FIC: "The Chelmsford List" for eeyore9990
Recipient: eeyore9990
Author: ???
Title: The Chelmsford List
Rating: R
Pairing: Stan Shunpike/Mundungus Fletcher
Word Count: 5860
Warnings/Content Information:Just dodgy wizards with dodgy accents and even dodgier grammar.
Summary: Baffling Prison Escape + Wizards = Not Really All That Baffling. That's why this isn't an escape story. But it does involve wizards and prisons.
Author's Notes: Short version: A criminal character called Fletcher? I'm on to you, JKR.
Loosely inspired by Porridge, in particular (see Rule Five) the above classic episode from 1974, A Night In. If you're not familiar with it, beware of authentic 70's British humour if following the link. You don't need to watch or know the series at all to read the story, I just needed to credit it for the inspiration. The depiction of prison life owes a lot more to it than to modern reality too, as I think it's a better fit with the HP world. Finally, Porridge was at least once filmed on location at Chelmsford Prison, and yes, I had to share that even though this is getting very long indeed :D
Thank you to my lovely beta S, for helping me go over (and over!) the dialogue until we were both happy with it. <3
eeyore9990, you said 'anything', and I'm afraid I took you at your word. Um. Sorry? I hope you find something to your taste in it, but if not I can try something else!
This list of ten 'steps for surviving prison' has become the subject of intense media and internet speculation since it was discovered in an empty cell at Chelmsford Prison in Essex five years ago. The author, Sandy Turnpike, who vanished that night along with his cellmate, is believed to have several aliases, as no record of his life beyond his time served at that prison has ever been found. It is notable for the first recorded use of the term 'squib', which is in widespread use among prisoners these days to describe a guard who can be convinced to aid prisoners, usually in return for favours or bribery. Similarly, a 'muggle' in prison slang is an officer not susceptible to bribery.
Edited to add: The Metropolitan Police announced that the escapees are now believed to have left the country. The file remains open, but unless they return and give themselves up, we are unlikely ever to know the whole story.
- Excerpt from the website 'Baffling Prison Escapes'
One - Find someone to watch your back.
"You're a lucky lad, Turnpike," Officer Burden said, shutting the first gate behind them with a clang.
Stan didn't bother to correct the officer's mistake; nobody ever listened. He was entered into official records from Cardiff to Dover as anything from Stunbright to Van Dyke, and was beginning to wonder if all Muggles were hard of hearing. He was distracted in any case, because Officer Burden's face, which had seemed stern but not particularly malicious on first encounter, had twisted into a knowing leer. "Requested specially, you were."
"Specially?" Stan stumbled over his own feet in surprise, forgetting to look where he was going. "'Choo mean, specially?" He ducked through the next doorway too quickly to make up for his slip, and the pile of sheets and blankets he was carrying tumbled to the floor.
"What d'ye think it means when some old lag wants to share a cell with you, lad?" Officer Burden smiled while Stan scrabbled around to collect his belongings once more, and somehow it was worse than the leer. "I wouldn'a thought Stretch was the type, but prison does things to a man after a while."
Stan gulped. He wished he'd been able to get hold of a replacement wand, but ever since the accident it had been one Muggle institution after another, and not so much as a glimpse of a witch or wizard in any of them that might have been able to help him out. Well, he'd had his suspicions about Dickens back in the secure hospital, but he hadn't done much but recite what sounded like recipes for potions, and Stan couldn't even swear they were the real deal. He never had got the hang of potions.
"Not that he gets to be picky," Burden continued, "but the Warden's of the opinion sharing with a career criminal like Stretch might help show you the error of your ways. Consider this fair warning, y'hear me?"
He stopped in front of a door, all metal with a tiny grille and a sliding panel, and pulled it open. "In you go. Lights out soon, and keep the noise down. I'm on duty 'til four and you lot have already given me a right headache."
"Yessir," Stan mumbled, and stepped into the cell. The door had barely swung shut when rough hands grabbed him and pushed him up against the wall, and Stan screwed up his eyes tightly as harsh, sour breath and scratchy whiskers invaded his personal space. Whiskers with a faint but familiar smell of strong pipe tobacco clinging to them, and... it couldn't be, could it?
"What the bleeding 'ell are you doing 'ere, you gormless little berk?" Yes, the voice was familiar too, and even if it did sound like the owner was going to kill him, Stan thought he might burst with relief.
"Dung?" he said, and he could feel a smile stretching across his face for the first time in weeks. And scratchy whiskers or not, the minute the grip on his shoulders loosened, Stan threw his arms around the dishevelled figure of Mundungus Fletcher and held on to him for dear life.
Two - Learn how to work the system. There's lots of useful advice to be had from the old hands.
"Gerroff, gerroff." Mundungus swatted at Stan until he let go, but Stan knew he didn't mean anything by it. Just Dung's way, that was. Same as the way he blew a lungful of foul smoke in Stan's direction as soon as he retrieved his pipe.
"They letchoo smoke in 'ere?" Stan asked. He'd seen loads of No Smoking signs on his way in, nearly as many as locked gates, but maybe that was just for public areas. Was there a charm on the cells to-- no, 'course there wasn't. Muggles didn't have charms. Maybe they had something that worked the same way?
Mundungus snorted loudly. He climbed stiffly up to the top bunk and took a long drag on his pipe before he answered. "Don't know nothing about it, do they?" he sniffed, wriggling his toes. Stan could see they were worn through at the heels and big toes despite some clumsy darning in mismatched colours. "'Time they get a whiff, it's safely put away again, and they ain't found it on me yet." He patted his old overcoat and winked at Stan. "They gotta let me keep me coat for going outside in the yard for me constitutional, me being sick and all." He gave an affected cough.
"You're an old rascal, you are," Stan said affectionately, and flicked Dung's toe. He'd seen Dung hide more than a pipe inside that coat, and not a soul could ever find out how he did it.
"I'm just a businessman what 'as been wrongfully imprisoned, that's what I h'am," Mundungus replied with as much dignity as you could have with holes in your socks. "I never touched those h'alleged crates, and there 'as been a terrible miscarriage of justice, being as what I am h'an innocent man."
"That right, Dung?" Stan was doubtful, but he supposed even a dodgy bloke like Dung could be nicked for a job he didn't do now and again.
Mundungus's mournful face vanished in a split second, replaced with a sly sort of glee. "'Course not, you daft bugger." He folded his coat up and shoved it under the thin pillow before swinging his legs up onto the bunk. "You 'ave to talk like that for them Muggle judges, they like a bit of a challenge. Ask 'em to lock a bloke up and they'd send you packing, proper funny they are."
"Like anyone'd do that," Stan scoffed. "You'd 'ave to be madder'n a banshee inna bucket!"
Mundungus just shrugged. "Free board and lodging," he said. "Comes in 'andy sometimes."
Stan supposed that made a certain amount of sense, but there was something odd about the glance Mundungus sent him. Before he could wonder about that there was a click and a clunk, and the room went dark.
Three - The nights are the worst part. Find a way to get through them.
"I shoulda put me stuff away while there was some light," Stan said after the third time he stubbed his toe. There seemed to be twice as much furniture in the room when it was dark, though he had no idea how that was possible.
"Too busy rabbiting as usual," Mundungus said, but there was no real censure in it despite his gruff voice. "You ain't changed a bit."
