He wonders if the people driving by ever look over to where he’s standing, not that they would be able to see him from that distance, but the thought of someone—anyone—glancing up is reassuring. He imagines the round face of a child, partly obscured by a frosting of breath on the glass, pressed to a back-seat window.
There is loud celebration from the basketballers. Pats on backs. All these men. What happens to men without women or children? An entire world in here with its own ecosystem, churning away like those places on maps he used to pore over as a boy. The Amazon Jungle. The Sahara. The fucking Congo.
A heat haze trembles in the air around the razor wire atop the fences and hovers over the distant rooftops. It reminds him of water. Is he anywhere near the coast? If he were to escape from here, he would go to the sea, walk right into it, out to the breakers, past the salty smash of surf. He remembers his mother wearing large sunglasses, dislodging a strand of hair with the heel of her hand, and Claire marching with a yellow bucket, leaving perfectly formed footprints in the wet sand. The aching sun, a golden flare of light beneath a red beach umbrella.
A bloke called Morris comes up and stands beside Lee. Morris doesn’t say anything but Lee can feel his crackling presence, like a powerline. Morris is bald and nuggety. He wears a faded blue singlet, as if he’s just a plumber having a smoko, the top half of his overalls rolled down so the shoulder straps dangle around his thighs. Morris has meaty hands and speaks from the side of his mouth. He is a chronic gambler who cooked up a credit-card scam that netted him more than fifty grand until he was caught. That’s what Morris says, anyway. Morris will bet on anything, given half a chance. He’d bet on two flies walking up a wall. That’s what they say about him. Morris hates a lot of things but he hates losing a bet more than anything. They say it took four coppers to subdue him after he lost ten grand on a dead cert at Flemington a few years ago and nearly smashed up the members’ bar. Lee has already been warned about Morris.
Lee doesn’t really acknowledge Morris, but nor does he ignore him. He just throws across a nod, so slight there is no way it can be misinterpreted, and gazes out over the horizon. In another place, on a mountain top or something, it might be a companionable silence, but there is no such thing in prison; there’s always something else going on. Morris sniffs, takes out a crumpled packet of White Ox and rolls a cigarette expertly, jamming the packet into the waistband of his rolleddown overalls as he does so. The raw smell blows past Lee when it is lit. One of the dark smells of prison, like piss and disinfectant and concrete.
They stand in silence for several minutes before Morris indicates a cluster of low houses. See those houses over there?
The day seems to have become hotter in the past ten minutes and the fierce glare makes it difficult to discern the houses in question. Exercise period must almost be finished for the day. Lee wipes his forehead with the back of one hand and nods anyway. Yeah.
That’s where me mum and dad live.
Unsure exactly what’s expected of him, Lee nods again and makes a noncommittal sound. He still doesn’t look at Morris. He feels like a cigarette himself but doesn’t move to light one. He just wants Morris to go away. He wishes someone would approach and short-circuit this conversation. Where’s Simon, his cellmate, his only friend in here? People seem to leave Simon alone, which is what Lee wants for himself.
Thought I might buy ’em a telescope for Christmas, Morris goes on. That way, they’ll be able to check in on me every day. Keep an eye out, you know? Make sure I’m not getting into any mischief. And he laughs in a monotone way. Not that you can get up to anything here. This is prison, after all. Nothing but . . . rehabilitation. He says rehabilitation carefully, giving each syllable plenty of room, like he’s only recently learned to say it or he’s talking with a child or something. Like they can turn us back into what we used to be, before it all went wrong. You reckon that’s possible, you think we can get back to where we used to be?
Lee shrugs.
Morris flicks his head to one side and there is a damp plop of a bone or joint cracking into place. Oh, he murmurs. That’s better. Me neck’s all out ’cause of these fucking bunks or something. You have that problem?
