‘Look,’ said Eric, irritably. ‘I spoke to Abi in person less than twenty-four hours ago. And I’ve put off another engagement, in order to be here this evening.’
Despite the man’s dismissive shrug, Eric stood his ground. He’d be damned if he’d cycle all the way back to Vauxhall, on one of the coldest days of the year. ‘Can’t you ring through to the library and see what’s going on?’
With an audible sigh, the guy picked up the phone. ‘No reply,’ he reported; a note of almost glee in his voice. ‘I’d say they’ve all gone home.’
‘Well, I’m not going home. I was invited here for five o’clock and I want this sorted out.’
‘In that case, you’ll have to wait. I can’t keep all these people hanging around.’ He indicated the queue that had built up again in the last few minutes. ‘Take a seat over there.’
Reluctantly, Eric moved away and sat on the only chair – an uncomfortable thing in rigid plastic and positioned opposite the open door. Cold night air was blasting in from outside, threatening to numb his hands and feet, but, as he got up to close it, the man behind the desk yelled out a reprimand.
‘Hey! We leave that open deliberately, to keep the exit clear.’
Eric returned to his seat, fuming inwardly, He had expected a slightly warmer welcome, having gone to quite some trouble selecting books for the group, and turned down free tickets from Mandy for a special screening of Mamma Mia! tonight (not quite his cup of tea, but who cared, with her beside him?) Except the subject of Mandy was strictly banned for the duration of the evening, since it would only distract him from the job in hand. He actually regretted having confided in her at all, because of the storm of insecurities his confession had unleashed. Always before, he had kept a lid clamped firmly on his past; using suppression and concealment as tools to help him cope. But since prising off that lid, he seemed to be swamped in a toxic overflow, bubbling up from childhood. And he had made himself more vulnerable by revisiting those memories, as if he had shed a layer of insulating skin.
He could certainly do with insulation in this icebox of a lobby, where he continued to sit for an unaccountably long time, watching various people take their turn at the desk. He envied the fact that they seemed to be expected and were treated with civility, not as intruders or impostors. Eventually, he concluded that he must have been forgotten and so went back to reception, to remind them of his existence.
There was now a second man on duty, wearing the same uniform of white shirt and smart black epaulettes. ‘Know where Abi is?’ the first guy asked his colleague.
‘Nope!’
‘And know anything about a book club?’
‘Nope!’
A third guy suddenly materialized from a small room at the back. ‘Yeah,’ he said. ‘That’ll be the lady from Roehampton University. She runs the club, along with Abi. In fact, I’m sure I’ve seen the paperwork.’ He grabbed the book and began riffling through the pages. ‘Yeah, here we are – Linda Lewis.’
‘That’s her!’ Eric cried, relieved.
‘But it doesn’t start till six-thirty – that’s what’s written here.’
‘I know, but, as I keep explaining, Abi asked me to meet him beforehand, which means you should have my name too.’
‘What is your name?’
Eric spelled it out again, beginning to feel distinctly Kafkaesque.
‘No, nothing here under Parkhill.’
The second guy now leaned over and consulted the book himself ‘That name rings a bell. Yes, Eric Parkhill. You’re meeting Abi at five.’
Which is what I’ve been trying to tell you for the last half-hour, Eric refrained from saying, pointing out instead that it was now twenty-eight minutes past.
‘And Abi’s not here anyway,’ the first bloke chipped in, helpfully.
‘Is he the sort of person likely to forget?’ Eric asked, with some anxiety. He had not yet met the fellow; had no idea whether he was reliable or not. All he knew was that Mr Ayotundi was six-foot-three and Nigerian.
‘Couldn’t say.’ Another casual shrug. ‘If I was you, I’d simply sit and wait. Nothing’s happening till six-thirty, so let’s hope this Linda person turns up then, and you can check the whole thing out with her.’
‘Well, perhaps I could sit somewhere a bit warmer.’
The man looked dubious. ‘Have you got identification?’
