O My Days

by David Mathew

  O my days! I echo Sarson—as Sarson makes a lunge.

  It takes all the strength and speed I possess—a diminishing supply—to stop the yoot before he can get to the screw. Why do I bother? Because, despite everything, I think I’m deep down a good boy, as my Mumsy would say, and I don’t want to see him fucking up his chances to become Enhanced. Seeing Sarson struggle in my arms is a source of amusement for the screw. I could hit the bastard myself, but instead I spend my energy on telling Sarson to calm down and I walk with him in a kind of headlock to the window.

  Out of earshot I say to Sarson: You okay straight, bruv?

  Reluctantly he replies: Yeah, blood.

  Tell me something. You been sleeping a lot, right?

  More than usual, yeah. Why do you ask?

  Can you remember any of your dreams?

  His left eyebrow arches upwards. My dreams?

  Yes. Can you remember any of them? Recently I mean.

  He thinks about the poser for a couple of seconds and then answers. I’m in a kind of wasteland, he says. Just sand and bones. Weird pony shit.

  I think I’m thinking it but in fact I’m saying it: It can smell the desert.

  What?

  I realise I’ve spoken aloud. Nothing.

  Did you say the dog can smell the desert? he asks with incredulity.

  Yeah I did. Aiming to make light of everything, I bust a chuckle. Maybe Ostrich did leave something in my drink, I add.

  What are you two yobs whispering about? the screw calls over.

  The pleasure of your company, sir, I call back.

  Careful, mate. I’m not renowned for my good humour.

  It shows, sir. Can we please have our piss tests?

  When they’ve spun your cells.

  And then the others will come in, is that right, sir?

  Sarson is looking at the side of my head; he’s trying to suss me out. So is the screw, safely over there by the door with his pouch of keys.

  What others?

  The others Dott’s got to, is what I’m saying inside my mind. How many is that?

  Rest of the Wing, sir, is what I actually say.

  But I know it won’t be the rest of the Wing. Know the dog has already been up and down the landings— along the ones, the twos and threes—and sniffed out the candidates for the embarrass-a-thon we call a piss test. It can smell the desert.

  That’s our business and not yours, son, says the screw.

  Sir, my name is Alfreth. I’d be really grateful if you don’t call me son.

  I’ll call you fucking Sally-Anne if I feel like it, he retorts.

  I ignore the insult. And what’s your name, sir? I ask.

  Officer Oxford.

  He’s been wrongfooted by my courtesy.

  When you’re ready, sir, only I’d like to enjoy my weekend if possible.

  Why? Oxford grunts. Are you going somewhere nice?

  Six.

  What do I have to do around here to get beaten up properly? Those pansies hardly scratched me, Dott complains after we’ve been shown the practical.

  This Tuesday it is baked chicken with courgettes, aubergine and tomato ragout. I’ve had it with fucking chicken, but as ever I’m delighted to be called across to the Cookery class. Even when your name’s on the list there’s no guarantee a class will run or, I don’t know, someone might set fire to a bed. Because the dish takes longer than we might have— because anything might happen: a fire alarm, a fight—the Cookery Gov has already heated all the ovens to one-ninety C. The classroom is excruciatingly hot—especially after the chill of the air between the Wing and the Education Block. As with last week, I have managed (with Chellow’s permission) to secure the oven and workspace next to Dott’s. I am eager to talk. Should I start an argument about football again, just to get the volume up? No. I can wait; I can bide my time. I season my chicken breast with salt and pepper and sear in the flavour in a frying pan smeared with olive oil. The smell is fantastic. The smell is gagging. My breakfast worms around in my stomach and gut; the food is alive inside me—a parasite. I transfer the chicken to a plate, add more oil, and toss in my trimmed and topped aubergines and a diced shallot. I can wait. I’ve waited this long. Sweat is on everyone’s brow, even Dott’s—in particular Dott’s: sweat running down his face and seeming to avoid the fresh bruises on his cheekbones, like strollers poodling around the shore of a lake. Or an oasis.