Lee shakes his head and looks around. A young guy called Carl is slumped sideways against the wire fence nearby. Carl seems to be having trouble standing and the fence balloons outwards with his weight. Carl always has a fresh wound of some sort and today his right eye is swollen shut. The front of his blue overalls is patterned with blood. Repeatedly he leans and spits. Carl is on his own. Carl is always on his own. Nobody will associate with someone so obviously doomed. Prison remakes people, the screws told Lee when he first arrived, but never into anything of their own choosing. Lee looks away and busies himself with a cigarette.
Morris still watches him, as if gauging his response to Carl’s plight. Doesn’t look too good that bloke. I reckon, not that I’m a doctor or anything. I’m no expert and I don’t know who that guy is, but I reckon he’s on his way out. He sniffs and flicks his cigarette butt into the dirt. I guess some blokes aren’t cut out for things in here, you know?
Lee takes a drag on his cigarette. It’s like inhaling an entire desert. There is a shout of jubilation from the basketballers and another desultory round of abuse from Simmo and Greene. Lee sort of nods, as if he’s digesting the importance of what Morris has been saying, and stares past the shimmering fences to the wall beyond. A guard comes out of his post and strolls along the walkway. His belt buckle glints in the sunlight but otherwise he’s an insubstantial shape, the antenna of his rifle jutting from his back.
It’s Lee, right? Morris says.
Yeah.
Morris.
And Morris sticks out his hand so Lee is forced to turn to face him. Morris’s grip is solid, meaningful.
How’d you end up in here, Lee?
Oh, they drove me in a van, you know . . .
Morris laughs loudly and other prisoners turn to look at them. Nah mate. What did you do? To get slotted?
Lee flushes with embarrassment and hitches his baggy overalls to buy some time. The overalls material is still thick and stiff; it’s like wearing a tent. He knows Morris is waiting for his response, can feel him staring at the side of his face. All crims lie about themselves, it’s part of the whole game. They make their crimes more spectacular for other crims and tone them down for the general population. But here, where status is everything, the lies take on a mythic quality. If Lee believed everyone, all pickpockets would be fearsome muggers, all thieves armed robbers and every two-bit junkie the Mr. Big of the entire class-A drug world. Crime, like any pursuit, thrives and falters on ambition.
Although, Morris goes on as he rolls another cigarette, we’re all innocent here, aren’t we?
Lee chuckles and hoists his overalls again. Sweat trickles down his ribs. He knows the truth won’t do and wishes the whistle would sound for them to return to the block. His crimes are of carelessness as much as anything. Small-time stunts: burgs and stolen cars, vandalism, the sort of thing any bored kid gets up to in a country town.
But he has a story for himself, prepared well in advance. Breaking and entering, he says at last in what he hopes is a nonchalant tone. Aggravated assault. Went into a place in the middle of the day and a woman was home. He sucks the last from his cigarette and grinds it underfoot.
Morris waves a fly from his face. Damn. That’s a bit rough. Nice boy like you. Who would have thought.
The low whistle sounds and the men in the yard begin moving like cattle towards the gate that leads back to the main block. Relieved, Lee turns to join them, but Morris leans in close, shoulder to shoulder, not quite preventing him from leaving but almost. Lee can detect the sweet barber-shop smell of hair oil or shaving cream. Cheap prison soap.
Morris smirks before grabbing at his own crotch, rolling his eyes and growling in a parody of pleasure. Did you give her a little something? You know, give the bitch a little something to remember you by? H
ey, Lee. You know what I mean, right? I always give them a little something. Got to take what you can get, right?
Lee stops and looks at Morris. He needs to pull this off. By now they are standing so close he is aware of the heat of Morris’s thick body. Course, he says at last. What you think I’m fucking doing here?
Morris doesn’t move, maintains contact. He jams a stubby forefinger into one ear and waggles it back and forth a few times. Smile gone now, he inspects Lee before removing the finger and wiping whatever he’s gathered there on his singlet. He nods, ever so slowly, as if he’s been told something unlikely. Right, he says. I see.
