This Is How

by M. J. Hyland

  Farrell stops at a cell door near the end of the row.

  ‘Who am I bunking with?'

  He doesn’t answer, doesn’t look at me, just checks his reflection in the shiny black cell door, then shows me in.

  ‘Get in,’ he says. ‘I haven’t got all day.’

  I go in.

  My new cell-mate is Gardam.

  Here he is, in my new cell, sitting up in his cot with two pillows behind his head.

  ‘Hello,’ I say, casual as hell.

  ‘It’s you, then, Ox,’ he says, even more casual than me.

  He smiles and puts his legs over the side of the cot as though he means to stand up to greet me, but he doesn’t stand.

  ‘I thought you might be dead,’ I say.

  ‘I couldn’t manage it. Not yet.’

  He sneezes and wipes his nose on his hand. His eyes are swollen and red.

  ‘How long you been here?’ I say.

  ‘Three days. I got sent down for life.’

  ‘Me too.’

  I sit on my cot with a blanket over my shoulders, fold my arms round my chest for some extra warmth.

  This cell’s even colder than the other, but at least it’s got a toilet and a sink.

  ‘Why isn’t the heating on?'

  ‘It is, it’s just we’re at the end of the row,’ he says, ‘a thousand miles from the boiler.’

  ‘Shit.’

  ‘Next door’s the kit room,’ he says, ‘it used to be the condemned cell where they hanged the likes of us.’

  I know. Dozens of men were executed here. When I was a boy, I used to love to hear the stories. I read all about them and the crimes they’d done.

  Gardam tells me about the psychopath down the landing, a bloke called Smith. A documentary’s just been made about him. He killed eight men, all about the same age as his father, the father who repeatedly raped him when he was a kid, all with red hair like his father. His crimes are like no other on record. Smith’s not exactly a serial killer, because a serial killer’s victims are usually women, but he’s not quite a straightforward psycho either. According to Gardam, Smith said that what he did was revenge on his dead father’s life, but he didn’t mutilate the victims’ bodies like most serial killers do. He killed them quickly. He just strangled them or knifed them.

  ‘And,’ says Gardam, ‘he’s the only one that a true crime book’s been written about.’

  Gardam tells me all the stuff I already know and I pretend to be hearing it for the first time.

  He gets right pissed off if he’s ignored.

  He likes it when I ask him questions.

  So I ask him lots of questions.

  It passes the time and he smokes less when he’s gabbing.

  After lunch, the screw they call The Janitor comes down the hall with his trolley. At each cell he opens and closes the hatch and leaves pills on the narrow shelf.

  A tot’s been left in our hatch.

  ‘These are mine,’ says Gardam.

  He empties the contents of the small white plastic cup into the palm of his hand. ‘Right. Well, these red and white ones are mine.’

  He gives me what’s left, a single paracetamol.

  ‘What do you take?’

  ‘Valium,’ he says. ‘Two every night.’

  He swallows the pills and I wonder why, if he’s really so keen to die, he doesn’t save them up for an overdose.

  ‘Mind what you get hooked on,’ he says. ‘When the screws want to fuck you up, they just forget to bring your dose.’

  After breakfast next morning, Farrell collects me from my cell. I’m seeing the psychologist. He takes me down past admissions and past the deputy governor’s office. I get to see inside the officers’ mess. They’ve got a pinball machine in there and a table piled up with games and magazines.

  We stop at a room at the end of the corridor.

  A woman meets us at the door.

  She’s in her mid-forties, with short red hair, cut in the style of a monk. She’s got a knee-length red skirt, chocolate-brown stockings and a pink, v-neck jumper.

  ‘Do you want me to sit in?’ says Farrell.

  ‘No,’ she says, ‘I’d like you to sit out.’

  ‘Raise the alarm if you need to,’ he says. ‘I’m right outside.’

  He leaves.

  She extends her hand to me.

  ‘Hello, Patrick. I’m Dr Forbes.’

  ‘Hello, doctor.’

  ‘I’m glad you decided to come,’ she says.

