The Zombie Room

by R. D. Ronald

  The day was cold and a tablecloth of cloud permitted only a smudgy grey light to permeate. Climbing on board a vehicle for the first time in over two years filled Mangle with a warmth of memory, and he tried to savour every detail. The world seemed a much larger place than the one he’d left the last time he passed through the prison gates.

  The bus seats were divided by a central aisle. Each seat was taken up by a pair of cuffed inmates. A guard occupied the third seat in every other row. Mangle and his companion took their seats on the second to last row. The pudgy-wristed guard took the inside seat on their row. Once the last two guards had climbed aboard, the door was locked and the engine started up.

  All of the prisoners were silent and looked out of the windows almost in enchantment as the bus began to move. Mangle guessed most of them had probably not seen anything outside the prison walls for a lot longer than himself.

  The bus was designed for anything but comfort, and Mangle could soon feel the heat from the engine below his seat. Diesel fumes reached up through tiny gaps between the metal plates on the floor, making him nauseous.

  The guards chatted quietly amongst themselves while the prisoners mostly maintained silence. The guard on Mangle’s row flirted with a female guard who sat diagonally across the aisle, in front of them. A shaven-headed man with a pock-marked face and a spider-web tattoo on his neck was cuffed to an Asian in the seat beside her. The flirting was awkward and Mangle cringed at the guard’s heavy-handed approach toward the woman, who in Mangle’s estimation was way out of his league. She smiled politely at his attempts at humour, but he recognised the want-away look in her eyes from similar situations he’d been in at nightclubs.

  There was a break in the conversation as pudgy-wrists perhaps reassessed his battle plan, and the female guard turned back around and faced forward. Undeterred, or maybe just desperate enough to have one last try, pudgy wrists poked her on the shoulder. When she turned he pointed sneakily towards the Asian sitting to her left, screwed up his face and wafted a hand under his nose. Bizarrely, this seemed to work and she let out a light-hearted laugh that turned a few heads further down the bus. The Asian man turned his head momentarily, but unaware that he was the reason for her laughter, looked back out of the window.

  Mangle had never seen the man in Portmarsh, as they’d been housed in different wings, but he felt more of an affinity to him than to the racist guard he sat alongside.

  ‘Hey man, what’s your name?’ Mangle asked across the aisle, but the Asian didn’t turn around.

  ‘Tazeem!’ Mangle’s companion said.

  The Asian turned around, startled at the unexpected contact. He nodded over at them.

  ‘And I’m Decker,’ the man said, extending his uncuffed hand.

  Reedland Grange was a minimum security prison for offenders considered to be of low risk to the public, coming towards the end of their sentence and preparing for reintegration to the community. Rather than a 23-hour lock-up, they were made to work at a variety of jobs around the prison and get accustomed to a six-day working week, to make the transition back into society less turbulent.

  ‘Tazeem, hey.’

  He was on his way back to work for the afternoon kitchen shift and turned at the sound of his name.

  ‘Mohammed, how you doing?’

  ‘I’m good, man. How come you never hang out with the brothers after work?’

  ‘I do sometimes, just depends on how I feel.’

  ‘Nah, you’re always with that white boy. What’s up with that?’

  ‘Nothing up with it, man, he’s my friend. His cell is on my landing and we both work in the kitchens. So what?’

  ‘Spending so much time with a Kafir, it’s not right. You should stick to your own.’

  ‘Whatever, man. You don’t even know him. You just bag him out ’cause he’s white and has different beliefs.’

  ‘You’re a Muslim. It’s white people who locked you up in here and now you look to make friends with them?’

  ‘It’s the law that locked us up in here, the same as it did Mangle. I’m gonna be late for work, man, I’ll see you at Friday prayer.’

  ‘Yeah, make sure you don’t miss it this week. Remember where you belong, Tazeem.’

  Tazeem hurried on to the huge brick building that housed the kitchen and vast dining hall. Some of the other workers were smoking hand-rolled cigarettes by the door before the start of their shift, and greeted him as he walked by.

  ‘What was up with Mohammed?’ Mangle asked as Tazeem came in and put on his apron and hat. ‘I saw you just before I came in to work.’

  ‘He’s just being a prick, nothing new there.’

  ‘I don’t think he likes me,’ Mangle said, grinning.

  ‘Yeah, probably not. He doesn’t seem to like anyone with your milky complexion,’ Tazeem said, and laughed.

