James Bond - Shaken and Stirred (Part 1/3)

In the first of a three part series for Inside Time (the National Newspaper for Prisoners), Matthew Williams introduces super-hero James Bond, now forced to play a very different role...

Guilty! Guilty! Guilty! He couldn't believe it. It simply wasn't possible. Bond clenched his jaw tightly, his steely eyes piercing those of the jury foreman. No use. The verdict had been given. None of the other jurors would even meet his gaze. The judge, in his own good time, thanked the jury and turned to Bond.

"James Bond, you have been found guilty of the manslaughter of Timothy John Whelan. I must say that this case has been unusual, certainly in respect of your defence. Your claim to have been acting under the direction of the intelligence services is not borne out by the slightest credible evidence, and I must assume your actions were the result of sheer recklessness. You have shown no remorse for the tragic death of a young man, and I sentence you to seven years. Take him down".

Bond was absolutely gobsmacked. Seven years! As he stepped from the dock, an old codger jumped up in the public gallery. "It should have been life, you callous bastard!" Bond immediately recognised the man - it was the victim's father, John Whelan, who had relentlessly pursued Bond through the legal system for five years. Bond averted his gaze. John Whelan, junior head teacher at a Brighton comprehensive and a fellow Englishman, had broken Bond. Where foreign geezers with metal teeth and sharpened hatbands had failed, John Whelan and English tort law had succeeded.

Whelan had taken out a private prosecution against Bond following the death of his son in a high-speed chase, during which Bond had crashed a hovercraft through a flimsy boathouse on the Thames. Tim had flown comically into the air still holding his fishing rod, before splashing dramatically into the middle of the river. Unfortunately for him, Tim had been a non-swimmer.

It was just one of those many dramatic and dangerous moments that filled Bond's life, where passers-by have something crazy inflicted on them by his daring escapades and which usually turned out harmless. After all, chasing super-villains had its risks!

He'd tried to put all that to the jury, but Whelan's expensive barrister had ripped him to shreds. The Ministry had denied any knowledge of Bond, making his case untenable. No matter that the chase led to the recovery of a stolen atom bomb. Nor did it matter that he'd averted a coup in Yemen.

The guards laughed nastily as he was led to Belmarsh prison, through the underground tunnel from Woolwich Crown Court. It reminded Bond of the many evil genius's lairs he'd infiltrated and destroyed, except here the guards couldn't work the mechanism properly and the huge steel door in the tunnel kept opening and shutting before they could walk through. What now? Would 'M' leave him to rot? Or would there be an intercession by Her Majesty (of whom Bond was very fond).

Glumly, he was processed by reception staff and given a number. "I've already got one", Bond sneered, as he folded up his Saville Row suit. It made no difference."BR8173. Christ, I sound like a Russian bra size", muttered Bond as he was taken to House Block 4, where all category 'A' prisoners are dumped.

His cell was rank. A yellow-stained mattress, shitty toilet, grubby centrefolds stuck to the wall with toothpaste. Bond raised his left eyebrow nonchalantly, turning to say something pithy to the guard. The door banged shut before he could speak. Clearly his wit would not be appreciated here!

Throughout that first night, Bond's footsteps echoed round the wing, until someone shouted: "Shat ap you facking cahnt". If only that cockney rascal knew to whom he was shouting!

Bond stared out of the window, a wry smile plucking at his cruel lips, for he had an ace up his sleeve. Literally. Bond unstrapped the all contingencies escape watch 'Q' had given him and prepared to fire its laser. It was the only gadget he'd managed to keep hold of - his exploding shoelaces, sleeping gas aftershave and thermal sunglasses had all been put into a central store.

The mini-laser made short work of the bars, and soon Bond was creeping towards the inner wing fence. Smirking, a two-foot hole rapidly appeared through the steel plate, with Bond already planning to head for the City Airport where he would steal a light airplane. However, just as he clambered through the hole, a dog handler spotted him.

Frantic, Bond sprinted for the outer fence, but cursed his luck when he saw the watch batteries had run flat. Not surprising really, they're only little aren't they. Five guards and two dogs ran up to him. Bond didn't stand a chance. He put up a good fight though ... whatever you say about him he can have a terrible row!

The next morning he was in front of the governor.

"I said nothing to Doctor No and I'll say nothing to you", quipped Bond curtly.

"Well, I'm finding you guilty of this charge, response or not", replied the governor, who'd frankly had more than his fill of fantasising cranks and packed Bond off to Full Sutton prison in Yorkshire - as a category 'E' man to boot!

Before being bundled into the awaiting van, Bond had to change into a bright yellow boiler suit. Him! In a boiler suit! Bitterly, he recalled the shoot-out on Blofeld's submarine-gobbling oil tanker, where all his henchmen had been garbed in yellow boiler suits - a sign of Blofeld's repressed homosexuality, Bond had later been told).

The indignity was too much. As the cubicle door slammed, Bond heard the van driver start to whistle ... 'happy days are here again' as off they trundled to the bleak, forbidding Yorkshire Moors.

* Matthew Williams is currently resident in HMP Dovegate

© 2006 Matthew Williams / Inside Time