“I believe you,” says Albie, almost inaudibly.
“Yeh, why would you lie?” nods Pulse.
“OK, well, that’s enough of my story, who wants to tell the next one?”
Dougie is instantly on his feet.
“It can be about anything at all?” he asks.
“As long as it’s from personal experience.”
He launches into what begins as a picaresque story about his Sunday league football team getting stranded in Frankfurt, but then it slowly turns into a disgusting tale about a prostitute who sets fire to a client.
Dougie sits down to shocked silence.
“Not a lot of ambiguity there,” says Gerald.
The night after the second workshop I am laying on my bunk trying to usher in sleep.
I think about rivers, my newest escape strategy. I try to summon up memories of rivers that I have experienced; try to recapture the peace of being on water, with the landscape slowly unfurling itself around me.
And I am drifting slowly up the Tweed, with the old arched bridge at Berwick receding behind me, and white swans escorting me in smooth flotillas, when the spell is broken.
Dougie’s voice.
“You’re very quiet.”
“I was on a river.”
“Nice. What do you make of your workshop group then?”
“Erm…dunno…don’t really know them yet, what do you make of them?”
Dougie gives out a knowing chuckle. “What, honestly?”
“Yes.”
“Well…” he pauses, as if he’s deliberating – but he isn’t.
“Personally…in my opinion…I can’t see you achieving anything with that bunch of cunts.”
“I’m not out to achieve anything.”
“Well that’s just as well, isn’t it.”
There’s a thump as he jumps down on to the floor. “Mind you, I’m not sure I believe you. Have you seen my headphones?”
“No, sorry. Why don’t you believe me?”
“’Cos I think you’re just enough of an arrogant fucker to believe that you can ed-u-cate them. Y’know, like My Fair Lady – only with ignorant cunts for Audrey Hepburn.”
I am amused, and intrigued, by Dougie’s analysis. Can he be right? Have I made them my project?
Dougie is fishing beneath my bunk, muttering dark oaths about his missing headphones.
“That’s the trouble with this place…full of thieves.”
I laugh, but then Dougie’s head bobs up and the frown tells me that no irony was intended.
“It’s not funny, Kevin. They have no respect for other people’s personal property.”
“Didn’t you rob a bank once?”
“That’s different, that’s a bank.” His head disappears beneath my bunk again. “And it was more than once.”
“I’m not aiming to educate anyone. Those workshops, at best, are just a way of…I dunno, filling time…keeping the madness at bay.”
Dougie is burrowing into his locker now.
“Oh, right. Ah, found the bastards! My memory, eh? It’s this place, turns your brain into mush. That’s why I’m going to your sessions, to give my brain a work-out.”
“Right, well, that’s as good a reason as any, I suppose.”
“I am trying to save my brain.”
“Right.”
“But some brains are beyond saving.”
He is giving me a mischievous grin. I know what’s coming.
“You’re about to slag people off, aren’t you?”
“All I’m saying is that Pulse has probably smoked his brain away and Mohammad’s is awash with Islamic sewage. You’re talking about two broken brains, and that’s not racist, that’s fact. And as for Simo…and Albie…dear oh dear.”
I feel a flush of defensiveness.
“Listen, my expectations are…realistic, OK? I will consider it a major achievement if I can get Simo to finish a sentence and get Albie to…not jump at his own shadow…but, to be honest, I don’t expect either of those things to happen.”
Dougie clambers back up on to his bunk, gripping the headphones in his teeth. The springs bounce and squeak above me.
“Here, Kevin…how old do you reckon that Albie is?”
That’s a difficult question. He feels like he’s about fifteen, but physically he’s – well, the paleness means that he lacks definition.
“Twenty-five?”
“Thirty-four,” replies Dougie, with slow relish.
“You’re joking.”
“He’s thirty-four.”
“But…he’s just a kid…isn’t he?”
“Mentally, yeh…but he’s thirty-four.”
“Christ.”
“He’s spent seventeen years inside, apparently. Half his life.”
“Did he murder someone?”
“No, no, not one long stretch, lots of little ones, in different prisons.”
“Where did you get all this?”
“The old jungle telegraph…plus, I asked him.”
“Oh…right.”
“He didn’t want to chat, but I just hung in there. Winkled it out of him. It’s a gift.”
Thirty-four? That’s a real surprise.
Oh well. That shows how much I know.
My thoughts drift back to the Tweed; to the lapping of the water as it nudges my boat. The soft whisper of the breeze. Next thing I know, I can hear feet clattering on walkways. I glance at my watch. It’s seven fifteen. I have slept, uninterrupted, for nearly nine hours.
13
The Letter
The realisation that I had enjoyed a proper night’s sleep filled me with elation and trepidation in equal measure. On the one hand I was experiencing, for the first time in many months, that sense of rested well-being; that relaxation of muscle and mind, but on the other hand, there was a small, frightened voice in the back of my head which was asking what if it had been a fluke? What if the waking hell returned tonight?
Well, there was no point fretting over an unknown and as I was experiencing a return of mental clarity, I decided to sit down and do something difficult that I had been putting off for weeks.