There was a moment of silence, or as near to it as they were likely to get. A shout in the distance; the clang of yet another security door; the trill of some alarm or maybe one of those fellytone things. Stan still wasn't sure exactly what those sounded like; he'd never been much good at Muggle Studies. Shame, really. It would have come in handy.
"I 'ave, Dung." Stan tried to stop his voice from trembling, but he was all too aware that he failed. "You don't know what I've-- I din't fink there was nuffink worse than Azkaban, Dung. But there is."
"Bad times," Mundungus said after a moment. "Bad times for ev'ryone. But you came through 'em."
"Yeah." Stan reached out a hand to the top bunk and found rough blankets. "This place'll be a doddle after all that." He inched his hand further up until it found skin: a surprisingly warm arm. "I'm glad you're 'ere, Dung."
But Mundungus removed Stan's hand from his bicep. "It's Stretch in this place. That's what they call me."
"Wossat? A nickname, like?" Stan didn't dare put his hand back on Mundungus, but he clutched at the frame of the top bunk instead.
"S'right."
Stan waited, but it seemed like Mundungus was done talking for the moment.
"Don'choo wanna--" Stan curled and uncurled his fingers on the tubular metal and wondered what the right words were. "I don' mind, Dung, I liked what we--you know. In Azkaban. So if you want me to suck yer--"
"No!" Mundungus said, too loudly for the small cell.
They both held their breath, but there was no sound of footsteps, no bang on the door.
"This ain't Azkaban, things ain't so bad 'ere. So get to bed, you nogtail. In your own bunk."
Dung's face looked strained in the patch of dim light, or maybe he was angry. Stan couldn't tell in the dark. He'd never been much cop at reading people either. His mum had reckoned that had always been his biggest problem, but Stan generally thought being labelled a Death Eater and being a long-term victim of the Imperius Curse had given him more to worry about.
Tonight though, he thought she might have been right.
His bunk was cold, badly made up, even darker without the glow of Dung's pipe, and horribly uncomfortable even after he pulled the sheets and blanket off in despair and piled them up on top of him. That was the only reason he was awake when Mundungus spoke up a few hours later.
"Y'liked it?" It was barely a whisper, but there wasn't a sound competing for Stan's attention at that hour.
Stan thought about answering, but Dung had said he rabbited too much, hadn't he? It cost him another stubbed toe and a sharp elbow in his ribs as they manoeuvred into a workable position, but it was worth it when he had Dung's thighs under his palms and his cock in his mouth.
"Oh, bleeding 'ell, kid, your mouth--"
"Oi!" Stan had to say. "M'not a kid!" But Mundungus wriggled and bucked about until Stan took him back in his mouth, and neither of them managed much in the way of coherent words after that.
Four - Don't let anyone find out your weakness.
Stan woke abruptly to the shock of hands trying to shove him over the side of the bunk.
"Dung!" he shouted, and just managed to grab hold before he landed arse first on the floor. "Wot the bleedin' 'ell are you doin'?"
"Lie down," Mundungus hissed, and Stan threw himself under the tangled pile of blankets on his bunk just in time as the door swung open.
"This is your six o'clock alarm call, gents," a deep but amiable voice said, and Stan peered out from under his blankets at a very shiny pair of shoes. The shoes turned smartly and disappeared, carrying the voice further down the block to the next cell, where it rumbled faintly through the wall, presumably delivering the same message to their neighbours.
"Grub up in ten," Mundungus said, tugging his trousers on. "Don't 'ang about." He splashed cold water over his face, grabbed a shirt from the end of his bed, and legged it.
When Stan reached the dining hall there was a long queue, but Mundungus was happily munching away on a pile of bacon and runny eggs. He was mopping up the last greasy smears with some soggy fried bread and ketchup when Stan slipped into the seat opposite him between a burly man with a shaved head and a mousey bloke with freckles and a disconcerting twitch.
"This must be the missus," Twitch said, and sniggered into his mug of tea. Down the table, several others joined in.
"Sounded like some weddin' night," a scruffy man with a long nose tossed in. "They could 'ear you in D block, Stretch!"
"Shut it, Larkin," Mundungus said, and reached over to pull Stan's breakfast tray towards him. Stan was left with his fork poised to spear a sausage and nothing to aim for as he watched Dung scrape a fried egg and both slices of bacon off onto his own plate.
"Wotchoo doin'--" Stan started, but Mundungus kicked him under the table. Stan froze when the burly man's hand came down on his shoulder a second later.
"Need me to teach him a lesson, Stretch?" the man asked, and Stan winced in the strong grip. He was quite sure he wouldn't like any lesson this bloke was willing to teach him.
"Nah, 'e's just green." Mundungus tucked into his second breakfast with one hand and shoved Stan's half-empty plate back to the other side of the table. "But shaping up nicely." He winked, and half the table roared with laughter. The half with the fullest plates, Stan couldn't help noticing as he picked at the remains of his meal.
"Sorry 'bout that," Mundungus said gruffly, as soon as they were alone. Or at least, out of earshot in a far corner of the yard from where the top dogs seemed to be kicking some minions into touch, largely ignored by the officers on duty.
Stan sniffed, but he didn't look at Mundungus, just hunched his shoulders and stared through the fence to where civilisation was a tiny scatter of pylons and tower blocks beyond miles of green and yellow fields.
"Can't let them see we're friends, kiddo, y'know?" Mundungus nudged him. "I've got twice your time left to do, an' I need some respect. 'Long as they think I'm just taking advantage, everyone's 'appy. The screws think you're being punished, the scum think I'm one of them, and they all think we know our places. Long as we don't get caught in the same bunk in the morning, it's all fine."
Stan wanted to stay narked at Dung, he really did. But he had to admit it made a certain sort of sense. At least as far as anything with Muggles made sense.
"'M gonna get 'ungry if you keep on like that," was all he said in the end. "'An' I was lookin' forward to that bacon."
Mundungus shuffled his feet. "Tomorrow I'll nick a sausage instead, all right?"
Stan supposed it would have to be.
Five - Take the occasional night off.
"What you in 'ere for anyway?" Mundungus asked after lockup, when they were crammed side by side in the top bunk and Stan's hands were fumbling for tissues to clean them both up. Dung just ignored it when Stan tried to pass him one, and gave his palm an experimental lick.
"You said never to ask anyone that," Stan said, eyes widening as Dung kept on licking.
"Yeah, well." Mundungus squinted at his hand, and apparently satisfied, dried it on the tissue at last. "Don't tell anyone else." He shrugged. "This ain't exactly a normal situation."
"Oh." Stan supposed it didn't matter.
"And--" Dung paused, and Stan heard the warning click a split second before they were plunged into darkness. Clunk. "One of the others said--" Stan felt his arm move, and there was the coarse sound of Dung scratching at his whiskers. "They said you was in a loony bin."
"Secure 'ospital," Stan said with a sigh, and lay back on Dung's pillow. In a rare display of sensitivity, the old bugger kept his mouth shut, and Stan was grateful. "They said I was dangerously deluded, 'cos of how I drove a bus down a pavement and knocked down two lampposts and a traffic flight--"
"Traffic light," Mundungus corrected, but Stan could feel him relax next to him.
"'S'wot I said," Stan muttered, and Dung didn't argue. "Then some doctor woman said I was fakin' it to get out of doin' time, and she weren't goin' to let me get away wiv mindless vandalism and 'ooliganism." He sighed. "Give me two years, they did."
