Community Service

Ch. 14: Community servant David Smith faces an uncomfortable day and an uncertain future.

At the harsh prompting of my two beautiful but black-hearted escorts, 'Jailhouse Blue' prison officers Bella Donna and Billie Jo, it was with welcome relief but also with no small measure of trepidation that I stepped out of the close confines of the lift and onto the highest floor of Greystone Prison - Level 5.

Unexpectedly - after repeatedly having my applications for a Visitor Pass either refused or rescinded by the Community Service Liaison Officer and MP for Canford, Ms Harriet Harmman - I had found myself being transported here at the behest of Governor Meredith Monroe's sudden and surprising summons ... To deliver to my girlfriend Tina and her best friend Janice, the Governor's preconditional Get out of jail/Sock Room transfer proposal as it pertained to the three of us.

Of course, Governor Monroe didn't care a jot about me or my own, Sock Room servitude situation.

I was, to her, just a very useful bargaining chip - and, in the event of her heartstring-tugging, "Getting them to see the light" experiment proving to be the unqualified success she was confidently predicting, my example would become her strategic template. Her modus operandi, for adjusting the mindsets and realigning the priorities of all of her other rebellious and romantically attached female prisoners.

No: it was Tina and Janice, who were causing Governor Monroe's great unease of mind. Her great sadness of heart, even.

Her distress, at the idea that Tina and Janice, in these 'female-friendly' times, in refusing to accept and take advantage of their rightful 'privileges' - but moreover through their dissident, entrenched political leanings and intransigent anti-AFP stance - had, to all intents and purposes, incarcerated themselves in Greystone Prison.

But though I knew that through my selfish weasely thoughts and treacherous, "conformist" actions I was tantamount to demeaning Tina and Janice's highly moral positions and even belittling their costly courageous acts of self-sacrifice in standing up for male rights, I wanted to go for it.

For my part, I was more than willing to accept the sudden and unexpected provisional 'deal' Governor Monroe was putting on the table.

But, heaven help me!

When I'd so eagerly got into the Securi-Fem prisoner transport van this morning, I'd had no idea I would be finding myself in such an invidious position.

In my inner turmoil, a part of me was demanding to know how I could even think of agreeing to put the Governor's cunningly caveated proposal to Tina and Janice. Let alone, recommending they accept it - even asking them, to accept it.

But having now had a little time to think about it, I wanted to grab this out-of-the-blue 'opportunity' with both hands.

After all, Governor Monroe had said she would personally see to it that if I "let her down" now I would never be offered such a life chance opportunity again. I would have made my bed, and I would forever have to lie in it.

My assignment to the Sock Room would be for good. I would remain, in-situ, and be the "permanent sock-washer to the females of Canford".

With such a prize, within grasp - with such a carrot, being dangled in front of me - I was now finding myself being persuaded to the view, that perhaps now was the opportune time for Tina and Janice to end their exercise in futility.

To stop fighting a battle they couldn't possibly win.

To ... give up the ghost.

Though I hated myself for thinking it, maybe it was time for Tina and Janice to go along to get along.

But not just for my benefit.

By now Tina and Janice had surely done their bit. They'd gone above and beyond, in making their point. Hadn't they both done enough?

What was the point in continuing to put themselves through their cell-bound wretchedness - when nothing but further 'Jailhouse Blue' administered miseries and abuses could ever be the reward for persisting with their stoic and heroic, highly principled and right-thinking stance?

By now, with only the lame duck Preservative Party complaining feebly from the political sidelines anyone but the willfully delusional could see that Prime Minister Caroline Flynt's Authoritarian Female Party government had no real opposition to speak of and that they and their 'female-friendly' institutions, facilities, projects and programmes were here to stay.

As Governor Monroe herself had said, if I could get Tina and Janice to "see the light" it would be my "ticket out of the Sock Room".

So what, if it would be a case of 'Out of the frying pan and into the fire'?

Reassigned, at the instigation of the Minister for Prisons, Ms Lynne Truss, to serving her and her AFP government Cabinet Minister colleagues in their respective departmental offices as their shared "Under-footman" - ostensibly an office dogsbody and errand-runner.

But, as Governor Monroe herself had so matter of factly and unashamedly intimated, the implied 'underlying' duties of the position were self-explanatory.

