by Mel Jacob
‘Go and read the sign,’ I said to Nick, who was now reading fluently.
He walked down to the gate, skim-read the sign and walked straight back. ‘This jail is so restrictive, you can’t even have leaves!’ Nick said at children’s volume, a much higher level than required. As a result, the rest of the line began to titter. Nick looked up at me quizzically.
‘You know the leaf on the sign? It’s a marijuana leaf. A type of drug,’ I whispered.
‘I didn’t know,’ Nick said, burning with shame.
‘I’m glad you don’t know what a marijuana leaf looks like, you’re eight years old!’
At 12.37, seven minutes after the visit was due to start, a round-bellied CO with a cockney accent approached. ‘Didn’t you folks get the message? Visits are cancelled today.’
The mild annoyance I was feeling turned to fury. How can they do this? I raged inside.
And then I noticed that the CO was unfolding a small card table and an assortment of stationery. It wasn’t until he passed a bundle of green visitors’ forms through the gate that I realised he wasn’t just a CO, he was an aspiring comedian.
We progressed in the queue and, at around 12.50, it was our turn to be processed. The comedian/CO, who was now seated at the table, checked my driver’s licence and Medicare card against my form. Then it was time for the contraband spiel: no mobile phones, prescription medication, prohibited weapons of any kind, alcohol, sharp implements, paper money . . . Then I had to place my handbag in a plastic bag, and a different CO scanned us with a hand-held wand.
In the small office across from the visiting area my ID was checked again, and placed in a pigeonhole for easy access during visits. I was given a key for a locker, and everything except a total of twenty dollars in coins had to be locked inside it.
‘Dad!’ the kids chorused as Patrick emerged at the entrance of the visiting area. We took turns hugging him and then sat around the small table. Nick mumbled a perfunctory greeting and spent the next few minutes rubbernecking the vending machine. Lexie refused to say hello because she hadn’t been allowed a chocolate bar, as she hadn’t finished her sandwich which had to be left outside.
‘How’s school?’ Patrick asked, with more enthusiasm than the question warranted.
‘Good,’ Lexie said, without any enthusiasm.
‘Not good,’ Nick said, craning his head to see past the queue.
‘Tell me three things I don’t know about your day at school yesterday,’ Patrick said, using a technique we’d used in the past to try to get Nick to communicate.
‘I didn’t go to school yesterday,’ Nick said.
‘Me neither,’ Lexie added.
‘Why didn’t you go to school?’ Patrick asked the kids. And then me, ‘Why didn’t they go to school?’
‘Nick had growing pains in the night, and I was up massaging him and running a bath, and in the morning I was just too exhausted.’
‘You need to be tough on them,’ Patrick said, and I felt a pang of resentment.
‘Can I get a chocolate now?’ Nick asked.
‘Wait till the line dies down a bit,’ Patrick suggested. Nick sighed and Lexie twisted angrily in her seat.
‘Have you got any new Pokémon cards?’ Patrick asked Nick, holding his hand.
‘Not into that anymore,’ Nick said, unenthused.
‘What about new rocks or fossils for your collection?’ Patrick asked.
‘Don’t collect them anymore.’
‘Because Graham said he could take us to that property near Cessnock again . . . the one with all the fossils.’
‘Yeah, that’d be good,’ Nick said, unconvincingly, before joining the vending machine queue. ‘All the good stuff’s gone,’ he said, having returned. ‘There’s only Bountys and Picnics, and cans of tuna.’
‘There must be something you can have,’ I said, heading back with him to the vending machine. We walked past other men, some of them the size of bears. The energy of the place felt menacing and dangerous.
The kids were right; the vending machine was almost empty.
‘Must have been cleaned out from this morning’s visit,’ I said.
‘You don’t say,’ Nick replied, sarcastically—something that was dangerously close to becoming a habit.
‘What about chips or a soft drink?’ I suggested.
‘There’s only plain mineral water and salt and vinegar.’
‘Well, they’re the choices. You can have something here or I can get you something on the way home.’
