one of the sides caved and surrendered.

Leipfold wasn’t much of a religious man, but the weekly sermons started to take on more and more importance as he carried out his investigation. His gut told him that there was something there, even while his brain was protesting that there was no chance. But he’d trained himself to follow his instincts, so he started to pay more attention to the services – and to the people who attended them. There were three people in particular who stood out, three bruisers from the white supremacist group who were all swastika tattooes and shaved heads. They might have found religion, Leipfold supposed, but they didn’t look like the type. Besides, they hadn’t been there for Leipfold’s earlier visits, and there was talk on the yard that they were up to something. The rumour was that they were planning on starting a riot, which didn’t seem to fit in so well with the Ten Commandments.

After three weeks on the case, that was all Leipfold had. Unfortunately for him, the warden was pressing for answers, and Leipfold was called up to his office a couple of times a week to provide an update. The day after the Sunday service, he found himself back in the warden’s office, breaking the unwritten rules of the prisoner’s code by snitching on another con. But it was a small price to pay for a stack of books.

The warden asked Leipfold whether he had any proof, and Leipfold was honest when he replied to say he hadn’t. “Just a hunch,” Leipfold said, “but I usually trust them.”

“A hunch,” the warden repeated. “Well, a hunch is better than nothing. I’ll pull their chapel privileges and get my guards to keep extra tabs on them.”

“Good plan,” Leipfold said. “So can I have my books now?”

The warden laughed. “Not yet,” he said. “Let me follow up on the information. If it turns out to be good, you’ll get your books.”

Leipfold was dismissed shortly afterwards, but the issue of the books still weighed heavily on his mind and he felt sure that there was something more to the story. So he resolved to do a little more digging.

If the warden can have his little spies, Leipfold thought, then I can have mine.

That’s how he ended up paying Bear and his friends in cigarettes in exchange for services rendered. They didn’t know why Leipfold wanted them to spy for him, and they didn’t care. They just cared about the cigarettes.

The reports started to filter in. Big Jim overheard one of the men boasting that he’d be getting out within a month or two, and Bear himself beat another rumour out of one of racists that the three men liked to hang around with. Spitting blood and teeth to the floor, cornered in the back of one of the rec rooms and out of sight of the guards, the man had shouted, “They have a man outside. I swear to god And one time I heard them asking if something was strong enough, but I didn’t catch what they were talking about. That’s all I know, I swear. Please don’t hurt me.”

Bear was a violent man, but he was also a man of honour. So he let the battered man pick himself up and get out of there.

Leipfold handed out a couple more packets of cigarettes for the information and then returned to his cell to mull it all over. There wasn’t much to go on, but he needed to think – and act – fast if he wanted to stop them. The warden should know, but it was dangerous for Leipfold to ask to see him. The cons might get suspicious. So instead, he followed his meagre clues through to their logical conclusion, charting his progress in the pages of his notebook.

When the warden finally called Leipfold into his office, he was ready to deliver his results. He was more than ready; he was hopping from foot to foot. His sources – or rather, Bear’s sources – said that tonight was the night. If the warden wanted to stop them, he’d need to ask fast.

“What have you got for me?” the warden asked.

“Nothing more than a theory,” Leipfold replied. “But you’re going to want to look into this. I’m right, I know I am.”

“Right about what?”

“The escape happens tonight,” Leipfold said. “That much I know. You understand that I can’t disclose my sources.”

“Of course,” the warden said. “I assume you can trust this source of information?”

Leipfold thought about Bear and his big, battered fists.

“Yes sir,” Leipfold said. “I believe we can. But understand that the rest is pure conjecture. We can trust that today is the day. But as for the plan…well, all I’ve got is how I would do it.”

“That might have to be good enough,” the warden said. “Perhaps you’ll earn those books after all. Tell me. What do you think the plan is?”

Leipfold held out his notebook and the warden gratefully accepted it.

“I’ll talk you through it,” Leipfold said. “Let’s start with the riot.”

“The riot?”

“The riot,” Leipfold confirmed. “Remember the three white supremacists that I told you about? The ones that you banned from church?”

The warden nodded.

“Well,” Leipfold said, “they’re planning on starting a riot. Soon, if I’m not mistaken. They’re going to use their gang as a front to distract you while they try to make their escape. When are the guards changing over?”

“Any minute now,” the governor said. “It’s probably already in progress. Why?”

Leipfold shook his head. “We may be too late,” he said. “That’s when it’s supposed to–“

The conversation was interrupted mid-sentence as a loud klaxon pierced the air. The warden looked at Leipfold and then picked up his phone. He placed a call and had a short conversation, then angrily slammed the receiver back into its cradle. He looked back over at Leipfold.

“Sounds like your prediction is coming true,” the warden said. “They’re going to need me out there on the floor so I want you to tell me everything you can. But you’d better make it quick.”

