Free The First Casualty by Ben Elton Page A

recover them, for once he was released from the sickroom and back in the bosom of the prison population Jenkins had already made it clear that he would be attacked once more and then attacked again.
    With the option of escape only the most distant possibility, Kingsley tried to think along other lines.
    Surely he could not be the only pariah in the building? Reason told him that there were others like him who were outside the normal run of prisoners. Not conscientious objectors, he knew that. His had been a special case: those other objectors who had been dealt with by military tribunals had, if imprisoned, been sent to far less brutal establishments than Wormwood Scrubs. Only Kingsley had been treated as a common criminal.
    But were there others with whom it would be possible to form an alliance? Could he seek out those who were also threatened and form a non-aggression pact in which each would leap to the defence of the other if attacked? Even in the bleakness of his pain Kingsley could not help but reflect that it had been arrangements such as these that had brought all the dominoes of Europe crashing down together and created the disaster which was now consuming them. For a little while his thoughts drifted into a crazy vision in which the entire prison population was involved in a giant punch-up in the name of collective security. Chairs were smashed, pies thrown and suddenly the doors burst open and the room was filled with grotesquely gurning American constables hitting each other with comically ineffective truncheons. Like most people, Kingsley enjoyed visiting the new picture palaces and in happier days he and his little son had laughed along with everyone else at the antics of Mack Sennett’s Keystone Kops. Now, in his delirium, they provided a brief diversion from his current misery. When clarity returned once more, he mused that even if there were others like him in the prison, existing in fear on the fringes of the community, of what use would they be to him? Other persecuted individuals would be as defenceless as he and impossible to organize. Besides, the idea of seeking out the child-killers, rapists and other pariahs in an attempt to enlist their support in a defensive alliance seemed as obnoxious as it was hopeless.
    Kingsley needed to join a group. An established band within the prison that had the power to act collectively in mutual self-interest. But who? He had already discovered that the Socialists would have nothing to do with an ex-policeman. Were there any others amongst whom he could cast his lot?
    The orderly returned.
    ‘Oi heard yis laughin’, mate. Oi do tink dat’s hoily fockin’ commendable.’
    That accent once again. The accent of the outsider, the pariah, an Irishman in England knew all about what it felt like to be despised.
    ‘I was dreaming about the Keystone Kops,’ Kingsley whispered.
    ‘Ah yes. Hoily amusin’, Oi must say. Although if truth be tol’ Oi don’t foind watching policemen of any description a source of entertainment.’
    The orderly helped Kingsley to some more water, his hand less steady now as the morphine which he had injected worked its way through his system.
    ‘Excuse me,’ Kingsley said when he had drunk his fill, ‘but would you by any chance know any Fenians within the prison?’
    The orderly set down the cup. Addled though his brain might be, ‘Fenian’ was not a word that he could ignore.
    ‘Does Oi know any of de Brotherhood?’
    ‘Yes.’
    ‘And woi would yiz be askin’ me that?’
    ‘Because, like me, they are incarcerated not for greed but for a principle.’
    ‘And you’d be an Oirish Nationalist then, would yiz?’
    ‘I don’t pretend that we are incarcerated for the same principles but they are principles nonetheless.’ Struggling to ignore the pain from his bruised and battered flesh, Kingsley attempted to concentrate his thoughts. ‘I wish to appeal to them for protection.’
    ‘And woi would de IRB give a fock about helping