‘Yes. I was told to bring three different forms.’ Eric pushed his debit card through the slot in the glass partition, followed by his medical card and a recent electricity bill. For normal mortals, a driving licence or passport would have sufficed, but he didn’t possess either, and even his birth certificate was one he preferred to conceal.
Several minutes passed, while all three items were studied with a high degree of suspicion. ‘OK,’ the bloke said, finally. ‘Though I’ll need to keep this until you’ve left the premises. And your mobile phone. And if you’re carrying a pager, or any type of Chubb keys, leave those with me, too, please.’
Eric handed over his keys and phone. What next? His shirt and trousers?
‘Right, go through that sliding door behind you.’
The door in question appeared to be locked, resisting all attempts at entry. Eric rattled the handle – in vain. Apparently even an insensate door was determined to keep him out.
‘Hang on!’ the fellow called from the desk. ‘If you give it time, it’ll open automatically. Don’t force the thing or I’ll be in trouble.’
Once he did get through, Eric found himself in a second lobby, a little larger and warmer than the first, but equally uninviting; containing nothing but a couple of chairs and a row of metal lockers. Again, he took a seat, aware that his stomach was rumbling. Getting here by five meant he hadn’t had a minute to grab a cup of coffee, let alone a sandwich. Yet he realized now that he could have taken his time; found a nice warm café and eaten a leisurely meal.
As he sat resignedly waiting, suitcase at his feet, legs twisted round the chair-rungs, he was suddenly reminded of arriving at Grove End, as an uprooted kid of seven. They, too, had kept him waiting; hadn’t been expecting him; had muddled up his paperwork. All at once, his horror at the first sight of the building came surging, seething back; a grim, forbidding pile, with stern stone walls and air of real malevolence. ‘Go away!’ it seemed to shout. ‘You’re not wanted here, not welcome.’
But he wasn’t wanted by his foster-parents either, which meant it must be his fault that he’d landed up in such a prison of a place. His foster-mother had shouted at him constantly; his foster-dad dished out whacks and blows, but at least they’d been his mum and dad, and at least it had been home. The huge, stony-hearted building could never be a home – he knew that in his gut – and, once he’d crossed the threshold into the oppressive entrance-hall, with no carpeting or cosiness and very little light, he felt he’d been swallowed up for ever.
Having been marched along to an office, he was told to wait outside while they tried to sort out the confusion, although he had to wait on his own, because his social worker was chafing to dash off somewhere else. He sat for what seemed hours, sending up a desperate prayer that it would turn out to be a mistake and he could return to the house in Cedar Road. Whatever its deficiencies, that small, shabby semi was familiar and safe; not hideously scary like this hateful institution.
His prayer remained unanswered, as did most prayers, he found. When, at last, he was called into the office, he was confronted by a big-boned, frightening female, who barked instead of talked, and had very short, straight hair and seemed more like a man.
‘I’m Mrs Barnes. I run the home. Your key-worker will be Alison, but she’s off sick today, so Tracy will look after you – although she’s only here till five, then Kenneth will be on tonight. Tea’s at five-thirty, and your bedtime will be half-past eight, and we’ll need to get your bedroom sorted out and see about the …’
She spoke so loud and fast, he couldn’t take it in, and was also worried by so many differ
ent names: Mrs Barnes, Tracy, Kenneth, Alison – would they all be cruel?
‘Now what’s your date of birth, Eric? And where do you go to school? And have you any brothers or sisters? And…?’
Each time he tried to answer, she had rushed on to another question – although she should have known the answers, since they were all written in his file. But perhaps it had gone missing, as things always seemed to do, because the whole time she was talking she was searching through a pile of papers that overflowed her desk. Never once did she look at him, although he was actually quite glad, because he knew she’d have the sort of eyes that could pierce through skin and bone.
Then, suddenly, the phone rang and she kept shouting at the caller and saying it simply wasn’t good enough and she didn’t intend to stand for it. And, once she’d banged down the receiver, she seemed surprised to see him there still, and began asking him the very same questions she had put to him before. When he was finally let out, another scary person appeared, to show him round the house; her big black shoes click-clacking along the corridors.
