Tom gets out of jail(Bryan Robinson) Tom gets out of jail
by Bryan Robinson


“Next time you come back bring a friend with you,” joked the prison officer as Tom Wilson collected his few belongings at the end of his prison sentence. Tom gave a guarded smile but said nothing. Later he got talking to a fellow passenger on the train.

“Where you headed?” The stranger asked.

“Lunemouth, it’s my home town. Been visiting my relatives in Blackpool. What about you?” Tom wasn’t about to tell the man where he’d really been. He’d been away for two years for a string of burglaries that he and his mate Colin had done together. He began thinking about his arrest and sentence, hardly listening to what the man was saying. They’d thought they were on to a good thing until the police had found blood at one of their jobs which matched Colin’s DNA. Tom didn’t think his mate had grassed him up but the C.I.D. didn’t need to be geniuses to work it out that the man staying at Colin’s flat flashing his money around was the second burglar. They needed proof, of course, but Tom had no alibi and once they had him in their sights it hadn’t taken long. They’d found some of the stolen goods in the hands of one or two shady characters. The police had ways of putting them under pressure. When it came to the crunch there was no such thing as honour amongst thieves and Tom accepted this. He’d been picked out of a few line ups and pleaded guilty at court when his barrister said it was pointless not to. It didn’t matter that they’d got away with a few jobs and he had a bit of cash stashed away. Sadly, Tom had not been able get his hands on the money whilst he was behind bars.

The man seemed friendly enough and Tom decided to share one or two details of his life with him, he figured it would help pass the time.
“Me mum died when I was a baby and I never knew who me dad was so I spent me early life in care, like. You know what I mean? Been married twice but I ain’t seen neither of me wives for years. Can’t believe where the time’s gone. Middle-aged now I suppose, if that’s what you are in your fifties.”

Thinking back, he had not been much of a husband to his two wives, so it was no wonder they’d divorced him. He’d got married at twenty but was drinking heavily at the time and would fly into a rage after drinking, ending up in court for criminal damage and domestic violence. He realises now that he was wrong to be jealous when his son was born. Tracey had seemed totally focussed on their child as if she had no time for him. He had accepted some time ago that he was too young and immature at the time for marriage and fatherhood. He’d lost touch with Tracey and young Tom junior years ago.

There was not much to be said about his second marriage. Mary was 10 years older than him and had some mental problems which she masked with alcohol and pills. They had been together for less than a year. There were no children and Mary had not bothered to reply to his letters when he got the five year sentence 15 years ago. She had been shocked to hear his long list of previous convictions read out as she sat at the back of the court. Maybe he should have told her about them.

“Sorry mate, what was that you said?” Tom quickly came out of his reverie and tried to concentrate. He wasn’t used to making polite conversation.

“I was asking about your job. I do shift work at a paper mill.” The man said.

“Self employed, mainly building trade but I can turn me hand to most things.” Tom found it easy to lie to this stranger. He’d not had a proper job for years. They chatted on about the down turn in the building industry and other things. Tom felt he was managing to hold his own.

Fifteen years seemed to have flown by, but a lot of them were spent behind bars. Tom coped quite well inside. As he’d grown closer to his release he’d tried to make plans to avoid prison in future. He’d been given a few quid and a train ticket back to his home town.

At his age he’d no chance of a job. He knew the score by now. But this time it’ll be different, he thought. He’ll go straight back to crime from the word go, none of that trying to go straight malarkey. He always slipped back to his old ways in the end anyway. And this time he’ll do his jobs on his own. Having others in on a job had been his downfall. It was Colin who got him arrested last time, wasn’t it? He’ll need the gun though, just in case of complications. He’d kept himself to himself on the inside. Most of the other cons were not on his wavelength anyway, always on about drugs, sex and the internet.

The train pulled into Lunemouth and, saying cheerio to the man, he stepped on to the platform. He’d been born and spent his early years about fifty miles further north but had nowhere that really felt like home. This place, where he was arrested, would do as good as any. The first thing he did was walk to where he had hidden the gun and his money to make sure the place was unchanged. They were buried in a wood not too far from a public right of way. Relieved, he walked back into town. He would be back again later, after dark, to get the money. He’d leave the gun there until he needed it.

Tom got himself a flat after a few nights in a cheap hotel. He knew the money wouldn’t last long so he needed to get more. A few years ago he’d had a job in an old-fashioned hardware store in the town centre before getting the sack for stealing from the till. He knew the shop owner was a bit sloppy about banking his takings, particularly at weekends. A lot of the customers still paid cash. It was still there and, taking a chance, he called in to buy some nails. A young girl served him but he caught sight of the owner in another part of the building and there was no indication that he had been recognised. He was hoping that the old guy still kept cash on the premises overnight.

His next step was the burglar alarm. Tom had used this trick before. At 5am, when all was quiet, he managed to cut through the wire near the alarm box without any sign that it had been tampered with. He left hurriedly, not planning to break in that night. The alarm sounded, of course. He was banking on the fact that the shop owner would believe it to be a false alarm. The police are aware that most alarms that go off are false alarms so don’t take them too seriously. Naturally the man would want a repairman to come out as soon as possible, but how soon? The old guy would ring up and because it was a Saturday there was a good chance no-one would be available. No doubt he’d try turning it back on again a few times but in the end he’d have to leave the alarm off. So hopefully there would be no alarm to worry about on Saturday night.

Tom set off in the early hours of Sunday morning with the gun in his breast pocket. He’d retrieved it from its hiding place in the wood. He loved the dark. It enveloped him, allowing him to follow his trade. He had no compunction about stealing from his old employer. After all, the swine had given him the sack over a few bob he’d pinched from the till. All the other staff were doing the same, he was sure of it. He climbed over the rear wall and approached the back door. He had a cordless drill with him. He’d charged it up so it was a piece of cake getting through the Yale lock. The door swung open. Tom was ready to flee but, just as he’d planned, there was no alarm. He checked his breast pocket for the umpteenth time. The gun reassured him, gave him the courage to continue. There were three tills in different parts of the shop. They were all brand new, of the kind you needed a special key to open. He cursed under his breath, brute force would make too much noise. Searching around in drawers and cupboards he found the key box. Most places had them. He forced it open and sure enough there was a till key hanging up. It opened all three tills so he quickly emptied them into his haversack. Not a huge haul, he thought, probably about £400 with the pound coins and change; still, enough for a short holiday by the sea. He needed to lie low for a few weeks. The police knew his MO so would want to interview him. Best keep out of their way for a bit.

As he came back out of the back door a loud noise startled him. It was pitch dark so he crouched down on his haunches in a corner of the yard. He realised he had automatically reached for the gun, so he eased the safety catch off and waited, reassured by the feel of the metal. It was warm from being inside his coat. The noise had shocked him, but gradually he regained his composure. He guessed it must have been a cat knocking something over. He could hear an ambulance or police siren away in the distance but getting fainter, otherwise all was quiet. He put the gun back into his breast pocket.

He stood up eventually, his knees stiff from staying in the same position. He was getting old, he thought, as he approached the back wall. Whilst clambering up to the top of it he noticed the wall was slippery with a coating of ice. Strange, this must have happened whilst I was in the shop, he thought. His gloves failed to grip properly as he tried to heave himself up, made more difficult due to his heavy pack. He’d almost reached the top when he fell backwards into the yard. He’d failed to put the safety catch back on. The jolt as he hit the ground caused the gun to go off. The bullet entered his body, piercing an artery in his groin. He screamed for help but no-one came.

Tom Wilson died there in the yard, killed by his only friend.

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