The Spook who flew over the cuckoos nest. (BOOK 2) Read online

  "Don't think for a minute I don't know what's 'going down' here, Ruark! Playing dumb in my company is one fucking bad habit. And I just happen to have the right cure for that. It means that I get to dictate what you do and what you say in here when I'm around......d'ye understand that?" Briefly, Eastern then became lost in translation as Donavon unwittingly underlined his covert persona.

  "Yeah...I'll bear that in mind, Mr Donavon. I don't really need the grief right now" he gabbled innocently.

  "Is that fucking so?" The throwaway remark stank of sarcasm as he continued to press home his superiority, "remember this, I alone tell you what you'll get and don't get, Ruark. So all the time you're under my roof, you belong to me. This nick is my 'manor' (home ground) and you're a bloody intruder. Step out of line once and I'll make bloody sure that the only privilege left to you, will be the one allowing you to breathe. Do I make myself clear!?" Shifting his attention away from Eastern, he leveled a menacing gaze toward an obviously disinterested-looking Simmons, who appeared to be suitably impervious to what was being played around him. By definition alone, his inner body could now be found on a covert mission somewhere in central Europe. It was then left to Donavon to inject his own personal brand of reality.

  "And that includes scum like you, Simmons. I shit people like you every day. Two days from now and you'll wish you were back in Wandsworth nick." Gritting his teeth, Donavon reverted his attention back toward Eastern who, through mounting frustration, was doing a master job of sub consciously throttling Rogon and the world at large.

  "Which brings me back to you, and what have we got? I ask myself. Alex Ruark. A self confessed firearms ponce, no less, and now in the throes of an 8-year stretch." What ,transpired next could have been misconstrued as a smile, but quickly overlapped into a grimace as Donavon entered into yet another non-negotiable deal. "If you ever piss on my parade in future, Ruark...." Stopping short, he indicated toward Simmons, "and that include that piece of shit! I will personally see to it, that your poxy release-dates get an overhaul with fucking interest thrown in."

  Methodically, he then motioned a designer-look toward the two adjacent warders. Acting on cue, they systematically proceeded to trash the cell, Leaving him to milk the moment and not before having the final word. "I'm glad that we've got that little misunderstanding sorted out at last, I feel sure that we're going to get along just fine from now on." Wearing a perpetual sneer, he turned on his heel and headed out of their cell closely followed by his two henchman.

  Seconds later, a much relieved Eastern was the first to break the silence. "Is that demented bastard implying that we qualify for a ticket for the end of season Warders Ball?" Simmons smiled sparingly at his remark. As a seasoned 'hit man' (assassin), humour and death on demand, when mixed, often became a cocktail too hard to swallow.

  "Personally, I would readily have settled for a funeral. I had the wanker in my sights from beginning to end.....bloody shame really."

  "Yeah, why do you say that?"

  "Oh, just something that Donavon, will never know about."

  "Know?....you've lost me. Know about what?"

  "That I could so easily have killed him. I'm talking a hundred times possibly more on a good day and yet he still managed to walk out of here alive."

  Eastern, then made up for both of them, as he laughed uncontrollably at Simmons, spontaneous black humour. Between them, they then set about reinstating their cell before heading down to the recreational facility, in an attempt to suss out life in the 'village'. (prison).

  CHAPTER 3...A change of scenery.

  After some lengthy forty eight hours of mixed emotions, concerning their arranged confinement, Eastern and Simmons, could well be seduced into thinking that there just might be a real world beyond their cell, and that they were only experiencing the mother of all nightmares. That particular morning, having 'slopped out' and breakfasted, the two found themselves summoned back to the Governor's office for work assessment purposes. Although he couldn't have been aware of it at the time, Brezznov's previous ongoing assignment of cookhouse duty, had inadvertently created a prime solution in allowing Eastern an outlet in which to capitalize on, as a means to get close to him.

  Without hesitation, Whiting immediately sanctioned Eastern's posting by placing him on kitchen detail. Simmons drew the short straw by being down-graded to general duties. And then, just as quickly, Eastern found himself thrust into an ordeal deriving from a system initiation. Five minutes later, he leant his full weight onto the two-way door, closely shadowed by a 'screw', (warder). And entered the food preparation area. This, in turn, he quickly noted, lay adjacent to a large open-plan kitchen. As if manipulated by strings, a dozen or so preoccupied 'cons' immediately looked towards him in unison, blatantly intent on catching a glimpse of the new 'face' on the block.

