by M. J. Hyland
I should say I’m sorry, that I’d give my own life to bring Welkin back, but I wouldn’t give up my life to bring Welkin back. I want my life more than I’ve ever wanted it. I want another go.
‘I don’t know why he died,’ I say, ‘but he did. And they’ve locked me up.’
‘It makes no sense. Why are you being accused of murder? Do you know why?’
‘No,’ I say.
She’s stops crying and blows her nose. Her tears end just as suddenly as they began.
‘I don’t understand, Patrick. How could you do this?’
Her voice has changed, it’s colder now, calmer.
‘I don’t know.’
The guard holds his hand up again. One finger. I nod.
‘You’ve destroyed your life. You’ve thrown everything away.’
‘That’s why I wanted to talk to you, so I could—’
‘None of us slept last night or the night before and everybody’s been here waiting to hear from you.’
‘I didn’t mean to kill him,’ I say. ‘It makes no sense.’
‘You already said that.’
‘You’ve ruined everything. You’ve thrown your life away and you can’t even make an apology or own up to what you’ve done. What a horrible and selfish sacrifice.’
‘Mum, listen—'
She sobs again, builds pain with pain, keeps on sobbing without breath or break, and her crying builds momentum like a kind of falling and it can’t be stopped and it might even feel good to be falling.
My father takes the phone.
‘Patrick,’ he says. ‘Your mother can’t speak to you any more.’
‘Yeah, but I was just trying to—'
The guard runs his finger across his neck.
‘Just tell me one thing,’ says my father. ‘Did you hit that man?'
‘Yeah.’
He hangs up.
I turn my back to the nurse and the guard. I don’t want to have them see my face.
‘Let’s go,’ says the guard.
I lower my head, but I’m not turning round. ‘Yeah.’
The guard takes me to the toilet block and showers. The sign on the door says Recess.
‘You need to undress again,’ he says.
He watches me undress, gives me a towel and a toothbrush.
‘Best be careful when you brush the back teeth.’
‘Why?'
‘A lot of men puke first time. Might not know how nervous you are until you stick that toothbrush too far back.’
I stop brushing and turn to the showers, but I can’t find any taps.
He goes away and, when he comes back, there’s water spurting from every nozzle in the shower stalls. I step under the water and turn my back to him and, in spite of everything, the hot water takes off some of the pain and my breath comes less sharp and less shallow.
‘Now dress,’ he says.
‘I need to use the toilet.’
‘Then use it.’
I stand over the urinal but my piss won’t come and when it finally comes it hasn’t got the same smell it usually has.
I zip up.
‘Finished?'
‘Yeah.’
He takes me back to the admissions room where he checks which wing I’m meant to go to.
‘Get him to the barber on Thursday,’ says the guard behind the desk. ‘He’s got hair like a hippy.’
Another guard waits at the gate at the admissions room exit and I’m handed over to him.
‘This is Johnson,’ says the guard. ‘He’s the officer in charge of daytime remand.’
They’re officers, not guards.
‘Right,’ I say.
‘He’s your boss now.’
Johnson’s a huge man, fat and wide, and he’s leaning against the gate. He looks at my face, looks a long time, fixes me with his pale green eyes, as though to memorise me.
I look back, hold his gaze.
‘Come with me,’ he says.
He turns round, opens the gate and I follow him through to the other side. The corridor walls on this side are blue. They were green on the other.
He walks on ahead of me, keeps his left hand on a bunch of keys hanging by a short chain from his trousers. One of his trouser legs is caught in his sock.
‘Hurry up,’ he says.
We reach another set of gates, go through and walk down another corridor. This corridor is just like all the others, painted blue and lit yellow, and it stinks of cleaning fluid.
I’ve noticed that, before he opens the gates, he covers the top of the key with his hand.
‘Why do you do that?’ I say.
‘Take a guess.’
‘I don’t know.’
He stops walking, stands close to me.
