Scum Page #5

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Move the f***ing ball.

- Go on, kill the bastard!

- Kill him!

Kill him!

F*** off!

F***ing black bastard!

F***ing jungle bunnies!

- F*** off!

- Get back! Get back! Get back!

Black bastard!

Oh, hello, Toyne.

What is it?

Well, come on. What is it?

- This. It came today.

- Yes, I know that.

- Will you read it?

- But I have already.

Read it again.

"Dear Ronald, sorry we have not

wrote to you for so long,

but things have been busy.

Anyway, we thought

we had better let you know

that Candy died last week,

and we buried her.

She looked very pretty

and looked peaceful,

and since you have not seen her for some

time, we thought you should know this.

Well, have to dash. Things are busy.

Good luck. George and Beth. "

Well, Toyne? Somebody's pet?

Dog? Budgie?

My wife.

Candy was my nickname for my wife.

- No strings?

- Get it down you, sharpish.

Vegetarians? I've sh*t 'em.

Carlin.

That old Baldy says

the boiler house tomorrow.

There'll be a whole

crowd of us there shoveling sh*t.

He says just you and him.

All right?

Come on, Davis. Move it!

- Where's your tool?

- What f***ing tool?

This f***ing tool!

- Do you want some more?

- Leave it out, man.

Now, I'm going to

tell you once, just once!

- You listening to me, coon?

- Yeah!

- You run B Wing.

- Right.

All right? But for me.

I give the orders.

- Right?

- Yeah!

You'll get your perks,

but I'm the daddy. Right?

Yeah!

Now, you get some coal dust rubbed on

those marks, you f***ing black bastard!

Oh, God!

Right. Come on! Get on with it.

We haven't got all day.

Right, lads.

Get the bride.

Get the bride.

How would you like it

if someone touched your wife up?

All right.

I now pronounce you man and wife.

You can shag the bride.

Look, I'm not marrying

a f***ing coon anyway.

All right! All right!

Quiet! You've had your fun.

Let's have some order.

Get back into association.

Betts, up to your room.

Relieve yourself, and get changed.

Move it!

Come on, lad!

What a wedding night.

They can even f*** that up in here.

Come on, Toyne. You're allowed

some fun now and again.

No good standing there moping, lad.

- Archer.

- Sir?

Thanks, Mr. Duke.

- It won't happen again.

- It's lovely.

Angels.

You might be a smart-ass, Archer,

but you're nothing

but a fool to yourself.

I get by.

You'll do the full stretch.

Do you know that?

Well,

they're not having me, Mr. Duke.

I've got to save myself,

despite whatever methods

you bastards devise to destroy me.

I'll get through.

Or I won't.

But it's my way.

Less lip, Archer.

I won't have insolence.

Talk's one thing,

but I will not tolerate insolence.

Right, lad?

Right, sir.

Look at you sitting there

with that daft smile on your face.

Why aren't you over there

with the rest of them?

I'm an atheist.

What do you think that lot are?

Disciples?

Every Sunday there's an officer

allocated to watch you.

Just because you're too bloody pigheaded

to sit in chapel for half an hour.

And every Sunday,

that's a little bit more you owe us.

You know what the boss is like.

You're committing

a mortal sin sitting here.

They're all atheists,

but they don't put it about.

I did hear you were thinking

of turning Indian.

I think about all sorts of things.

Haven't you seen

enough of them in here?

Why don't you keep

your nose clean and get out?

Boredom?

No. I never was much good at that.

Pass the time quietly.

You don't hear me moan,

do you, Mr. Duke, eh?

I mean, I smile.

I smile a lot.

You're loose in the head, lad.

Yeah. You know,

when I was in the Scrubs,

sweating it out in that filthy cell,

I had this matchbox.

And it said on this matchbox

that it takes 60 muscles to frown,

but only 13 to smile,

so why waste energy?

You see, I'm doing me time

on a matchbox.

Jesus Christ.

Do nothing in here,

do you, eh? Nothing.

You know, when I was out,

I always reminded myself

you can take something good

from every experience.

Well, the only thing

I'll take from borstal is evil.

Because you don't bloody toe the line.

No, it's not that, Mr. Duke. No.

I mean, now you take Mr. Goodyear.

He rattles out bullshit

about character building

morning, noon and night.

Well, it's impossible.

It's not on.

How can anyone build a character

inside a regime based on deprivation?

It's a one-way contamination.

Good, fine minds thrown in

with crazy, perverted people.

I mean, what am I doin' here?

Why aren't I on another wing

where there might at least be

somebody to talk to,

where I could be civilized?

I'm always looking over me shoulder.

See, if it's not a screw at me,

it's a con.

Why didn't they send me

to an open nick?

You're too old for this lot.

I'll give you that.

They should have given you

a prison sentence.

Right. You're right.

I was happier in prison.

Now I've got to finish my time

with a bunch of snotty,

young hooligans.

Two years of this lot before I retire.

- How long have you done?

- A long time.

That's an hefty sentence, Mr. Duke.

One way or another in prisons.

Public service, Archer.

Haven't you realized some of the lads

actually like being in here?

Yeah, it's called institutionalized.

- They're secure.

- Oh, that.

Well, in here you act,

you're punished and you're free.

But outside... out there...

you act, you're punished

by your own guilt complexes

and you're never free.

And what little book

did you get that from?

This one.

Certainly not from

what's on offer here.

Mr. Duke, I...

I don't wish to underestimate

your lifetime's work,

but... the punitive system

does not work.

I mean, my experience

of borstal convinces me

that more criminal acts

are imposed on prisoners

than by criminals on society.

Convinces you, eh?

Fancy half of that mob

charging up and down your street.

Fancy your mother tackling

that lot on the rampage.

No, you bloody well don't.

So, what do you do about it?

What do you do about it?

I'd talk about it first,

like we are.

Talk's bullshit.

You lock them up.

I'd also consider what happens

to their guardians.

Watch it, lad.

No, come on.

I'm serious, Mr. Duke.

Take yourself.

For a weekly wage,

you have been locking up men and boys

for most of your working life, right?

Now,

hanging down your leg

is a chain... your key chain.

And the length of that chain indicates

the time you have spent in the service.

You may not have been fortunate

in terms of promotion,

but the length of that chain

gives you rank over other officers

of similar rank only.

But at the same time,

it acts as a constant reminder

that although you have spent

your life in the prison service,

you are still only a basic officer.

Now, who gets the stick for that?

Us.

Who pays for that daily humiliation?

Stand up, Archer.

And wipe that f***ing grin

off your face before I knock it off.

Name and number.

4721, Archer, sir.

I give you my f***ing coffee

and you think you can sit there

and have the piss out of me?

No, sir. I didn't.

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