Chapter 8.
“You don’t like champagne?” Strange stared at Nat. “You don’t like champagne?”
Nat gulped. “Is that a crime?”
“Is that supposed to be ironic?”
“What? Erm, no, I don’t… oh. I see what you mean. No. Sorry. It’s just that, well, I don’t really drink that much and…”
Strange laughed. “You don’t really drink that much. You repeat that a lot, Nathanial.”
“It’s, erm, Nat, really…”
Strange ignored him. “You repeat that a lot. And yet, every encounter you relate to me seems to involve excessive amounts of drinking.”
“It’s been a stressful time!”
“Look at you now. The bottle I gave you only five minutes ago is almost empty. I am going to need to ask for more, whenever Mr. Dolan decides that I am worthy of a visit. To be fair” he added, “you don’t look dreadfully well.”
Strange looked at him for a second and then laughed (what was a laugh for him, in any case, as Nat saw – not some large, expansive enjoyment but a kind of gruff, half amused nod towards something less serious, that came out almost like a groan). “I don’t want you to think that I am in any way judging you…”
“You’re not?” asked Nat.
“No, no, of course I’m not! Why would I judge you? We’re all here together. I do tend to find, from experience, that Her Majesty’s prisons aren’t the most effective place in which to keep the moral high ground. No, no, no. The only reason – the only reason – that I bring it up, is because it creates a certain – inconsistency – in your tale. And where there is one, well perhaps there are more. You understand me?”
“Err – no, not really? I’m not lying” Nat hugged the bottle, listening to the liquid sloshing around at the bottle. He really did have a headache now. He glanced at the bottle – Christ, perhaps it was meths. Perhaps it was poisoned.
“I didn’t do it, you know! I didn’t do any of it!” he blurted out suddenly.
That sly, amused grin passed over Strange’s face again. “No, of course you didn’t. Of course you didn’t. No one is saying that you did. Well, of course, that’s not entirely true” he chuckled. “Some people are, of course, or else you wouldn’t be a guest here. But rest assured, I accuse you of nothing.”
Nat felt himself breath fast, heavily, more uncertain. He looked at the tattoo on his arm, rubbed his finger up and down the snake’s body, self-consciously. “How did I end up here?” He put his head in his hands. He could hear the fat man’s noisy breathing, the sounds outside the cell, footsteps, constant footsteps, up and down, there in the background. The occasional clanging, occasional shouts. He could feel the closeness and the warmth of Strange, his stale odour mixed with the chemical cleanliness of the cell. The warmth of the cell, overheated, the radiator probably on even in this small, insulated space. He could feel the warmth of the alcohol in his blood, the blood rushing through his veins. He squeezed his eyes shut, pressed his hands over them.
“There there. Don’t cry. It’s really not such a good idea.”
“I’m not crying” but Nat’s voice was choked and he realised that he was.
“In an hour, we’ll have to go to the refectory for our lunch. I normally order room service, but on this occasion, I’ve been asked to accompany you there, to help you assimilate. Which, honestly, I think is quite a good idea.”
Strange pulled himself off his chair, with some effort and knelt down beside Nat. Nat could hear the creaking in his limbs as they struggled to take the weight.
Strange’s voice was a whisper. “They can tell, you know. They can always tell. If you’ve been crying. If you appear weak. I’ve seen it, many times. They are like vultures, people attracted to weakness. Bullies. You remember bullies at your school? They could always spot the weak ones, and you remember, I’m sure what happened next. It’s like that here, without the rules. Come on, come on.”
His hand went onto Nat’s shoulder and he squeezed. Nat rubbed his eyes hard and wiped the tears away. He took a long drink.
“Can I have a cigarette please?”
Strange smiled. “Good man.” With a lot of effort, he pulled himself back onto his seat, and went through the slow, cumbersome effort of rolling a cigarette, his chubby hands taking their time.
He put it into his mouth, lit it, and offered it to Nat, who had to reach up to take it. Nat sucked in the smoke and started coughing.
“Sorry” he spluttered, “I don’t really…”
“You don’t really smoke. I know. It’s a habit that’s quite easy to pick up here.” He paused. “Are you going to be ok?”
Nat wiped spit from his mouth. “Yeah, yeah, I’ll take the next drag easy…”
“I meant… are you able to keep yourself under control?”
“Oh.” Nat sighed. “Yeah, I guess… sorry.”
Strange nodded. “Good.”
“Thanks.” Nat shivered involuntarily, and drank. “Bet you must be annoyed having a cell mate like me…” he smiled weakly.
Strange pursed his lips. “Mmmm. This idea of sharing cells, I have to admit that it takes a little getting used to.”
“I thought it was normal…?”
Strange’s small eyes grew dark and gave an ironic half laugh. “You clearly don’t follow the news, do you?”