  I look at her breasts, tightly packed under that jumper, and a bolt of heat goes through me.

  ‘Take a seat,’ she says.

  The room’s small, dark and warm. Dr Forbes goes to her swivel chair behind the desk. I sit sideways on the chair opposite her, take a look round. There are two filing cabinets, a small bookshelf, and three more swivel chairs.

  ‘I’m going to ask you a few questions about your background,’ she says. ‘Is that all right?'

  ‘Yeah,’ I say.

  ‘And everything you tell me will be treated in the strictest confidence.’

  ‘That’s good,’ I say. ‘I was going to ask you about that.’

  ‘Yes, that’s important. I’ve a form here for you to sign and it sets out the guarantee of confidentiality.’

  I read the form and sign it.

  The window’s small and barred but I can see the yard and beyond the yard the top of the high walls covered with circles of barbed wire. I wonder how the escape plan was going to deal with the wire.

  I used to stand outside these walls and look up at the turrets and wonder if the murderers and bank robbers had cells up the very top. We thought of the prison as being like a castle.

  ‘You have one sibling,’ she says.

  ‘A brother. Russell.’

  ‘Where do you fit in?'

  ‘I’m the youngest by seven years. I’m the runt.’

  ‘Why do you call yourself the runt?’

  ‘I’m a bit smaller than him,’ I say. ‘That’s all.’

  ‘But you’re the bright one? Am I right?’

  ‘Not really.’

  Dr Forbes puts down her pen.

  ‘Are you going to face me?’ she says.

  I’d rather not. Her top’s tight across her breasts and I’ve got an erection.

  I keep my legs crossed, turn round to face her.

  ‘Okay,’ I say.

  ‘Is there anything in particular you’d like to talk about?’

  ‘Not really.’

  A few minutes go by in silence and Dr Forbes has her hands in her lap and looks at me. I suppose this is how it works. She waits for me to speak, but I want her to go first.

  She looks at my dirty canvas shoes.

  ‘I feel sick pretty much all the time,’ I say.

  ‘Do you need to see a doctor?'

  She takes our her diary, flicks some pages.

  ‘I don’t think I’ve got any illness. It’s just what’s happened and the trial and my sentence.’

  ‘Would you like to tell me how you feel?'

  ‘I think about him every day,’ I say. ‘If that’s what you want to know.’

  ‘You can tell me anything at all,’ she says. ‘It’s entirely up to you.’

  ‘I think about what I did all the time,’ I say. ‘But I don’t feel guilty or remorseful.’

  ‘What then?'

  ‘It’s more like embarrassment, like when you lose something really important, leave it on a bus seat or something stupid like that. You know? That fear and shame that goes through you like poison.’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘Well, I get that feeling of shame after doing something stupid, I get it hundreds of times a day.’

  A long pause before she speaks. ‘Do you think you can go on?’

  ‘I’m not going to kill myself, if that’s what you mean.’

  She smiles. She’s got a pretty smile.

  ‘I meant, can you go on speaking. Can you tell me more?'

  ‘A
ll right.’

  I tell her that, if I met Welkin again, I’d want to tell him stuff, like there’s nothing wrong with wanting to save money to buy your own car and nothing wrong with looking at yourself in a mirror when you’re wearing a hat.

  ‘Was that one of the reasons you killed him?'

  ‘What do you mean?'

  ‘That you wanted to say things to him that you couldn’t say?’

  ‘That’s probably part of the reason. Probably frustration.’

  ‘Do you often feel frustrated?'

  I want to stay in here with her, climb under the desk, listen to what the other prisoners say, and later I could go to sleep under her desk and she could go on with her reading or making notes.

  ‘Probably. But I didn’t mean to kill him. I didn’t kill him out of frustration.’

  She waits.

  ‘I’d got into a habit of seeing everybody as an enemy,’ I say.

  ‘Do you know why?'

  ‘Not really. I suppose it was a habit. Like in the shower how I always start with soaping under my armpits.’

  ‘Were you sometimes paranoid?'

