by Kealan Ryan
Brilliant.
Shit, Dan thought. ‘Right,’ he said. ‘Is that why you called me in here, to tell me I’m fucked?’
The governor gave a little laugh. ‘I called you in here as I do all prisoners not from their world, in order to let you know what the score is – okay?’
‘Okay,’ Danny said, relaxing slightly.
‘There are four blocks here: A, B, C and D. You are in Block A, which is together with B. D is the green floor opposite you and Block C are the protected cells.’
‘Protected how?’
‘Those inmates are guilty of sex crimes, mainly, so they need to be protected from the other prisoners.’
Seamus popped into his head; that poor eejit would land up there.
‘In your block there is a communal television, a good-sized yard and you can join up to either metalwork or fabric courses if you wish.’ Danny nodded at the governor; he seemed like a decent enough bloke, straight talker at least. ‘8.20 a.m. is alarm call. If you wish to have breakfast you will be called down to collect it by order of whichever tier you are on. You are tier A1 on the ground floor, so will be first called to collect your breakfast and bring it back to your cell.’ The image of the jacks in his cell jumped into Danny’s head; guess they don’t believe in the expression ‘don’t shit where you eat’, he thought grimly.
The governor continued, ‘You will have one shower a week. You will earn an allowance of €11.70 a week and there is a small shop where you can buy chocolates, cigarettes, that kind of thing. Dinner is at approximately midday and lockdown is at 7.10. Have you any questions?’
‘Visiting?’
‘Thirty minutes, once a week. It can be any day from Monday to Saturday, and any time between ten and twelve and two till four. You are allowed to have eight people on your visit list and you are also entitled to one six-minute phone call a day. Phones are beside the fabrics workshop and there are also two in the yard.’
Danny sat there, trying to take it all in. Eight people on the visiting list; he struggled to think of three.
‘Now, Danny, on a more personal level.’ Danny sat up and could see the governor hesitate, wanting to make sure he’d get his message across clearly. ‘Try your best to blend in. That will be impossible at first – you will be noticed, but that’s not to say that you can’t blend in after a while. I’ve seen many people in your position over the years, some fit in, some don’t. It all depends on the person.’
Danny looked at him blankly.
The same thought as before passed through his mind. Shit.
***
As time goes by I feel more and more pathetic. Me and Danny are in the same boat on that front. I’m completely useless. Having awesome superhero powers but not being able to do any of the cool hero stuff. It’s like a guy with a big mickey who’s impotent. I’d rather have a small stiffy than a big floppy. That’s what I feel like being dead. Makes me feel like a big floppy.
Danny saw a big floppy during his first prison shower. Weird too because it was on the skinniest bastard he’d ever seen. Your man was looking at him strangely, too, and Danny got the fear that he would try and use that big thing he was washing on him. The prison shower is something all men fear all their lives, like the way you’ll never one hundred per cent swim in the same way in the sea after seeing Jaws (in a certain mood, a brush of seaweed off your toes can make you shit yourself).
Danny couldn’t believe it. His first ever prison shower and this skinny bastard with the big dick was going to try and fuck him. He started tensing himself up and giving your man dirty looks until it occurred to him that your man seemed even more freaked out than him.
No wonder.
Danny, all muscles, staring at your man’s cock, eyeballing him, then looking back to his cock again. The poor skinny lad thought his number was up.
He made a sharp exit and Danny started to calm down. He’d been shaky all week. Logan was right – he had been noticed, and not in a nice way. I think his size helped him, at first; he was twice the size of ninety per cent of the lads in there. He wondered why they were all so small, then figured it was because they were all junkies. There was none of the weightlifting posturing out in the yard, unlike what he’d seen in all the US prison movies or TV shows. Instead, it was just a bunch of skinny scumbags out of it or trying to get out of it.
None of them risked throwing a dig at Danny at first because he looked like he’d be able to kick the shit out of most of them. But they did whip the piss out of him and he had no good comebacks. He also spoke differently to them, so that was enough – he has a pretty standard Dublin accent but to them he sounded highfalutin’. No matter what he’d say they’d just repeat it in an exaggerated posh accent and laugh at him. But the worst thing was that he reacted poorly any time he was confronted, so they copped on quickly that he was not a tough man, just a big man.
He knew all this himself. It was still early days and nothing of any major significance had happened, but if he didn’t man up soon he’d have the small bastards taking a pop at him, and if that happened what would the big bastards do?
After a couple of weeks he was still completely friendless – he’d seen Wacko knocking about but there’d been no sign of the other three. Wacko would give him the odd nod, but other than that he acted like he didn’t know him. What a bastard, Danny thought, but in fairness what did he expect? Danny had changed a bit himself in that he wasn’t crying the whole time like he’d been on the outside. Thank fuck for that because they’d really have a field day with him then.
Still, he got slagged constantly. He’d never experienced anything like it before. I don’t know if it’s ironic, but it’s definitely funny – he’d always been the bully not the bullied. Doesn’t feel nice, does it, dickhead? Although I suppose I can’t talk.