"Even your nuttiest Muggles don't expect lampposts to get out of their way," Mundungus chuckled.
"'S'pose not." Stan could feel himself starting to relax into sleep already, and it was barely nine o'clock. There was a rumble from underneath the sheet draped over him.
Mundungus coughed. "Still 'ungry?" he asked, as if he didn't know the answer, the cheeky old sod.
"Wot'choo fink?" Stan said, in a tone that would have got him a slap if Ma Shunpike had heard him.
There was a hmmm from Mundungus. "If you could 'ave anything, what would you 'ave?"
"To eat?"
"Yes, to eat, you dozy article."
It seemed more than pointless to Stan; cruel it was, making him think about food he couldn't have. Once the question was out there it was impossible not to think about it, though.
"Fish an' chips," he said, aware that his voice sounded daft and dreamy. He'd taken the piss out of his cousin Alfie for talking like that about the witch down at the new Apothecary on the High Street (well, behind the High Street, anyway) only a few weeks ago.
"Just fish and chips?" Mundungus snorted. "You're easy pleased."
"Not just fish an' chips," Stan said. He closed his eyes, and it was almost as if he could smell the salt and vinegar and feel the steam rising from the hot chips into his face. "Fish an' chips from the 'Appy 'Addock on Bulmer Street, just round the corner from me ma's house." He sighed. "Best fish an' chips in London, I tell you."
"We could go," Mundungus said, and he sounded so matter of fact about it that Stan almost said yes before he worked out what was wrong with that idea.
"You're daft, you are," he said, and turned over to burrow his cheek into the pillow.
"No, really," Mundungus said, curling in against Stan's back. He felt nice and solid there. Warm. "'S'what, half nine on a sat'day night? They'll be open for hours yet. We could get our kit back on, shoot over there and get what, 'addock, was it?"
"'Addock's just the name," Stan said. "Double cod an' chips, that'd see us right."
"Double cod an' chips, then," Mundungus continued, as if he hadn't a doubt in the world they could do it. "We could walk down the street eating it out the paper, look out for pretty girls--"
"You like girls?" Stan asked, vaguely surprised.
"I like whatever I can get," Mundungus said irritably. "Same as you, you great gargoyle. But if you wanna 'old 'ands instead--"
"Lookin' at girls is fine," Stan interrupted, while he still had a fighting chance of getting some breakfast left for him tomorrow.
"'Course it is. My idea, wannit?" Mundungus sounded less annoyed now, at least. "So we could do that."
"'Kay," Stan said, still not sure where this was going.
"But on the uvver 'and, it is pissing it down out there," Mundungus said after a moment where Stan at least, was contemplating the joys of good old fish and chips, not to mention a full stomach.
"And it's brass monkeys," Stan added, as sadly as if the meal was only now slipping out of his reach, and hadn't been impossible all along. "Been rotten all day."
"Better to be 'ere, where it's warm and dry," Mundungus said, and Stan wondered how often Dung hadn't had anywhere like that to go, especially at this time of year. Winters could be harsh even for wizards, and what was it he had said about free board and lodging?
Thinking about that gave him a pang that had nothing to do with his too-empty belly. He wriggled back closer into Dung's warmth, and yawned.
"Maybe anuvver time, then," he said. "'Could go when the weavver's better. Togevver."
He thought Dung said something after that, but when he woke a few hours with the unmistakable aroma of real salt and vinegar under his nose, he was too distracted to give mere words much thought.
Six - Know your Squibs from your Muggles.
The cell still stank of fish and chips when they awoke the next morning, and there was the evidence too, of the newspaper wrapping and the state of Dung's wet coat and hair.
"You shoulda used a charm!" Stan whispered desperately, trying to open the window more than the tiny crack they were allowed. "Since you've, you know, got a bloody wand!"
"Stop your whinging," Mundungus grumbled "Went all the way t'that blasted chippy for you, and what thanks do I get? Whinging, that's what."
"You coulda told me!" Stan wasn't really all that mad, but he had to protest at being kept in the dark, or who knew what Dung would try to get away with next. He'd always known he was a slippery bastard, but this was still a shock.
"I 'ave told you. You've only been 'ere five minutes, what am I gonna do? Drop all me secrets as soon as you walk in?"
"Dropped yer drawers quick enuff," Stan mumbled, and tried to waft the smell away frantically.
"I only go out when old Tricksy's on duty," Mundungus said, giving Stan a shove. "'E won't grass us up, not if he wants the next instalment of 'is Kwikspell course." He waved a bound sheaf of papers at Stan before shoving it back into one of his coat's mysterious inside pockets.
Stan couldn't make any sense of that at all. "Muggles can learn magic from those things?" he said, honestly shocked. His ma had tried to get him to do some of the lessons when he was behind in Transfiguration at school, but he'd never been able to get any of the exercises or wand movements to produce results. But then, he'd never made much sense of his classes either.
Mundungus snorted. "'E's a squib, o'course," he said. "But wizards couldn't learn magic from them things. Made up by some geezer in Epping, they are. I'm 'is thingy. Consultant on magic and stuff."
Stan's jaw dropped. "Kwikspell is a con?" he said.
"It's a business," Dung corrected him. "And a bloody good one too. I wish I was getting more out of it, but maybe that's something you an' me could work on for when we get out of 'ere, yeah?"
"What, like an advanced course or sumfink?" Stan didn't think there would be much call for that if everyone was still struggling with the basic one.
"Maybe more of a competitor," Mundungus mused. "We're wizards, ain't we? We've gotta be able to do better than some Muggle, however sharp 'e is. And I'm the one with the contacts." He nudged Stan with his elbow. "'Ow's your wandwork?"
That almost sounded, well, legit. But this was Mundungus Fletcher, so that couldn't be right. Stan was so puzzled that he stuttered over an answer until he realised that Dung had winked at him. He could feel himself blush, as much because he'd missed the innuendo as because of the implication itself.
Dung slapped him on the back. "I think it'll do," he chuckled. "I think it'll do nicely."
Seven - Take advantage of any opportunities prison gives you, whether official or not.
If Stan had known this was the type of wandwork Dung had had in mind to start with, he'd have been much less keen to get started. It was nice to have his own wand again, though, even if it was knocked off (it was best not to ask with Dung) and had a fondness for producing bunches of lavender without warning. Dung's coat had never smelt so fragrant, though it mostly reminded Stan of his Great Aunt Freda. He should probably never mention that to Dung.
"Come on, give it a bit of welly," Mundungus shouted, and Stan looked over at the rest of the prisoners nervously. Tricksy (more properly known as Office Turtrick) seemed to be keeping everyone properly distracted for them, however, with an impromptu game of something.
So far Stan had managed to Apparate a whole six inches, which was more than he'd managed to do when he took (and failed) his official test. Even if he managed one side of the small yard to the other, which was maybe just possible while Tricksy was helping, he was more than a little scared at the thought of joining Dung at Apparating all over London. Or even to London, seeing as they were god knows how many miles away here.
He wished Dung hadn't completely vetoed the idea of Side-Along Apparition, but apparently this was something he'd had an unhappy experience with, and wouldn't even consider trying again.
It would be worth it if he could learn to Apparate out of here with Dung, though. Dung managed to get out at least twice a week with Tricksy's duty rota making sure he was covered in case of surprise cell checks or incriminating evidence of his trips out that needed to be disposed of.
