Sixteen

Until comparatively recently, Harry Repp had associated the word “porridge” chiefly with the title of the TV comedy series and not with oatmeal stirred in boiling water. For as long as he could remember, his breakfasts had consisted of Corn Flakes covered successively (as his beer gut had ballooned) with full, semiskimmed, and finally the thinly insipid fully skimmed varieties of milk. It was his common-law wife, Debbie, who'd insisted: “You keep pouring booze into your belly every night and it's low-fat milk for breakfast! Understood?” So there'd been little choice, had there? Until almost a year ago, when he had come to realize that the TV title was wholly appropriate, with porridge (occasionally ill-stirred in lukewarm water) providing the basic breakfast diet for prison inmates.

Normally Repp would have accepted the proffered dollop of porridge; but he asked only for two sausages and a spoonful of baked beans as he and his coprison-ers from A Wing stood queuing at the food counter at 8 A.M. He had read that prisoners in the condemned cell were always given the breakfast of their choice; but he felt he could himself have eaten little in such circumstances—with the twin specters of death and terror so very close behind him. And even now, back in his cell, he managed only one mouthful of beans before pushing his plate away from him. He felt agitated and apprehensive, although he found it difficult to account for such emotions. After all, he wasn't awaiting the Governor and the flunkey from the Home Office and the Prison Chaplain … and the Hangman. Far from it. It was that day, Friday, July 24, that was set for his release from HM Prison, Bullingdon.

At 8:35 A.M., still in his prison clothing, he heard steps outside the cell, heard his name called, and was on his feet immediately, picking up the carrier bag in which he'd already placed his personal belongings: a battered-looking radio, a few letters still in their grubby envelopes, and a “sexy-western” paperback that had clearly commanded regular rereading. “Let's hope we don't meet again, mate!” one of the prison officers had volunteered as the double doors were unlocked and Repp was escorted for the last time from the spur of A Wing.

At 8:50 A.M., after changing into his personal civvies, he was admitted into a bench-lined holding cell, where another prisoner, a thin sallow-faced man in his forties, was already seated. Their exchange of conversation was brief and unmemorable:

“Not much more o’ this shit, mate.”

“No,” said Repp.

At 9:05 A.M. his name was again called, and he was taken along to a reception desk where one of the Principal Officers took him through the forms pertaining to his release: identity check, behavior and health records, details of destination and accommodation. It seemed to Repp somewhat reminiscent of a check-in at Heathrow or Gatwick. Except that this, as he kept reminding himself, wasn't a check-in at all. It was a check-out.

He signed his name to several documents without bothering too much what they were. But before signing one form he was asked to read some relevant words aloud: “I understand that I am not allowed to possess or have anything to do with firearms or ammunition of any description …” It didn't matter anyway. In all probability there'd be no need to use the gun; and apart from himself only Debbie knew its whereabouts.

Almost finished now.

He took possession of an order issued under the Criminal Justice Act re Supervision in the Community, specifying the Oxford Probation Service in Park End Street as the office to which he was required to report regularly. Then he completed the Discharge Certificate itself, with a series of initials against Travel Warrant (Bullingdon to Oxford), Personal Property (as itemized), Personal Cash (£24.50), Discharge Grant (£45), Discharge Clothing (offered but not issued). And, finally, one further full signature, dated and countersigned by the Principal Officer, underneath the unambiguous assertion: i have no outstanding complaints. And indeed Harry Repp had nothing much to complain about. At least, not about Bullingdon—except perhaps that any residual good in him had wasted and had withered there.

He was escorted across the prison yard to the main gates, where he reported to the Senior Officer, citing his full name and prison number to be checked against the Discharge List. And that was it. The heavy gates were opened, and Harry Repp stepped out of prison. A free man.

He looked at his wristwatch, repeatedly glancing around him as if he might be expecting someone to meet him. But there seemed to be no one. According to the bus timetable they'd given him, there would be a wait of ten minutes or so; and he walked slowly down the paved path which led from the Central Reception Area to the road. There he turned and looked back at the high concreted walls, lightish beige with perhaps a hint of some pinkish coloration, lampposts stationed at regular intervals in front of them, sturdily vertical until, at their tops, they leaned toward the prison, like guardsmen inclining their heads around a catafalque.

Harry Repp turned his back on the prison for the last time, and walked more briskly toward the bus stop and toward freedom.