‘There was a prisoner here once, he saw one of these keys and made a copy in the metal shop. He had a photographic memory.’
‘Did he escape?’
‘Never seen again.’
He walks on and I follow.
He stops again, turns to me.
‘And you can’t have chewing gum in here for the same reason,’ he says.
‘So you can’t make copies of keys?’
‘That’s right.’
Johnson’s my boss and I’d better get it right. He needs to know who I am.
‘You’d need a lot of chewing gum to do that,’ I say. ‘And you’d also need a key print and a mortice cutter and a marking punch and—'
‘You know something about this kind of thing then? But you’re down for murder, aren’t you?'
‘Yeah, that’s right,’ I say. ‘But I’m not guilty.’
‘Another one who’s innocent,’ he says, and I think I’ve blown it, but he smiles. I might not have blown it.
We stop.
‘Where are all the prisoners?’ I say.
‘It’s lockdown. This is remand. You’re in your cell twenty-three hours a day.’
‘All day and night?'
‘That’s right. Except meals in the mess hall. And you’re in C Wing. Remand,’ he says. ‘This part of the prison is E-shaped, with four main blocks, six wings in each block. Twenty-four wings all told. You’re on the ground floor, known as the ones and down here there’s four wings dedicated for remand. Upstairs, that’s the twos. And then on the third floor, the threes. You’re in the long part of the E. Make sense?'
‘Yeah.’
It makes no sense and I don’t care what shape the prison is. I want to know why I’ll be locked up all day and night.
‘Remand prisoners are kept separate from the rest of the prison population and there are four sets of gates between you and the rest. It’s only a temporary wing though. The usual remand block is being fixed up on the other side of the prison, the other side of the yard.’
‘Okay.’
‘Everything’s down here,’ he says. ‘The mess hall and rec-room and stores and workshops and chapel and library. You don’t go up or down any stairs, or cross any bridges or go into any of the other wings or blocks.’
‘Okay.’
He moves in close, softens his voice. ‘I heard you went to university.’
‘Yeah,’ I say. ‘For a year.’
‘The first night’s the hardest,’ he says. ‘But I’d advise you to stop looking so nervous. They’ll soon learn you’ve never been in before, but don’t let them know how soft you are. Do you follow?'
‘Yeah, thanks. I appreciate that.’
‘Six-thirty is slop-out and showers,’ he says.
He’s stepped away from me and his voice is hard and loud again.
‘You have to be ready to leave your cell before the second siren. Your bed must be made and you must be dressed before chow. After morning chow you clean your cell. Lights out at ten o’clock.’
‘Okay,’ I say.
‘While you’re in remand, you won’t be using the exercise yard and you won’t be in the workshops or stores.’
He looks in through the observation panel of the cell door and then he
slides the latch, lifts the bolt.
‘You’re sharing,’ he says.
‘What’s he like?'
‘Could be worse.’
‘Okay,’ I say. ‘Thanks.’
He moves in close again, whispers, puts his hand on my arm. It feels good to be touched.
‘Good luck, lad.’
He called me lad and the bones in my chest pull tight.
He waits for me to walk in, then slams the cell door shut, locks it, bolts it.
He doesn’t say goodbye.
18
This is it. I need to shit and I need to cry and I can do neither. I stand with my back to the door.
My cell-mate’s sitting cross-legged on the floor between two single cots. He’s about thirty-odd and he’s got a bald head and he’s got a book in his lap, a dirty paperback with red edges on the pages.
He doesn’t look at me.
Aside from his fat gut, he’s scrawny, and he can’t be much taller than me.
He’s been waiting for me and this is the way he’s decided he wants to be seen. Just like Hayes sitting behind his desk and pretending to be busy on my first day at work.
‘Hello,’ I say.
He looks up at me, then down at his book. ‘Yeah, hello.’
He lights a cigarette and his hand shakes when he brings the fag to his mouth.
