James Bond - Shaken and Stirred (Part 2/3)

In the second of a three part series for Inside Time (the National Newspaper for Prisoners), Matthew Williams' super-hero James Bond, serving seven years for manslaughter and abandoned by the Ministry, finds himself in Full Sutton facing an uncomfortable encounter with a psychologist ...

It was late in the day when Bond tottered out of the cramped Cat 'A' van and into Full Sutton's reception area, feeling sick and wracked with a terrible migraine. Strange, he thought, he'd never been travel sick before, not even after an impromptu flight in a purloined space shuttle.

As an Escape List prisoner, Bond was shuttled straight to 'F' Wing in a banana suit, a sad plastic bag containing his bits and bobs under his arm. "Cheer up sunshine", quipped one of the guards, "It's fish and chips for tea!" Bond's usually razor-sharp mind intuitively searched for a pithy response. 'You've had your chips too' ... no ... 'You should know your plaice' ... damn it, they were rubbish and didn't even make sense! What on earth was happening to his renowned wit? 'F' Wing was horrible and as an Escape List prisoner, Bond had to hand over his clothes every night. All he had to wear were daft nylon pyjamas - the sheer bloody indignity of it all.

There was to be an investigation into the attempted escape from Belmarsh and Bond knew that 'Q' was in for a rocket. The days dragged by, with Bond alone in his cell watching sex offenders methodically weeding grass verges.

If only he'd come up with a better story at his trial! He should never have told the truth, but in his naivety he'd assumed the Ministry would have given the judge a nod and a wink and all would be well. When he'd been told he was 'expendable' he thought it meant on dangerous missions, not at court appearances for fuck's sake! At six every night he was let out for exercise, though the other prisoners stayed clear of him. A rumour was doing the rounds that he'd been chummy with the police, and 'grasses' were despised. Bond felt an air of tension wherever he went, especially going down the little exercise stairwell, which lacked both cameras and officers.

One night, Bond trudged out for his lonely stroll, only to be met by three louts on the stairs. He squared up to the ringleader, a northern lad with MUFC tattooed on his cheek. Bond raised his left eyebrow and grinned. When Bond had had fights before they always started off with a bit of banter, verbal foreplay if you will, before he karate-chopped them into a remarkably easy unconsciousness. As Bond took a deep breath, a cutting remark right on the very tip of his tongue, a lad behind hit him with a pool ball swung in a nylon sock. Momentarily stunned, Bond took a few more rapid thwacks before responding. He could have a tremendous tear-up when pushed, in spite of his perceived ponciness. After all, he was in the SAS for ages, wasn't he?

The rumpus brought the screws running, just in time to observe Bond dislocating the tattooed lad's arm. The other two he'd chucked downstairs - they were a right mess and would obviously need hospital treatment.

Bond was back in front of the Governor.

" But I was set upon by common criminals!" Bond barked, irate. That tore it. He was now confirmed as a 'grass'. Had he said nothing, the other prisoners would have respected him. So poor James was forced to go on the protected wing with the sex-offending gardeners. Bitter and twisted by all the hurt he'd experienced, he withdrew into depression. He no longer had any biting wit, but vicious venom - spat at anyone who challenged him. He began to hate screws and cons alike, seeing how those around him would get extra privileges for sucking and crawling whilst he, a true hero, was punished for standing up for decency. He got cell searches every week and wasn't allowed to work. "Security risk", the governor maintained, still sore about the Belmarsh incident. "Fuck you and your jobs then!" shouted Bond, and was promptly nicked for abusive language. Bond blushed as he realised what he'd said. Never before in his life had he uttered a four-letter profanity, not even when Hugo Drax had launched a chemical attack on Europe from outer space.

Bond had changed. He felt crushed and twisted in a way no torture had achieved before. True, he'd sweated a little as Goldfinger nearly cut his knackers off with an industrial laser, but never had he felt such ... such poisonous resentment. In desperation, he asked to see the psychologist.

Up she came to the wing, a slip of a girl fresh out of college. Bond perked up immediately and turned on the charm. Big mistake. Every creep and weirdo on the wing had tried the same trick and she saw Bond as being no different.

"I understand your offence was manslaughter after the victim's father took out a private prosecution. How do you feel about that now?"

Bond dismissed the question with a manly laugh. "Let's talk about you, or should I say us?" said Bond smoothly. It didn't work, so he showed her all his scars. Still not impressed, he described other fast chases he'd had driving moon buggies through petrol stations, cutting gondolas in half with speedboats - all manner of escapades.

The psychologist's pen flickered.

He bunged in a few stories about East German grandmas with penknives in their shoes for good measure, although he didn't mention the pool ball on the bonce incident ... a bit embarrassing that! Bond was convinced he was making progress with the girl, pleased that she called him up again the following week. She'd be a pushover this one. After all, he'd seduced Pussy Galore, Doctor Goodhead and Fancia Quikee easily enough, so Emma Coates MSc (Psychol) would be like putty in his hands.

"I'm recommending that you transfer to Whitemoor prison's Personality Disorder Unit", said Coates, handing Bond her report.

Bond's jaw dropped in astonishment as he read what she'd written. '173 Bond shows no empathy with his victims - indeed boasts about similar incidents involving motor vehicles of all types. He claims to have spent his life as an agent, given a licence to kill other people by the Prime Minister. I am concerned that he presents delusional beliefs of a violent nature, seeing himself as a 'saviour of freedom'.

'His social enquiry report shows no gainful employment and this indicates his lack of social skills in general. He admits to an alcohol dependency, which might explain the lapses found by his probation officer in his personal life. 173 Bond claims to have spent long periods abroad on 'secret missions', though admits there is no evidence to support this belief. Bond is suitable for both the Victim Empathy course and the Alcohol Awareness programme; following assessment at Whitemoor. I am also concerned that Bond attempted to cross the professional bounds of our relationship, indicating a manipulative and impulsive ...'

"You cheeky slut!" roared Bond, flinging the report on the floor. "I've turned away far better looking birds than you! Do you know who you're dealing with, you ugly, pretentious tart?"

She pulled the pin on her personal alarm and watched impassively as Bond was strong-armed off to the block by a posse of perspiring guards. The following morning, a stern Yorkshireman in an ill-fitting suit stood at Bond's cell door.

"Frankly Bond, you can beat up as many of your own kind as you like, but we won't tolerate abuse of staff. I'm putting you on a laydown".

Bond seethed. His own kind? Did he mean those louts on the stairwell? Barefoot and in his pyjamas, Bond tried to muster as much dignity as he could, but the acuity of his wit receded.

"Oh piss off you northern bastard!" he spat, without a trace of sophistication.

Back in the prison van, he sat feeling somewhat stupid and was dispatched to Wakefield nick to spend the next twenty-eight days in solitary.

* In the final instalment, Bond ends up in segregation at Wakefield, where things go from bad to worse!

* Matthew Williams is currently resident in HMP Dovegate

© 2006 Matthew Williams / Inside Time

Read Part 1

Read Part 3