To begin with, the nights were the worst part. Most nights I barely slept. I just listened to the babble of thoughts inside my head.
And in those first few weeks, there were depressingly few visitors. Mac, inevitably, was the first to come and see me.
I can see him now, the big, open face, I can hear that smoked, whisky laugh.
“So, then, bollockbrain, how’s the tunnel coming along?”
“Yeh, no, fine, just waiting for a full moon.”
“Are they treating you OK?” he asks, taking in the bareness of the Visitors Room.
“Yeh, fine.”
“No funny business?”
“Funny business?”
“Yeh, y’know, in the—”
“Oh, no, no, nobody’s made me their bitch.”
He laughs. That’s a good sound.
“Too ugly, that’s why.” He laughs some more. A few of the other visitors glance our way. Mac lowers his voice. “Have you befriended any wee sparrows?”
“No, and I haven’t stabbed anyone through the eye with a spoon.”
After a few more jokey film references, Mac takes his voice down to a whisper.
“Can I ask you a question?”
“Yeh, sure.”
“What the fuck were you thinking of?”
I stare at the floor. He ducks down a little, to find my eye-line.
“I mean, I know the wee toe-rag approached you with the idea, but, in that case, why didn’t you just tell him to—”
“This is going to involve a broomstick, isn’t it?”
Mac looks at me, unamused. Suddenly he’s not up for jokes.
“Well? Why didn’t you?”
I slump forward and cradle my head in my hands. “If you’d been in my position, Mac, back then, if you’d felt that…hunted, that desperate, and you’d been presented with that…possibility, a way out, risky, but a way out…if you’d been presented with that dilemma…can you honestly say what you would have done?”
He goes quiet. Then he flaps a hand in the air. “Listen, pal, what I would have done is irrelevant because I’ve got appalling judgement. I’m touring Wales with an opera about the Tonypandy Massacre. The little weasel’s a celeb now. Keeps popping up on daytime crap, emoting.”
I laugh at the inevitability of this.
“He was on this morning, sitting next to Louie Spence. And I see your wee girlie, Jade, has gone back into that shite-fest of a show.”
“I heard, yeh. I thought Louise might explore that possibility.”
“You don’t watch the show in here, then?”
“I’ve never really watched it, to be honest.”
Mac shakes his head and chuckles. “You cynical bastard.”
“Hang on, how did they get round the fact that Melanie got eaten by a shark?”
“Oh, Jade’s not playing Melanie. No, no…she’s now her long-lost twin—”
“– sister, of course she is. They just went to the old ‘previously-unmentioned-twin-sister’ cupboard. That’s priceless.”
In the remaining minutes Mac and I start to go through the playlist of old favourites. But we only get as far as how the BBC is going down the toilet before the bell sounds to end visiting hours.
Friends. That’s all you’re left with in the end.
If you’re lucky.
They’re the gold standard.
You can always rely on friends. Although I wouldn’t rely on Mac for anything important, no, the man’s a nightmare, but I know we’ll always be bound by an invisible contract.
Unless we fall out.
The second person to come and visit me, a few days later, is Sandra. She looks worried, so I try to keep things light.
“Have you heard about Mac’s show?”
“An opera about the Tonypandy Massacre.”
“Yeh, well, you know Mac. If a show doesn’t have at least one massacre in it, he won’t do it.”
She fiddles with her hair. Has she lost weight? Or is it the lighting? Her face looks drawn.
“Is it very boring in here?”
“We make our own entertainment. Yesterday it was earwig-racing and synchronised buggery.”
“I’m being serious.”
“I’m fine, don’t worry…”
“Are you sure?”
“Yes…it’s fine. They all call me Lenny and treat me like minor royalty.”
She looks like she needs more reassurance.
“My cellmate’s a good laugh…complete lunatic, but a good laugh.”
She snorts, we giggle, but then the laughter dies away into a silence. I feel a stinging at the back of my eyes and my voice develops a quaver. “I’m glad Mum isn’t around to see me in here.”
“Your mum wouldn’t have blamed you, you could do no wrong in her eyes.”
“No, I know. ‘What’s that, son? You’ve murdered someone? Well, I expect he ran on to your knife.’”
She nods in recognition. “Yup.”
The silence returns for a while. I find myself thinking back, a long way back.
“My dad used to knock her about a bit…y’know…on the quiet.”
“Mine was the same.”
There’s lots more I would like to say to Sandra, but there are only a few minutes left. Maybe next time. She is smiling nervously at me.
“I’m getting married,” she says.
I am still trying to take in Sandra’s revelation as I do my best to down some lunch in the canteen. Dougie is sitting opposite me, having nearly cleared his plate.
“So, that was the missus, then?”
“Ex-missus.”
“Ah, right.”
His fork chases a pea around his plate.
“She’s got a lovely smile. My wife, Judy…she’s got a fantastic smile. It’s like the sun coming out. I’m powerless against it. Can never say ‘no’ to her, never managed it, not once.”
I try to picture Dougie as an acquiescent husband, but it’s not easy.
“Do you think everyone has a special someone, y’know, the one?”
Oh, no, he’s feeling sentimental.
