"This is your big day, Jennings", he said and grinned at me. "Go ahead, freshen up. Iīll wait here for you."
I had a facial shave, a shower and a hair wash, and my nails were clipped. Then mr Jackson showed me into an adjacent room and told me to get dressed.
The whole room smelled of big, fat, hairy rats. On the table were a pair of blue jeans, a checkered shirt, a navy blue woolen sweater, tennis socks, woolen socks, thermo underwear, boxers and the same kind of working boots Iīd worn on my first day, only these had higher legs. On the chair beside the table lay a black leather outfit with pants and jacket and gloves, a red bandanna and an equally red crash helmet. I _f_u_c_k_ing well knew I wasnīt allowed to put any clothes on by myself, and this was in no way an ordinary Crowmill wardrobe. Maybe these were things theyīd accuse me of stealing. Iīd never seen them before in my whole life and this time, it was the real truth - but I wouldnīt bet a farthing on anyone believing me. I figured he was setting some kind of trap for me and that heīd beat me or have me taken back down to S. C. if I did what he told me to, so I stayed where I was and kneeled to show I wasnīt being defiant.
"Now what, Jennings?" mr Jackson asked impatiently. "Not your colours, eh?"
"Permission to speak, sir?" I said very tentatively.
"Canīt wait to hear you."
"Sir, Iīm not supposed to dress myself. Itīs against the rules, sir. And these are......like outside clothes."
"Well, what the hell did you expect? Weīre about to visit five ordinary outside families and theyīll feel much more at ease if youīre not wearing your Crowmill tuxedo. It will be tough on you, though, getting a wee taste of what youīve lost. As for the rules, you know _d_a_m_n_ed well that if youīre told to do something, you obey. Questioning my orders and lecturing me on the rules is very insolent, Jennings. You ought to know better by now."
"Iīm sorry, sir. I didnīt mean to be insolent."
"Just put the _f_u_c_k_ing clothes on. We have a lot of work to do."
And I did, enjoying every second of it. The jeans were too baggy for my taste, me being a 501 28" guy, but my ass was grateful and the rest of it fitted allright. Then we went outside. Mr Jackson didnīt cuff me and I had no intention to pull something off, either. His bike was parked behind the main building. It made my mouth water. A magnificent Electra Glide, Milwaukee made way back in the 70īs, not in mint condition but the patina on chrome and blood red enamel only underlined itīs beauty and power. I noticed mr Jackson looking at me and for a moment I forgot where I was and who I was and looked back with an appreciative smile. Then I remembered and quickly lowered my head. I could feel my cheeks getting hot.
"Yes, sheīs a beauty, isnīt she", mr Jackson said. "Sheīs better off working full time than she would be gathering dust in the garage. Now, Jennings, there are some things you have to observe when weīre on the outside. First of all, no kneeling and no head hung low. Youīre allowed to look at me as long as weīre out there, and youīll know from my face if itīs OK to speak or not and if youīre behaving. Second, youīre going to the loo on your own, just donīt lock the door, and third, youīre not allowed to accept any food or drink, youīre still on bread and water. You get this, Jennings?"
"Yes, sir."
"You are going to apologize to these people in a good manner. If you start acting out or using bad language or trying any con stunts, I swear Iīll bare you and whip you on the spot. Youīre not allowed to talk back if they scold you. They have every right in the world to call you a hood or yell at you or even slap your face. If you canīt handle the situation, Iīll support you. Youīre still to obey anything I say without any objections. Is that clear, too?"
"Yes, sir", I said, eager to get on that machine and get going.
"Ever rode a bike before?"
"I have, sir."
"OK, Iīll trust you on that, then." He put on his helmet and straddled his miracle machine, beckoning to me to get on, and I did, wincing some from soreness but as soon as I was seated it was bearable. Then he opened his visor. I did, too.
"For security reasons I want your hands on my belly. Come on, get them over here."
I did, and he cuffed me. I felt a sting of disappointment. For a brief moment Iīd been almost happy. My visor was still open, too. Mr Jackson had noticed, he turned and closed it, then closed his own and kicked life into the mighty shovelhead. We swept around the corner and across the yard, heading for the road. The sky was grey and the clouds flew fastly across it with frayed edges, heavy with rain, but to me, everything seemed awesome. I had a faint smell of leather up my nostrils and a tingling sensation in my guts, and the motor vibes made me feel alive.
Mr Jackson knew exactly where we were going. Our first stop was at the two storey white house where I got the Volvo 760 GLi. He brought the bike to a halt in front of the main entrance. I saw the stores moving in the window to the right. Then the cuffs were removed, we left our helmets with the bike and went up the broad stone steps to the front door.