  More silence while she waits for me, but I don’t know what to say and dread I might cry.

  ‘Perhaps you wanted to make him say sorry. You wanted him to apologise?'

  ‘Did you read the police statement?'

  ‘Yes,’ she says, ‘of course.’

  ‘Nobody in court did. I don’t even think the judge read it at all. He was a right cunt.’

  ‘And the jury?'

  ‘I think they had better things to do.’

  ‘Are you angry about your conviction?'

  I’m not interested in talking about anger, I get enough of that in the cell from Gardam.

  There’s another silence, a silence even longer than the one before, and the longer it lasts the hotter I get. The silence between us makes me high. I’ve never sat with somebody for so long without talk.

  Dr Forbes stands.

  ‘Our time’s up,’ she says. ‘If you want, you can come back for five more sessions.’

  I say nothing.

  ‘It’s up to you,’ she says. ‘You’re not under any obligation, but I’d like to see you again.’

  ‘I don’t know,’ I say.

  She nods, but I haven’t fooled her. She knows I’ll be back.

  ‘Think about it,’ she says.

  ‘All right,’ I say.

  ‘I will.’

  It’s late the next afternoon, a couple of hours before evening chow.

  Gardam’s with welfare and I’m sitting on my cot playing solitaire.

  A screw comes to deliver a letter.

  ‘Here,’ he says.

  I take it from him and see it’s been opened.

  Dear Patrick,

  I’m writing this letter to tell you that I don’t hate you but like everybody else who cared about you, I’m still very shocked by what you did and I feel really sad for you.

  It must be awful in prison and I’m sorry you’re in prison but I wonder if it might help you see the light and change for the better.

  I’m glad we didn’t get married and it’s strange that suddenly you change from somebody who can’t make up his mind and you decide to make up your mind to do something dreadful and I’m glad I wasn’t your victim. I’m sorry, but that’s how it is. I do feel sorry for you and I don’t hate you and you must be having a terrible time but I’ve met up with your mum a few times and she said (and my friends all said) I should tell you how I feel and that it might help me if I get all this off my chest.

  Sarah.

  p.s.

  You are in our prayers.

  She’s a monster, more malevolent than any of the nuts in here. And what gives her the right to use lies about a God she doesn’t even believe in?

  I go to the sink and douse my face with cold water.

  Gardam comes in.

  ‘What’s wrong with you?'

  I go to the cot and get the letter.

  My hand shakes.

  He takes the letter to his cot and takes his time reading it, mouthing the words slowly as he goes.

  ‘Isn’t she the one with the big scar on her face you was going to marry?'

  ‘Birthmark.’

  He reads the letter again.

  ‘You shouldn’t have wasted your time. She’s a right fucking cow.’

  I sit on my cot and Gardam comes over and sits next to me, puts his hand down near my leg.

  I don’t move away, wouldn’t mind it if he touched me.

  ‘Fuck her,’ he says.

  ‘It’s like a joke,’ I say. ‘You couldn’t make up something that awful.’

  ‘Fuck her.’

  He moves in closer, puts his hand on my leg.

  ‘Fuck this place and fuck her.’

  I stay awake most of the night, hot and tired, my eyes wide open, and I stare into the pitch.

  The siren sounds for slop-out, but I don’t line up for breakfast.

  I go down past the trolley and line up for special-sick.

  ‘What’s wrong?’ says Farrell.

  ‘I can’t sleep and I’m dizzy. I’m sick as a dog.’

  ‘Do you have pills?'

  ‘No.’

  ‘Okay. Get in your cell and I’ll collect you after breakfast.’

  A half-hour after Recess, Farrell takes me to the nurse’s office.

  We cross the yard to get there, through the cold bright daylight.

  I stop walking and look up at the clouds.

  ‘Do you want a minute?’ he says.

  ‘Yeah. Thanks.’

  He stands next to me, but turns away, gives me privacy.

  I breathe in some fresh air, take it all in, pay close attention to the details, even the short, neat grass on the football pitch and then I close my eyes, listen to the birds a minute.