Nick bought a packet of salt and vinegar chips and a Bounty for Patrick. They were demolished quickly and the conversation stalled. It was not like Lexie to be lost for words but again, in a contrived setting, loaded with so much expectation, she didn’t utter a word. When I was on the phone or at a bank counter or speaking to another person, I couldn’t get Lexie to stop talking. And here, with her dad, who wanted to hear her talk more than anything else in the world, she was deathly silent.
There were no card games, or pens and paper to play Mr Squiggle or Pictionary, the game the kids had grown so fond of. So we improvised. We played a guessing game by drawing pictures on each other’s backs. The kids, who are both very ticklish, warmed to this, and soon enough Lexie was in the mood to talk.
‘You know Tate and Curtis from school?’ Lexie began.
‘Not yet but I’d love to meet them—’
‘Well, they’re identical, which means exactly the same but that’s not actually true—’
Bang! Bang!
Lexie’s story was interrupted by the sound of an inmate hitting the table and then yelling. A CO rushed over to discipline him. At the same time a woman wearing a Shine badge accompanied two boys to another table to sit with a brawny man almost entirely covered in tattoos. Paddy’s sister Clare had told me about Shine. It offered onsite child minding, a play area, and a place for parents to drop in and unwind.
‘You were saying that Tate and Curtis are identical . . .’ Patrick said, trying to reignite the conversation, but the moment was gone.
‘Why is that woman talking to the wall?’ Lexie asked.
‘Because Abbass, her husband, broke some rules. He got caught with drugs, so he’s not allowed to have face-to-face visits anymore,’ Patrick explained. ‘He’s behind the wall, she’s talking to him.’
‘Is he in time out,’ she said.
‘Yeah,’ Patrick agreed.
We continued improvising with words games and drawing on each other’s backs until we ran out of steam. Nick and Lexie had both become more mature since Patrick had first gone away, and were aware that asking to go or complaining about boredom would hurt his feelings. So, very discreetly, they whispered they wanted to go home.
As 2.30 approached, we said goodbye to Patrick and joined the queue to leave the visitors’ area. At first I wondered why the exiting visitors were lining up.
‘Jones clear,’ a CO called, standing in the doorframe of the adjacent building, his black-latex-gloved hand ready for action.
‘Abdulla, clear,’ he called, and Abdulla’s family exited the visitors’ area.
We waited until a CO called, ‘Jacobs, clear,’ to indicate that he had been searched and we were permitted to leave.
‘We should go and check out the kids’ play area,’ I suggested to Nick and Lexie.
‘No offence,’ Lexie said, as we walked beyond the car park to the small grassed area where Shine was located, ‘but that jail is the worst, most horrible place in the entire world.’
‘No, it’s the most boring place in the history of the world,’ Nick weighed in.
‘I agree it’s not that fun, but I don’t think it’s the most horrible or most boring. I reckon there’re worse places,’ I said.
‘Yeah, like what?’ Nick said, with the cynicism of an embittered old man.
‘What about a volcano, or a snake hole, or a . . .’
‘Toilet,’ Lexie said. ‘Like, actually inside the toilet . . .’
‘
Yeah, we get it,’ I replied.
‘Orchestra’s more boring,’ Nick added and I gave him a playful hug.
We walked up onto the balcony of the play area and knocked on the door.
‘And who do we have here?’ asked a woman, her voice as smooth as caramel. She looked to be in her fifties; her hair was swept back into a large bun.
‘This is Nick and Lexie, and I’m Mel.’
‘Barb,’ she said warmly. ‘Let me show you round.’ I could immediately tell that Barb didn’t have a job, she had a vocation.
The first room had a couch, a TV and a DVD collection, complete with all the necessary cords. There was an excellent variety of books and toys for all ages, and a large cage with brightly coloured budgies. ‘And I bet you like drawing,’ Barb said to Lexie.