“I’m not sure,” I reply.
“I am.”
“Well, you’re a romantic.”
“I am, Kevin. Always have been. The moment I clapped eyes on Judy I thought, ‘that’s her’. Never a moment’s doubt in my mind. So I pursued her. Romantically. It wasn’t easy, ’cos she was married to a policeman. Luckily, he got done for corruption.”
He spots a look on my face.
“Nothing to do with me,” he adds.
“How long have you been together?”
“Twenty-one years. Isn’t that amazing? I’ve spent ten of those years inside. The woman’s a saint. Love her to bits.”
I begin to wonder whether he is piling it on a bit thick, but then his eyes start to film with tears.
“Love’s an incredible thing, isn’t it?”
“I suppose so.”
“Do you know that song from My Fair Lady? Rex Harrison…”
With no warning, Dougie starts to sing in a voice that is surprisingly delicate and melodious.
“’…I’ve grown accustomed to her face.’”
Quite a few inmates look up from their lunches. Clearly, they have not heard him sing before.
“’…Like breathing out and breathing in.’” Dougie stops and lets out a sigh. “That is so on the money, isn’t it, eh? ‘Like breathing out and breathing in’, that’s exactly what love is like. Imagine being able to write something like that.”
Inwardly, I debate whether or not to tell Dougie how much I’ve always hated that song. But it’s a very short debate.
“So, what do you reckon? Has every one of us got a special someone out there?”
He watches me intensely, waiting for an answer. I start to shake my head.
“Life’s too chaotic for that, isn’t it?”
“Is it?”
“Well, mine is,” I shrug.
“So there’s been no one speci
al in your life? Up till now.”
“There’s someone who’s special, but whether she’s the one…that’s impossible to know, isn’t it? Unless you met all the women in the world.”
This idea makes Dougie chuckle.
“Well, there’s a project for you, Kevin, eh?”
As he saws at a sausage, his plastic knife snaps in half.
“I hate this fucking toy cutlery.”
That night, as I lay sleepless, in my bunk, I found myself picking away at Dougie’s view of love. How could anyone be destined for someone? That made no rational sense. And what about change? People are changing all the time, aren’t they, so you’re never really connecting with one person, are you? You’re linked to successive versions of that person, you are both waves interacting and interfering with each other, creating effects and turbulences. So a predestined lover would have to be fluid, not a permanent – or maybe fluid and permanent, like a river.
Though even rivers can disappear.
10
The Consultation
As my early months in prison dragged by, the only serious problem I had was insomnia. At first, the difficulty was simply getting my brain to clock off at the end of the day. It would ricochet from one half-formed thought to another, like some manic puppy. So I tried to expend more physical energy during the day to wear myself out. In my gym-time, I jogged as far and as fast as I could on the treadmill. In my yard-time, I ran till my legs ached. But none of that seemed to help. So I started on the crosswords and Sudoku and the video games and the online chess and the difficult books about obscure science and philosophy, but the simple act of dropping off remained elusive. With a dead libido, sexual fantasies were no longer a way of thinking less, so I would try boring my brain into submission. I would lie there trying to compose England cricket elevens whose surnames all began with F (not easy). Or a Welsh rugby side full of W’s. (Easier, because of all the players called Williams.)
These mental games proved surprisingly absorbing and the obsessive streak in me meant I had to keep going until I’d reached the pointless target that I’d set myself.
One night, at about 3 a.m., I wake Dougie with a triumphant shout of ‘Shearer!’
“What the f’!” he growls. “What did you say?”
“Shearer.”
“Shearer,” he repeats, with a deadness in his voice.
“I’m really very sorry. I’m, um…I can’t sleep, so…I’m trying to think of an England football team made up entirely of players whose names are…jobs.”
Dougie doesn’t respond, but his breathing is heavy.
“Y’know, like Butcher,” I continue. “Or Baker, or Cooper…I’ve got seven so far.”
Still silence, apart from the breathing.
“I’m sorry I woke you…it won’t happen again.”
“If it does, it’ll be the last time,” comes the response. Then I hear the rustle of blankets as he rolls over.
“Really sorry, Dougie…I don’t mean to disturb you.”
“Just ask them for some sleeping pills,” he mutters.
“Right,” I reply, quietly trying to work out if a Lineker is a kind of job.
The following morning I find myself sitting across from the prison doctor (Dr Harris? Harrison?), who also looks like he is starved of sleep.
“We’ve got a new baby,” he explains, hunting for his pen, which he eventually finds in his top pocket. “So, what’s the problem?”
“I’d like something to help me sleep, but I don’t want sleeping pills.”
“Well, I can’t make you sleep without sleeping pills, I’m a doctor not a bloody wizard. What have you got against sleeping pills? Half the prison takes them…I use them.”
He buries his face in his hands for a moment, as if he’s shutting the world out.
“Have you ever tried sleeping pills?” he asks.
“Yeah, but…” I hesitate. This is none of his business. “…once, during a difficult time. And I found it hard to come off them. Extremely hard.”
“What sort of difficult time?”
“I’d had a bereavement.” (That’s as much as you’re getting, pal.)