I pull at the latch so I can call out to get Johnson back. I’ve got to ask him when I can see my brief. I should’ve asked him before.
‘There’s no way out,’ he says.
He goes on looking at the book, but he’s doing a bad job of pretending to read, turns too many pages too fast.
‘I need the toilet,’ I say.
‘There’s one in here,’ he says.
He points to the corner, doesn’t lift his face from the book, tries to act tough, but his hand’s shaking again.
‘Thanks,’ I say.
I move forward. ‘Which bed is mine?'
‘The one nearest the TV.’
There’s no TV.
‘That was a joke,’ he says.
‘So, which one?’ I say.
‘Take the waterbed, I’m bored with it.’
I step round him and the small desk and sit on the cot against the right-hand wall.
‘That’s mine,’ he says.
I get up and go to the other cot, take off my shoes, sit with my back against the wall, put my brief’s card under the pillow, cross my legs.
The only light in the cell comes off a naked electric bulb. It’s so dim it’s probably only a thirty watt. There’s a barred window, a view of a brick wall and no blinds.
Even a hearse has curtains.
There’s no clock and I’ve no idea what time it is.
Somebody’s got to come and tell me I’ve got bail after all, or that Welkin’s alive or in a coma and, if he’s dead, I wasn’t the cause of it. They’ll call me to the hospital and I’ll see him in his bed and I’ll tell him I’m sorry. But that’s bullshit. The cell door’s not going to open, Welkin’s dead, and the pain in my neck and shoulders pounds hard, a throbbing that goes right into my ears as though there’s not enough room in my skull for all the putrid thoughts.
My cell-mate puts his book down, looks up at me. His eyes are brown and dull, and I see what it means to say that somebody’s got beady eyes.
‘My name’s Stevenson,’ he says.
‘I’m Patrick,’ I say. ‘Oxtoby.’
He nods. ‘I know who you are. You killed a bloke ‘cos he stole your alarm clock.’
He knows more than my mother does.
‘Right,’ I say.
He picks his nose as though he’s alone in the cell. ‘What about you?’ I say.
‘What are you in for?'
A siren rings, three long, high-pitched squeals.
Johnson opens the cell door.
‘Get out,’ he says.
Stevenson gets straight up, goes out to the corridor.
‘Time for tea,’ he says.
I haven’t eaten since breakfast, but I’m not hungry. I only want to sleep.
‘I don’t want any food,’ I say.
‘You can suck on air for all we care,’ says Johnson, ‘but you have to go to chow.’
I go out and line up behind about twenty other men.
A lot of them have shaved heads and tattooed arms. I hold my shoulders back, stand tall as I can and brace myself for what’s coming.
Some of the men turn to look at me, but they say nothing.
All of them have their shirt sleeves rolled up and most of them are big and built. I’m about the skinniest guy in the line.
I roll my sleeves up.
We go through two sets of gates and, at the second gate, a prisoner turns round.
‘Hey, new boy!’ he shouts. ‘Did your nut over a clock!'
I clamp my teeth, square my jaw, give a nod I hope looks tough and follow the line through two more sets of gates and then wait outside the mess hall while the men from the blocks above cross the bridges and come down on the spiral metal staircases.
The mess hall door opens.
Stevenson touches my elbow as we go in and, now that we’re standing close, I see he’s a good two inches shorter than me.
‘Keep your trap shut in here,’ he says.
We line up with the others and collect our plastic bowls.
He touches my elbow again. ‘Stop looking round like you’re at Butlins. You’ve got to lay low, Oxtoby.’
A row of prisoners wearing white aprons spoon the stew out of metal vats, but there’s no steam coming off.
I’m given a half-ladle, with potatoes, three slices of bread, a lump of margarine, and an orange.
I follow Stevenson and we sit side by side at a table at the back of the hall, facing into the middle of the room.
‘If you look up there, you can see a bit of sky,’ he says.