As the weeks passed, the slagging off got nastier and more consistent. And Danny standing up for himself and getting more aggressive came too late – they had already made their minds up about him, so getting more in their faces just pissed them off even more. Danny could see it too. Fuck, he thought; it was only a matter of time.
That time came almost a month to the day after he first came to live in this shithole. He was sitting in his cell, looking at his plate. Danny’s a picky eater, like me. I looked at the food he was struggling to eat and I knew that I wouldn’t have liked to eat it if I’d been in his shoes. It wasn’t how you imagine prison food. I mean, it looked alright, just not very tasty. In fact, nothing about prison is how you imagine it. The cell doors aren’t made of bars, for instance. The cells are fucking awful. No proper windows, a big hefty door closing you off to everything so you can’t do that mirror trick where you stick it out through the bars in your cell and look at the dickhead in the one next to you. There’s no big boss either – there are one or two main hard men, alright, that nobody fucks with, but there’s no gang boss calling all the shots. The prison guards are sound enough and get on okay with the inmates. The other fucked up thing is that there are lady screws as well. I thought for sure it would be all blokes for a male prison and women guards for women prisons, but no. They don’t really get any abuse either; nothing major, anyway – not even wolf whistling or anything, but then again they’re all pretty rough-looking.
Anyway, the food looked alright – like canteen food – it’s just it wasn’t for me. Not for Danny either. He’s not crazy on mashed potatoes and he had a big wad of them on his plate. He lashed a bunch of salt on them and on the meat, which had fuck all sauce – just dryish mince, not great now at all. I watched his face, looking forward to seeing how he’d do on his first bite. Barely a wince – Not bad, Dan, prison has hardened you. As he was eating, one of the tossers a few cells up walked past the open door of his cell and called out, ‘Eat up, pussy.’
‘Fuck off!’ Danny shouted as your man went out of sight.
But he heard him shout back, ‘You’re fu
cking dead pussy! You big fat cunt!’
Jesus. He dug into the rest of his food, but all the while he could feel an uneasiness rising in him. That little prick out there, what the fuck?
He polished off his dinner and was making his way back to the kitchen to drop off his plate when he got an almighty belt on the back of the head. Christ! For that second he forgot where he was; all he knew was that his brain was rattled. The daze was just leaving when another guy in front of him grabbed him by the hair and dragged his head downwards, kneeing him in the face.
Danny was still in shock mode, so there was no real pain; he just knew he was getting hit and was being forced to the ground. He regained his footing, grabbed hold of the waist of the person in front of him and ran like a bastard – crashing the guy who kneed him against the wall and headbutting him square in the face. Danny turned around to a kick in the leg from the ‘Eat up pussy’ guy and a punch in the face off some prick he’d never even seen before.
Danny’s big arms threw out wild punches, every third or fourth of them landing. The four fists aimed at his face started blinding him. None of them were particularly sore, but he could see fuck all so couldn’t find a good target. I found myself in the surprising position of being half up for him.
By the time the first screw rushed to break it up I couldn’t really say that they’d gotten the better of him. The guy he’d headbutted was only just getting up; the other two were standing, alright, but so was Danny. They don’t carry batons or anything, so the guard had his work cut out trying to restrain the three men who were still going at it hell for leather.
The fight moved a few feet from the kitchen to the middle of the hall and by this stage all the guards in the area were jumping in to stop it, with everyone in their cells and up on the balconies shouting, cheering and spitting.
A female guard jumped between Danny and the guy he had loafed, who was now foaming at the mouth. The pair of them were tugging at each other’s collars and the guard tugging at their arms. The inmates watching all shouted out, ‘Lady officer on the floor!’ She tripped up in the scuffle and Danny pushed your man away and stopped fighting.
For Danny the fight felt like it had lasted for ten minutes but really it had been less than one minute of pure anger and aggression. All directed at him.
Everything had calmed and he looked at the officer as she got to her feet. His wide-open chin was too much for the guy he’d loafed to turn down, though, so he shot out a sucker punch that cracked Danny in the temple. As soon as it hit he heard a collective ‘Ahh’ from above, as if to say, ‘Ah come on – not cool.’
Danny took a step back, his head spinning. The fight was over and he couldn’t figure out what had just happened.
After that incident, the other inmates had a certain amount of respect for him. What he hadn’t known during the brawl is that fights are always supposed to stop when a lady officer is in the mix. They’ll go on as long as possible no matter how many male guards are involved, but when someone shouts, ‘Lady officer on the floor’, everyone is supposed to stop dead. He had stopped fighting out of instinct when he saw her hit the ground – though it’d also been because he was so damn tired. But the inmates looked at it as the old school respect thing that has always gone on here. It wasn’t like he was Mr Popular after that or anything – it’s just that he blended in more.
***
Life in prison has gone slowly for him since then. He’s still cacking himself most days but a little less now because he isn’t really bothered by anyone. He keeps to himself and thinks a lot of Michelle. He actually looks forward to lockdown – he hates walking around the yard or the main room, I mean he fucking hates it. He despises everyone in there and doesn’t want to make friends – fucking scumbags the lot of them. So this really is where I belong? is a recurring thought. I’m like one of these pricks? I suppose to certain people I’m worse, maybe I am worse. Most of these losers are just junkies – I’m a fucking killer.