  In spite of his inbuilt granite exterior, Eastern swallowed hard as he experienced a cold wave of controlled hostility buffet his body, reminding him that it was crucial that he should now exercise his latest persona to the full. He needn't have worried, as instinctively his covert personality kicked in. Acting in a threatening manner, he glared back at their zombie-like faces. The 'screw' meanwhile, merely through experience alone, had already sensed the birth of a cold silence and acted swiftly to rectify the situation. "Okay...okay you lot, get back to work, he's not wearing flaming stockings!" On glancing round, he continued to take centre stage, "where's that cretin, Fuller?", he demanded, "the lazy bastard seems to have more time off than I do lately."

  As if on cue, a disheveled figure emerged from behind the door of a nearby stockroom. "Ah....so there you are, Fuller. Have a nice kip did we? You'd better get your bloody arse back into gear. Lucky for you, I've got another pair of hands to help bale you out, he stormed, and indicated directly at Eastern, "oh, and before I forget, his name is, Ruark, or whatever he lets you get away with, and, just for the record, I'm told that he's spent more time in solitary than you have on the outside. Rumour has it , that his last supervisor narrowly missed being on the menu!" Chuckling under his breath, he walked away and left Eastern to his own designs, who, by now, was left seething with anger at the 'screw's' misguided intervention to break the ice, by using an overcooked reference as a means to an introduction. To his way of thinking, the 'screw's' paltry remarks had inadvertently rebounded by compromising his new persona, while at the same time, branding him as a threat. The vital importance of gainfully forming an association with Brezznov, built on trust, had now disintegrated by default.

  He was now left into making a snap decision as to whether he should continue in the same vein, or as the 'screw' had adversely portrayed him. To renege, now, on his imposed persona, could leave him out in the cold and wearing a cloak of vulnerability besides. Fortunately for him, Brezznov happened to be employed elsewhere, overseeing, a bulk food delivery. Without hesitation, Eastern arrived at a decision, or, rather the unrehearsed figure of his nemesis entering the kitchen cajoled him into it.

  Having previously carried out an-depth makeover, he was left in no doubt as to the latter's identity. For such an insignificant-looking figure, he found it hard to believe that the man was capable of yielding the huge amount of power and influence, available to him on demand, at any one time. His loss of attributes, Eastern observed Were more than compensated by a magnetic aura that held the key to his exclusive personality. In truth, he was capable of asking for nothing, and ending up with everything, purely as a token of respect.

  When bearing in mind the adage, 'if you throw mud at something for long enough, some of it is bound to stick!', then Brezznov figures in the credits. The mud in this case being organized crime, and the alter ego pseudonym of 'little Caesar', Which rapidly becomes a designer label which he wore, denoting a symbol of fear. As yet, Eastern had gone unnoticed, allowing him the advantage of requiring a personal and reserved opinion that didn't warrant any forethought. "So, this is 'Mr 'grief',he told himself. "If the little jerk is as dangerous as he is ugly, then I've got m
y work cut out", he convinced himself. Any other observations then went begging as Brezznov captured Eastern in his sights, and promptly made a move towards him. Short in stature and short on words, led Brezznov expressing the thought for the day, as he elbowed his way through to confront him. "Who the fuck are you?", he demanded, with the charisma of a cobra on heat.

  A fair question for an unrehearsed meeting given the circumstances. Electing to bite the bullet, Eastern chose to remain unaffected by Brezznov's stance , and contented himself by eye-balling his aggressor. Just then, the 'screw' reappeared to intervene, before the hostile silence erupted onto another level. "Okay you two, you've both made your point. Now let's draw a line under it. I don't need the bloody grief on my shift. As for you Fuller, get that lazy crew of yours back to work....no...not you two, I haven't finished with you yet." Stepping between the two he made a formal introduction, "In case you were wondering, Brezznov, this happens to be, Alex Ruark, and you'll be seeing a lot more of him. I'll leave you to take it from here."