  ‘I’m surprised there are birds,’ I say.

  ‘Because there are no trees?'

  ‘Yeah.’

  ‘They come for all the scraps of food you blokes chuck out the windows.’

  ‘I didn’t know the windows opened.’

  ‘Some do. In the stores and kitchen and in the rec-room.’

  ‘Right.’

  ‘We’d better move along.’

  The nurse is that tall bloke who dealt with me when I first got here, when I landed in remand, the one who stuck his finger up my arse.

  Farrell stands inside the door and I sit at the nurse’s desk.

  ‘Oxtoby,’ says the nurse. ‘You look terrible.’

  ‘That’s how I feel.’

  He asks me questions about what I’ve eaten, my bowel movements, my sleep, and my headaches.

  ‘Any dizzy spells?’

  ‘Yeah, when I stand up.’

  He takes my blood pressure then talks to Farrell.

  ‘He’s got to stay in for a few days.’

  ‘What is it?’

  ‘Hypotension.’

  The nurse takes me outside, across the yard, past the Seg. Unit where the nonces are, across to the other side of the prison, to the hospital.

  It’s a small red-brick block and outside there’s an armed officer on guard. He takes a set of keys out of his pocket and lets us through.

  This must be a newer part of the prison. The walls are gleaming white and there’s a white polished floor with a yellow line showing the way to the wards and such. Where there’s a red line and red arrow marked on the floor, we turn right and stop outside a room at the end of the corridor. The officer takes out a key and opens the single lock. There are no bars and only one bolt.

  I go in with the nurse and the officer leaves.

  It’s a single ward and it’s the size of at least two cells.

  ‘You’ll be checked every hour,’ says the nurse, ‘and that button on the wall beside your bed’s the panic button.’

  The single bed’s bigger than the cot in my cell, and there’s a thick mattress, a bedhead, blue blankets, big pillows with white pillowcases,
a bedside table, a plastic jug for water, and there’s a small bathroom with a shower and toilet.

  It’s like a hotel room compared to what I’ve been in.

  ‘I’ll have to get you on a drip and you need to put these pyjamas on,’ he says. ‘Leave your dirty kit on the end of the bed. We’ll have it taken to the laundry.’

  He goes out and locks the door.

  I change into the clean, cotton pyjamas and sit with my back against the plumped white pillows. The air is fresh and soapy and there’s a window looking out onto a garden with roses climbing up the wall across the way. This must be the governor’s garden.

  I feel like a king. Stevenson told me it was nice being in the hospital. I should ask where he is. He was good to me in remand. I didn’t mind him in the end.

  I know I’ll sleep tonight. It’s quiet in here. There’s still the clanging of doors and shouting, but it’s a more distant noise, not so bad.

  I’ll soon have myself drugged and, when I’ve had some good sleep and a few days in here, I’ll be right again.

  I look out the window and think I’ll probably start up an exercise regime. I might get myself on the football team and go to the gym a few times a week. And, in here, I might make that phone call home. I’d be a lot more comfortable trying to talk to my mum here. If not the phone, then I’ll get some pen and paper and write a letter.

  About an hour later, the nurse comes with a tray of food. It’s proper food, a meat pie and mashed spuds, must be from the officers’ quarters.

  ‘Do what you can with this,’ he says.

  He leaves.

  I try a few mouthfuls, and it’s tasty, but I can’t manage more than a few bites.

  The nurse comes back about twenty minutes later and he has the drip, a clear sac of fluid hanging off a pole.

  ‘I’ve got to stick a cannula in,’ he says.

  He wheels the drip next to the bed then sits beside me and sticks a needle into the crook of my arm. A long needle goes in, deep in, and a tube’s attached to the needle and the whole lot gets taped on and then the nurse opens the valve and the intravenous stuff starts feeding through.

  ‘Can I have something to help me sleep?'

  The nurse reaches into the pocket of his smock.

  ‘Take these.’

  He gives me two white pills.

  ‘Are you going to eat?'

  ‘I don’t think I’ve got the stomach for it.’

  He takes the tray.