And, shared, that is, while Cabinet Ministers awaited the provision of their own Under-footman. Supplied, just as soon as another thoroughly vetted released prisoner or reassigned community servant could be obtained and assigned to them.

So yes - it was certainly a case of, 'Out of the frying pan and into the fire'.

But at least it would free me, at last, from the cruel clutches of my across the road neighbour from hell and nemesis, Mrs Norma Newlove.

Norma Newlove: The unforgetting and unforgiving and indefatigably vengeful and vindictive woman, for who it was all 'personal'.

Over these last long months, through her imaginative Sock Room malefactions and evil-minded wider influences, she had made by far the biggest contributions to making not only my sock-washing servitude but also my life, in general, a waking nightmare.

It would free me, at last, from the multitudinous mistreatments and equally wicked machinations of Norma's similar aged and like-minded callous cronies - young-housewifey attractive, Sock Room 'regulars' Gina Stainham and Cheryl Chubb.

No more daily stressing, over trying to hand-wash clean in mad hot soapy water the ingrained and all but irremovable dirt from the habitually shoelessly perambulating Gina's favoured long white cotton sport/leisure socks.

No more dreading, my beginning of the week humiliations at the foot of Cheryl's 'Spectators' Gallery' padded black leather recliner, after her 'dirty weekend'. Licking and sucking clean, as other sock-changing females amusedly looked on, the by now gruesome grimy soles and the ghastly in-between-the-toes gunk, of her habitually days' unwashed, 'Monday-morning feet'.

It would free me, at last, from all of Canford town's other sock-changing females.

Most of whom, to be fair, patronised the Sock Room not from malice but merely from a sense of civic duty.

But some of whom, the Sock Room brought out the bitch in them.

Upon crossing the Sock Room's threshold, like Jekyll-Hyde characters, some sock-changing females seemed to transform, promptly morphing into their 'other' selves. Along with their dirty socks, they cast off the restraints and inhibitions of their surface characters and assumed their 'other' identities. Because, in the Sock Room, they could be 'themselves'.

And, it would free me, at last, from pulling inside out all of their dirty, stinky socks, and hand-washing them to the fussy, nitpicking, hyper-critical inspection-passing standards of my two cane-happy Sock Room supervisors CSOs Karen and Linda.

But it was not my decision.

It was out of my hands - not my call to make.

Would Tina and Janice, accept Governor Monroe's tabled offer-with-provisos?

Would they agree to leave behind them the daily miseries of confinement - and worse - in their wretched cell, and return to the modest but inexpensive and comfortable flat they shared and to the jobs they enjoyed, working as counter assistants at one of Canford's High St fast food outlets, Burger Heaven?

Would they agree, to the "at least AFP-neutral" terms of their "non-political, keep quiet and stay out of the AFP's hair", conditional release?

It was Tina and Janice's decision to make, not mine.

But if they said no, our Greystone Prison/Canford Sock Room situations would not just remain unchanged - both their own, cell-bound circumstances and my Sock Room drudgery detail would become cemented into more hardened and reinforced realities.

But the questions that haunted me were: If Tina and Janice did agree to the release terms of Governor Monroe's proposal - but just for my sake - would they ever forgive me?

For letting them down.

For betraying them.

For turning AFP "conformist".

And the biggest question: Would it be the end, for Tina and me?

In my increasing anguishment at what might now lie immediately ahead, all of these troubling thoughts flitted across my mind as, with officer Bella Donna's over-tightly fastened handcuffs restraining my already sore wrists behind my back, taking my elbows she and her colleague Billie Jo ushered me along the landing of Level 5.

*

To my right, was the landing's standard five-barred safety rail - one rounded horizontal bar per each foot of height.

I was close enough to it, to be able to see down through the series of safety nets to the square-shaped Ground Floor.

Plainly audible, was the seemingly ever-playing 'background music' of Graystone Prison: not the conventional 'slammer' loud clanging and banging of needlessly slammed steel-barred cell doors - but the slap-slap-slap-slapping sounds of the Jailhouse Blue female prison officers' uniform foam-rubber soled flip flops.

