Chapter 27 A Break From The Norm Part 2
After finishing his sermon In the cream-colored walls of the prison chapel. The Chaplin stepped down from his pulpit onto the carpeted floor.
His kindly diminutive face stood before the muscular frame of Darren the 'Ox' Slayney, who was first in the queue of the communion line - with McBride behind him.
He spoke with a soft sincerity, holding up a cup of red grape juice.
"This is the blood of Christ, which was shed for us for the forgiveness of our sins."
Ox glugged. The Chaplin held up a piece of bread, snapping it in half.
"This is the body of Christ, which was given for us.
Take and eat this, in remembrance of him."
Ox crunched.
The Chaplin smiled. "The peace of the Lord will be with you always."
Ox produced a sharpened metal shank, digging it threateningly into the Chaplin's ribs.
"Forgive me, Father, for I have sinned. The congregation is over!"
The Chaplin's eyes widened in alarm; Ox loomed large over the man of faith.
"Holy Mary Mother of god give me strength?" he confessed.
"No harm will come to you if you cooperate," the Ox promised in his low cockney twang.
The Chaplin trembled, fear gripping him. Ox took him firmly by the arm, compelling him forward towards chapel exit doors by knifepoint.
Wooden pews emptied. McBride and the mob began spilling out into the hallway.
The Muslims had also finished from prayer. Sensing the signs that It was time to act.
Freedom was near if they kept their nerve.
Hallways filled with functioning members of the Muslim Brotherhood, mingling together in a rare display of cooperation between rivals.
"Take us to the control room," McBride demanded of the whimpering Chaplin.
Sweat poured down the holy man's face.
"I don't have access to the control room."
"Don't worry about that, Father," McBride said, through a toothless smile.
"But yer have access to the fire escape outside the control room, that yer do?"
McBride signaled them on. Now a quarry of men stalking forward in a sea of bodies.
A procession led by the Chaplin and the Ox, swallowing up half of Johnson's night shift skeleton crew - forcing their way toward the heart of the prison operation.
Gunner was in the control room panicked, Choking, and spitting out a serving of Christmas-stashed sticky toffee pudding.
Immobilized staff members rolled on the ground across the bank of screens, shadows of an oncoming army, coming towards the control room.
"Ah, bollocks!" Cursed Gunner. Firing off the alarm system.
The banged-up class A's heads swiveled. Eyes followed McBride and his platoon.
Spirits soared. An escape plan potentially becoming a reality.
Brummie was in the contraband store, lugging 24 packs of beer cans into a shopping trolley, becoming alarmed by the prison alarm.
"They have taken the bloody Chaplin hostage." Gunner's panicked inter-commed voice rang through Brummie's radio.
"They are coming for us. Get your ass back in here."
"Ah! shit," Brummie cursed.
Beer cans clattered to the floor. Hissing carbonations, fizzed in an eruption of frothy bubbles.
Johnson was just getting in his blue battered Volvo in the staff car park when the alarm went off.
The prison alarm was not something that went off without reason, and he knew all too well what it meant - trouble.
"Fuck it not again!" he said, slamming his door shut.
Abandoning his plans to leave for the evening, Johnson was clawed back into the mix. Fellow officers scrambled past him - flying out the entrance.
Reaching the control room, Johnson's eyes met those of Gunner and Brummie, their looks suggested the gravity of the situation.
"What's the rundown?" Johnson asked, looking at the chaotic scenes on CCTV.
"The rundown Johnson?" Gunner pointed out.
"Is that our dear kind Chaplin has just been taken hostage, by the Muslims and the IRA?
Most of my support for our shitty shift is rendered incapacitated."
"They are also heading this way to the control room as we speak," Brummie said, carrying on Gunner's train of thought.
"So the rundown is. Me and Brummie are just about to tell you to stick your job up your arse."
"Also Johnson," Brummie wanted to add.
"When you're near a dangerous animal, you don't try and control it. You run away from it you cryptic little prick!"
Johnson knew he was a jobsworth prick, the whole prison knew it.
The staff that had worked under him knew it too. It was his life.
The thought of hanging up his keys had never crossed his mind before - until now.
He only had to work three more years, until he was guaranteed his majesty's prison pension.
"It's not worth bother anymore is it lads?"
"No mate, come on let's go, I know it's hard to let go.
We only have a couple of minutes before they get here," Gunner said urgently.
Johnson looked at the shiny polished knobs of his security control desk for the last time, his little Hitler complex slipping away, with a slight well of the eyes.
The drone of the panic alarm wailing in the background sounded like a drone throughout the entire prison.
But to Johnson, it sounded like that of a Micheal Bolton song to his ears - how he would miss it.
He had no one else to beat up or control anymore - his wife had divorced him already.
Johnson, Gunner, and Brummie pulled on their coats, ready to make their final farewell to their former jobs.
But as Johnson reached for the control room door handle, a familiar Northern Irish voice called out.
