by M W Foolster
But most nights, far from there being a solemn atmosphere, the flat would be full of the sound of laughter, and music. Gabriel smiles to himself, yep, mum had so much energy back then. After completing his homework, out came the CDs and the whole flat would be literally vibrating from both the music, and the inevitable pounding on the walls, their neighbours wanting it turned down. Mum would kick her shoes off and dance around the room with him, the pair of them laughing, her swinging him around wildly by his hands as she'd sang along to the soul songs she'd so loved. Of course, there had been the unfortunate incident when she’d accidently let go of him, consequentially, he’d gone flying straight across the sofa and feet first through the TV screen. A hazy memory of the trip to A&E, mum wailing and inconsolable, dad furious at having to replace the television. Gabriel still has the scars on the sole of his left foot to act as a reminder. But as soon as he could stand again, she'd had him back dancing with her, whirling him around in circles. Her laughter. Always laughing.
And then dad would be home from work. Smacking mum’s butt playfully, her threatening him with the frying pan. The music turned off, dad teasing mum and the flat full of his rich laughter. And as for the summer months, Gabriel so loved the quality time he'd got to spend with his dad throughout the school holidays, none more so than the scorching summer of 2003. The very last summer they'd got to spend together as a family. Most evenings, dad would skip dinner, winking at him as he’d ignored mum’s cursing. Gabriel would have to get changed into his American football outfit, well the helmet at any rate, because mum had always insisted, even though dad was only taking him out onto the green to play cricket. An intense looking dad would then appear in his cricket whites, after all, it wasn't just a game. Gabriel would stand at the wicket crease, bat in hand, dad taking a long run up before hurling wicked bouncers at him. Most missed his head. Then dad would practise his fast bowling where the safest place to be was in front of the wicket. In fact, the ball would usually miss the wicket by several feet at least, hurtling past him and hitting the vehicles parked near the green. Of course, that had all stopped when dad received the warning letter from Borrington Council. Gabriel laughs to himself as he remembers the shocked look on his dad’s face at having discovered that the local residents were complaining because their cars were being damaged. But dad was so always so competitive. Too much so according to mum.
Gabriel grinning as he thinks back to the school sports day, the father’s 50 metre sprint, just prior to the Sydney Olympics. Dad had arrived in spiked running shoes, wearing lycra shorts and a tight top in team GB colours. Had somewhat dramatically limbered up and performed stretching exercises before walking along the start line, staring into the eyes of his fellow competitors. The confrontational guy in a USA top pointed two fingers at his own eyes before thrusting a single finger towards dad. Race on. Dad and the USA runner neck and neck through 25 metres. Nothing separating them. Approaching the finish line. Both lunged dramatically. Dead heat. Both staggering, unable to slow down quickly enough. And both ploughed head first into the seating area behind the finish line. Plastic chairs went flying, along with the head teacher and several school governors. Legs tangled in the chairs, bodies strewn across the grass and school children bursting into tears. Dad and the USA runner rolling around on the ground fighting. All ended in complete chaos. Dad limping home with a black eye still claiming he’d won the race, mum constantly hitting him with her handbag, cursing him the whole way home.
At assembly the following day, Mr Thumbor, his arm in a sling, announced that parents wouldn’t be participating in future sports days. That a parent’s newsletter would be sent out in due course.
Gabriel carefully places the framed photo back on the dresser, still smiling, and walks into the living room, hesitates as he looks up at the 'Welcome Home' banner, and the balloons. Across to the table that had been pushed back against the wall, stacked full of alcohol, and takes another can. A pang of guilt. He sighs heavily but is convinced that he has made the right decision. He had lied and told everybody his release date would be 1st November. Even to Yassi. No choice. Gulps deeply from the can. Better this way. Gabriel catches sight of the newspaper in the stand. Bending over to pick it up, sighing heavily as he does every time he reads the headline from January 16th 2014, a date that will haunt him forever.
Store security guard suffers fatal heart attack
Sits down heavily and sinks into a leather armchair, stretches out his legs, feet resting on a glass coffee table and closes his eyes. Even now, ten months later, the memories of that evening are still so clear in his mind. A tragic accident. His conscious is clear though. But who’d told Dyson where he'd be, and when he’d be there? And how could Dyson have organised it all so quickly? Gabriel still struggling with the obvious answer, refusing to accept it. Only one person had known where he’d be at 7pm, Louise. Had texted to say he’d be late in meeting her at the Comfort Zone, was going to DJ Blitz first and to order him a beer. Got a frosty response telling him not to keep her waiting long and to order his own sodding beer.
So he'd parked up outside DJ Blitz, discounted designer labels being advertised throughout the store, had only intended looking for a pair of jeans but ended up filling a basket. Woman at the checkout on a go slow, his attention drifting, looking out of the window at a couple of cars parked close together. Had caught his eye because both had tainted windows. Maybe empty, maybe not.