‘This is our playroom, Eric.’
He had stared in at the scuffed lino, the lack of any toys. No one had ever played here – that was very clear – but then grown-ups always lied. Next, they’d gone down a dark passage, which led into the kitchen. Kitchens should be small and warm and kind, not vast and cold and cruel. And they should smell of frying bacon or hot cakes, not of disinfectant and boiled cabbage. This one even had a mousetrap in the larder. He was a mouse – a tiny, powerless creature, with a steel trap closing round him, about to crush him to a—
‘Excuse me, are you Eric Parkhill?’
A small, fair-haired man, dressed funereally in black jeans and a black anorak, came rushing over, clearly out of breath. Eric made a desperate effort to leave Grove End behind; to reinhabit his adult self and try to work out who this was – certainly not a six-foot-three Nigerian. ‘Yes,’ he said, jumping to his feet. ‘But—’
‘Great to meet you, Eric! I’m Sam – Sam Hodgkinson, and I’m standing in for Abi tonight. I’m afraid he was rushed to hospital in the early hours this morning. I’m really sorry to keep you hanging about. I hear you’ve been waiting ages.’
‘Don’t worry – not a problem. But that’s bad news about Abi. Is he going to be all right?’
‘Yeah, fine. It was appendicitis. But they operated straight away and he’s doing well, the hospital says. But look, let me show you the library. You’ve been sitting here quite long enough.’
‘Yes, I’ve brought some books for the group.’ Eric gestured to the suitcase by his chair.
‘Shit! You can’t take that inside. We’ll have to go back to security and have it checked.’
Eric’s suppressed a sigh, guessing – rightly – that there’d be more delay and more suspicion.
‘Are you taking those books out with you again?’ the balding bloke enquired – the one who’d originally given him short shrift.
‘No. They’re for the men.’
‘Yes, but will you be taking them with you when you leave?’
‘I’ve just told you – no.’
‘So you’re giving them to someone inside?’
Couldn’t they understand plain English? ‘Yes, to the members of the book club.’
‘Be that as it may, you’re forbidden to take cases into the prison.’
Eric bristled. Having risked life and limb transporting them on his bike, he was determined they should reach their destination. ‘Well, I’ll put them in a carrier bag. Would you have one somewhere?’
‘You can’t take bags in, either.’
At this point, Sam intervened, having spotted a small, see-through plastic crate on top of a cupboard by the door. ‘Mind if I take over?’ he asked Eric.
‘Delighted.’
Opening the case, Sam began unloading the books into the crate, ignoring the remonstrations of Baldie’s younger colleague, who clearly regarded books as the equivalent of bombs. Then, leaving the offending case at the desk, Sam somehow obtained clearance to pass back into the second lobby through the automatic door. There, he handed the crate to Eric, pulled up his anorak to reveal a bunch of keys chained around his waist and unlocked a narrow door that led out again into the cold night air. Yes, definitely Kafkaesque, Eric thought. All that kerfuffle, yet here they were outside once more, apparently back to square one. He followed Sam down some steep stone steps and across a concrete yard, where the wind blew with such icy force, his eyes watered and his nose ran, although it was impossible to do much about either, weighed down as he was by the books.
He had soon lost all sense of direction, as they crossed several other bleak and chilly yards and proceeded through a further series of doors. Progress was necessarily slow, since Sam had to unlock each door, then lock it again behind them. Finally, they found themselves inside, although the harsh, colourless surroundings of the prison proved little less daunting than the intimidating yards, with their razor-wire and lowering walls.
Then he came upon the cells and froze; the row upon row of small locked doors evoking another flood of memories. He had been incarcerated when he’d run away from Grove End; hauled back after just two hours and condemned to ‘solitary’. Never to this day, had he forgotten the sheer terror of not knowing if he would ever be released; his mounting claustrophobia as he paced his own small ‘cell’; the sense of utter powerlessness as his panic-stricken cries echoed through empty space and he began to fear that the other kids had all been evacuated, and he was the sole prisoner in the huge, hostile torture-house.