The flexible footwear could be heard rapping against the officers' bare heels as they went about their duties, or walked to the Staff Canteen for their lunch break. Or, as I could see as I looked down below upon a group of six of the pale-blue shirted, pale-blue short denim skirted Blues - even while they stood and chatted in pairs or larger gatherings.

Gossipping animatedly and laughing, and the most favoured posture: standing, with the foot of their relaxing, bent at the knee leg tucked for steadiness and stability behind their other, weight bearing ankle - slap, slap, slap, slap, slap.

As though sensing she was under observation, standing with her back to me one of the six gathered and chit-chatting Blues I was looking down at turned around a full 180 degrees and looked up. As though having detected an enemy target, her eyes tracked me, locked on.

Seeing my identity emblazoned upon my white uniform T-shirt - Community servant David 007 - upon registering her watcher's societal sub-status her face clouded and darkened.

I found it upsetting, unsettling, and deeply disturbing, to know that I was the cause of closing down such vivacity and ebullience, and of dulling the dancing eyes and transforming the animated features of the drop-dead gorgeous young woman's beautiful face into such hardened, antipathetic planes.

Noticing her sudden distraction, and her apparent discombobulation, the other Blues' eyes followed the upward direction of their colleague's now unsmiling, hostile gaze.

Now, these other five Blues' animated gossip trailed off, to an unnatural curtailment; their fun-loving laughter died a premature death on their lips; and their absentminded crossed-ankle slap-slap-slap-slapping of their flexible flip flops ceased, to leave an ominous silence.

Upon seeing all of their upturned, beautiful features now also all clouding and darkening in frowns of disapprobation and displeasure, I averted my eyes.

The same as worn by my two Sock Room supervisors CSOs Karen and Linda, and by many other Authoritarian Female Party-affiliated females including some Cabinet Ministers, the Blues' uniform adopted but severely cut AFP-adapted concave bobs lent the natural authority and presence the female prison officers exuded, something extra. An even sterner, unsettling - almost sinister - aspect. In itself, their somehow scary hairdo was warning enough to deter or, at the very least, discourage subordinate males from making direct eye contact.

As officer Bella Donna had made crystal clear to me and thus put me on notice: As far as the Blues were concerned, only a wafer-thin line separated my community servant's status from that of the convicted prisoners here.

A browbeating and face-slapping warm-up to wake up my ideas, followed by a mind focusing few dozen strokes of their expertly administered canes to my bared bottom, and then finally a few of their equally expertly delivered barefoot kicks between my forced apart legs to ram their message home - would greatly benefit the likes of me.

There was no question in my mind: That was the small gathering of standing and chatting Blues' unmistakable message as the six of them stared up at me, the essence of compassionless implacable authoritarianism.

To my left: the cells on this, eastern side of the four-sided landing of Level 5.

As prison officers Bella Donna and Billie Jo glanced into the cells as they walked by, it was impossible to miss the sudden alarm - and, where some inmates were concerned, the fear and dread - that suffused the captives' faces.

Forewarned by the approaching slap-slap-slap-slapping sounds of flexible foam-rubber soled flip flops and therefore the imminence of their prison officer wearers' authoritative and overbearing presence, prisoners who were lying on their bunks or sitting on their tubular framed canvas folding chairs got up from them with an alacrity born of pure self-preservation.

Some of the intimidated inmates stood, head bowed, composing themselves in an attitude of resigned, if still begrudging, respect.

While others, clearly the more system-initiated longer serving and therefore the more demoralised and dejected and defeated and downtrodden of them, solemnly got to their knees, keen to demonstrate to whomsoever approaching female prison officers a more cowed, obeisant, submissive salutation - their homage.

Upon observing these fearful facial expressions and respectful and reverent reactions by the cells' clearly more inhibited inhabitants, the expression on my face hadn't gone unnoticed by officer Bella Donna.

"Yes, Community servant David," she said, conveying confirmation that once again she had read my uneasy thoughts.

She then stopped, looking into one of the cells.

And, at casting her cold appraisal upon the two respectfully unseated but still standing cellmates and bending her AFP-issue flexible bamboo cane meaningfully, now looking as though regretting they hadn't done so with promptness and at their own, voluntary behest, the self-imperiled pair finally got to their knees before herself and officer Billie Jo.