Like the empty fish and chip wrappers.
And Stan sort of owed Dung for going all that way in the rain and cold for him, didn't he?
He screwed up his eyes and thought about the far side of the yard. There was a goal for some game they called 'footie' marked on the ground in white paint, and someone had painted a smiley face in one corner, probably when they were doing the gutters on the roof behind the bins as it was the same shade of not-quite-red brown.
He felt as if his whole body went pop, and then he was being jostled by a crowd of angry men in vests and shorts.
"Out of the bloody way, you pillock, I'm tryin' to score!" one of them shouted, but Stan was too dazed with success to see anything but Dung's wave and grin from the other side of the yard.
Eight - You will break rules. Everyone does. Try not to get caught.
"You could come wiv me tomorrow night," Mundungus said when they were getting ready for bed. "It's just a quick trade with an old Muggle mate, not a proper job. Urgent though, and this one will pay enough to set us up when we get out of 'ere. Maybe get our own version of the Kwikspell scam going too."
"So it's risky? Wot if you get nicked?"
Mundungus shrugged. "That's the best thing about being in 'ere. Perfect alibi."
Stan couldn't help grinning. "So whatever goes on, you wasn't involved."
"Exactly." Mundungus scratched at his sparse beard. "And if it weren't possible for me to be there, then it stands to reason that I din't do it," he finished triumphantly.
Stan wanted to go, he really did. He'd spent too much time already sat in this cell wondering what Dung was up to half the night when he went out alone, and he'd learned so much from Dung, stuff that would let him be a real 'business' partner with him when they got out. Whenever that was.
"No good to you if I get splinched," he said miserably. "An' I've never tried to go that far, an' I don't know where we're going, an'--"
"Oh, you know this place." Mundungus grinned and rummaged around in his overcoat, pulling out both wands, half a pepperoni pizza covered in fluff, and finally, a crumpled piece of paper.
Right on cue, the lights went out.
"Where?" Stan asked, intrigued. He knew most of the regular stops on the Knight Bus, of course, and the area he grew up in, but not much more. And Dung wouldn't know about most of them.
"Sure you can find a way to worm it out of me before tomorrow," Mundungus said, and laughed when Stan pushed him flat on his back onto the bottom bunk.
"You should get up top," Stan said when the light pouring through the uncovered window made him blink awake. If Tricksy was on tonight when Dung - and maybe himself - were off out, then that meant...
"Nah, Tricksy's on both early and lates," Mundungus said, and Stan didn't object when Dung rolled him over and pressed wet fingers inside him, getting him ready. "Swapped shifts with-- Burden, I think. Now 'e's a real bastard, that one. 'E's got extra time slapped on folk for looking at 'im funny, 'e 'as." He breathed hot and wet against Stan's neck as he shifted into place, and Stan wondered what it would be like to do this in a wide, comfortable bed, one where they could take their time and not worry about being interrupted.
Silly idea. It wasn't like that would ever happen. Dung was a wanderer, not the type to settle down with a comfy bed, and have a home where he could be found by anyone who cared to look for him.
"Come wiv me tonight, Stan," Mundungus murmured "I've got somefing to show you." And whether it was the fact that Dung had actually used his name, or the feeling of Dung's cock replacing his fingers, squeezing the breath from Stan's lungs and the sense from his head, he didn't know, but Stan thought he just might be able to try it.
He was opening his mouth to say so when the door was flung open and there was Officer Burden ordering Dung to get dressed for a trip to solitary for 'abusing this innocent young boy!' and 'you should be horsewhipped, you old pervert!' and Stan could do little more than gape as Dung mouthed 'coat!' and 'go!' at him until he disappeared down the corridor, protesting all the way.
Nine - Have something to look forward to when you get out.
It took Stan almost until lights out to screw up his courage, but he managed to retrieve the piece of paper from the depths of Dung's coat in time to take in the scribbled address just before the click clunk signalled the lights going out.
It wasn't what he'd expected to see. Not that he'd been expecting something in particular, more like… anything but this.
Bulmer Street. There it had been, clear as day. Or night. Even a night in Essex in the middle of bloody winter.
Had Dung picked that as the meeting place just so Stan could picture it well enough to Apparate there safely, then? Anywhere he knew would have done just as well. There had to be some reason, because it would have been a strange coincidence that his deal just happened to be going down on the street they'd been talking about only a couple of weeks before.
He conjured up Bulmer Street in his mind's eye, keeping a tight grip on his wand and hoping it didn't get a sudden urge to present him with flowers when he was in mid-flight. He could taste the fish and chips he'd had a few times recently (that crafty old sod!) and almost feel under his feet the uneven flagstones that gave way to cobbles around the sad little trees that lined the road.
And then, miraculously, the wind was on his face and the stink of petrol fumes and bad drains filling his nostrils, and above it all, the delicious aroma wafting out from the door of the Happy Haddock. Stan laughed out loud and flung his arms in the air, whooping for joy, while passers-by gave him a wide berth.
Except for one.
"Where's Dung?" The man had a scarf wrapped round his face, and probably not just because of the cold January night. He was eyeing the coat that was too short and broad for Stan, and of course, that was why Dung had mouthed 'coat' at him. "He comin' or what?"
Stan was going to apologise, but it occurred to him that he didn't need to do that here. He was representing Dung, and he was doing important business, and he could prove he was up to the job.
"You'll be dealing wiv me this evenin'," he said, drawing himself up to his full lanky height. "I have Mr Fletcher's full confidence, an'-"
"All right, all right," the man grumbled. "Lead the way. It's bloody freezin' out here." He nodded towards… towards the Happy Haddock.
"Wot?" Was Stan expected to feed the man as well as do business? What did Dung usually do?
The man rolled his eyes. "Inside, you pillock. Dung's place. You did bring the key, didn't you?"
Since when did Dung have a 'place'? Stan felt around in the pockets of his coat, and sure enough, there was a small ring with a couple of keys on it. Somehow, with the key in his hand, it was easy to spot the plain door next to the bright windows and wide open entrance of the chip shop, and when he tried the key, the door opened.
The stairs were steep, and there wasn't much light in the hallway, but it was neatly swept despite the piles of boxes stacked everywhere. Upstairs the streetlights shone through a grimy window, illuminating a large mattress, a table with two rickety-looking chairs, and a parcel.
"Looks like that's it," the man nodded towards the parcel, and counted out a large wad of bills. He gave the package a squeeze, pulled his scarf even more tightly around his face, and left, apparently satisfied.
Stan sat down. He always thought better sitting down. The chairs were as rickety as they looked, all right. But still… Dung had a place. A place with a large - at least double, he thought - mattress, even if it was on the floor. It had a table for two, Stan's favourite chippy downstairs, and it was round the corner from the house where Stan grew up, and most of his family still lived. They weren't the adventurous type, really, none of them.
Stan had never been much for adventure either. Not like Dung.
But if Stan didn't know better, he'd think Dung was trying to make some sort of home. Settle down. What with this place, and his plans for the new Kwikspell that were sounding less like a scam every time he mentioned them.
They could do a lot with this place, and with the scheme, if they could get here more than once or twice a week. But Tricksy wasn't on the right shifts any more than that, so there wasn't much they could do about it.
Or maybe there was.
Ten - Escape isn't usually worth the risk. But sometimes, you just have to take a chance.