He points up at two barred windows. His hand doesn’t shake so much now and he’s got a different attitude, already sick of the earlier routine, or he’s sussed me and decided I’m not a threat.
‘At least there’s some light in here,’ I say.
There’s a crack in my voice and he’s heard it.
‘The first day inside is the worst,’ he says. ‘But you’ve got to eat.’
He watches me while I try to cut through a bit of meat with the plastic fork, then points to a man sitting at the next table.
‘He’s new like you. An alky. Drugged to the eyeballs on Largactil.’
This man is waving his hands in front of his face and he’s kicking at something under the table.
‘He’s probably got the DTs,’ says Stevenson. ‘Snakes and spiders.’
I look down at my plastic bowl. The dark marks round the rim have been made with cigarette burns.
I can’t eat.
‘Do you want my food?’ I say.
‘No. Eat it. Looks like crap, but you’ll be glad you did. It’s a long night the first night and you don’t want an empty belly.’
I look down, wonder if I close my eyes my appetite might come back.
‘You’d better get yourself a dog face,’ says Stevenson. ‘Okay,’ I say.
‘Fuck,’ he says. He’s eaten his slice of bread so fast he’s bitten his lip.
‘You don’t know what a dog face is, do you?’
‘No. I s’pose not.’
‘It’s a face you gotta wear in here. Show no expression. No emotion.’
‘Right.’
‘You look like somebody stole your kitten.’
He eats all his food and makes so much noise it’s as though there’s a microphone in his mouth.
‘You know,’ he says, ‘some lifers only serve about ten years and then they’re out on licence.’
‘What does that mean?’ I say.
‘I’ll tell you later.’
He sticks a segment of orange in his mouth. ‘I shouldn’t eat sugar,’ he says, ‘it gives me an itchy arsehole.’
I’d like to
tell him that the sugar in fruit’s not the same as the kind of sugar that might make his arse itch, but I don’t know what he’s doing time for and he’s been pretty civil so far and I’d like it to stay that way. And I should be careful. Even with that fat paunch, he could probably do me some damage, or maybe he’s connected to the people who do damage.
‘Plastic spoons and tin spoons are just as dangerous as stronger ones,’ he says. ‘Know why?'
‘No.’
‘You can still make a shiv out of plastic or tin. It’s dead easy. I can show you later.’
Suddenly, he stops eating.
There’s a prisoner on the way over. He’s tall and wide, walks slow, with his arms held out a bit from his body. He’s got tattoos on his face, both cheeks covered with badly drawn crucifixes and a half a skull on his left cheek.
‘Here comes the snout-baron,’ says Stevenson. ‘His name’s Walsh.’
Stevenson moves his chair away from mine and Walsh comes up close, stands next to me and puts both hands flat on the table.
‘If you need any snout,’ he says, ‘you see me. If you want credit, I can give you credit, but you pay me back double. If you go to somebody else or don’t pay your debts, you’ll wish you was dead.’
Walsh takes hold of my wrist and pulls my arm up high and hard behind my back. The pain shoots right through and my eyes water so fast there’s nothing I can do to stop it.
‘Got that?’ he says.
‘Yeah.’
When Walsh’s back at his table, Stevenson moves his chair in close.
‘Be careful,’ he says.
‘He can just do that?’ I say. ‘With officers in here?'
‘Most of the screws are on his side. Some are on his payroll.’
I nod.
‘If you cross Walsh you’ll wish you was dead,’ Stevenson says.
He looks down at the table, shakes his head.
‘But you should’ve said something to him.’
‘You told me not to say anything.’
‘You look a bit of a nancy, so he mightn’t bother with you. But I’d still be real careful.’
‘What should I have said? What should I say next time?'
‘I don’t know. Walsh’s bird-happy, so he’s got nothing to lose.’
‘What does bird-happy mean?'
‘He prefers doing bird than being outside.’
The siren sounds and we line up, put our scraps into yellow buckets. As we move through the door, the room darkens. The sun’s gone in again.