"Hello, boys! Did ya miss us?"
They looked up startled. McBride's grinning face was pressed against the glass staring back at them malevolently, the Ox's shank pressing into the Chaplin's quivering neck.
A sea of Muslim Brothers filled the narrow escape passage behind them.
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"Leaving so soon?" McBride taunted. "We've only just got started! Open up!"
Johnson secured the deadbolts, just as angry fists began pounding from the other side. They were trapped.
Through the bulletproof glass, the trio watched in mounting horror, as two figures rolled in heavy-duty welding machines - plugging them into two electrical outlets on either side of the staff exit door.
"They're going to weld us in!" Johnson said, in total shock.
The welders lifted their fitted helmets, grinning savagely.
"That's the welding instructor," said Gunner.
"He also, a drug dealer, on good behavior," Brummie said, completely unnerved.
"Do we have the green light to go?" the welding instructor asked McBride.
"Green light. I want a molten red hot light. Get stuck in boys."
The lads lowered their helmets, arcing live rods against the solid barrier.
Sparks flew in cascades of molten droplets. Fire and brimstone reflected off their visors.
The metal of the doorframe began to glow under the intense bombardment.
The whole group stood back letting them carry out the handy work.
Ox ducked himself and the Chaplin out of the way from flaring ricochets, like the good boxer he was.
Through the eastern door, which branched off from the control room onto the landings.
Gunner and Brummie hadn't realized that the welding class had sneaked up the stairs, wheeling another portable welding machine. With torches primed and hungry.
One man wielded a blowtorch, with its naked guard removed, its blue-white flame lancing the barrier as an improvised thermal lance.
The door shuddered under the onslaught.
Johnson raked sweaty fingers through his thinning hair, the dire situation closing in from both sides.
"I will huff and I will puff and blow your house down," McBride cackled.
"Open all the security gates. And we might let you out, Johnson?"
Trapped in the control room, the three men knew that their only leverage was the power to free the animals that stalked them.
It was also a double-edged sword, they also knew these animals would maul them to death once they got in.
The stench of scorched metal and burning enamel invaded the shrinking sanctum as molten droplets pinged to the floor.
Through sweltering fumes, the inmates worked relentlessly to bring down their final barriers to freedom.
After an hour the exit was firmly welded closed, but the eastern door was becoming more of a stubborn affair.
The outer frame had warped, cracked, and sagged, but they needed more firepower - firepower that the tame welding rods couldn't give them.
A full army of men faced the central control room, surrounding it like a pathanon of onlookers, to the sullen faces of the three prison officers looking down on them.
"Johnson, open the whole nick up," Gunner demanded.
"We might end up getting out of here alive if they all fuck off?" Brummie added impatiently.
"Alright, let's do it then," Johnson said begrudgingly.
Johnson entered the technical room. The screens of the mini data center cast a blue glow over his face.
Through the shards of broken metal, Gunner and Brummie reassured McBride that freedom was nearing.
Johnson typed in the encrypted access code to the cloud-based security system.
As the system loaded, Johnson studied the maps of security protocols blinking in sequences across monitors.
A new code was downloaded, prompting him to turn the mechanisms of a safe.
Nestled within the worn velvet lining was a small object - a smooth black graphite key, uniquely shaped for its purpose. The prison's master key.
Johnson returned to the control room, key in hand. With hostile eyes tracking his movements.
Johnson inserted the key into the security desk, inputting the code with a final turn.
An ominous clank signaled the locks releasing across the sprawling complex.
Pandemonium erupted within the prison walls as every lock and safety mechanism unclasped itself simultaneously.
Metal clanged against metal. The front security gates opened like a set of lift doors.
The gangs stepped onto the landings in disbelief in a mass exodus, guided by the hand of McBride.
The Muslim Brotherhood gave thanks to Allah
Before long, every available space was occupied by menacing individuals making their way to the streets of Liverpool, which included the Chaplin.
"Come on McBride let's get out of this dump," Ox said.
McBride was surrounded by his members of the IRA. With one more card to play.
"Go to the contraband room and get all the moonshine and any confiscated alcohol that you can carry," McBride instructed.
"Mate, what are you doing?"
"Yer remember what I told yer earlier Ox. That I was the spark that started the party?"
"Yeah!"
"Let's burn the whole place down. Nobody is going to stop us?"
"I got to admit it, that does sound fun," Ox, thought.
"Go to the kitchen and get me some hot cooking fat. With those big strong arms of yours."
"I will see what I can arrange."
##########
Turner was in the servery kitchen wearing a hairnet, and a beard guard, standing by three large hot bubbling vats of vegetable oil - tasked with cooking chips.
He had heard the sound of the alarm, a sound he had become accustomed to - it was nothing new.
The kitchen staff started to leave the kitchen, downing tools, utensils hitting the floor abandoning their stations.
"Where are you all going?" Turner asked.
