“They’d turn it into a freak show. They’ll just treat us as commodities, I know these people, they commodify everything.”
“I’m sure we can guard against the freak-show risk in the contract. Insist on final approval, that kind of thing.”
I go quiet again, he’s working me, I know he is.
“Honestly, Kevin, I don’t know why you’re so reticent about letting this achievement be recorded. The Parole Board would chalk it up, I’m sure a programme like this could reflect very well on you.”
He’s beaming benevolently at me now, like he’s some kind of friendly priest, Spencer Tracy maybe.
“It could reflect very well on you too,” I counter.
“Yes, all right, you got me, I’d do well out of it too, this place would do well, everybody wins. So, is there really a problem?”
I reiterate that I’m not interested.
“Don’t you feel you should at least put it to the group? Don’t you owe them that?”
“I don’t ‘owe’ them, or you, or anyone.”
And with that, I rise to make a dignified exit, pausing only to take a biscuit. As I head down the stairs, I experience an old, familiar wave of anger against TV types who are too egotistical and infantile to listen.
The ambush came out of nowhere.
Our sessions had been continuing to go well and I had managed to persuade the group that we should do a number from Guys and Dolls – “Sit Down You’re Rocking the Boat”, which we were going to sing ensemble. The show was beginning to take on a more balanced look, with a mixture of old favourites and experimental material. The most enthusiastic participant by far was Dougie, so I am really not at all prepared when he storms into rehearsals in an extremely aggressive mood.
“I want a fucking word,” he begins. “Sit down.” He pushes me down into a chair and leans a long way into my personal space, virtually nose to nose.
“Now then, Kev, is there anything you’d like to share with the group?”
I am genuinely bewildered, which comes across as bad acting and incenses Dougie even more.
“Any fucking thing at all?” he shouts “Cast your mind back.”
I’m still at a loss as to how I could have upset him so much.
“You had a letter from some TV people.”
How had he heard about that?
“They wanted to make a TV programme about us.”
I spend a couple of moments composing myself, controlling my tone and carefully choosing my words.
“Well…with respect, Dougie, the programme would have been about me.”
“Oh ’cos we’re not interesting enough to make programmes about, is that it?”
“No, no, what I’m saying is they…you know what they’re like, they’re celebrity-obsessed, it would end up being…y’know…‘Lenny’ behind bars. They couldn’t give a toss about any drama group.”
“So why the secrecy?”
“It wasn’t secrecy, the—”
“Why didn’t you share it with the group?”
“It was addressed to me, so—”
“But it concerned the group”
“Yes, but—”
“So why not share it with the group?”
“Because it didn’t seem relevant to—”
“So now we’re irrelevant?”
“No, you— look, I’m sorry if you feel I didn’t involve you but I know what these people are like – they’re leeches. And the ones who aren’t leeches are vultures.”
“Man, thank God you were here to protect us,” Pulse gets closer too, “protect us from that menagerie.”
“The letter was addressed to me.”
“Stop fucking saying that.”
Dougie takes a deep breath, the way the anger management people told him to. “The thing is, Kevin, you could have relayed the gist of the letter, advised us as to your judgement and that, and then let us take a vote on it.”
“Oh, are we a socialist collective now? How jolly.”
“Shut your face-hole, Gerald.”
I try to take control.
“Listen, the last thing the people in this group need is TV cameras pointing at them.” I give a subtle nod in Albie’s direction, to try and make Dougie understand. Simo bursts into life. I think he’s trying to say that the TV cameras wouldn’t bother him. Albie is staring at his old friend, the floor.
“Albie…” He doesn’t look up. “Albie, do you want someone filming you?”
Mohammad weighs in. “Well I don’t mind being filmed. If it gets my message across to more people.”
“And what is your ‘message’?” scoffs Gerald. “Don’t be a wanker.”
Mohammad pushes him in the chest and a scuffle breaks out, until Dougie plucks the two of them apart.
“All right, ladies, let’s remain civilised. I say we take a vote on it.”
“What’s the point? I’ve said no.”
“Oh, Emperor Kevin’s said no”
“Well—”
“He outranks us.”
“I—”
“I’m not sure I want to be part of something this undemocratic”, growls Dougie.
The others mutter their agreement. My mind drifts back to those first nights in the cell, when Dougie would grill me about what it’s like to be famous. That’s what all this is about. He wants to be on TV. So does Mohammad and Simo and Gerald. They all fancy the attention. But Albie is different. He hates it if one person is looking at him, never mind a million.
“Paul, this is important, would you be happy to have TV cameras come in and film you…film you for millions of people to see.”
Oh no, disaster. He’s looking towards Dougie for guidance.
“…only you can answer this”, I ask.
“Are you saying it’d be too much for him?” asks Dougie.
“I—”
“Another one underestimating you, don’t listen to him, Pauly, you’d be fine.”
‘Paul-y?’ What the fuck is that? Now Dougie has a meaty arm around his new friend’s shoulder. “Let’s put it to a vote.”
“I haven’t agreed to a vote yet.”
“Let’s vote on whether to have a vote. All those in favour.” Five arms get raised.