I composed a letter to Sandra – in pencil. In pencil, because I knew it would take me several drafts. How long had it been since I last wrote a letter to her? Or to anyone, for that matter? In fact, I wasn’t sure I had ever written a letter to Sandra. So this might be the first and it was going to be an abject apology. How sad was that?
I could vaguely remember writing a letter to Mum when I was touring with Mac. Nearly thirty years ago! I couldn’t remember what I said, although I had a vague recollection of asking for money. Jesus, I was not much of a son.
I must have written to friends, mustn’t I? If I did, I obviously didn’t see it as important, otherwise I would remember, wouldn’t I? It’s such a puzzle, when and why your brain hits “record”.
It took a few goes to get the first paragraph right. Basically, I just wanted to apologise to Sandra for the things I had said during her last visit. But I found that repeatedly using the word “sorry” didn’t make it sound any more sincere.
Less is more, Kevin.
So I pruned the number of “sorrys” back to just the one. In the end, I decided that was as sincere as it was possible for me to sound.
The final sentence proved to be a massive hurdle. I was desperate to capture the right note, but every choice I made felt trite. Initially, I signed off with “All I want is for you to be happy.” On re-reading, however, I did not like the sound of “All I want”. It felt too egocentric. This was about my acknowledging – no, accepting – that I was no longer relevant to her future.
So I reworked it to read “All that matters is that you should seize the chance for happiness, however you see fit.” Was “seize the chance” right? Was there a risk that she might see that as a suggestion that her forthcoming marriage was a gamble? Of course, every marriage is a gamble, but it’s not something you want to see written down. Especially from your e
x-husband.
And what was “however you see fit” doing there? Hanging off the end, like shit on a sheep’s tail? What I had been trying to convey was, again, my irrelevance, her autonomy, but somehow, the more I looked at it, the more I saw an inference that she might be deluding herself. “However you see fit”!?
What the fuck had made me write that? It made me sound like some smug barrister, with my thumbs in my lapels. But it didn’t matter how it made me sound, did it? This was about making Sandra feel good about the future, and free of our past.
In the end, after much rubbing out, I finalised the wording.
“You have known a lot of pain (much of it because of me) but all that matters now is that you should get the happiness you deserve.”
I read it back over and over. It felt slightly formal, but I quite liked that. The bracket felt right. An acknowledgement of my behaviour, but on this occasion, only as a sidebar, finished, incidental now. And I liked the idea of her receiving the happiness that she was owed. Even if, deep down, I didn’t believe that was how life worked, I still liked the idea of it. It was the right final chord.
I then spent the best part of an hour trying to choose between “Yours, as ever”, “Yours, as always” (both too presumptuous/possessive?) and “Yours affectionately” – which just looked ridiculous. Eventually, I decided to opt for just “Kevin”. Then I found a biro and wrote the whole letter out in the neatest italics I could manage. Finally, with my head thumping from mental exhaustion, I checked over my handiwork one last time. I was about to fold it and place it in the envelope when I heard Dougie behind my shoulder.
“You’ve forgotten to put your prisoner number,” he said.
“Thanks for the reminder.”
“My pleasure.”
The sleeping turned out to be no fluke. For successive nights I got at least eight hours of profound, restorative sleep. My thinking continued to sharpen up and I began to prepare more and more effectively for the workshops, which gradually became productive.
For the first few sessions, I had just let people tell stories and then we would discuss them, rather haphazardly. It seemed best not to intimidate anyone with anything too structured. But then I decided to attempt a few basic acting exercises. I had no expectations. The likelihood was that they would all be crippled by self-consciousness. However, I could not have been more wrong.
Four of them, Dougie, Gerald, Pulse and Mohammad threw themselves into the improvisations heart and soul. Dougie was a born performer (which, deep down, I suppose I already knew), fearlessly plunging into any set-up I lobbed his way, (apart from one, when I asked him to play the victim of a theft.)
Gerald, too, quickly revealed a talent for characterisation. He seemed able to instantly shape himself into someone else. And his characters all had a coherence to them, voice, mannerism, movement, language – everything seemed to fit together. In fact, it was depressing to realise that, purely by instinct, he was a much more accomplished actor than I could ever be.
He had a real flair for comedy, too. Time and again, in mid-improvisation, he would conjure up a line that was both killingly funny and yet still perfectly in character.
Pulse, also, had some talent. He could not think on his feet with Gerald’s speed, but he had genuine stage presence. Even when he was doing very little in a scene, you could not tear your eyes away from him. And his bassy, rum-soaked voice seemed to give him extra substance. The man had charisma.
Mohammad, on the other hand, had no ability at all. What he did have in abundance, however, was commitment. Whatever situation he was supposed to be acting out, he attacked it as if his whole life depended on it. The result was that, usually, once Mohammad joined an improvisation, it was doomed to break down. I tried casting him in comic downbeat roles, but nothing worked. When he was the Funeral Director trying to explain to a bereaved relative that the deceased had been eaten by foxes, he somehow ended up ranting about the CIA. When everyone had to turn up at a party portraying a single characteristic I gave him “reasonableness”. Five minutes later, he was shouting about compromise being Satan’s gateway drug. He was pre-set for aggression and conflict, although mostly he just seemed at war with himself.