"The whole nick is wide open. We are free men," the head chef said.
"Free?"
"Don't stand there like a lemon, Turner."
Turner's thoughts instantly turned to where Grey was. Maybe lady luck was on their side for once.
A massive frame burst through the swinging doorway. Darren the 'Ox' Slayney marched into the kitchen, accessing the leftover pots and pans.
It was the sizzling sounds of three deep cooking pans that caught his attention - a two-man job it looked like.
"Darren, please, no more. You have already beaten the shit out of me."
Turner was slightly backing away, trying to pick out a weapon of some kind.
"Help me carry these pans, Turner. And I will call it quits with you. No come back. And you can go."
##########
Grey could hear the blaring alarms going off from the otherwise quietness of the segregation unit.
Change over shift usually, included a brief inspection from Johnson - but not today.
It was the unresolved urgency in those alarms, blending with the distance of shouts, telling his instincts that whatever was happening down there, would have far-reaching consequences. Was it a riot?
Grey's door suddenly slid open, choreographing, with all the other doors in perfect synchronization.
Grey was staring at another prisoner doing bird across from him now.
The man, with his unkempt hair and confused eyes, cautiously stepped out into the walkway, and so did another. And so did Grey.
It was a stark contrast to what Grey had expected. The once heavily guarded and fortified entrance was wide open and unattended.
"It must be some sort of technical malfunction," Grey said to one prisoner.
"Don't look a gift horse in the mouth," he replied.
Curiosity got the better of them. Venturing further away, into the main nerve center of the prison.
The absence of any guards or personnel, or prisoners for that matter only added to the surreal atmosphere. Empty open cells crossed their line of vision.
Once they reached the main floor. To his surprise.
Grey saw Turner with the Ox, carrying heavy cooking pans, dousing hot liquid onto the stairs, that led to the control room.
Johnson, Gunner, and Brummie were looking very very worried.
Stepping away from the hot splashes of vegetable oil filtering through the sagged cracks of reinforced steel.
McBride was there toyin' with a blow torch.
His members of the IRA were throwing buckets of liquids, covering the common room floor in streaks. One was trolleying a trolley throwing beer cans.
"Hello, Guv we have had a right good result, here," Turner said pleased to see his old friend.
"What is all this?" Grey inquired.
"Hello, yer old bastard," McBride's eyes gleamed under the fire.
"Lucky, I'm in a good mood, I might have killed yer otherwise, that I might."
McBride removed the guard from the welding torch, leaving a naked flame. He adjusted the torch's settings to control the intensity.
As it grew stronger and more vibrant. He invited Grey over to take part. Ox kept himself at a safe distance as did Turner.
"Would yer like to be a soldier for the cause?"
Pools of hot fat were a couple of feet away from Grey's feet. McBride passed him a set of welding gloves.
Grey looked up into the eyes of Johnson. The memories of the strip search and the phone call to his family played on an endless loop in his mind.
How could someone justify subjecting another human being to such humiliation?
He couldn't shake off the feeling of violation and helplessness that had consumed him during those harrowing hours.
But amidst the turmoil, a flicker of a flame would ignite his revenge.
"Will you pass me the blow torch please?"
McBride duly obliged, moving back further away with the others.
Grey waved the blow torch, getting the feel of its weight and power.
"Grey no!" Johnson Urged.
Gunner and Brummie were holding small fire extinguishers in vain. Grey's nozzle was scarily close to the flammable liquid.
"Your 5 minutes are up Johnson! Just like mine were. Remember?" Grey, said in revengeful triumph.
"No, please no!" Johnson was physically crying.
Grey firing like a ghostbuster, ignited the combustible chemical reaction, violently engulfing a firey path up the stairs to the security control room.
Then it mixed with the alcohol sweeping across the common room floor.
They all ran like whippets through the open Sally Port entrance.
Grey and Turner knew their route on the way out. A prison van was parked in the empty car park - with the same yellow graffiti on the side.
Ox smashed the side window with his clubbing forearm, opening the side doors.
A spare set of keys was in the glove compartment.
"Both of you get in the front and drive," Ox ordered.
Grey and Turner did not need much convincing.
It wasn't long until the former members of Scotland Yard were blazing out the front security gates - with an evil new collective of passengers for company.
Turning the corner, smoke and flames rose from the prison.
Grey stared in the rearview mirror, processing the horrors within.
Johnson's, Gunners, and Brummie's final death-wailed screams crackled through the prison radio.
Beside him, Turner switched the volume off, his expression glum.
"That's too strong guv. I don't want to hear that."
"They can burn in hell if all I care. I've had enough," Grey said.
But as McBride's men laughed in the back, exchanging words in a language he didn't understand, uncertainty picked at him.
What future lay ahead outside these walls? And could he trust the men who now held the keys?
"For now, we're free," Grey said finally.
"That is if we can trust McBride," said Turner.