“Carried. And now who wants to do the TV programme, as long as it’s uplifting and not sensationalist shit?” The same five arms are raised. Albie looks to Dougie for reassurance. Dougie gives him a piratical smile. Slowly, Albie raises a skeletal arm.
“Six – nil. The Emperor stands alone.”
“How did you get to hear about the letter, Dougie?” I ask.
“I can’t betray my sources.”
“If I duck out, you watch, there’ll be no TV show. They won’t come.”
Dougie gives a wolfish smile. “Well then stop being a selfish prick and don’t duck out.”
I protest that I’m not being a selfish prick, but this is greeted by laughter, so I storm out. I seem to be doing a lot of that all of a sudden.
I spent the next few hours pondering one of the great philosophical questions. Am I a selfish prick? History would suggest I am. But then isn’t the human race just billions of selfish pricks? Or is that just the view of a selfish prick?
To be honest, the rebellion had happened so suddenly that I found it hard to take in. The whole project seemed to disintegrate in a couple of minutes. I had felt I had been achieving something and now that feeling was gone. I was bereft.
But slowly, reluctantly, I began to see what the others were seeing. Perhaps I was being egocentric. My assumption that a documentary would be an excuse for the cameras to ghoulishly stare at me was probably way out of date. I had been in prison for a while now. The character of Lenny had long since died in a mysterious fire, off-screen, in Afghanistan. How interesting did I imagine I was any more? Soon, I would just be a nostalgic footnote. Maybe there’d been some honesty behind the bullshit of that letter. Maybe they were looking to make a serious documentary. And if they were, why shouldn’t the other
s get their chance to step into the spotlight and tell their stories? Maybe I’d let my suspicion and arrogance shape my actions. Dougie had a point. Why did I have to be so secretive? I could have told them about it. But I’ve always felt I know best, always, in all my dealings. In my mind, I’ve always outranked people.
In the end, the decision made itself, it coalesced into a pleasing shape. I would let it go, trust the process, trust in others. I would ask for an appointment to see the governor – an appointment for the whole group.
A few days later I am sitting in Malcolm’s office waiting for the others.
“They’re always late,” I explain. “God knows why, it’s not like they have busy diaries.”
I decide to get the elephant out of the room.
“Did you tell Dougie about the TV company’s approach?”
Malcolm makes piercing eye-contact.
“No. I did not.” He maintains the eye-contact. (Is this some kind of technique? Oh for God’s sake, I’m doing it again.) “But you know what this place is like for gossip, people are in and out of this office all the time, and various members of my staff would have seen the letter to me…and the follow-up, so…I’ve no plans to launch an enquiry.”
I’m not sure if I believe him, but I decide that it no longer matters. The others are filing in now, Albie sits about as far away from Malcolm’s desk as is possible. Malcolm doesn’t sit behind his desk, he perches on the edge of it, like one of those teachers who likes you to call them by their first name.
“All right, team, now, as you know, Kevin has some…qualms, um…reservations, understandable reservations, given how the media have treated him…that if we let these cameras in to film the drama group, then the whole thing could turn into a bit of a circus and he – and you – and all of us…could end up getting…um…”
“Royally fucked,” says Dougie.
“Yes…that’s…pretty much what he’s worried about. And I’m concerned too. But I also think there are so many possible positives to be gained, so this is an opportunity for us to air the whole topic. So, the floor is yours. Who’d like to start, any questions?”
Mohammad’s arm shoots up. He is wearing his pouty, belligerent face.
“Would we be censored?”
“Well that would depend, I suppose, on the kind of thing you say.”
“What if I foretell a global caliphate? Is that OK?”
Malcolm looks unsure.
“Erm…well obviously there are laws about—”
“Laws made by man.”
“Yes but—”
Gerald intervenes, “I think the legal situation is that you would be allowed to ‘foretell’ a global caliphate, but you wouldn’t be allowed to advocate moving towards that caliphate by overthrowing the state and/or killing people.”
“Thank you, Gerald. Maybe we shouldn’t get bogged down on this, any other questions?”
“Would we get paid?” asks Mohammad.
“I’ve no idea,” Malcolm replies, “that’s something that I suppose would get thrashed out in the contract…if we get that far.”
Dougie proposes that we stop pussying around and that I should shit or get off the pot.
Malcolm holds his hands up – palms outwards like the Pope – to signify calm.
“Kevin, what are your main concerns?”
“Well two really. One, that there’ll be a…um…a focus…a mawkish focus on me and my past – at the expense of the group. And two – and I think this is a very real risk – that once the cameras are here they’ll go on a fishing mission, looking for salacious material…and three, how do we stop them distorting things? Once they get into the edit they can make us look however they want. They can make us all look stupid.”
I can see the wheels turning inside Dougie and Gerald’s heads. They clearly don’t relish the prospect of not having control.
“Also, will they handle the material sensitively? For instance, take Paul…” Albie straightens up slightly at the sound of his name. “…he’s not great with strangers. Will they treat him seriously? Or will they just treat him as a funny turn, a quirky character?”