  Meanwhile, ignoring the 'screws' plea, Fuller, glanced toward Brezznov as if anticipating a second opinion. It wasn't short in coming. A curt nod of the head, followed by a firm directive, finally put a seal on the delicate situation by erasing the tension. "Do as the man says, Fuller. In the meantime I've got a few house rules I need to spell out for Mr Ruark's benefit." Satisfied that he'd dealt with his part of it, the 'screw' slunk away, leaving Eastern to contest, or not, a Steward's inquiry relevant to his future within Brezznov's self-imposed rule.

  For his part, showing face had to out do no face at all. Unwittingly, he'd been handed a 'get of goal card' for free. And he intended keeping it that way. Appeasing Brezznov at this stage was the only way forward, should he hope to out do him. Eastern's bottom lip was showing raw, as he succumbed to 'little Caesar' lording up his role within the system, "It's nice to know that we have an understanding, Alex....I can call you, Alex. Can't I?" Eastern nodded glibly, as a vision of his hands encircling Brezznov's throat featured in his sub-conscious. Meanwhile, his aggressor continued to rant on, "let me remind you, power isn't a gift that you can fuck with my friend. Used the right way you can get it back with added interest.

  And by that I mean respect. That alone", he went on, "more than gives me the right to do and say what I think." Eastern was now left to flounder in a sea of verbal diarrhoea. Having been stripped of self opinion, he found himself nodding mechanically in agreement with what ever Brezznov expounded. Unfortunately for him the latter was still capable of lording it up, "so you see, Alex, the sheer power of being in control is a bespoke medium that works for me, equally on the inside as it does on the outside. This", he gesticulated in every direction, is my 'Manor', and with your given track record you could become part of it. It's obvious that your nobody's mug and so I respect that. The other thing, of course, is your experience with firearms. From what I've been informed, it appears that your contacts in the business do you justice. That in itself makes you a viable asset."

  For the first time, Eastern slowly began to relax, enabling him to breathe and think more easily. Brezznov's latest revelation, had favourably evolved into a springboard of mutual trust. Thus opening up a window of opportunity for prime development. The added inclusion of being able to retain his no-nonsense persona, had now reverted into an additional bonus. This in turn meant that he now felt reconciled into handling any given situation, should one come into play. Brezznov then brought him back down to earth, by capping their altercation per se. "We'll talk again later, yeah....we'll do that." Turning on his heel he left Eastern submerged deep in thought.

  Fully aware of what Simmons had managed to glean from the resident 'snout' (informant), by definition alone, Eastern's handicap would have been one of time. Further major problems he readily noted, could arise via the arrival of a Parole Board, who were scheduled to appear within the next two weeks, primarily to review Brezznov's immediate future. Dependant on the outcome, the Hearing as a whole could paint a canvas of gloom, should a decision to engineer his release rule in his favour. "I'll leave Rogon, that one to figure out." He told himself.

  At least, wheels were turning from both directions. Certain information regarding his alleged 'form', (history) had now conveniently milked it's way into the system via Governor Whiting, and infiltrated through to the right sources, (although Eastern himself wouldn't have been made aware of it at the time). Twenty four hours later, it was as much as Eastern could do to contain himself.

  "At the time, I felt like I was walking on bleedin' broken glass." He related to Simmons when in conversation prior to 'lights out', and continued, "I'm adamant that Brezznov, has taken the bait, leaving me within spitting distance of the man. What I can't afford to be, is appearing to be pushy in my approach. That could be dangerous. Once I feel that I've got his full trust, I can get to work on him, and hopefully open him up."

  The expression 'nothing-ventured-nothing gained', is only as good as the time that it takes to realize it's full potential. In this case, leaving a pissed off Eastern to query the 'sell by date' attachment to said statement. A week on from his clouded altercation with Brezznov, his invested interest enabling him to get his nemesis on side, had, literally, died a death. Apart from an enforced grunt of acknowledgment or a curt nod of the head in his direction while at work, any form of extended contact had evaporated....or so he thought!

