Ideally, I would have just stayed in my cell, but that would have triggered dialogues with the guards – negotiations, pleadings – so instead I shuffled robotically, passively, from place to place, trying to think, feel and experience nothing, in an attempt to un-person myself.
There is probably a name for this mental state. Whether it was depression, or Depression, I really couldn’t tell you. I vaguely remember being visited by the psychiatrist in my cell, but my memory (unreliable) is that the visit was…I don’t think it was productive.
All I can tell you for certain is that a gauze had been placed between me and the world. There had been a spell, briefly, a few weeks before that visit from Sandra, when the opposite had been the case; when I had been feeling the world too keenly. All my senses were intensified, every colour enhanced and every clatter and jangle of prison life seemed to travel the length of my spine. Then, the world felt too live. Now, it was dead. My body no longer felt like it belonged to me. It had become a conveyance.
At one point, I developed the conviction that the prison had secretly dosed me up with Largactil. (I have since received assurances that I was given no medication.) Another time, in the middle of the night, I felt I could hear the whole of London – literally, the whole of London, every beep of every car horn, the chatter from every restaurant, the shouts of every drunk, all mixed together in a dissonant soup of noise. It felt like millions of thoughts were trying, second by second, to push and jostle their way through a narrowing gateway in my brain. But, by morning, the mania had subsided and my mind was re-emptying.
I have no idea how long I was this hollowed-out version of myself. A couple of weeks? Perhaps a month? Time had no meaning as I trudged through the minutes. Nothing stood out. Nothing had significance. Because nothing mattered. Nothing was king.
Then, one day, oddly, I become aware that I am staring at my own name on a poster written in huge, squared-off red letters, like the top billing in a movie epic.
“Kevin Carver: Drama Workshop. Games Room. 3 p.m. Today.”
Today? What does that mean? Is it an order for me to attend? Or am I supposed to be running this workshop? Could it be a joke?
A familiar voice stops the questions.
“Sorry to ambush you, Kevin,” says Malcolm. “But we’ve been meaning to start up something like this for a while. And I know you’re the ideal man to put in charge. As our resident thespian.”
What the hell is he on about?
“I think you need something to take you out of yourself.”
Slowly, I begin to understand. I start mumbling that I can’t face it and that he’d better look elsewhere. But Malcolm isn’t budging.
“It’s this or medication,” he states cheerily. “You started out doing workshops and stuff, didn’t you? All those years ago. In that socialist theatre collective that helped put an end to Mrs Thatcher.”
He gives his little Seagoon laugh. “I googled you. This’ll take you back to your roots. Roots are important, stop us blowing around like tumbleweed. You might want to have a shave.”
I look at my reflection in the glass of a partition. Can that be me?
“You’ll be fine,” says Malcolm, gripping my shoulder. I mumble more protests.
“No, no, let’s have none of that, fella, the show must go on.”
He gives another little laugh as he strides off up the corridor.
“Come on, Kevin,” he calls over his shoulder. “You’ve done self-pity, time to move on.”
12
The Workshop
To be honest, I was looking for the first opportunity I could find to bin the drama group. Thank you and goodnight. All I needed was a pretext. A lack of numbers would do. Most of the prisoners were blue-collar, under-educated, they were unlikely to sign up. Anything less than five people and I would tell the governor that the workshop was not worthwhile and hope that he would get out of my face. Besides, could I run any kind of workshop in my mental state? You need to be able to think straight, look like you know what you’re doing; talk. Talk sense. It was a stupid idea. Stupid. Stoo-pid.
So when I push open the door to the Games Room, I am half-expecting it to be empty.
Shit.
There must be at least ten of the bastards. All looking at me, all with different expressions; some friendly, some challenging, some empty. It feels like a moment from one of those dreams; the ones where you’re due on stage and you don’t even know what the play is, or where you’re sitting your driving test stark naked, but nobody seems to be commenting on it.