“I’ll do my best, sir,” Leipfold said. He cleared his throat. “The riot’s just the first step, a distraction. The next bit is a little bit…well, there’s no finesse there. It’s a brute force attack. They’ve got someone on the outside.”

“Who?”

“It’s impossible to tell,” Leipfold said. “But whoever it is, they’ll need a large vehicle. A lorry perhaps, or maybe a fire truck.” He paused for a moment. “Yes,” he added, “I think they’ll use a fire truck. They can use the hose as a weapon or get the ladder out. They’ll have to steal it first, of course.”

“Hang on,” the warden said. “I won’t be a moment.”

Leipfold watched as the warden rushed over to his desk again. He placed two more calls in quick succession, gabbling into the receiver so quickly that it was hard to understand what he was saying. He sounded like an auctioneer on speed.

When he put the phone back down, he rushed over to Leipfold and said, “A fire truck has gone missing. Word is that they were carjacked by masked gunmen.”

“It’s happening,” Leipfold said. “You need to set up a roadblock. Call in the army if you need to. Put everything you’ve got on it. They’re going to smash and grab.”

“Where?”

“How should I know?”

“Well what would you do in their place?” the warden asked.

Leipfold rubbed his chin thoughtfully. “And if I’m right, I get the books?”

“Damn it, Leipfold,” the warden said, slamming his fist down. “If you’re right, you can have all of the books you want. Tell me.”

Leipfold rubbed his chin again. He took his time to answer.

“I guess,” he said, “I’d grapple the bars of the cells, hook it up to the engine and yank them right out of the wall. Then I’d extend the ladder up to the window, drag the men into the fire engine and head hell for leather away from here. The siren would help shift the traffic, then you can switch out to a getaway car and leave one guy left in the fire engine to lead the cops in the wrong direction.”

“My god,” the warden said. “And you think this is happening?”

“Your guess is as good as mine,” Leipfold said. “But if I were you, I’d look into it.”

There was an almighty bang, a huge, oppressive sound that was like a bomb going off. The walls shook and plaster snowed down from the ceiling, settling like dandruff in Leipfold’s ginger hair. The aftermath of the explosion – or whatever it was – was still shaking the building’s foundations. The floor started to buckle beneath them.

“What was that?” the warden shouted. He doubled up in a coughing fit as his lungs filled up with plaster, dust and detritus.

“We’re too late,” Leipfold said. “You’d better stop them.”

“Wait here,” the warden said. “I’ll look into it.”

“What about my books?” Leipfold shouted, but the warden had his back to him and he just kept on scuttling away towards the cellblocks.

And so he was left there alone in the warden’s office as the building continued to shake. The siren had stopped blaring and been replaced by an unearthly rumbling sound. Leipfold wondered what was happening and whether the three men had made good on their escape. He hoped not.

The warden had left his door open, and Leipfold walked out into his reception and then found himself on the other side of another door and out into a hallway. There was a fire exit at the end of it, barred shut but presumably still useable. A ticket to the outside world.

Leipfold sighed and stared at the door for a few moments. Then he doubled back on himself and headed back to the warden’s office. He closed the door when he entered and settled back to wait for the warden to return.

New Song: It’s Not Easy Being Free

So the other day, I decided to write and record a song in a single evening. I haven’t tried to do that since I was seventeen, which meant that it was a fun challenge – made slightly more difficult by the fact that I also wanted to use a key change.

The result is a song called It’s Not Easy Being Free, which you can check out in the player below or by clicking here to listen to it on Soundcloud.

 

 

It’s still early days for the tune, but it’s fun to play and I’ll probably keep practicing it ahead of playing it at an open mic some time. It’s also likely to appear on my fourth album, which doesn’t currently have a title.

As always, you can keep up with my music stuff by following me on Soundcloud and YouTube and by checking me out on Facebook and Twitter. You can also listen to my first three albums – Nocturne, Sketches and Discordia – on iTunes and Spotify.

Atom Bombs in Rural Berkshire

This poem is a dark one, I guess, but I liked it enough to want to share it. It’s not about anything in particular, but at the same time it sort of us. I’ll let you be the judge.

 

There’s no such thing as immortality,

although most of us would like to think so,

and the ghosts we see

climbing in and out of windows

are just a trick of the light

on our innocent eyes

because it shines so bright

it blinds us.

Now I know

what I don’t know,

and I also know

I only believe things

if I see them.

Luckily,

the observable universe

has plenty going on,

although mostly

it’s all contained

within the solar system.

Space scares me,

and I always used to worry

one day the sun will die

and nothing we did

would ever matter,

but now I tend to think

about explosions.

The world won’t end

with a whimper,

we’re too far gone

for that to fly,

and an a-bomb strike

will wipe us out

in a couple of centuries.

I mnight even

live long enough

to witness it.