  Lying spread eagled on his bunk this particular evening, Eastern allowed his body to do the talking for him, as he relaxed in a semi-comatose state. With a six thirty am rise, and a day's split shift behind him, the only interruption he would have settled for would have been the welcome sound of the fire bell. As it turned out, the alternative option that presented itself minutes later, then convinced him that even sleeping was indispensable.

  "Ruark! Are you awake?" On balance, the enquiry stank of bad timing, largely due to the obnoxious odour it brought along with it, alerting Eastern, to an immediate response.

  "Fucksake! Can't a man have a five-minute break to himself? And while I'm at it, what the hell are you doing in here anyway? You little shit!" His explicit reference to human waste was painfully directed toward a furtive and pathetic-looking figure. Belonging to a seasoned 'con' along with added weasel-like tendencies, who had just sidled into his cell. 3118 Steadman, was the elected prison gopher, with a track record belonging to a career 'nonce' (child molester). That is ,until the state reorganized his perverse attitude to life. That said, the stigma attachment involved, seemed reluctant to let go. This in turn, followed him around like a bitch on heat, along with his hereditary body odour as a trademark.

  "Sorry, Mr Ruark" Steadman bleated, "I've got a message...I'm only doing my job, I swear." Wary by nature, cautious by demand now summed up Eastern's fast-growing interest.

  "Message you say, what sort of message? I hope, for your sake, it's bleedin' kosher, you pathetic creep, otherwise you'll be reporting sick tomorrow morning...know what I mean? Just say what you've been told to say, and then piss off." Forced to cringe, Eastern got out of his bunk to confront him.

  "Brezznov!" Steadman blurted out, "Mr Brezznov that is, wants a 'meet'. He said to tell you that he'll be down on 'A' wing in ten minutes from now...that's it...so help me." If ever Eastern had to think fast on his feet, that time had now arrived with a vengeance. The implication that possible grief could be lurking in the background, didn't figure in his strategy. Reasoning was suddenly at a premium, leaving his gut to say one thing while, at the same time, allowing common sense to run with the opposite. By untested word of mouth, he now found himself running the gauntlet to an identity crisis, the outcome of which could prove to be paramount. And it all hinged on the mutual respect he had gained thus far. Having committed himself into playing hard to get, he also needed to keep the impetus alive by dictating his own terms. The onus would now shift toward Brezznov to prove his own worth. With that in mind, it was left to his whipping boy to make the running as Eastern marked his card.

 
"I've got news for you, Steadman, so listen up. You get back to Brezznov, a bit lively, and you tell him, that Mr Ruark said if he's got anything on his mind that he that needs to discuss with me, he knows where my cell is. As from now, I intend getting my head down so do me, and yourself, a favour and piss off before I get nasty, you perverted little creep." There was no turning back now. Working under the assumption that Steadman would no doubt relay his reply, it all came down to the waiting game Any further thoughts on the subject inconclusive. And he threw himself back into his bunk. Minutes later, tiredness finally got the better of him and he drifted off into a semi-comatose state. Sometime later, he awoke with a start, fuelled by the presence of a third-party involvement.

  "Sorry, Mike, I didn't realize you were asleep."

  "Simmons?", He enquired drowsily. At least he had recognised the voice.

  "Yeah, bad timing I guess."

  "Ah, forget it, Benny. I couldn't sleep anyway.....problem?"

  "No, I figured you might be in line for an update."

  "Better late than never, mate", he assured him, "we need to share what we know, and hopefully have some SP for Rogon to chew over."

  As part of their pre-plan, it was agreed that Simmons would solely be responsible for forwarding any relevant information back to Spooks HQ. His intended role was also held to be acting merely as a low-key observer. By, exploiting a possible motive or disclosure to the origin of Brezznov's alleged 'scam'.

  Having aired their collective information, they arranged an after-supper meet mainly to discuss any relevant feedback from HQ. Some time later, Eastern found himself alerted to Simmons body language as he sighted his approach from a lower landing adjacent to their cell. "I could be wrong", mused, Eastern, "although he's definitely got something on his mind. His face has got Rogon written all over it." Moments later, on closing the cell door behind him, Eastern reminded Simmons that they only had twenty minutes, at best, to converse before lights-out came into play. The latter then took the high road as Eastern listened intently. "Rogon sends his regards and"