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Author: ???
Title: The Chelmsford List
Rating: R
Pairing: Stan Shunpike/Mundungus Fletcher
Word Count: 5860
Warnings/Content Information:Just dodgy wizards with dodgy accents and even dodgier grammar.
Summary: Baffling Prison Escape + Wizards = Not Really All That Baffling. That's why this isn't an escape story. But it does involve wizards and prisons.
Author's Notes: Short version: A criminal character called Fletcher? I'm on to you, JKR.
Loosely inspired by Porridge, in particular (see Rule Five) the above classic episode from 1974, A Night In. If you're not familiar with it, beware of authentic 70's British humour if following the link. You don't need to watch or know the series at all to read the story, I just needed to credit it for the inspiration. The depiction of prison life owes a lot more to it than to modern reality too, as I think it's a better fit with the HP world. Finally, Porridge was at least once filmed on location at Chelmsford Prison, and yes, I had to share that even though this is getting very long indeed :D
Thank you to my lovely beta S, for helping me go over (and over!) the dialogue until we were both happy with it. <3
eeyore9990, you said 'anything', and I'm afraid I took you at your word. Um. Sorry? I hope you find something to your taste in it, but if not I can try something else!
This list of ten 'steps for surviving prison' has become the subject of intense media and internet speculation since it was discovered in an empty cell at Chelmsford Prison in Essex five years ago. The author, Sandy Turnpike, who vanished that night along with his cellmate, is believed to have several aliases, as no record of his life beyond his time served at that prison has ever been found. It is notable for the first recorded use of the term 'squib', which is in widespread use among prisoners these days to describe a guard who can be convinced to aid prisoners, usually in return for favours or bribery. Similarly, a 'muggle' in prison slang is an officer not susceptible to bribery.
Edited to add: The Metropolitan Police announced that the escapees are now believed to have left the country. The file remains open, but unless they return and give themselves up, we are unlikely ever to know the whole story.
- Excerpt from the website 'Baffling Prison Escapes'
One - Find someone to watch your back.
"You're a lucky lad, Turnpike," Officer Burden said, shutting the first gate behind them with a clang.
Stan didn't bother to correct the officer's mistake; nobody ever listened. He was entered into official records from Cardiff to Dover as anything from Stunbright to Van Dyke, and was beginning to wonder if all Muggles were hard of hearing. He was distracted in any case, because Officer Burden's face, which had seemed stern but not particularly malicious on first encounter, had twisted into a knowing leer. "Requested specially, you were."
"Specially?" Stan stumbled over his own feet in surprise, forgetting to look where he was going. "'Choo mean, specially?" He ducked through the next doorway too quickly to make up for his slip, and the pile of sheets and blankets he was carrying tumbled to the floor.
"What d'ye think it means when some old lag wants to share a cell with you, lad?" Officer Burden smiled while Stan scrabbled around to collect his belongings once more, and somehow it was worse than the leer. "I wouldn'a thought Stretch was the type, but prison does things to a man after a while."
Stan gulped. He wished he'd been able to get hold of a replacement wand, but ever since the accident it had been one Muggle institution after another, and not so much as a glimpse of a witch or wizard in any of them that might have been able to help him out. Well, he'd had his suspicions about Dickens back in the secure hospital, but he hadn't done much but recite what sounded like recipes for potions, and Stan couldn't even swear they were the real deal. He never had got the hang of potions.
"Not that he gets to be picky," Burden continued, "but the Warden's of the opinion sharing with a career criminal like Stretch might help show you the error of your ways. Consider this fair warning, y'hear me?"
He stopped in front of a door, all metal with a tiny grille and a sliding panel, and pulled it open. "In you go. Lights out soon, and keep the noise down. I'm on duty 'til four and you lot have already given me a right headache."
"Yessir," Stan mumbled, and stepped into the cell. The door had barely swung shut when rough hands grabbed him and pushed him up against the wall, and Stan screwed up his eyes tightly as harsh, sour breath and scratchy whiskers invaded his personal space. Whiskers with a faint but familiar smell of strong pipe tobacco clinging to them, and... it couldn't be, could it?
"What the bleeding 'ell are you doing 'ere, you gormless little berk?" Yes, the voice was familiar too, and even if it did sound like the owner was going to kill him, Stan thought he might burst with relief.
"Dung?" he said, and he could feel a smile stretching across his face for the first time in weeks. And scratchy whiskers or not, the minute the grip on his shoulders loosened, Stan threw his arms around the dishevelled figure of Mundungus Fletcher and held on to him for dear life.
Two - Learn how to work the system. There's lots of useful advice to be had from the old hands.
"Gerroff, gerroff." Mundungus swatted at Stan until he let go, but Stan knew he didn't mean anything by it. Just Dung's way, that was. Same as the way he blew a lungful of foul smoke in Stan's direction as soon as he retrieved his pipe.
"They letchoo smoke in 'ere?" Stan asked. He'd seen loads of No Smoking signs on his way in, nearly as many as locked gates, but maybe that was just for public areas. Was there a charm on the cells to-- no, 'course there wasn't. Muggles didn't have charms. Maybe they had something that worked the same way?
Mundungus snorted loudly. He climbed stiffly up to the top bunk and took a long drag on his pipe before he answered. "Don't know nothing about it, do they?" he sniffed, wriggling his toes. Stan could see they were worn through at the heels and big toes despite some clumsy darning in mismatched colours. "'Time they get a whiff, it's safely put away again, and they ain't found it on me yet." He patted his old overcoat and winked at Stan. "They gotta let me keep me coat for going outside in the yard for me constitutional, me being sick and all." He gave an affected cough.
"You're an old rascal, you are," Stan said affectionately, and flicked Dung's toe. He'd seen Dung hide more than a pipe inside that coat, and not a soul could ever find out how he did it.
"I'm just a businessman what 'as been wrongfully imprisoned, that's what I h'am," Mundungus replied with as much dignity as you could have with holes in your socks. "I never touched those h'alleged crates, and there 'as been a terrible miscarriage of justice, being as what I am h'an innocent man."
"That right, Dung?" Stan was doubtful, but he supposed even a dodgy bloke like Dung could be nicked for a job he didn't do now and again.
Mundungus's mournful face vanished in a split second, replaced with a sly sort of glee. "'Course not, you daft bugger." He folded his coat up and shoved it under the thin pillow before swinging his legs up onto the bunk. "You 'ave to talk like that for them Muggle judges, they like a bit of a challenge. Ask 'em to lock a bloke up and they'd send you packing, proper funny they are."
"Like anyone'd do that," Stan scoffed. "You'd 'ave to be madder'n a banshee inna bucket!"
Mundungus just shrugged. "Free board and lodging," he said. "Comes in 'andy sometimes."
Stan supposed that made a certain amount of sense, but there was something odd about the glance Mundungus sent him. Before he could wonder about that there was a click and a clunk, and the room went dark.
Three - The nights are the worst part. Find a way to get through them.
"I shoulda put me stuff away while there was some light," Stan said after the third time he stubbed his toe. There seemed to be twice as much furniture in the room when it was dark, though he had no idea how that was possible.
"Too busy rabbiting as usual," Mundungus said, but there was no real censure in it despite his gruff voice. "You ain't changed a bit."