Lee senses the other prisoners watching them and scuffs at the dirt with the toe of one shoe. Morris still waits, even though most of the other prisoners have been checked off and have filed out of the exercise yard. Lee doesn’t want to walk inside with him but Morris just stands there with his hands in his pockets until they are hurried along by the screws. In the end they pass together through the corral made by three wire fences and along a corridor beneath caged fluorescent lights.
It’s later that day that Simon again warns Lee about Morris. The cell they share is small and sparse. The walls are unevenly textured with grey institutional paint layered across rough brickwork over many years, worn thin and grimy at shoulder height. The paint is easy to peel off and comes away like ancient toenails. Photos are arranged haphazardly across the walls. Some are of Simon’s family and others have been left behind by previous inhabitants. Just people, gazing out from the walls. A boy of about two standing beside a car with his mum, the pair of them squinting into the sunlight. Strangers, some of the photos probably been there for years, long before Lee’s time. Pages torn from porn magazines, signs and markings, a selection of crude limericks. There are sketches of naked women reduced to curves and fierce scratches of hair, just the parts that matter. In one corner is a washbasin and a dull steel toilet with no seat. There are no removable parts anywhere. A desk cluttered with empty cigarette packets and Simon’s notebooks.
The hot air in the cell is laced with the smell of lighter fluid as Simon painstakingly fills his lighter. The fluid is forbidden, of course, but the screws turn a blind eye, as they do to so many things. Lying on his side on the lower bunk, Lee watches Simon’s cropped head bent to his task at the desk. He doesn’t know what Simon is inside for but imagines it to be something ingenious—fraud or safecracking. Simon is full of ideas and often leaps up in the middle of the night to scrawl notes down in his books. Simon jokes about the other prisoners and has an old man’s laugh, even though he is probably only forty.
You seen that guy Carl? Simon asks without looking up. Out in the yard?
Yeah. Course.
Well. He’s one of Morris’s.
Morris did him over?
Simon makes a face and twitches one foot as he concentrates. He is always jiggling his foot or drumming his fingers, ever since he gave up drugs a month ago. Is, he says. Is doing him over. Most days. If you’ve got a couple of pals like Simmo and Greene to hold someone down, you can do pretty much anything to a bloke. People will always be as cruel as they’re allowed to be, and in here, well . . .
Simon reassembles his lighter and thumbs the wheel to produce a long, wavering flame. He clinks it shut and blinks at Lee through grubby glasses. You could call it an initiation, I suppose. That might be a good word for it.
But why him?
Simon shrugs. No reason. Got to be someone. That’s how it works.
Lee rolls onto his back and picks at the intestinal-coloured wadding poking through the rusting springs of Simon’s bunk above. Sweaty hair sticks to his forehead. When he thinks of Morris, all he can see are the hairs bristling from each of his nostrils, like there’s a mob of spiders living up there. He is trying, really trying, to hide the panic stalking his body. Instinctively he knows he must keep everything to himself. No light can escape. Be as secretive as an oyster. It’s a futile task. He coughs and pulls a handful of wadding away. It’s kind of hard to avoid people in here, he says.
Simon lights a cigarette with trembling hands. Yes. Well, that’s the thing. The way I see it, you got three choices: stay so low that nobody ever knows who you are; be scary so nobody comes near you; or make yourself useful so people are happy to have you around.
Which are you?
Simon pauses. Well. I used to be useful, when I was getting dope for people and stuff. But now? Now I’m just scary.
Lee laughs. With his notebooks and glasses, it’s impossible to imagine Simon scaring anyone. But Simon doesn’t laugh, just picks up a glass of water and drinks deeply from it.
There is a slamming sound from the walkway outside, followed by the blunt laughter of two or three men. Lee and Simon remain silent for some time. Lee lies back and closes his eyes, tries to imagine himself away from here, to imagine what might otherwise have become of him. What other, better selves might there be out in the world? It is an old game, one he has played with himself for years. He feels a hand pressed to his chest. He tries to jerk upright but is held down. Shit, he thinks. Is this it already? But it’s only Simon leaning over him. The door is closed.