  Why does man want to get beat? I ask him.

  Dott says, Exercise.

  I won’t let it go. Seriously, why? I press him.

  Dott eyeballs me point blank. I’m serious, too. Exercise. Keep in shape. I made them do it, in case you’re wondering.

  This comes as something of a surprise. As I’m stirring my mixture—the onions softening, losing their opaqueness—I say: Why do that? Immediately I believe I have the answer. Does it count towards your bad shit quota?

  It certainly does, Billy, says Dott. I might have earned myself a few minutes, nothing more. It’s hard to say. They weren’t as vicious as I hoped.

  That’s not what I heard.

  Are you two old birds squawking again? asks the Cookery Gov, an amused but tired grin on his face. Why don’t you just propose to him, Alfreth?

  Just chatting shit, sir, I reply.

  You are that. Add your courgettes.

  Yes, sir.

  I wait until the Cookery Gov has lumbered away to supervise someone else.

  So what is this? I ask Dott. Is this blind devotion? And if it ain’t, what is it? What do you expect me to do?

  Dott’s response is simple but it doesn’t answer my question. I gave you life, he says. I grew you in the desert, against every odd there is.

  If you say so, Dott, I tell him.

  Don’t make fun, Billy. His tone is as dry as the air inside the room. Don’t forget, I saved you from the bee-stings as well.

  Which you’ve since admitted was a mistake, but okay—if you say so.

  What do you mean, if I say so? Don’t you believe me yet?

  The confession is like chicken skin in my throat—a dog’s- tongue-sized length of the stuff, trying to choke me and stop me speaking.

  But in the end I say it. I say, Yes, Dott, I believe you—because I don’t have any choice now. But why don’t I remember? I almost beg.

  Why do you think? Dott teases. Because you were dead, Billy. Dead.

  There is nothing I can say for what feels like a minute or two. My mouth tightly closed, I stir tinned tomatoes into my frying pan until everything is good and drenched. My pan resembles a full-scale nuclear meltdown. As we’ve been shown how to do, I tip the resultant mixture into a roasting pan, clearing a space for the chicken I’ve seared. I thrust the roasting pan into the oven, which roars the dirty heat of unwashed griddles into my face. Drips of perspiration roll between my lips.

  Dead? The Hola Ettaluun are the tribes of the dead? Don’t make sense, I say to Dott, relieved now that other people are talking. Chellow is even humming a song under his breath: Release Me by Engelbert Humperdinck. Two other yoots chatting breeze about poom-poom.

  Tell me about it, Dott answers with a snigger.

  What do you want from me? I ask.

  To help me get back there, is Dott’s answer.

  Sure—sarcastically—I’ll lend you my passport.

  You can go and I can follow.

  I’m in the same prison as you, cunt!

  You were dead then, he tells me. You can be dead again.

  Is that a threat?

  Quite the opposite. I’m offering you a gift, Billy-Boy.

  Inside the space of a couple of minutes, the whole class has finished its preparation for the best meal of the week. The Cookery Gov instructs us to do our washing-up while we’re waiting for the meals to heat through. The hot tap has been
disabled for a long time now, and so we clean the utensils and receptacles we don’t need any more today in water so cold it is like a nice dream compared to the room’s torridity. Conversations continue, but not between me and Dott. I have too much in my brain; once I’ve finished doing my pots I sit at the central table to write up a bit of my theory—my coursework I mean—while the ovens chug on like steam trains. Soon I’ve been joined by most of the group; no one, by this point, has much more to say. The temperature has dried out the shit we chat. As I write today’s date and underline the word Ingredients with the handle of a ladle, Chellow (being all but illiterate and reluctant to write anything) volunteers to do the sweeping up, and Meaney (a lazy arse) asks if he can swab the sinks.

  Dead? What does he mean by dead?

  What do you think I mean by dead? I can hear him say, in my head. Is he speaking? Am I listening? Or am I making the whole caper up? I don’t know any longer.

  Can you see that the end is in sight, Billy-Boy? Dott whispers in my ear.