A man in his sixties, dressed in a blue striped shirt, beige trousers and slippers, opened the door. He was balding, a thin fringe of greyish short cut hair from temple to temple, and he wore reading glasses, the cheap ones you can buy everywhere. He glanced at me and then looked at mr Jackson.
"The Crowmill gang, I suppose?" he said.
"Right, sir", mr Jackson said, smiling. "Iīm Russell Jackson. We talked on the phone."
"Charles Pescoe." They shook hands. "Step inside."
The hall was kind of medieval, with a flag stone floor and ominous dark brown wooden panels on the walls, sparsely furnished. He showed us into the living room. The room smelled of pipe tobacco and dust. I scanned it automatically, noticing that everything seemed worn and shabby and that there was nothing visible worth nicking. Iīd have gone upstairs the first thing I did if Iīd come here on business. Probably wouldnīt have bothered at all. The telly was on. He shut it and asked us to sit down on the sofa and would we like some tea, he had it all ready in the kitchen.
I shot a glance at mr Jackson and he said heīd sure like some tea, please, and a glass of water for me. We sat there waiting silently, listening to the distant clinking and shuffling from the kitchen. Mr Jackson gave my head a playful push.
"Cheer up, Jennings. And get them doggie eyes off your face."
Finally mr Pescoe returned with a tea tray. I was relieved to see that he was only offering us dry vanilla crackers and miniature muffins. Still, I could have payed both my front teeth for one of the muffins. Nobody was asking for any teeth, though. I stared at the opposite wall and sipped my water.
"So this is the young crook who wrecked my car," mr Pescoe said, looking straight at me over the rim of his glasses. I straightened myself and took a deep breath.
"Yes sir," I said. "My name is Thomas Jennings, sir. Iīm very sorry I stole your car. Iīm also very sorry I wrecked it. I didnīt mean to, sir. I mean, I usually donīt. Wreck cars, I mean."
Mr Jackson cleared his throat and I immediately turned to him. His face told me I was going up _s_h_i_t_ creek. I swallowed down hard and looked back at mr Pescoe.
"Sir, Iīve caused you a lot of trouble, and I regret it very much. Iīm here to apologize and try to make up for my crime, but Iīm not asking to be forgiven. I donīt deserve that anyway. I canīt turn the clock back, but Iīll try not to be as stupid in the future."
"Does that come straight from your heart ?" mr Pescoe asked.
"Yes, sir, it does. Donīt know if Iīll make it, though, but Iīll try my best, sir."
"Well, you surely caused me a lot of trouble, mr Jennings. I lost my car and canīt afford buying another right now, so here I am, trapped in my home most of the time." He laughed mirthlessly, more like a cough. " I have rheumatism and I really need a car, especially now, in winter time. It was a mean and selfish thing to do, stealing my car. If youīd been a son of mine, Iīd have whipped your behind thoroughly and made you replace the car, even if it meant you had to quit school to earn the money for it." He paused and looked sharply at me. I sincerely felt lousy. I didnīt like this at all, having to face him, having to know things about him that made what I did even worse.
"Yes sir," I said, not daring to look at mr Jackson. I was afraid heīd bare me and actually let mr Pescoe whip me. The old man looked thin but sinewy, and I guessed anger could conquer his disease temporarily.
"Well, as for punishment, Jennings here will get a good share of that back at Crowmill, mr Pescoe. Heīll regret his doings for a very long time. Crowmill will compensate you for the loss of your car, too." Mr Jackson said.
Mr Pescoe sadly shook his head.
"Always someone else paying", he said. "These young rascals never have to take full responsibility for anything they do. A no-no and then theyīre back on the street with a tool box the next day. When I was a kid I was taught to respect other people and their property. Kids donīt today. They get off far too easy."
"Jennings, tell mr Pescoe how youīll be punished for this and the other crimes," mr Jackson said.
I fidgeted uneasily on the sofa, swallowed again, my throat dry as a bad joke. I looked pleadingly at mr Jackson but got no compassion. Canīt say it surprised me.
"Iīll get whipped, sir", I said, looking at mr Pescoes collar and feeling sweat trickling along my spine. "Iīll get 100 lashes once we get back. And Iīm on bread and water for a fortnight and will be kept isolated for three months, doing hard labour. Then Iīll get another 100 lashes. Iīm not complaining about it, sir. I really think I deserve it." I didnīt, but there was a good ring to it, and it went right up mr Pescoes porch.
Mr Pescoe was silent for a while. His eyes didnīt leave me for a second. I felt heat spreading on my face. I was rapidly becoming King Blushing Face.