Listen, Simon says in a low voice. I’m going to tell you something I shouldn’t, because you helped me with that dope thing, so I owe you a favour. What I heard was, Morris bet Rocco two hundred bucks that he’d have you on your knees sucking his cock by Sunday. And every day after that. Simon takes his hand away and clambers into his own bunk. And you know how Morris hates to lose a bet.
Lee sits up so fast he almost bangs his head against the upper bunk. His heart grinds in his chest. Shit. You sure?
He swings around and sits on the side of his bed. He lights a cigarette, which burns unsteadily, damp from his sweaty fingers. Someone sings in the tier below. Oh, my daaaaarling Clementine.
Then Simon speaks from his bunk above, as if he’s read Lee’s thoughts: Today’s Thursday.
Part Two
12
Lee woke in the semi-darkness of late afternoon and instinctively searched it for intimations of light. His tongue lay in his mouth, heavily, as if just placed there. If not for the absence of noise, he might have assumed he was in prison still. Even the machinery of his own body, with its myriad grumbles and burrs, was silent.
After some time the world came back to him, apportioned sense by sense: a shaft of pale light; the electrical hum of powerlines directly outside; the smell of a cold afternoon; the dull weight of pain across his body. He remembered he was in a motel somewhere, but this didn’t make him feel any better. After all, he was in a motel somewhere earlier today. Or was that yesterday?
Gasping with pain, he wrenched himself into a sitting position. The suitcase was beside him on the bed. He opened it and checked the contents. The money, his money, all there. He closed the warped lid, patted it and lurched into the bathroom. The fluorescent light hummed. After pissing, he stared at his reflection in the cracked mirror on the wall, leaning on the basin’s cold rim for support. He splashed water into his eyes. He prodded his cheeks, ran a palm over his features, heard the soft crackle of his boyish whiskers. The man in the mirror did the same, a visual echo. Again he ran a palm over his face. The small sound of skin upon skin is like no other, has no equivalent in nature or art. His reflected selves regarded each other with interest and envy. Men fear other men in a way women never could, because they alone know what they are capable of.
Lee looked old, as if time had crept up on him while he slept and committed secret acts. He was unshaven and his eyes were red and rimmed with moisture. Water dripped from his chin. A sudden, unwelcome thought: he was looking at the face that, for one man, had been the final human landscape he ever saw. What would it be like to carry an image of that face—his face—across that particular distance?
He became aware of a dim, human burbling and held his breath to listen. Low, furry voices from the neighbouring room. A man and woman, perhaps. A gasp of laughter, a woman’s throaty laugh. He tho
ught of that expression—what was it?—that his mother used to say: Laughed like a drain. The woman laughed like a drain. He pressed his ear closer to the wall.
He listened some more and, by his twilight divination, conjured an image of her: the brown and curling hair, always with a rebel strand dangling across one eye; thin lips; the dark cream of her throat; the habit of putting a hand to her mouth when she laughed, usually at one of her own jokes. The elements that constitute a person, the trail of a thousand crumbs. The way she sat on the couch with bare legs folded beneath and her cheek resting on the cushion of her upper arm, how she rubbed at an eyebrow when she was thinking. Hey, Tom. Grab me a drink will you, honey?
Unconsciously, Lee leaned in as if aboard a listing vessel, until the soft shell of his ear was flush with the wall. Although he was unable to make out actual words, some primal human seismograph enabled him to discern the rhythm of narrative through intonation alone. He closed his eyes. The man was telling a story, perhaps recounting the time he fell asleep on a park bench on New Year’s Day, or else mimicking his mother-in-law. The woman’s laughter grew louder, unravelled from her red mouth, and Lee found himself, as the story corkscrewed to its conclusion, smiling along with her, inhaling the intimacies of strangers. He imagined the tangle of their limbs in bed, probably only a few feet away, on the other side of this flimsy wall. Strange that people could be so close and yet utterly unaware of him. He could tap on the wall, or cry out. A small act was all that was required, a small, dense and difficult act. A flexing of muscles, an explosion of air from his mouth. A signal from one human being to another.
The Low Road Page 8