“Hi,” I croak.
How the hell do I begin? Keep it simple.
“My name’s Kevin.”
“We know,” says a voice.
“Yes, of course…sorry.”
I scan the faces. They are all familiar, to a greater or lesser degree, but I can only put names to a couple of them. So, as an opener, I ask each of them to say their name; but I am only buying myself thinking time. Once they have finished giving their names I realise, in the ensuing silence, that I have not retained a single word.
“Alrighty, I’ll be honest. This has been sprung on me a bit…so I haven’t really had time to prep anything…Let’s find out what you each…erm…want to get out of this experience.”
I head for the one face that’s smiling.
“Dougie…what do you hope to get out of this?”
“I thought it’d be a laugh,” he says. “But I could be wrong.”
There’s a ripple of dry laughter, which I join in with. Scanning the faces, there don’t seem to be any receptive ones, so I don’t know who to involve next. The Jamaican guy (did he say his name was Pulse?) seems to be looking straight through me and out the other side, like I’m an X-ray.
In fact, most of them are looking at me like that. The bald bloke with the missing eyebrow (what’s that about?) is picking at his teeth. The tall Irishman (Kieron?) is drumming his fingers on his knee. I can hear myself flannelling and padding and faffing and I feel embarrassed. I should be able to improvise something better than this. What is wrong with me? I used to have a talent for spouting empty bullshit, but that’s gone now. Now I can’t even manage to be a convincing fake.
I’m not sure what that leaves.
One by one, I go round the group, trying to find some possible starting points for a discussion, but nobody seems up for that. They can probably sense that my heart’s not really in it. You get out what you put in, that’s what Mum always said.
Suddenly, out of the blue, a hand pops into the air; it’s the one who looks like an insurance salesman.
“Yes? Sorry, it’s, um…”
“Gerald.”
“Sorry, Gerald, yes…you’ve got a question?”
“Yes, will we be looking at set texts? Or are we going to prance around pretending to be butterflies?”
Right. So, Gerald is different.
“Well, Gerald, I, um…I think the sessions can be whatever you all want them to be. Drama is a…well, it can cover pretty much everything really. Basically, it’s just stories, y’know, and we all have stories and, y’know, stories can take so many forms, y’know, um, plays, films, novels…”
“Alibis,” adds the Irishman.
A few of them laugh, partly out of deference. The Irishman scares people, even Dougie.
“Stories,” I repeat, sounding lame. “That’s all it’s about. Stories.”
I wait to see if anyone wants to add anything, but there is only silence and a bit of shuffling.
It is then that I notice a man who is trying not to be seen. He is standing in the corner of the room, flattened against the wall, as if attempting to merge into the masonry. He is painfully thin, and his features are striking; tufty, white hair, white eyelashes, very pale skin. It is hard not to stare.
“Excuse me,” I begin. “Sorry…um, in the corner there…I’m not sure if I caught your name.”
He looks up, startled. His hand flicks something away from his cheek. What is he doing? Ther
e’s nothing there.
“I…I…” He clears his throat (although he’s forcing it, it doesn’t sound like it needs clearing). “I…erm…I didn’t give you my name.”
“Oh, I see…right…well, can you tell me it? Mind you, I’m not promising I’ll remember. My head’s all over the place today, as you’ve probably noticed.”
My attempts to place him at his ease are failing. He looks like he could bolt at any second.
“My name is Paul,” he says softly, “…but everyone calls me Albie.”
“Why Albie?” I ask. He hesitates.
“Short for albino,” says a gruff voice to my left.
“I’m not an albino,” he stutters, flicking at his cheek again. “I don’t have the eyes. I’m…I’m just extremely pale.”
He certainly is. Beneath the harsh strip-lighting, he looks like he has been dipped in bleach. Why hadn’t I noticed him around? I know I’ve not been taking much in, but even so, he is hard not to notice – which must be agony for him.
“Are you new here?” I ask.