“Have you tried all the obvious things? Y’know, counting sheep…masturbating?” (I’m definitely not telling him about my ex-libido.)
“I just don’t think that me and sleeping pills are a good idea.”
He shakes his head in exasperation. “I don’t do magic potions.”
“I just thought maybe you’d have a suggestion that—”
“Yes, my suggestion is don’t come asking for help and then reject the help.”
He rubs his face for a few moments.
“I’ll make an appointment for you to see the psychiatrist.”
“No, thanks, I don’t need that.”
“It’s not optional.”
It was somewhere around this time that the fat, rather slow-blooded warder (Mr Hughes? Mr Hewitt?) came and fetched me from the yard where a half-hearted kickabout was under way.
“Lenny?” he calls, jerking his thumb. “Visitor.”
That’s odd, I think to myself, Sandra came yesterday and Mac’s on tour in Shetland. I follow the warder through overlit corridors, towards the Visitors Room. As he walks he produces a book.
“Can you autograph this for my wife?”
“It’s a Delia Smith recipe book.”
“Yeh, doesn’t matter.”
When we get to the Visitors Room, there is only one visitor sitting there.
Derek.
Oh fuck.
Derek.
“Hi…how’s things?” he asks.
I turn to the warder.
“Can you get rid of this man, please? And maybe bounce him down the steps on the way out.”
The warder grins. “We’re not allowed to do that to the visitors.”
Derek stands up, spreading his palms apologetically.
“I won’t be staying long.”
“No, you won’t.”
“I expected aggression.”
“Good.”
“That’s understandable.”
“Why are you here, Derek?”
“Please –” He gestures towards the empty chair. “– just for a moment.”
The warder backs off and leans against a wall. Oh, what the hell, I’m here now. I sit down opposite Derek, quietly weighing up whether I should run the risk of punching him in the face.
“I am here,” he begins, in a voice dripping with self-importance, “to show solidarity.”
“What?”
“I wanted to show support for you because, y’know, it’s important we don’t give up on people just because of a mistake. That’s what I say whenever people start slagging you off, I say ‘you don’t know what he was going through,’ it’s not for anyone to judge you.”
“I’m in prison, Derek. That usually involves a judging element. And we both know who put me here, don’t we?”
I wait to see if this causes him any discomfort. Not a flicker. He leans forward.
“All I’m saying is that I don’t judge my friends.”
“I’m not your friend.”
“All right, you’re not my friend.”
“Right.”
“But I’m still your friend.”
I take a deep breath to give myself time to calm down.
“Can you leave now, please?”
“March 5th, 1999,” he announces.
“What?”
“That’s when you became my friend.”
He flares his eyes and raises his eyebrows, in an attempt at drama. “You were filming Roscoe’s wedding to Stacey and I was one of the supporting artists.”
“You were an extra?”
He stiffens slightly.
“I was a supporting artist. Invisible to the stars and crew, as per usual, it was freezing cold, but as I was queuing at the tea wagon, you were two in front of me and you asked me if I wanted tea and I said yes, and you poured me a cup of tea from the urn, and I
said thank you, and you said ‘no problem’.”
Good God. Is that where this nightmare began? With a cup of tea?
“Do you remember that?” asks Derek, as if we had once been lovers. “Do you remember me?”
“No.” I reply, with as cruel an emphasis as possible. But Derek doesn’t notice, he’s off again.
“I was only on set for one day. The assistant director got rid of me because he said I was asking too many questions. But I never forgot your act of kindness, which is why I lied for you in court.”
“And then you lied about me…to millions of TV viewers.”
He pauses for a moment, before frowning slightly.
“No, I believe I told the truth.”
I look into his eyes and see total conviction.
“Just go,” I tell him, “before I rip your freakish head off.”
Again, not a flicker, he just smiles and gets to his feet.
“You know Jade’s back on the show?”
“Yes.”
“And, as of next month, I’m in it.”
He flares his eyes once more. My money says he’s been practising that in a mirror.
“You’re in the show?”
“Louise cast me…I made a showreel.”
“You are a showreel.”
No response. Is he deaf?
“I’m playing Howard, gay dentist and best friend of Deborah, twin sister of the late Melanie, played by Jade. She’s cool with the idea of acting opposite me. We cleared the air about my giving evidence against her in court.”
“False evidence.”
“Well, she’s big enough to accept that people make mistakes,” he says, with just the faintest suggestion of a dig. “Louise says that casting me is…”
“Edgy?” I interrupt.
He seems surprised that I guessed.
“Yes, and subversive, because we’re ‘operating in the cracks between soap and reality’.”
Involuntarily, I let out a contemptuous snort, which just spurs Derek on.
“And a friend of hers has interviewed me for the Guardian. He says I ‘highlight the fissile interconnectivity of popular culture’.”
“OK, I’ve had enough now. Are there photographers outside? I bet there are, eh? To photograph Princess Derek, the angel of compassion?”
He offers his hand, then realises there will be no handshake and turns to head for the door.
“This…cynicism thing of yours, Kevin, I know it’s a mask. I can see the real you. And he’s much nicer than this, and that’s the truth.”
The Star Witness Page 14