There was a moment of silence, or as near to it as they were likely to get. A shout in the distance; the clang of yet another security door; the trill of some alarm or maybe one of those fellytone things. Stan still wasn't sure exactly what those sounded like; he'd never been much good at Muggle Studies. Shame, really. It would have come in handy.
"I 'ave, Dung." Stan tried to stop his voice from trembling, but he was all too aware that he failed. "You don't know what I've-- I din't fink there was nuffink worse than Azkaban, Dung. But there is."
"Bad times," Mundungus said after a moment. "Bad times for ev'ryone. But you came through 'em."
"Yeah." Stan reached out a hand to the top bunk and found rough blankets. "This place'll be a doddle after all that." He inched his hand further up until it found skin: a surprisingly warm arm. "I'm glad you're 'ere, Dung."
But Mundungus removed Stan's hand from his bicep. "It's Stretch in this place. That's what they call me."
"Wossat? A nickname, like?" Stan didn't dare put his hand back on Mundungus, but he clutched at the frame of the top bunk instead.
"S'right."
Stan waited, but it seemed like Mundungus was done talking for the moment.
"Don'choo wanna--" Stan curled and uncurled his fingers on the tubular metal and wondered what the right words were. "I don' mind, Dung, I liked what we--you know. In Azkaban. So if you want me to suck yer--"
"No!" Mundungus said, too loudly for the small cell.
They both held their breath, but there was no sound of footsteps, no bang on the door.
"This ain't Azkaban, things ain't so bad 'ere. So get to bed, you nogtail. In your own bunk."
Dung's face looked strained in the patch of dim light, or maybe he was angry. Stan couldn't tell in the dark. He'd never been much cop at reading people either. His mum had reckoned that had always been his biggest problem, but Stan generally thought being labelled a Death Eater and being a long-term victim of the Imperius Curse had given him more to worry about.
Tonight though, he thought she might have been right.
His bunk was cold, badly made up, even darker without the glow of Dung's pipe, and horribly uncomfortable even after he pulled the sheets and blanket off in despair and piled them up on top of him. That was the only reason he was awake when Mundungus spoke up a few hours later.
"Y'liked it?" It was barely a whisper, but there wasn't a sound competing for Stan's attention at that hour.
Stan thought about answering, but Dung had said he rabbited too much, hadn't he? It cost him another stubbed toe and a sharp elbow in his ribs as they manoeuvred into a workable position, but it was worth it when he had Dung's thighs under his palms and his cock in his mouth.
"Oh, bleeding 'ell, kid, your mouth--"
"Oi!" Stan had to say. "M'not a kid!" But Mundungus wriggled and bucked about until Stan took him back in his mouth, and neither of them managed much in the way of coherent words after that.
Four - Don't let anyone find out your weakness.
Stan woke abruptly to the shock of hands trying to shove him over the side of the bunk.
"Dung!" he shouted, and just managed to grab hold before he landed arse first on the floor. "Wot the bleedin' 'ell are you doin'?"
"Lie down," Mundungus hissed, and Stan threw himself under the tangled pile of blankets on his bunk just in time as the door swung open.
"This is your six o'clock alarm call, gents," a deep but amiable voice said, and Stan peered out from under his blankets at a very shiny pair of shoes. The shoes turned smartly and disappeared, carrying the voice further down the block to the next cell, where it rumbled faintly through the wall, presumably delivering the same message to their neighbours.
"Grub up in ten," Mundungus said, tugging his trousers on. "Don't 'ang about." He splashed cold water over his face, grabbed a shirt from the end of his bed, and legged it.
When Stan reached the dining hall there was a long queue, but Mundungus was happily munching away on a pile of bacon and runny eggs. He was mopping up the last greasy smears with some soggy fried bread and ketchup when Stan slipped into the seat opposite him between a burly man with a shaved head and a mousey bloke with freckles and a disconcerting twitch.
"This must be the missus," Twitch said, and sniggered into his mug of tea. Down the table, several others joined in.
"Sounded like some weddin' night," a scruffy man with a long nose tossed in. "They could 'ear you in D block, Stretch!"
"Shut it, Larkin," Mundungus said, and reached over to pull Stan's breakfast tray towards him. Stan was left with his fork poised to spear a sausage and nothing to aim for as he watched Dung scrape a fried egg and both slices of bacon off onto his own plate.
"Wotchoo doin'--" Stan started, but Mundungus kicked him under the table. Stan froze when the burly man's hand came down on his shoulder a second later.
"Need me to teach him a lesson, Stretch?" the man asked, and Stan winced in the strong grip. He was quite sure he wouldn't like any lesson this bloke was willing to teach him.
"Nah, 'e's just green." Mundungus tucked into his second breakfast with one hand and shoved Stan's half-empty plate back to the other side of the table. "But shaping up nicely." He winked, and half the table roared with laughter. The half with the fullest plates, Stan couldn't help noticing as he picked at the remains of his meal.
"Sorry 'bout that," Mundungus said gruffly, as soon as they were alone. Or at least, out of earshot in a far corner of the yard from where the top dogs seemed to be kicking some minions into touch, largely ignored by the officers on duty.
Stan sniffed, but he didn't look at Mundungus, just hunched his shoulders and stared through the fence to where civilisation was a tiny scatter of pylons and tower blocks beyond miles of green and yellow fields.
"Can't let them see we're friends, kiddo, y'know?" Mundungus nudged him. "I've got twice your time left to do, an' I need some respect. 'Long as they think I'm just taking advantage, everyone's 'appy. The screws think you're being punished, the scum think I'm one of them, and they all think we know our places. Long as we don't get caught in the same bunk in the morning, it's all fine."
Stan wanted to stay narked at Dung, he really did. But he had to admit it made a certain sort of sense. At least as far as anything with Muggles made sense.
"'M gonna get 'ungry if you keep on like that," was all he said in the end. "'An' I was lookin' forward to that bacon."
Mundungus shuffled his feet. "Tomorrow I'll nick a sausage instead, all right?"
Stan supposed it would have to be.
Five - Take the occasional night off.
"What you in 'ere for anyway?" Mundungus asked after lockup, when they were crammed side by side in the top bunk and Stan's hands were fumbling for tissues to clean them both up. Dung just ignored it when Stan tried to pass him one, and gave his palm an experimental lick.
"You said never to ask anyone that," Stan said, eyes widening as Dung kept on licking.
"Yeah, well." Mundungus squinted at his hand, and apparently satisfied, dried it on the tissue at last. "Don't tell anyone else." He shrugged. "This ain't exactly a normal situation."
"Oh." Stan supposed it didn't matter.
"And--" Dung paused, and Stan heard the warning click a split second before they were plunged into darkness. Clunk. "One of the others said--" Stan felt his arm move, and there was the coarse sound of Dung scratching at his whiskers. "They said you was in a loony bin."
"Secure 'ospital," Stan said with a sigh, and lay back on Dung's pillow. In a rare display of sensitivity, the old bugger kept his mouth shut, and Stan was grateful. "They said I was dangerously deluded, 'cos of how I drove a bus down a pavement and knocked down two lampposts and a traffic flight--"
"Traffic light," Mundungus corrected, but Stan could feel him relax next to him.
"'S'wot I said," Stan muttered, and Dung didn't argue. "Then some doctor woman said I was fakin' it to get out of doin' time, and she weren't goin' to let me get away wiv mindless vandalism and 'ooliganism." He sighed. "Give me two years, they did."