He glances away. “No…I’ve just been a bit poorly.”
“So, which would you rather? Albie or Paul?”
He stares at the floor for a few moments.
“Albie is fine…no one’s called me Paul for years.”
“OK then, Albie…what would you like to get out of these sessions?”
He keeps staring at the floor.
“…Albie?”
There is a faint snigger from the bald man with the eyebrow.
“Albie? What brings you here?”
“The governor told me to come,” he replies, still looking down. “Said it would help.”
“Help what?”
Out of the corner of my eye, I catch sight of Dougie rolling his eyes.
“My confidence.” Albie looks up, with just a hint of a flinch. “I’m due for release. In a couple of months…he says I need to work on my confidence.”
Christ, I’m a therapist now, am I? Albie stands there, blinking, and I reach for a smile.
“Okeydokey.” (‘Okeydokey’? When have I ever said ‘Okeydokey’?) “Well, um…today was only ever going to be about…y’know…thinking about what our expectations might be, so…in that sense…”
The fat warder (George? Geoff?) appears at the door and taps his watch. Thank you, God. I declare the session over and head for the door.
“When’s the next session?” asks the Jamaican.
“It says ‘daily’ on the poster” says the warder.
Jesus, does it? I didn’t see that. Daily? That’s fucking ridiculous.
“I…um…I think that could be a mistake.”
“That’s what it says on the poster,” repeats the warder. Is he grinning? “Says it down in the corner.”
The tall Irishman rises wearily from his chair. “Well I don’t give a flying fuck when the next session is,” he says. “That was shite.”
A few voices mutter their agreement.
I feel my spirits lift. It looks like there may be no one at tomorrow’s session. As everyone shuffles towards the door, I turn to the fat warder.
“Is there any chance of a quick chat with the governor?” I ask, trying to sound as casual as possible. But he just chuckles and walks away.
I went to the second session desperately hoping that the room would only contain empty chairs. But no, there they were, sitting, waiting. The good news was that the numbers had dwindled to six. The tall Irishman was gone and so was Mono-Eyebrow. Just six left. Almost the point where I could justify shutting the group down.
“All right, um…so, the chosen few, eh? Um, now I know you all told me yesterday, so, if you can bear it, can we just quickly run through the names again? Erm, Dougie, I know, and Albie…Albie, why don’t you pull your chair more into the middle of the room?” Hesitantly, he scrapes his chair forwards. “OK, perhaps, um…perhaps you could go first.”
I nod at the Jamaican, who smiles and says, “My name is Pulse.”
“That’s an unusual name.”
“I gave it myself.”
“What’s…what’s its significance?”
He shakes his head in amusement.
“It ain’t got no ‘sig-nif-ic-ance’. It’s just a cool name.”
“Uh-huh…can I ask…what was your original name?”
“No.”
“OK, fine, yup, and you…sir?”
“Gerald.”
“Oh yeh, ’course, sorry.”
“I’m Simo,” says the young man sitting behind him.
“Is that short for Simon or something?”
He gives a dark, dirty laugh. “Simon? Oh yeh – like – there’s just millions of Simons in— what the f- Simon? Do I— nobody’s called Simon any— are you taking the— is he taking the pi— Simon? No it’s not short for anything, it’s like, fuck me – innit, like – Simon? What are you—”
He carries on like this for several minutes, with every sentence breaking into fragments and spinning through the air. To my relief, I am not the only one looking perplexed. Gradually, Simo becomes aware that he is bewildering people and dribbles self-consciously to a halt, before quietly muttering “My mum named me after a dolphin.”
Several faces turn to look at him.
“It’s a long story,” he shrugs.
The last member of the group, I realise, is a new face. Asian. Bearded. Don’t make assumptions, Kevin.
“You weren’t here yesterday.”
“Is that a problem?” he counters.
“No…no, no, not at all.”
“My name is Mohammad.”