‘As a matter of fact, I do love drawing,’ Lexie said, taking Barb’s hand, as she led us through to the adjoining room. ‘I like painting as well, but my favourite thing—’ Lexie stopped abruptly, sensing the shift of energy in the room. Inside, were three other children: a young girl, and two boys with long rat’s tails. The eldest boy wore old, stained clothes that looked more like rags, and the youngest boy, who, at a guess, would have been two, was wearing only a T-shirt. The three children didn’t say anything but they were hostile. Nick and Lexie both tensed with fear, the way I’d seen them do in the presence of aggressive dogs.
‘Where’s your nappy gone?’ Barb said to the youngest boy.
The girl, who was wearing a skimpy purple dress, responded to Barb, with words I could not understand.
‘Excuse me for a moment,’ Barb said, ‘while I get a nappy for the little one.’
As soon as Barb exited the room, the youngest boy gave us the bird, and the eldest ran his finger across his neck, presumably suggesting we were going to die.
We’d been to a maximum-security prison visitation room, in the presence of men convicted of murder, manslaughter and armed robbery. But being in a room with those three small children scared me more than anything else I’d seen. There was a wildness in these children’s eyes. Something so volatile and unpredictable. If someone told me they’d been raised by wolves, I would have believed them. Even with the violent energy of the visitors’ room, there was a sense of restraint. Whether it was because the men knew the rules and the consequences of breaking them, or whether it was the presence of the guards, I don’t know. I shuddered at the horror these kids must have already seen in their short lives.
Nick and Lexie both looked up at me.
‘Want to go?’ I asked, already knowing the answer.
‘Yeah, youse can fuck off,’ the older boy said.
I thanked Barb, and we walked out of the centre in silence. It was only later, when we had driven out of the prison gates, into Sentry Drive and onto the M7, that Lexie said, ‘Mum, you know how you said that there are worse places than visiting Dad?’
‘Yes.’
‘That kids’ play place is, like, infinity times worse.’
THIRTY-FOUR
Parklea Correctional Centre
5 June 2014
Beauty,
Thanks for work clothes and going to the effort to buy new blue ones. Such a relief not to be in green. Used to be my favourite colour.
Thanks also for the joggers.
Inmate: What brand are they, Jacobs? Your wife get ’em at Foot Locker?
Me: No, Costco—$26.
Inmate: So, it’s over?
Me: No, why?
Inmate: Only a woman who doesn’t love you would buy shoes like that.
Got back from work release to discover that someone has designed name and logo on the back and sides of joggers. Winners.
Relief to be on work release each day. So grateful to James for organising the warehousing job for me. Coming back at end of the day is hard as men locked up with nothing to do. So much pent-up anger and aggression and nowhere to channel it.
Day 3 of work release, stuff moved to cell with ice addict. Sleep impossible as he leaps around cell like Parkour maniac. Finally stopped moving but noise of him scratching skin is unbearable. Have to leave at 5.45am to catch the first bus to work. Catch two buses and train and same back.
Major problem with me going to work release is my stuff is being taken out of the room. Not able to lock it. Reported to COs but they don’t care.
Me: You might not realise but the clothes and food are mine. See, it has Jacobs clearly labelled on it.
Inmate: (laughing) Yeah, we realise, that’s why we took it—What are you going to do about it? (laughing even harder)
Have tried to make my letters to you light-hearted but v. hard to find positives about this place. So dispiriting. Privately run. Poor resources. No sporting equipment. No educational programs for people in my section (Area 4). Not a shred of evidence supporting rehabilitation. Can only assume is for profit and not people.
Men who are readers are discouraged about state of books. Approx forty? (Old and uninspiring). Inmate loved High Fidelity, The Fault in our Stars, About a Boy and esp. The Book Thief. Maybe being in here and loving books, it really spoke to him. Said I should read it, but too thick, will have to wait for movie. Inmate put in request for Zusak’s other book, The Message??? But denied. CO said inmates ‘a) aren’t interested in books and b) as thick as two bricks’. Can you leave some more books with James when you drop off lunch food? Can take in one book per day (down pants). Inmate can’t wait for me to get back. Reads a book a day—more than you. Maybe when I get out you can write a book called The Book Smuggler!