"Well, may your God have mercy upon you, mr Jennings", he finally said. "Thatīs what I call a payback. And youīre right, you deserve every bit of it. Still....." He shook his head. "I canīt help pitying you. You seem like a good boy, even though you look like a girl with that silly pony tail. I hope youīll learn from this, I really do. Iīve been very angry and sad since Sunday, not being able to sleep or eat or even relax. Youīre lucky you werenīt around when the police called me." He shook his head again, staring out the window for a while. Then he turned to mr Jackson. "Well, Iīll be _d_a_m_n_ed," he said. "I knew you were a tough lot up there, but I didnīt know you were that tough. 200 lashes, eh?"
Mr Jackson nodded. I knew what he was going to say, and my lips couldnīt help silently mimicking the answer. I hoped he wouldnīt notice.
"Pain is an excellent teacher, mr Pescoe. Thatīs why Crowmill has the best treatment outcome nationwide, maybe even worldwide. We manage to turn 92 % of our apprentices into decent, self supporting citizens, the average for similar institutions and age groups being 21 %. And escape attempts are rare. Jennings here is the third since August last year. The other two didnīt even make it to the motorway."
I didnīt know. Iīd have thought everyone tried at least once, like at reform school. Well, anyway I was the most successful these past 6 months. 34 _f_u_c_k_ing short hours and three months of payback. Bad balance. Then I noticed the silence. Both mr Jackson and mr Pescoe were looking at me, apparently waiting for me to say something.
"Sir, sorry sir, I got lost in thoughts, I didnīt hear the question, sir." I felt really stupid. I was here to repent and this didnīt exactly make me seem too engaged in my task.
"Mr Pescoe asked why you were sent to Crowmill," mr Jackson said, and his eyes were warning me not to go astray again. "He also asked about your family."
"Iīm very sorry, mr Pescoe, I didnīt mean to be rude", I said, and then I told him the short version of my life story, careful not to defend or pity myself, checking on mr Jackson every now and then for any signs of discontent. I saw none.
Then mr Jackson had a boring conversation with mr Pescoe about damage claims and stuff, and I took the opportunity to sit back and relax a bit, feeling the softness of the old sofa and the rich tobacco smell and the joy of being dressed in clean, real clothes. Shortly afterwards we hit the road again. Mr Pescoe shook my hand upon leaving and wished me good luck, saying he appreciated us doing this, and he asked mr Jackson not to be too rough, there seemed to be no real harm in me. Thatīs what my gramps always said, and they were as wrong as mr Pescoe.
"Yeah, well, Jennings knows how to behave when heīs supervised", mr Jackson said, giving me the malicious eye. "Itīs when you turn your back on him that thereīs a problem."
We rode off. Maybe half a mile down the road mr Jackson stopped and turned off the engine. OK, this is it, I thought. Heīs bending me over the bike. I tried to get some comfort out of the fact that few people had had their asses whipped on a classic Harley, but it didnīt work.
Mr Jackson opened my visor and then his. My hands were still cuffed on his belly.
"OK, Jennings, this was number one. Now I want you to tell me what happened from the moment the front door opened until it closed behind you. Suppose I wasnīt there at all and describe to me what you said, what mr Pescoe said, what went through your head and what you imagine went through his. Describe his reactions and also how you think heīs feeling right now. Go ahead."
I instantly was very confused but I didnīt want mr Jackson to get angry with me, so instead of first sorting things out in my head I started talking bull_s_h_i_t_, stuttering, forgetting, correcting myself over and over again, babbling incoherently for at least ten minutes, while mr Jackson silently listened, his face absolutely blank. When Iīd finished I wanted to punch myself hard on the head. Iīd just made a _f_u_c_k_ing jackass out of myself.
Mr Jackson was silent for a while. Then he turned his head and looked at me.
"You know why you canīt present an intelligible report?"
"Not really, sir. I mean, I usually can, sir, itīs just that I canīt seem to remember too well." I drew a deep breath. "No, I donīt, sir."
"Then Iīll tell you. Thatīs because your attention was on yourself, not on mr Pescoe. I bet you noticed everything happening in your head and body during our talk, but you didnīt focus on him even for a second. Do you actually remember anything of what he said to you?"
"I thought I did, sir. Iīm not sure right now."
"Then take my word for it. You donīt. And you havenīt got a clue to what he thought of the whole scene. Now that you know, I want you to do this differently the next time. I want you to focus on the person youīre looking at. Do you understand what Iīm saying?"
"I think so, sir."
"Otherwise, you did fairly well, Jennings, for starters. You were adorable when you told him your fairytales about remorse and deserving getting punished. He believed every word you said. You probably did, too. Way to go, TJ, way to go. Letīs get rolling."