"As you have not failed to notice, Community servant David, convicts in Greystone Prison accord prison officers their due and proper respect ... if, sometimes, a little belatedly."

Prison officer Billie Jo said, flexing her cane menacingly, "This is unpardonable laggardness. In and of itself, a clear sign of blatant disrespect. I expect to see prisoners already on their knees by the time I arrive outside their cell, and staring out towards where my feet will soon be appearing. That is my minimum requirement. And if we don't see a marked improvement in their attitude, Bel, perhaps a ride on The Wheel of Chastisement will wake up their ideas."

"Good idea, BJ. It would be a great stress-reliever - Community servant David has been getting on my nerves and annoying me more and more. I don't think he has yet taken fully on board what I told him about his visitor status affording him scant, if any protection here, and his continued uppity peskiness is putting me right in the mood for a double-ballbusting."

"Yes, Bel. And one of them can watch, while his cellmate rides The Wheel first. We'll have Sidwell look on, as Mason undergoes the warranted three-barefoot-kick correctional treatment dosage, administered by you. And then Sidwell will take his three therapeutic revolutions on The Wheel, and I'll correct and rehabilitate him."

"Sounds good to me, BJ. And I'm just thinking ... Although it would be highly irregular, perhaps with the Governor's leave we could have Community servant David detained, to witness their chastisement - with Analise, a member of the detailed twelve-member Caning Party. Let him see a little of what is underneath Analise's sugar coating."

"Good idea, Bel. For certain, it would serve as a salutary lesson for the sock-washing supremo to observe first-hand Analise's unsurpassed prowess with the cane, and to see us both in ballbusting action and to witness for himself our devastating but non-ruinous ball-kicking expertise."

Under the continued unsettling stares and worrisome words of Ice Queen prison officer Bella Donna and her irascible colleague Billie Jo, the intimidated time-servers were by now completely unnerved and visibly trembling.

The daunted duo knew these were no idle threats.

Their brief bumbling bravado obliterated, and all semblance of what, painfully obviously now had been their affected, phoney unconcern, vanished - they weren't fooling anyone.

With just a few words and looks from prison officers Bella Donna and Billie Jo, in mere seconds I had witnessed cellmates Mason and Sidwell's faux valiant short-lived facade reduced to genuine utter permanent vanquishment.

There was no question that now, their ideas were well and truly woken up.

They wouldn't be so slow, in future, to go respectfully and reverently to their knees at hearing the first sounds of approaching flexible foam-rubber soled flip flops.

But, come to that, I was beginning to feel more than a little unnerved myself.

More than a little unsettled.

And more than a little worried.

As officer Bella Donna had earlier intimated, my visitor status was a too-thin insulation. Inadequate protection, should any of the female prison officers here feel inclined to breach it.

Gesturing to the two chastened inmates with her cane, officer Bella Donna continued, "Do you see, Community servant David, how they respectfully look down at prison officers' feet? It's because they know what will happen to them if they don't. Here, it is mandatory. The standard protocol.

"Because prisoners here, quite literally as well as figuratively, are brought to heel.

"Through both their intensive conditioning drip, drip, drip, daily doctrinal training in general and their one-to-one female-friendly instruction at the feet of their assigned mindset-adjusting Personal Correctional Rehabilitator, our prisoners are brought to heel.

"Brought to submit, unhesitatingly, unthinkingly - automatically - to female authority.

"Well ... That could so easily be you. With officer Analise as your Personal Correctional Rehabilitator."

"How about a quick demonstration, Bel?" suggested officer Billie Jo. "Just to give Community servant David an idea of what he'd be in for, every day, if he ends up in here because he can't get his girlfriend to see sense - which, from what we've seen of her so far is a real possibility."

In response, permafrost prison officer Bella Donna turned back to the two now reverently kneeling, visibly trembling cellmates and froze their blood anew with the full glacial force of her chillingly penetrating Arctic-blue eyed stare.

"Prisoners Mason and Sidwell - assume the position for Foot Service!"

Prison officer Bella Donna had barely raised her voice. But the tone of unbrookable authority in her command in addressing the two prisoners took my breath away and chilled me to the marrow.

She was a young woman you just did not say 'No' to - did not even think of saying it. It was as clear as could be.

No wonder prisoners Mason and Sidwell were trembling.