Meant to be able to cook food we purchase from buy up but no utensils or cookware etc. Sporting equipment/privileges taken away each time someone breaks a rule. Men are so depressed and angry. I understand tough love or zero tolerance, or whatever they like to call it, but there must also be some incentive to do the right thing. Morale so low, surely evidence that it’s not working. Their spirits have already been broken. I believe it’s why so many of them have turned to drugs. DOC doesn’t consider why. Don’t look deeper. If they did, might question why they are in so much pain.
Saw Current Affair-type program on TV about paedophiles that are required to wear ankle bracelets. Show reported ankle device equals paedophile. After program, bus driver on the way to Blacktown station refused to say hello or even look at me. Previously always greeted me. Bracelet visible with shorts. Need to wear shorts because it is so hot lifting furniture in the warehouse.
I know visitors area is small and boring for kids. Highlight of my week seeing you all. Understand if too hard for kids, though.
Hoped I could make a difference to someone’s life in here. Even in just a small way but I haven’t managed to do anything. Haven’t even made a dent. All I want to do now is survive.
Love,
Paddy
P.S. Put application in for weekend release so everything will be in place for when I’m eligible, last weekend in Nov. Counting down the days. Can you please make sure the pool is good to go? My neck is killing me and can’t use Tiger Balm or Deep Heat or anything, floating in the pool always helped.
P.P.S. James told me story of Tom having posted on Facebook wanting someone to deliver a package from Bondi to Darlinghurst —he’s a funny one. I believe he wants to turn his life around 100 per cent but don’t go picking up any packages from a convicted drug dealer!
THIRTY-FIVE
It’d been nineteen months since Patrick went away. Things had settled down into a routine and I was closer to acceptance than I’d ever been, but events like excursions or children’s parties filled me with anxiety. Before he went away, I’d regularly volunteered at school to do reading, and had been on excursions. I still volunteered one afternoon a week but had explained to the kids that, for now, in this season of our lives, I couldn’t do any more than that.
Nick had an excursion coming up and he was at me to go. I juggled a few things around at work so I could make it. On the morning of the walk, the large group of students and a handful of
parents had gathered at the start of a trail in the national park in Wentworth Falls.
The students were instructed to apply sunscreen before we set off, and while a few students grumbled one pale, freckled-faced boy downright refused. A bout of scuffling followed as the mother, Kerri, attempted to apply sunscreen as her son arched back to avoid it, causing her to trip over a branch.
Kerri looked the way I had felt so many times since having children: exhausted and embarrassed. I loved Nick and Lexie with such passion and ferocity, but at times they felt like emotional vampires, sucking every last bit of energy out of me.
I offered Kerri my hand.
‘Not easy, is it?’ I said as Kerri wiped her the dirt and sunscreen from her pants.
‘No,’ she said curtly, ‘especially when you’re a single parent! You’ve got no idea.’
I barely knew Kerri, or any of the other parents since I’d stopped doing school pick-ups. Our sons weren’t friends and I didn’t know the first thing about her life, but it was interesting that she’d made an assumption about the apparent ease of mine.
‘Last year and a half’s given me a fair idea,’ I said. We were at the back of the group, the students listening to a safety talk.
‘What do you mean?’
‘You haven’t heard?’
‘Have you split up?’ Kerri asked.
I was shocked. All this time, I’d assumed that everyone knew Patrick had gone to prison and, naturally, spent every waking hour talking about us.
‘No, but that would be easier to explain,’ I said, taking a moment to decide whether or not I should tell her.
‘Well, I haven’t heard anything.’
‘My husband . . . Nick and Lexie’s father . . . well, he did something really stupid, to do with prohibited weapons’—no matter how many times I said it, it didn’t get any easier—‘and . . . he’s in prison.’
As I’d come to expect, Kerri winced and then just stood there, stunned, as though I’d slapped her. It was like in one of those movies where a person is frozen in time and everything else moves around them.