Sam was chatting to him affably as they continued along the corridor, although he scarcely heard a word. By opening up to Mandy, he’d crash-landed back into childhood and seemed unable to escape its dark, entangling coils. Swapping denial for disclosure had plunged him into turmoil, undermined his defences, left him disturbingly out of control.
Indeed, everything he witnessed here seemed another grim reminder of Grove End. The group of prisoners, queuing for their evening meal of stodgy stew and dumplings, jolted him straight back to the dining-room the first day he arrived. He could hardly believe the uproar: aggressive kids engaged in fisticuffs, and even chucking food across the room. Then, more commotion as the staff weighed in with shouts and threats, only to be defied by one recalcitrant little tyke. He’d sat cowed and silent, as a much older lad, Hussein, kept viciously kicking his legs throughout the meal. And, even when he was used to the chaos, it had been difficult to eat much, because the bigger boys would either nick his food or bait him for being small and shy. In fact, throughout his childhood, he’d felt continually ravenous, although even if he had munched non-stop, no amount of food would have ever filled the hole. Once, he had even sneaked to the local shop and bought himself three large, crusty loaves; gobbled the lot in one famished feeding-frenzy, yet still felt empty inside.
‘There are five wings in all,’ Sam was explaining, ‘each with four landings and all built to the same plan. The Vulnerable Prisoners’ Unit is separate, with its own library and its own prisoner orderly, and it also has a book club, very similar to ours. But I’m afraid I won’t have a chance to take you there, as we’re already pressed for time.’
‘That’s OK,’ said Eric, again frantically attempting to haul himself back to the present. But the mention of the Vulnerable Prisoners’ Unit set off new disquiet. That unit housed mainly sex-offenders and, as a kid growing up in care, he’d come in for his share of sexual molestation, not only by the older boys but by ancient Uncle Frank. Christ, he thought, Uncle Frank might actually be here; arrested, at long last, and serving his sentence a matter of mere yards away! Not that he’d ever shopped the bloke – indeed, never admitted to a single soul what had transpired between the pair of them. He’d felt far too guilty, too embarrassed; feared people might imagine he’d liked the things he did with Frank, when in truth he had detested every minute.
It wasn’t easy to say no, however, because the weird old guy was kind,
not cruel; gave him sweets and even money, and took him for long rides in his big, black, fancy car. And he always kept his promises, whether it was taking him to a football match, or buying him new books for Christmas. He never turned up late, as other grown-ups did, or forgot to buy the presents, like his foster-mum and dad. He wasn’t a real uncle, of course; just someone who had once waylaid him when he was walking back from school. None the less, he was the only person in the world who actually listened to his every word; gave him undivided attention, so that he would almost feel like a kid who mattered – at least before the dirty stuff began.
Sometimes, though, he’d felt so ashamed of that dirty stuff, he had longed to confess to Alison, or even to his social worker, and get Uncle Frank sent packing. Then the creepy man wouldn’t lie in wait for him and coax him into his car. But they were bound to say he was lying, if only to protect themselves from blame. They had all the power, and often used to twist his words to mean something else entirely, such as ‘trouble’ or ‘attention-seeking’. Besides, if the other kids should ever get to hear, he would be called a poof and a pervert and bullied even more.
Of course, when he’d left the home, he could have gone public and sought recompense, reprisals, but he had never once considered it. The word ‘abuse’ labelled you a victim; kept you chained for ever to the past. And it was much the same with therapy. Why rehearse such shaming incidents, dig them up again, pick off the healing scabs that, mercifully, had begun to form? Wiser far to block the whole thing out; pretend it hadn’t happened and get on with life as best he could. And that strategy had succeeded, more or less, until just three days ago, so now he cursed himself for departing from his lifelong habit of drawing a prudent veil across the past.
‘When they first arrive, the men are sent to E-wing, for assessment. And that gives them a chance to find their feet before they’re moved to another wing.’
Broken Places Page 12