  No, I tell him.

  You came to see me on the ship.

  No I didn’t.

  Don’t be naïve, Billy. It’s too late for that.

  I don’t remember.

  You were sleeping among the amnesia trees, that’s why?

  I was what?

  My voice is too loud. My classmates turn to me; the Cookery Gov turns to me, asking in a bored tone, You got a problem there, son? and I shake my head, commenting that I have nothing of the kind. He leaves me alone. He has something of a rarity—an oddity even—in the shape of a near- silent class. He doesn’t want a bogey like me to spoil the magic. The ovens moan and mumble. I try my best to recall the ship. Knowing Dott must be speaking the truth, I try my best to recall the ship—my time on the ship. Welcome back, I am told. But it’s a dream, surely to God.

  I will find you or you will find me, Dott whispers again, but when I twist my neck slightly to face him he has turned away. The words I’ve just heard—they are not words shared with or eavesdropped on by anyone else. Dott has spoken directly into my head. I will find you or you will find me: that’s what you said. And I have found you. Give me a sign. Concentrating as hard as I can, I stare at my page—at the single word I’ve managed to write—the word Ingredients—and I leave half a side of A4 and write the word Method, under which I will report on what I cooked and how, for my NVQ portfolio. The third heading—Results—as it turns out will never be written. I’m trying as hard as I can, Dott, I think, attempting to aim the thought to my side so that only the recipient will read the message, if that makes any sense at all. I reach for the box of tissues in front of me and mop my face; I am leaking vital fluids, vital salts. I need some fresh air.

  Okay, Dott says under his breath.

  Roper is chosen. The yoot stands up from the table, pen in hand. I hope Dott isn’t going to make him stab someone; that wouldn’t be fair—everyone is getting along famously these days and I feel like a chump even to admit it. No. With a haunted look on his face Roper does something else. In full view of everyone including the Cookery Gov, he staggers over to the walk-in storage cupboard, inside which is the chest freezer, the washing machine for our pinnies and towels and the fire alarm. We don’t see him do it, of course, but I hear the click of a cigarette lighter’s barrel turning.

  The Cookery Gov asks, What you doing, son? Get out of there. And he follows the yoot inside.

  Seconds later, if that, the fire alarm has been activated. Clamorous and sharp, the sound bounces through the ovens’ misty exhalations.

  You’ve got some fucking explaining to do, son! shouts the Cookery Gov.

  I stand up. We all stand up. There will have to be an evacuation of the entire building. But we are in a workshop and things aren’t so simple as walking away. It doesn’t matter if the fire has reached our toenails, the equipment will still need to be checked before we can taste freedom. Or comparative freedom anyway.

  Tools away—now! the Cookery Gov shouts; and we are all bounce and action as we replace our ladles, spoons and chopping knives to the shadow boards on the wall, where they’ll be locked behind glass for easy inspection against the threat of theft. With most of us up to scratch with our washing-up anyway, this performance doesn’t last long. The Cookery Gov moves from oven to oven, almost gracefully, like a ballerina, secure in his position in a time of trouble, turning off the ovens in case we’re out of the Education Block for some time and the food burns.

  Charlie One—Screw Vincent—she comes to the door and unlocks it; swings it open. Tools secure, sir? she asks the Cookery Gov.

  Secure. It was Roper. It’s a false alarm.

  We still have to get you out, sir, she tells him.

  We file and bustle past, all nine of us bar poor old Roper, who looks solemn and dejected, confused and utterly drained. He looks like he’s pissed his pants—literally. There’s a dark stain at his crotch, which might be sweat (my own grey clothes are similarly stained), but is more likely to be the consequences of abject fear.

  I’ll fucking have you, son! the Cookery Gov scolds the poor weak-minded little gibbon. See you before Number One Governor, any day soon. You’re off the course.