“Has it always been Mohammad?” drawls Gerald.
“That’s none of your business.”
They immediately start arguing, talking over each other and, judging from the reactions of the others, this is not an unusual occurrence. My mental tiredness stops me from thinking clearly enough to intervene, so I stand there like a dazed tourist, which is sort of what I am. Dougie steps between the two of them with his shoulders squared.
“Alright, girls, don’t get menstrual.”
The argument stops and I mumble a few thank yous.
Albie is dabbing at that invisible something on his cheek again, but he controls the tic once he notices me looking at him.
“Have you done any prep this time?” enquires Gerald. His voice contains a constant undertow of disdain.
“Sort of…I thought we’d start with some storytelling. We all know stories. We all have stories. So I thought, what might be an easy, but interesting, start is…um…if we just told stories from our own lives…y’know…funny or sad…or both, doesn’t matter. Who wants to start?”
Dougie looks as if he is about to volunteer, but then loses confidence. Simo looks appalled by the idea, as does Albie. Pulse has his eyes closed and Gerald is wearing a smile that is really a challenge.
“Alright then” I say, “I’ll start, just to get things rolling. Erm…why don’t I tell you the story of exactly how I ended up here – apologies to Dougie, he’s heard this all before – and some of you may know bits of it, probably inaccurate bits – so here it is, chapter and verse, from the horse’s mouth.”
For the next twenty minutes or so, I tell them my story, from meeting Jade, through the trial, Derek’s intervention, my acquittal, Derek baring his diseased soul on television, the second trial, and ending with my conviction and the Judge’s observations about my “manipulative cowardice”.
As I finish, Pulse is nodding sagely.
“Man, that is a story an’ no mistake.”
“Yeh, but what kind of story is it?”
Mohammad can’t contain himself.
“It’s a story about what happens when everybody tells lies all the time. The girl lied, this Derek-character lied, you lied, that’s ’cos everyone lies here, innit? That is the West for you. You’re obsessed with the wrong things. And you’re willing to lie and cheat for them and you forget that God sees everything.”
G
erald yawns, loudly and provocatively.
Then Simo bursts into life.
“That story is— your sto— it’s a fu— yeh, that’s just total fu— it’s— God, man, that’s— it’s a fucking tragedy, isn’t it…yeh…isn’t it?”
“Well that’s a very good question, Simo. Is my story a tragedy? What do we think? Albie, any thoughts?”
“I doubt it,” mutters Gerald.
“Albie? Anything you’d like to ask, or say?” Albie looks upwards and blinks, like a startled ghost.
“I think it’s very sad,” he says, quietly. “Why did that girl make that stuff up?…blame you like that? And now you’re inside…that’s sad.”
“So, group,” I spread my hands to try to get their focus, “is it a tragedy? What do we think?”
“There’s nothing tragic about it,” Gerald sniffs. “You brought it all on yourself. You allowed yourself to be at the mercy of other people. You failed to control events because your fear got the better of you. So no, not a tragedy. There’s an element of farce, possibly.”
For a moment, Gerald and I lock eyes. He is extremely bright and he knows it.
“Dougie thinks there’s an element of comedy in it, don’t you, Dougie?” I prompt.
“Well…sort of…in a sick-joke sort of way.”
“It’s interesting though, isn’t it? One story. And everybody’s got a different take on it.”
I get up off my chair and start walking around the room. For the first time in I don’t know how long, I get the vague sensation that maybe I know what I’m doing. They seem to be listening. Or are they just there killing time?
“Ambiguity. What your different views of my story add up to is called ‘ambiguity’. And you’ll find it at the heart of every great story.”
“Course, we only heard your version of events.” Gerald snipes. “How do we know that was the truth?”
“You are absolutely right, Gerald.” (Don’t overuse his name, he’ll feel patronised.) “You only heard my version. You can’t be sure that is the truth. And that is another layer of ambiguity.”
The Star Witness Page 17