"Even your nuttiest Muggles don't expect lampposts to get out of their way," Mundungus chuckled.
"'S'pose not." Stan could feel himself starting to relax into sleep already, and it was barely nine o'clock. There was a rumble from underneath the sheet draped over him.
Mundungus coughed. "Still 'ungry?" he asked, as if he didn't know the answer, the cheeky old sod.
"Wot'choo fink?" Stan said, in a tone that would have got him a slap if Ma Shunpike had heard him.
There was a hmmm from Mundungus. "If you could 'ave anything, what would you 'ave?"
"To eat?"
"Yes, to eat, you dozy article."
It seemed more than pointless to Stan; cruel it was, making him think about food he couldn't have. Once the question was out there it was impossible not to think about it, though.
"Fish an' chips," he said, aware that his voice sounded daft and dreamy. He'd taken the piss out of his cousin Alfie for talking like that about the witch down at the new Apothecary on the High Street (well, behind the High Street, anyway) only a few weeks ago.
"Just fish and chips?" Mundungus snorted. "You're easy pleased."
"Not just fish an' chips," Stan said. He closed his eyes, and it was almost as if he could smell the salt and vinegar and feel the steam rising from the hot chips into his face. "Fish an' chips from the 'Appy 'Addock on Bulmer Street, just round the corner from me ma's house." He sighed. "Best fish an' chips in London, I tell you."
"We could go," Mundungus said, and he sounded so matter of fact about it that Stan almost said yes before he worked out what was wrong with that idea.
"You're daft, you are," he said, and turned over to burrow his cheek into the pillow.
"No, really," Mundungus said, curling in against Stan's back. He felt nice and solid there. Warm. "'S'what, half nine on a sat'day night? They'll be open for hours yet. We could get our kit back on, shoot over there and get what, 'addock, was it?"
"'Addock's just the name," Stan said. "Double cod an' chips, that'd see us right."
"Double cod an' chips, then," Mundungus continued, as if he hadn't a doubt in the world they could do it. "We could walk down the street eating it out the paper, look out for pretty girls--"
"You like girls?" Stan asked, vaguely surprised.
"I like whatever I can get," Mundungus said irritably. "Same as you, you great gargoyle. But if you wanna 'old 'ands instead--"
"Lookin' at girls is fine," Stan interrupted, while he still had a fighting chance of getting some breakfast left for him tomorrow.
"'Course it is. My idea, wannit?" Mundungus sounded less annoyed now, at least. "So we could do that."
"'Kay," Stan said, still not sure where this was going.
"But on the uvver 'and, it is pissing it down out there," Mundungus said after a moment where Stan at least, was contemplating the joys of good old fish and chips, not to mention a full stomach.
"And it's brass monkeys," Stan added, as sadly as if the meal was only now slipping out of his reach, and hadn't been impossible all along. "Been rotten all day."
"Better to be 'ere, where it's warm and dry," Mundungus said, and Stan wondered how often Dung hadn't had anywhere like that to go, especially at this time of year. Winters could be harsh even for wizards, and what was it he had said about free board and lodging?
Thinking about that gave him a pang that had nothing to do with his too-empty belly. He wriggled back closer into Dung's warmth, and yawned.
"Maybe anuvver time, then," he said. "'Could go when the weavver's better. Togevver."
He thought Dung said something after that, but when he woke a few hours with the unmistakable aroma of real salt and vinegar under his nose, he was too distracted to give mere words much thought.
Six - Know your Squibs from your Muggles.
The cell still stank of fish and chips when they awoke the next morning, and there was the evidence too, of the newspaper wrapping and the state of Dung's wet coat and hair.
"You shoulda used a charm!" Stan whispered desperately, trying to open the window more than the tiny crack they were allowed. "Since you've, you know, got a bloody wand!"
"Stop your whinging," Mundungus grumbled "Went all the way t'that blasted chippy for you, and what thanks do I get? Whinging, that's what."
"You coulda told me!" Stan wasn't really all that mad, but he had to protest at being kept in the dark, or who knew what Dung would try to get away with next. He'd always known he was a slippery bastard, but this was still a shock.
"I 'ave told you. You've only been 'ere five minutes, what am I gonna do? Drop all me secrets as soon as you walk in?"
"Dropped yer drawers quick enuff," Stan mumbled, and tried to waft the smell away frantically.
"I only go out when old Tricksy's on duty," Mundungus said, giving Stan a shove. "'E won't grass us up, not if he wants the next instalment of 'is Kwikspell course." He waved a bound sheaf of papers at Stan before shoving it back into one of his coat's mysterious inside pockets.
Stan couldn't make any sense of that at all. "Muggles can learn magic from those things?" he said, honestly shocked. His ma had tried to get him to do some of the lessons when he was behind in Transfiguration at school, but he'd never been able to get any of the exercises or wand movements to produce results. But then, he'd never made much sense of his classes either.
Mundungus snorted. "'E's a squib, o'course," he said. "But wizards couldn't learn magic from them things. Made up by some geezer in Epping, they are. I'm 'is thingy. Consultant on magic and stuff."
Stan's jaw dropped. "Kwikspell is a con?" he said.
"It's a business," Dung corrected him. "And a bloody good one too. I wish I was getting more out of it, but maybe that's something you an' me could work on for when we get out of 'ere, yeah?"
"What, like an advanced course or sumfink?" Stan didn't think there would be much call for that if everyone was still struggling with the basic one.
"Maybe more of a competitor," Mundungus mused. "We're wizards, ain't we? We've gotta be able to do better than some Muggle, however sharp 'e is. And I'm the one with the contacts." He nudged Stan with his elbow. "'Ow's your wandwork?"
That almost sounded, well, legit. But this was Mundungus Fletcher, so that couldn't be right. Stan was so puzzled that he stuttered over an answer until he realised that Dung had winked at him. He could feel himself blush, as much because he'd missed the innuendo as because of the implication itself.
Dung slapped him on the back. "I think it'll do," he chuckled. "I think it'll do nicely."
Seven - Take advantage of any opportunities prison gives you, whether official or not.
If Stan had known this was the type of wandwork Dung had had in mind to start with, he'd have been much less keen to get started. It was nice to have his own wand again, though, even if it was knocked off (it was best not to ask with Dung) and had a fondness for producing bunches of lavender without warning. Dung's coat had never smelt so fragrant, though it mostly reminded Stan of his Great Aunt Freda. He should probably never mention that to Dung.
"Come on, give it a bit of welly," Mundungus shouted, and Stan looked over at the rest of the prisoners nervously. Tricksy (more properly known as Office Turtrick) seemed to be keeping everyone properly distracted for them, however, with an impromptu game of something.
So far Stan had managed to Apparate a whole six inches, which was more than he'd managed to do when he took (and failed) his official test. Even if he managed one side of the small yard to the other, which was maybe just possible while Tricksy was helping, he was more than a little scared at the thought of joining Dung at Apparating all over London. Or even to London, seeing as they were god knows how many miles away here.
He wished Dung hadn't completely vetoed the idea of Side-Along Apparition, but apparently this was something he'd had an unhappy experience with, and wouldn't even consider trying again.
It would be worth it if he could learn to Apparate out of here with Dung, though. Dung managed to get out at least twice a week with Tricksy's duty rota making sure he was covered in case of surprise cell checks or incriminating evidence of his trips out that needed to be disposed of.