“Erm…”
Strange sighed. “Too many people fail to follow current affairs and live, no, drift, in the maelstrom of the present, allowing it to take them where it pleases, and then what? Then, of course, they complain when they arrive at a place they don’t like. Then they shout, and rail, at what they call the system. Such an – abstract – concept – don’t you think. A word that enables them to shed any level of responsibility from their own shoulders, to blame something remote, something intangible, something robotic, that makes their lives difficult, full of pathetic little challenges and broken loyalties. Is that what you are, Nathanial? Are you a victim of the system?”
Nat shook his head and looked at this man in wonder. “No, well, I don’t think so.” He shook his head again. “Well, maybe. I mean, I shouldn’t be here. I don’t understand why I am here. So maybe…” he trailed off.
“Please don’t start sniveling again.” Strange looked Nat up and down. “You do look like a victim.”
“I do?”
Strange nodded thoughtfully. “You have that presence about you, that certain people do. It’s almost an air of failure, of something to be discarded, or forgotten. I assume that people don’t tend to notice when you walk into a room? Or don’t tend to listen when you speak?” He didn’t wait for an answer. “I assume you’ve felt like a victim all your life. And you’ve allowed it to control you, haven’t you. You have allowed it to be the reason that you have failed, that instead of being successful, rich, good looking, you are here, scruffy, tired, crying to yourself in a prison cell. Am I right?”
“I only wanted to know why we were sharing a cell…”
Strange stared at him, his eyes suddenly bright, piercing, the silence falling into them. And then he laughed, a large, hearty laugh, more than Nat thought he was capable of, a laugh that bounced around the room and spun into the walls. And, despite himself, Nat found himself laughing with him.
“Of course!” Strange shouted. “Of course you did! And I will tell you. Please don’t mind me, I spend too much time alone, I feel the need to analyse everything. I’m sure you’re not as bad as all that.” With some considerable effort, he pulled himself back up onto his chair.
“The reason, Nathanial, that we are sharing a cell, is the same reason that most of the cells in this establishment are now shared, of course, isn’t it? It’s the same reason that you see more people on the streets, that poverty has come back to this country. You know what it is, of course?”
“Yes?” Nat answered, uncertainly, when it became clear Strange was asking him to speak.
“Of course! Government cuts! A brilliant, two-pronged solu
tion to the overcrowding in our detention system. The issue solved overnight.” Strange was becoming quite animated, jiggling up and down on his small chair.
“The first – and the most brilliant – was, of course, to reintroduce co-habitation into all prisons, thereby doubling the capacity at a stroke. And of course, to get around the issue of facilities, such as the refectory, being able to cope with double the number of inmates, other smaller, but nonetheless effective measures were brought in. Eating in cells, for instance, rather than in the dining area. Which had the additional benefit of crowd control, avoiding prisoners spending much time together and avoiding the additional cost of security. And with each set of four prisoners having to go directly to the kitchens to pick up their food, and be responsible for washing their dishes and returning them, additional savings could be made. An ingenious, closed system solution.” Strange was smiling as if he was a proud father, as if this was his invention that he was excitedly describing.
Nat gulped. “I guess. And the second…?”
The smile on Strange’s face grew wider. “The second. Yes, the second is something that the Government has always denied, however, the evidence is overwhelming. I myself commissioned a study which identified significant pointers to this. The second was in the choice of cell mates. It is claimed that this is purely random, with a safety net mechanism to avoid unfortunate pairings. An ex police officer, for instance, with a cop killer, as they would say in America. That sort of thing, you know. However” he continued, pointing his finger at Nat, clearly excited, “however, it seems that they employed some very clever logic to pair people together where the likely outcome would be – shall we say unfortunate. Where the weakest and most vulnerable, the real dangers to society, I’m sure you understand who I mean, were paired with those who would not tolerate such people. And the results were outstanding. The death toll has increased by over two thousand percent!”
“But…” stammered Nat, “surely there would be an outcry…”
Strange rubbed his hands together. “You would think so, of course. But that is the absolute cunningness of their plan. In who they paired together. Vulnerable loners, those who had no one watching out for them, those who no one would notice, and, frankly, those who are the most drain on society. You understand? Pair those with people who can’t tolerate such behavior, and the inevitable occurs. Stretchers taken from cells in the middle of the night, when no one notices. Prisoners are separated in any case, so no one really knows anyone else, and the missing go unnoticed. The strain on social security down, the repeat rate down, and little, if no evidence existing. Unless, of course, you know where to look.”
Nat felt the cold chill go straight back through him as Strange’s words hung in the air. And Strange sat in front of him with a look of angry satisfaction.
“Is that… why… you’re here?” Nat asked.
“Why?”
“Because you found out something you shouldn’t…”
Strange smiled slightly. “Doesn’t everyone love a conspiracy theory. But we were talking about you, were we not.”
“We were?”
“Your attention span isn’t that long, is it, my friend. We were, absolutely, talking about your adventure. I believe we had come to the part where you were about to confess your sins to your friend, Joshua.”
“Oh, yeah” sighed Nat. “Well I told him, didn’t I. I told him about coming back, about finding the finger, about…”
“Tell me” cut in Strange. “Tell me what he did when you mentioned the finger”
White Eyes Page 8