Quite often – both during improvisations and discussion – he would try to drag us towards the eternal truths of Islam. But he was invariably made to back off, either by Dougie’s hardening stare or a withering put-down by Gerald. At all times, I did my best to stay neutral and steer us towards calmer waters.
The other two, Simo and Albie, watched from the sidelines. Simo, you sensed, wanted to join in but knew that he lacked the basic equipment. It is almost impossible to act, or to do anything for that matter, if you can’t string any words together. So, mostly, he watched, waiting, desperately trying to manage his frustration; like some chaotic Labrador on a leash. But that’s not to say he was getting nothing out of it. He got quite involved watching the improvisations develop and, every now and then, he would intervene in the discussions, and jagged splinters of sentences would fly around our ears like shrapnel.
The only real success I had with Simo, in those early weeks, was when I asked people to pair off and try to create a dialogue consisting entirely of animal noises. They each had to select which creature they were going to be. Simo chose to be a hyena, who spoke in loud yaps and screeches. Very convincingly. Even long after the improvisation had ended.
I had absolutely no success, however, with Albie. The only times he spoke were when he gave a quiet “no” in response to my questions. He wasn’t surly, or sullen; most of the time he wore an awkward little smile. Occasionally, very occasionally, he would give a thin, breathy laugh when someone said something funny, although only if he saw others laughing first. For the vast majority of the time he sat, silent, in the corner, flicking phantom specks from his cheek.
Yet he was there for every session. Something was working for him. So who was I to question it? Provided it didn’t affect the group – who seemed happy to tolerate him as a spectator – then there wasn’t a problem, was there?
No, there wasn’t a problem.
I had been running the drama workshop for about a month when I received an invitation to take tea with the governor.
“Greetings, Kevin,” chirps Malcolm. “Look! In your honour, new china.”
He is looking fit and tanned and seems more full of enthusiasm than ever.
“Been away?” I ask, as he pours.
“Costa Rica. Just a week. Amazing place. Wildlife everywhere. Lovely people, all highly educated. In 1948 they decided to scrap the army and plough all that money into education. And the upshot is that they’re the only country in Central America that isn’t a basket case, isn’t that brilliant? Radical thinking, y’see.”
“And have they been invaded?”
“Not yet.” He lets out one of his trademark chuckles. “If anyone does invade they’ll just have to chuck books at them. Ever been down that way yourself?”
“Nearest I’ve been is Cuba.”
He widens his eyes. “Viva Castro.”
“Yeah, I went there with my wife.”
“Was it nice?”
“We drank in the bars Hemingway drank in. Which seemed to be all of them.”
Malcolm laughs. “Drinking, bullfighting and swordfishing…he liked his hobbies, didn’t he, eh?”
A rain shower starts to patter against the windows, so he glances up and gazes at the speckled pane, like a poet searching for inspiration.
“Now then, Kevin…it’s like this…my wife works in publishing and she was glancing through a trade mag and she happened to spot a little piece about your old friend, Derek.”
I feel my stomach clench. Jesus, what am I? One of Pavlov’s dogs?
“What’s he up to now?”
“Well…erm…it would seem that Derek is writing his autobiography.”
I take in this news for a moment, but then I find I can’t stop myself from laughing. Of course he is, why wouldn’t he? Malc
olm is laughing as well, shaking his head.
“I know, I know, what a ridiculous world, eh? Try the biscuits, they’re homemade.”
“Well, there’s nothing I can do.”
“Doesn’t it bother you, then?”
“It’ll be shit.”
“That’s beyond dispute.”
“Full of the same old lies about me.”
“But what if he makes up some new ones?”
Malcolm holds the plate of biscuits in front of me. I take one, as I try and work out what I feel about the possibility he’s just raised. In fact, it’s more like a certainty.
“Same problem,” I say, “I can’t stop him.”
“W-e-ll, not strictly true…erm…legally you could demand to see the manuscript to ensure you’re not being misrepresented…” He bites into his biscuit with a ludicrously loud crunch. It sounds like his teeth are being broken down into dust.
“…and then you’d be within your rights to ask for all the inaccurate passages to be removed.”
“‘Inaccurate passages’? That’ll be the whole book.”
“Well then you could take out an injunction. Sabotage the whole thing. That’d be fun.” He giggles impishly. “Think how angry you’d make him.”
I tip my head back and sigh most of the air out of my lungs.
“Yeh…but…well, it’d just be my version against his, wouldn’t it…mostly…”
“And?”
“Well nobody’s going to believe me. I’m the celebrity perjurer.”
Malcolm furrows his brow.
“So…you just let Derek get away with as much as he wants? That’s defeatism, Kevin…I didn’t have you down as someone who throws the towel in.”
What’s he up to? Is he trying to manipulate me?
“Derek’s screwed you over several times already. Are you going to let him do it again? And make money out of it?”
“I’d kind of promised myself that I’d never let that man back inside my head again…and this feels like letting him in.”
“I understand that…look…take your time…mull it over.”
He proffers the plate of biscuits again.
The Star Witness Page 18