  Down the stairs, wriggling like worms in salt with the learners from the other classrooms, and then, in the stairwell, joining the other landing’s human cargo and contributions to the melee. Through the holding area, with both sets of metal- barred doors open wide—a clutch of screws at either portal— and blissfully, thankfully, into the daylight chill. I walk with Dott. We will head back to our respective Wings. We have minutes.

  You helped me escape from the ship, Dott says. I’ll always be grateful to you for that. I can help you escape from this prison.

  No you can’t, Dott. I’ve done my history, bruv, a long time afore you got here. No cunt has ever escaped. Not even in the really old days, when it’s a women’s prison and they still hang people. No one gets out those gates.

  Who said anything about gates? Stop being so literal.

  Why? You got a trampoline in your cell, have you, Dott? Bounce me over the walls? You’re chatting shit, cuz! As usual.

  For the first time in a while Dott appears rattled. I would have thought, he says, by now you’d stop this silly charade of blokeyness. Open your mind!

  Why? So you can steal a couple of days away from me again?

  A mere demonstration, Billy-Boy. But you saw it, didn’t you? You saw the desert.

  In a dream—yes I did. It was a dream. But I decide to stop pretending, and galling as it is, I know once again Dott is not chatting shit. The desert is real. And I am real. And Kate went there, and Dott was there. I was there too.

  A screw barks his orders: Move along, lads! Quick as you like!

  We are strolling at the speed of old men on unimportant errands: stretching the time at hand as stringy as it will go.

  Takes courage, but I say it: How did I help you off the ship?

  You repaid my gift of life.

  The rose? You grow me, you say.

  Right. A drop of water, a second drop, a drop by day for God knows how many days. I was starving. Delirious. There on that second oasis—just grass.

  What did you drink?

  Nothing. A drop of water every second or third day, with your permission, but those were moments that tested my faith. Walk slower.

  Impossible, I tell him; and I’m saying this word in response to both the claim and to the command that Dott’s made. No one survives without water.

  I did. I thought I was gonna die out there, Billy; but I was determined. I caught a scavenger bird once—it came for me in the night, probably thinking I was dead. I wrung its neck and that alone made me strong. Just the killing of it. Should’ve taken that as a sign, shouldn’t I? Kindness was never going to work for me, Billy. I killed the bird and I ate it over days; maybe a month. I had no way of tracking
time while I was waiting for you to grow. I licked the feathers clean for you, Billy—to stay alive. To wish you alive, too. It was faith.

  I know that, Dott. Faith but not reason. You were overdosing on the sun; you were delirious—you said it yourself. You weren’t thinking straight.

  You know who you are, Billy, he replies. You just can’t see the whole picture yet. You will. I built you from clay, dust and grass. You’re like me. And you told me you’d find me or I’d find you. And you found me.

  Wait, Dott. You came here, I tell him. That means you found me.

  No. You were born, Billy—on your estate. You think you can’t remember but you can, if you try hard enough.

  Being born? Of course I can’t remember!

  You can. And I was waiting for you to arrive, kicking and screaming into the world, Billy. I even prayed for you and for your mum, the night she went into labour. I watched you grow up on that estate. It was me who convinced your dad to leave you. You didn’t need him.

  I stop walking. You did what? I demand.

  He was violent. I didn’t want to risk him hurting you, so I thought I’d do the right thing for you by getting him to leave. To tell you the truth, he didn’t need much persuasion. He all but had his coat and hat on anyway.

  To my astonishment there are tears in my eyes. What you do? I ask Dott. Mind control? Beat him up? Threaten him?

  Money.

  You paid him? And he went?

  Move along back to your Wings, lads!

  Dott and I start walking again—shuffling rather—and Dott’s saying, attempting philosophy, I think, Every man has his price.

  I don’t ask what that price was; I don’t want to know.

  Dott is continuing: You see, I thought if I was kind and good I’d be able to get older again. I was scared of getting younger again; going through that horror again.

  Again? I ask.

  This isn’t my first time round the block, Dott tells me. Every time I go around it’s different, but it’s still full of terror and angst.

  So how old how old are you?

  Who knows?

  Come on, please, Dott.