The Big Breach - Index of

The Big Breach; From Top Secret to Maximum SecurityCompliments of http://www.192.comClarke muttered something back to me in an unintelligible Jamaicanaccent, checked that the clippers were plugged into the wall, switchedthem on and paused for a moment, studying the buzzing bladesquizzically as if weighing up their potential for robbing banks. Hemuttered some more. Thinking it impolite to ask him to repeat himself Ijust smiled encouragingly. Tentatively, he leant over me and beganclipping the right side of my head but suddenly and painfully, theclippers dug hard into my ear. `Bollocks!' Clarke muttered, taking astep back to recompose himself after the twitch. Bending over, he triedagain. But he was siezed by another twitch. `Shite!' Clarke muttered,as a large clump of hair fell to the ground. Frowning in concentration,he studied the right side of my head, then the left, then the right,and began to trim again.There were no mirrors on the spur so there was no way to checkprogress. `Are you sure you know what you are doing?' I asked politely.Clarke muttered something back and started fiddling with the clipperblades. He looked a bit hurt and I thought it better not to press him.But judging by the ever increasing pile of hair on the floor, he was aquick learner and he finished off with a flourish just as Mr Richardsbellowed the familiar order, `Spur 1, get your dinner.' Clarkehurriedly unplugged the clippers and returned them to Mr Richards asthe spur clamoured into a disorderly queue.Dobson and Onion-head were, as usual, at the back, maximising the timeout of their cells, and I joined them as soon as I had collected myplastic mug and cutlery from my cell. `You look like a bleedin'convict,' Onion-head laughed as he saw my new crop.`Yer daft booger,' added Dobson. `The joodge'll give yer three monthsmore with yer `air like that.'I woke shortly after 5 a.m. the next day, shaved, washed, polished myscalp, dressed and sat on my bed reading until the screws arrived atabout 7 a.m. to escort me to the Old Bailey. Having put in a requestform the previous evening's association, my suit and best shoes werebrought out of storage in reception for me to change into. We left at 9a.m. for the familiar drive across east London to the Old Bailey. Itwas an evil, blustery, overcast day and through the darkened glassporthole of my cubicle it appeared almost night outside. As we werecrossing Tower Bridge in heavy traffic, an elderly man on the pavementstopped in his stride and stared impassively into my porthole. Probablyan ex-con, I thought to myself, reflecting how lucky he was to be onthe outside.The dock in court 13 of the Old Bailey was oddly positioned high abovethe court, like a projectionist's booth in a cinema, giving me apanoramic view of the sentencing judge, Recorder of London Sir LawrenceVerney, his two court assistants, the CPS, my defence team and variouscourt clerks and stenographers. To the right the press gallery waspacked with the usual faces. High up to the left was the publicgallery, also full, and curiously there were two strangers with theirfingers crossed for me. To their right was another smaller gallery,less full. Ratcliffe and Peters were there, so perhaps it was a galleryfor members of the CPS who had been working on the case. Ratcliffe andpage- 187 - To purchase the original limited edition hardback version of this bookplease call 08000 192 192 or go to http://www.192.com