Then there had been that couple arguing real loudly in front of him, the woman screaming insults, and other than being large, he just can’t remember what she’d looked like. And then she’d slapped a skinny white guy wearing a grey hoodie hard around the face before storming out. Vaguely remembers two boys. Kept hovering around him, thinking back, they looked out of place, didn’t belong, but he’d been distracted by the couple. He had finally paid and walked out through the doors into the car park. Suddenly deafened by a loud alarm that had left him momentarily stunned and confused. Rough hands grabbed him from behind. He didn't think and pushed his elbow backwards in self-defence. Turned to find two security guys attempting to restrain him. A brief glimpse of a third guard laying on the floor. Skinny white guy in the hoodie kneeling beside him. The two guards had got a bit over enthusiastic and started battering him, he had lost his temper, hit out and left them both laying on the tarmac. Jumped in the car and drove straight home. On emptying his bag finds several items of clothing that weren't his. Women’s’ designer underwear. Still tagged. Then the police came calling. Arrested and charged with aggravated assault, later informed a manslaughter charge was being brought against him. A cast iron witness placed him at the scene. The witness identified him in a police line-up. Totally screwed. That was until Yassi saw through the set up that is. She’d concluded that with him on probation for a previous offence, even a shoplifting charge could lead to a spell in prison and so somebody had planted the tagged items knowing what would happen. He’d played into their hands by resisting. All they then needed was for a witness to come forward. Sure enough, a woman, conveniently waiting for a take-away pizza at the time, walks into the police station naming Gabriel as the culprit, ready and willing to make a statement. And then he’d got lucky. But still that nagging question, how had Dyson known he’d be there?
Newspaper now carefully placed back in the stand, eyes heavy, Gabriel stretches out on the soft leather sofa, thinking it is just too damned quiet. First full day of freedom and is already feeling totally lost. Is so accustomed to the noise, the constant chatter, the shouting, going to take as long to adjust to the quiet as it was to the racket on that first day in B wing. He drifts off to sleep.
6 B Wing
Heavy doors banging closed behind him and locked, the prison warden barking orders, Gabriel consumed by a sense of foreboding. The constant jangling of keys, walls closing in, and it's now feeling as though it has been the longest walk of his short life. But finally, they arrive at their destination, B Wing.
Gate slammed shut behind them, and
locked. Beads of sweat running down his face, clothing stuck to him and throat parched. He struggles to breathe in the large airless room. And why won't his hands stop trembling? Gabriel grits his teeth, willing himself to stay strong. He stares at the dirty whitewashed brick wall that seemingly stretches upwards for miles and shudders as he gazes up through black safety mesh at three landings, intimidating in themselves. But he must stay strong. Gerome close behind him, breathing heavily, hears the occasional sob, sounds as though the guy is fighting a losing battle and is about ready to crack. Prisoners lean over, eyeing them up, a barrage of noise, derisory remarks being hurled at them. Gabriel ignores the comments and shows no weakness, a stern expression glued to his face.
Up the metal steps to the first level. Gerome is ordered into the second cell along, a final desperate glance towards Gabriel who has no choice other than to ignore him. Keeps his head down as he’s led further along. Finally shown into a small and claustrophobic cell numbered 21. Gabriel's shocked at just how small it is, his bathroom is bigger. A faint smell of disinfectant, but even that can't mask the stench of urine and sweat. His eyes are drawn to the tiny window which barely allows any natural light into the grim box room, and then to a grey clad prisoner stood looking up at it. Most likely going to be his home for the next 6 months, but could be worse. And then he's left speechless as his new cell mate turns to face him, slowly eyeing him up and down. His soft features, long eyelashes, black hair styled in a bob, and flawless ivory skin bringing Gabriel out in a cold sweat. An awkward silence before Gabriel stammers, “Hello mate,”
Cold pale blue eyes penetrating Gabriel’s, an effeminate voice replies,
“Firstly, I am not your, ‘mate’. Perhaps I will be, perhaps I won’t, only time will tell. Unless you are inferring that you wish to mate with me. Now that I would find rather impertinent considering that we’ve only just met. But...”
He licks his lips mockingly as he eyes Gabriel from head to toe. “Perhaps once we get to know each other.” And breaks into a salacious grin.
“I didn’t mean no offence man. Look, I’m sorry okay.”
Gabriel is totally flustered. Of all the possible scenarios he’d pictured beforehand, this definitely wasn’t one he’d ever envisioned. He feels himself blushing, in fact, a hot flush would be a more accurate description.
A limp hand is thrust towards him,
“Frenchy.”
Gabriel takes his hand, almost afraid to grip it too tightly, consequentially, it’s a strange and awkward handshake.