Like the empty fish and chip wrappers.
And Stan sort of owed Dung for going all that way in the rain and cold for him, didn't he?
He screwed up his eyes and thought about the far side of the yard. There was a goal for some game they called 'footie' marked on the ground in white paint, and someone had painted a smiley face in one corner, probably when they were doing the gutters on the roof behind the bins as it was the same shade of not-quite-red brown.
He felt as if his whole body went pop, and then he was being jostled by a crowd of angry men in vests and shorts.
"Out of the bloody way, you pillock, I'm tryin' to score!" one of them shouted, but Stan was too dazed with success to see anything but Dung's wave and grin from the other side of the yard.
Eight - You will break rules. Everyone does. Try not to get caught.
"You could come wiv me tomorrow night," Mundungus said when they were getting ready for bed. "It's just a quick trade with an old Muggle mate, not a proper job. Urgent though, and this one will pay enough to set us up when we get out of 'ere. Maybe get our own version of the Kwikspell scam going too."
"So it's risky? Wot if you get nicked?"
Mundungus shrugged. "That's the best thing about being in 'ere. Perfect alibi."
Stan couldn't help grinning. "So whatever goes on, you wasn't involved."
"Exactly." Mundungus scratched at his sparse beard. "And if it weren't possible for me to be there, then it stands to reason that I din't do it," he finished triumphantly.
Stan wanted to go, he really did. He'd spent too much time already sat in this cell wondering what Dung was up to half the night when he went out alone, and he'd learned so much from Dung, stuff that would let him be a real 'business' partner with him when they got out. Whenever that was.
"No good to you if I get splinched," he said miserably. "An' I've never tried to go that far, an' I don't know where we're going, an'--"
"Oh, you know this place." Mundungus grinned and rummaged around in his overcoat, pulling out both wands, half a pepperoni pizza covered in fluff, and finally, a crumpled piece of paper.
Right on cue, the lights went out.
"Where?" Stan asked, intrigued. He knew most of the regular stops on the Knight Bus, of course, and the area he grew up in, but not much more. And Dung wouldn't know about most of them.
"Sure you can find a way to worm it out of me before tomorrow," Mundungus said, and laughed when Stan pushed him flat on his back onto the bottom bunk.
"You should get up top," Stan said when the light pouring through the uncovered window made him blink awake. If Tricksy was on tonight when Dung - and maybe himself - were off out, then that meant...
"Nah, Tricksy's on both early and lates," Mundungus said, and Stan didn't object when Dung rolled him over and pressed wet fingers inside him, getting him ready. "Swapped shifts with-- Burden, I think. Now 'e's a real bastard, that one. 'E's got extra time slapped on folk for looking at 'im funny, 'e 'as." He breathed hot and wet against Stan's neck as he shifted into place, and Stan wondered what it would be like to do this in a wide, comfortable bed, one where they could take their time and not worry about being interrupted.
Silly idea. It wasn't like that would ever happen. Dung was a wanderer, not the type to settle down with a comfy bed, and have a home where he could be found by anyone who cared to look for him.
"Come wiv me tonight, Stan," Mundungus murmured "I've got somefing to show you." And whether it was the fact that Dung had actually used his name, or the feeling of Dung's cock replacing his fingers, squeezing the breath from Stan's lungs and the sense from his head, he didn't know, but Stan thought he just might be able to try it.
He was opening his mouth to say so when the door was flung open and there was Officer Burden ordering Dung to get dressed for a trip to solitary for 'abusing this innocent young boy!' and 'you should be horsewhipped, you old pervert!' and Stan could do little more than gape as Dung mouthed 'coat!' and 'go!' at him until he disappeared down the corridor, protesting all the way.
Nine - Have something to look forward to when you get out.
It took Stan almost until lights out to screw up his courage, but he managed to retrieve the piece of paper from the depths of Dung's coat in time to take in the scribbled address just before the click clunk signalled the lights going out.
It wasn't what he'd expected to see. Not that he'd been expecting something in particular, more like… anything but this.
Bulmer Street. There it had been, clear as day. Or night. Even a night in Essex in the middle of bloody winter.
Had Dung picked that as the meeting place just so Stan could picture it well enough to Apparate there safely, then? Anywhere he knew would have done just as well. There had to be some reason, because it would have been a strange coincidence that his deal just happened to be going down on the street they'd been talking about only a couple of weeks before.
He conjured up Bulmer Street in his mind's eye, keeping a tight grip on his wand and hoping it didn't get a sudden urge to present him with flowers when he was in mid-flight. He could taste the fish and chips he'd had a few times recently (that crafty old sod!) and almost feel under his feet the uneven flagstones that gave way to cobbles around the sad little trees that lined the road.
And then, miraculously, the wind was on his face and the stink of petrol fumes and bad drains filling his nostrils, and above it all, the delicious aroma wafting out from the door of the Happy Haddock. Stan laughed out loud and flung his arms in the air, whooping for joy, while passers-by gave him a wide berth.
Except for one.
"Where's Dung?" The man had a scarf wrapped round his face, and probably not just because of the cold January night. He was eyeing the coat that was too short and broad for Stan, and of course, that was why Dung had mouthed 'coat' at him. "He comin' or what?"
Stan was going to apologise, but it occurred to him that he didn't need to do that here. He was representing Dung, and he was doing important business, and he could prove he was up to the job.
"You'll be dealing wiv me this evenin'," he said, drawing himself up to his full lanky height. "I have Mr Fletcher's full confidence, an'-"
"All right, all right," the man grumbled. "Lead the way. It's bloody freezin' out here." He nodded towards… towards the Happy Haddock.
"Wot?" Was Stan expected to feed the man as well as do business? What did Dung usually do?
The man rolled his eyes. "Inside, you pillock. Dung's place. You did bring the key, didn't you?"
Since when did Dung have a 'place'? Stan felt around in the pockets of his coat, and sure enough, there was a small ring with a couple of keys on it. Somehow, with the key in his hand, it was easy to spot the plain door next to the bright windows and wide open entrance of the chip shop, and when he tried the key, the door opened.
The stairs were steep, and there wasn't much light in the hallway, but it was neatly swept despite the piles of boxes stacked everywhere. Upstairs the streetlights shone through a grimy window, illuminating a large mattress, a table with two rickety-looking chairs, and a parcel.
"Looks like that's it," the man nodded towards the parcel, and counted out a large wad of bills. He gave the package a squeeze, pulled his scarf even more tightly around his face, and left, apparently satisfied.
Stan sat down. He always thought better sitting down. The chairs were as rickety as they looked, all right. But still… Dung had a place. A place with a large - at least double, he thought - mattress, even if it was on the floor. It had a table for two, Stan's favourite chippy downstairs, and it was round the corner from the house where Stan grew up, and most of his family still lived. They weren't the adventurous type, really, none of them.
Stan had never been much for adventure either. Not like Dung.
But if Stan didn't know better, he'd think Dung was trying to make some sort of home. Settle down. What with this place, and his plans for the new Kwikspell that were sounding less like a scam every time he mentioned them.
They could do a lot with this place, and with the scheme, if they could get here more than once or twice a week. But Tricksy wasn't on the right shifts any more than that, so there wasn't much they could do about it.
Or maybe there was.
Ten - Escape isn't usually worth the risk. But sometimes, you just have to take a chance.
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