I feel a little insensitive talking about Albie this way with him in the room, but I want to spell out the risks. “TV likes to laugh at people. And it doesn’t hang around to pick up the pieces.”
Malcolm furrows his brow.
“True, very true, Kevin. On the other hand, it can be inspiring and uplifting. Look at that series they did about that school in Yorkshire. Here’s an idea,” Malcolm stands up, energised, “why don’t we get these fellas in and give them the once over, eh? See what we make of them. And if we’re minded to proceed, we can lay down some parameters.”
Simo doesn’t know what parameters are.
“Boundaries. We can tell them that certain things are off-limits. But we’ll do it face-to-face. And if we don’t like the look of them, fine. On the other hand, if they seem straight enough…well, it’d be a shame for TV audiences not to hear Albie sing, wouldn’t it?”
Albie grins sheepishly. Mohammad starts performing one of his poems for Malcolm, but Malcolm’s PA sticks her head round the door to remind him he’s late for something. She’s a very good PA.
We googled “Going Forward Productions” and found that most of their documentaries had titles that ended in exclamation marks. But, when we watched the actual programmes, they weren’t that bad. Even the one about annoyingly passive, ludicrously obese people (Fat and Furious!) managed to maintain a reasonably sympathetic tone. So it was agreed that we should proceed with a meeting.
The execs came to see us, Julian and Michelle. The whole group attended, with Malcolm acting as chairman. Julian was affable and articulate, while Michelle said very little, probably because most of the group (apart from me) kept staring at her legs. They were trying desperately hard not to, but somehow that just made the whole situation feel even more embarrassing. I wanted to explain to her that they didn’t mean to be intimidating, but I couldn’t work out how that explanation would start.
Julian laid out, in broad terms, how they pictured the documentary, which was – guess what – people going on a journey. He saw it as an uplifting piece of television. I itemised my concerns and eventually, after about forty minutes of discussion, Malcolm came up with five conditions which they would have to accept as part of the contract:
1) There would be no detailed reference to the sequence of events that led to my being in prison;
2) I would do no solo pieces to camera;
3) I would be on screen for no more than ten per cent of the programme;
4) They could only film rehearsals when it had been agreed beforehand;
5) We would have final approval on the edited programme.
The fact that they conceded so easily on the last point did make me wonder if they were serious programme-makers, but we had got what I wanted and Malcolm felt any “qualms” had been addressed, so we all shook hands and they said they’d be back to start filming in two weeks.
When they came back, Michelle was wearing a trouser suit.
16
The Old Face
The following weeks were largely uneventful. The show continued to get fleshed out. Gerald wrote a very funny sketch about a rooftop protest which we incorporated into the show and Dougie somehow persuaded Albie he should sing a solo – “I Dreamed A Dream” – a song that I loathe, but I could listen to Albie sing it again and again. Dougie and Albie were forming quite a bond, which seemed the most unlikely of pairings: a bit like a lion befriending a hamster.
There was one unexpected surprise for me: I got a visit from Mac.
“Have you been buggered in the showers yet?” he begins, cackling and wheezing like an old crone.
“Really? Is that the best you can come up with after a couple of hours on a train?”
“I’ll take that as a yes.”
We then launch into our usual tropes about how everything’s been ruined by overpaid wankers. It feels good,
like sliding your feet into old slippers. Then he changes the register of our conversation.
“I went to Sandra’s wedding.”
I aim for nonchalant – and miss.
“Oh…right…how was it?Was it OK?”
“Aye, it was cracking.”
He takes out his phone to show me some photos, whether I want to see them or not.
“There she is. Doesn’t she look great?”
“Her smile’s a little tense.”
“Oh…yeh, well I think I’d just said something inappropriate.”
“Pete looks like he’s won the lottery. What do you make of him?”
“Well…he’s…gentle, considerate, solid, reliable.”
I can see where this is heading.
“All right, Mac, OK.”
“She’s married the Anti-Kevin.”
“I said OK.”
Mac chuckles and slaps me affectionately on the shoulder.
“And she looked happy?” I ask.
“Very happy.”
“That’s good.”
“Yes, it is.”
“You can put the phone away now.”
“No, no, no, you’ve got to see this, this is hilarious.”
I sit there for a few moments, as he trawls incompetently through YouTube.
“Ah, here it is, clock this.”
It’s a clip of Derek, on a daytime TV sofa, talking about his autobiography. I don’t want to look, but Mac’s right, it is hilarious, so I put my revulsion to one side for a moment. Derek is talking about emotional rebirth and the two presenters are trying to move him on to a lighter topic. But Derek won’t be stopped. He is now likening himself to a phoenix. He is emerging from the ashes of pain, through the fire of personal discovery. Oh this is wonderfully, fist-bitingly bad. Mac and I are laughing so much that we’re getting looks from the other visitors.
Suddenly, one of the presenters manages to stop Derek in his tracks by asking him about me. For a split second, there’s anger behind his eyes. He says he doesn’t really want to talk about me because I represent a chapter of his life that caused him considerable distress. Then he’s off again, telling the daytime audience how he draws positive energy from the inner sun he’s discovered.
The Star Witness Page 21