“Gabriel.”
“Well, Gabriel, you get the top, I always prefer the bottom myself,” Frenchy’s high pitched laugh leaves Gabriel cringing. He returns a forced smile.
“Sure, Frenchy, whatever you say.”
Gabriel turns towards the bunk bed, black paint flaking away from the metal frame, his eyes met by a stained, if at least cleaned, mattress. And then he feels something cold and sharp being pushed against his neck. He freezes, scared to move, to breathe. A hot breath against his ear, and a now huskier voice speaking quietly.
“First rule, Gabriel, this is Frenchy’s cell and the only rules that matter when that door is locked, are my rules. I’m a lifer, never going to be released, this is my home sweet home until they wheel me out of here in a coffin. Every inmate, every screw in here knows, and respects the fact, that I am not somebody to upset. Nothing to lose you see babe. None of those bitches out there ever stupid enough to cross me. Second rule, you see nothing, you hear nothing and you never, ever mention my name or anything about me to nobody. Third and most important rule. You never come anywhere near me unless invited, or I swear I will fucking circumcise you on the spot. If I even catch you looking at me in the wrong way, there’s going to be serious consequences and I would hate to have to slice that pretty face up. Now, nod slowly if you understand, wouldn’t want to accidently cut you, now would I?”
Gabriel obliges, now starting to have serious doubts as to whether he’s likely to survive six months of this. The sharp object is pulled away from his neck. Throat parched, legs a little wobbly, Gabriel slowly turns to face his cell mate.
“That is the first lesson of the day over with, Gabe. Now aren’t you pleased we got that sorted? Ok to call you Gabe, ain’t it?”
A resigned nod from Gabriel.
“You see I've have had the occasional foolish boy thinking he can come in here and lord it over me. So a few early ground rules save a lot of pain.”
Gabe looks around at what has suddenly become a very oppressive concrete box. At the tatty wooden coffee table and chairs, at the open cubicle housing a lidless toilet and, yet again, up at the window. Still, at least there’s a TV. As if his cell mate had left him in any doubt as to his place in the pecking order, Gabriel stares up at the thick red lettering scrawled across the cell wall. Frenchy’s Boudoir. He deliberately ignores the disgusting and obscene comments written beneath. He sighs heavily, thinking it really is all about survival now.
Frenchy watches him attentively, slight smirk on his lips,
“Since you are my newbie, Gabe, the TV rules are as follows. You watch what I choose to watch. And we both split the £1.00p a week rental.”
“We have to pay for it?”
A high pitched giggle. “For sure, you silly bitch. Did you think the tax-payer would foot the bill? Everything comes at a price in here.”
Frenchy struts across to the toilet with a theatrical hand gesture.
“Toilet rules are, if you need a dump you wait until I am out the cell at Sosh time. If not, I swear I will sit and watch you. Comprende?”
Gabriel nods, wants to ask what Sosh time is but thinks better of it. The sooner this conversation is over with, the better. Stretches out on his bunk, listening to Frenchy now giggling insanely at a reality TV show. The thought of six months of this brings a lump to his throat, his eyes welling up but he refuses to allow himself to cave in to his emotions. He needs to remain strong, resolute, one objective to concentrate on, to keep him focused, that Dyson will pay dearly.
8:30am. The sound of boots echo along the walkway, doors close, and a pair of beady eyes peering through the door flap. Frenchy blows a loud kiss towards the screw doing the head count. The next three hours feel like an eternity. Gabriel can hear a radio blaring from the cell next door, or it could be further down, hard to tell, the volume suddenly turned up in an attempt to mask an argument. Something about smokes.
11:30am. The doors unlocked, Frenchy ignoring him as he’s herded off towards a packed canteen, the air full of the smell of stale sweat as several hundred bodies now squeeze their way in, finds himself being pushed and shoved, keeps his head down. A few elbows later and he eventually has a sandwich shoved in his direction, a brief look around, decides it wise to take it back to the cell. He can’t stomach the thought of yet more watery tea, water will do. Much to his relief, Frenchy has yet to return. Two bulky mixed race guys appear at the door, wander in, pushing it closed behind them. Small, brown, piggy eyes staring out from chubby faces, the one to his right with a green tattoo on his bulky neck is the first to speak.
“Alright mate. So how you enjoying your first day then?”
Gabriel is starting to feel anxious, they don’t look the type to have wandered in for a friendly conversation. Needs to buy some time, replies.
“Yer, it’s alright, mate, been in worse you know.”
“No shit. Like where pal?”
Gabriel decides he’ll most likely dig a hole for himself if he doesn’t change the subject,
“Brixton mate. Are you looking for Frenchy? Be back any minute, you know.”
They both snigger,
“Naa mate, he’s off with Butner. Be awhiles yet.”