During lockdown at least he can just sit on his bed and not have to look at all the horrible bastards all around him. Just sit there, watch TV and jerk off. He’s surprised by the things he finds himself wanking to. I’ve gotten used to seeing all this kind of stuff – I’ve seen everyone I know naked. I’ve seen them shit, toss off, scratch their bollocks, wipe their arses, pick their noses and toss off some more. It’s not pleasant but I just don’t care anymore. Danny beats off about anything nowadays – the slightest thing sets him off. A Dove ad or something. The fleeting glimpse of side tit and five seconds later he’ll find himself with jocks around the ankles and pulling the belly off himself.
Half the time he wouldn’t even be horny or anything; he’d just have a peddle to kill the boredom – thank God for the TV in the room. He’d often wait up until three or four in the morning, praying for something to come on that shows a pair of tits. American Pie came on once at about two in the morning and he was so happy you’d think it was his birthday. He has jerked off so much in that room that you can actually smell the jip.
It actually reminds me of when I was a young fella. Nineties’ Ireland was a pretty barren place for someone of wanking age, let me tell you. No Internet and most porn was illegal or hard to come by. I remember jerking off to a dirty joke book, for Christ’s sake. Pickings were slim. Me and John used to have to get the bus into town, call into Eason’s bookstore and flick through H&E, which was basically a nudist magazine. It was the best we could get, but it was still pretty grim: some middle-aged chick playing badminton alongside old dudes with balls down to their fucking knees.
Despite his lack of material, Danny enjoyed all the tug jobs he gave himself except the ones he has had about Michelle post-breakup. With these, he’ll look at the photos of her, have a peddle and then feel so pathetic he’ll want to cry. To his credit, he doesn’t. It reminds him of when he first started doing it; how the whole thing had been taboo and he couldn’t talk about it with his mates, so didn’t know if everyone was at it or not. He suspected they were, but still figured it was wrong, so every time he blew his beans he’d get this sinking feeling in his belly. That’s what he gets after a Michelle wank.
Teenagers are so jammy nowadays. Every show or movie about adolescence always has loads about the main lads jerking off. So young lads watching all know it’s normal. Proper order too. In my day the guy who tossed off in a movie was always the loser or something. When I think about it, it’s kind of funny – back in school there was always one poor bastard in every year who got the name for being a wanker and it would stick with him his entire school career. Getting ridiculed all day by a bunch of kids who can’t keep their hands off themselves either. It was a real necessity, though. Jesus Christ, you’d be getting stiffies the whole time and always at the worst possible time – just before you’d have to write on the blackboard or something. Riding a bus was always a nightmare; God forbid you’d drive over train tracks or something – that would really make things pop. You’d rush home to the enjoyment of a wank, but that would always be followed by the horrible downer of the aftermath. Wanks back then were real roller coasters of emotion.
Danny is sick of that feeling, sick of thinking about her, sick of loving her, sick of himself, sick of every fucking thing. Take the pictures off the wall, rip ’em up and throw them in the bin, he urges himself. That’d be a first step at least to getting over her. No more pathetic wanks, looking at her smiling face. This time he’s going to do it. Really. One by one he takes them down and one by one he puts them in the bin. He lies back on his bed, feeling slightly proud for a moment, then all of a sudden he’s scurrying over to the bin with his pants around the ankles, desperate for one last hurrah. Why not?
Tomorrow she’ll be gone.
35
John starts unbuckling the belt of his jeans as soon as he reaches the bedroom, so he can get into his relaxing-time tracksuit pants. It had been a handy enough day at work, so he can skip the shower
and head straight into chilling in front of the telly. He’s just undone the first notch of his belt when the prong of the buckle snaps. ‘What the fuck?’ My favourite belt, he thinks; my only belt come to think about it. Standing there with a not-too-bright look on his face, he doesn’t notice Niamh step into the bedroom.
‘I was trying to think of an interesting way to say this,’ she says, her cheeks glowing, ‘but since I can’t I’m actually just going to come out and say it.’
‘Say what?’
Niamh gives him the widest of smiles and says, ‘I’m pregnant.’
‘What?’ John says with a smile on him now to match hers.
‘I’m pregnant!’
The words have barely left her mouth and John has her in his arms, swinging her around the room, the both of them laughing hysterically.
‘You’re pregnant?’
‘Yep.’
He gives her a big, happy smooch and asks, ‘When did you find out?’
‘Just now, before you came home.’
‘I can’t believe it,’ he says, finally putting her down.
‘I know, I still have to go to Dr Jordan, but the home kit …’ she says, waving the little stick thing.
‘Well them yokes are a hundred per cent, aren’t they?’
‘Well not a hundred, but basically yeah.’
‘My God, baby!’ He gives her another hug and looks at her. ‘I’m going to be a dad; I can’t believe it.’
‘I know, I’m going to be a mammy.’
‘Holy shit.’
The pair of them burst out laughing again.
This is wonderful. I can’t believe I’m here for this. One of the few perks of being dead. I’m so delighted for John; he’s going to make a deadly parent. Niamh too.
John’s beaming. ‘This is the happiest news of my life.’