  They both took up their station in veg prep. Tazeem sliced a turnip in half and began expertly to manoeuvre the sharp blade of his knife around the purple skin, revealing the firm yellow flesh underneath. He glanced at the three huge sacks on the floor. It would be a long afternoon.

  Part of the rehabilitation programme at Reedland Grange involved improving the level of literacy and numeracy of the inmates, to enable them to function in an average workplace. Tazeem took his usual seat at the far corner table, took out his notebook and waited as the other inmates came in and sat down. The tables were arranged around the walls in a U formation, the teacher’s desk at the front and the whiteboard directly behind her. Mohammed was one of the last to enter, and sauntered over to sit beside Tazeem.

  The teacher was in her fifties, short in stature, and had an easy-going manner that could change gear to that of a drill sergeant in a split second when required.

  ‘For the new faces in this class I’ll remind you that these classes are compulsory, you must attend, but that doesn’t mean you can’t enjoy it. I am here as your teacher, not as your enemy. Isn’t that right, Les?’ she said, aiming a theatrical glare at one of the larger inmates.

  Tazeem knew Les from working in the kitchen. He had shoulders as wide as a doorframe and a neck as thick as a bull’s, a sloping forehead, overhanging brow and a blunt nose, and carried a perpetual scowl wherever he went.

  ‘Yes, Miss,’ he grunted in reply, failing to acknowledge her attempt at humour.

  ‘You’ll all be working at different levels, so if someone asks a question that you yourself find easy, you will not mock them. The goal here is the same for you all, to improve your own skills and increase your chances of getting and keeping a good job on the outside.’

  An ironic ripple of laughter went around the room that the teacher ignored.

  ‘Anyway, for those of you that don’t know, my name is Annabelle McCulloch. You can call me Miss or Annabelle. Not Anna, not Belle, and definitely not Tinkerbelle, so please don’t think you’re the first one to come up with that.’

  A more enthusiastic laugh warmed the room. Tazeem was impressed at how the teacher managed to forge a link with her students, despite the visible hostility most had entered with. With the introduction over, the lesson started.

  Tazeem looked over the worksheet he’d been given and began writing. Mohammed started talking to him in Urdu, so Tazeem ignored him. He knew it would incite ill feeling from inmates able to hear but not understand what was being said, even though Mohammed wasn’t talking about anything in particular. He knew the result would be the same; it was clearly a calculated move, epitomized by the half-smile Mohammed wore as he spoke.

  ‘In English please, you two,’ Annabelle said looking over towards them.

  ‘Yeah, it’s fucking English class, not Bunkoo-Bunkoo,’ a voice from the far side of the room snapped.

  Tazeem looked across and saw Les leering back at them. Mohammed stood up and began to hurl insults at Les in Arabic until Tazeem put a hand on his arm. ‘Leave it, Mohammed. You knew this would happen.’

  Mohammed sat back in his chair with a faint look of pride at h
ow easily he had managed to elicit some petty racism from the room.

  ‘Alright everybody, pipe down.’ Annabelle said, authoritatively. ‘OK now, Les, I want you to tell me which words are the adjectives in this sentence.’ She turned and began to write on the whiteboard: ‘The quick brown fox jumped over the lazy dogs’.

  The distraction appeared to work and the room quietened again as Les switched his attention to the whiteboard. His brow at first crinkled and then furrowed deeply in concentration, or perhaps frustration. A few mutters went around the room, which further deepened the ridges in his forehead.

  ‘It’s quick and brown, Miss,’ Tazeem said, in an effort to relieve the mounting tension.

  ‘Fuck off you Paki cunt, I was just about to say that,’ Les roared, and flipped the table over as he sprang to his feet.

  Mohammed seized the opportunity and did the same, hurling a torrent of racial slurs that only he and Tazeem could understand. Annabelle pressed the panic button on her desk and a siren began to wail in the corridor. There was an immediate jingling of keys like incoming sleigh-bells as guards sprinted towards the classroom.

  Les was standing in the middle of the room, gripped with fury. Veins pulsed in his temples and spittle had gathered at either side of his mouth, lips pulled back tight over snarling teeth. So far he had managed to resist the urge to pummel Mohammed, who continued to taunt and abuse him.

  Tazeem backed away, keeping out of the altercation. They all knew that any violence would result in them immediately being shipped back to a high-security facility, possibly with time added onto their sentences.

  The first guard burst into the room, quickly assessed the situation and walked purposefully toward Les, who seemed unaware of his presence. Two more guards followed a few seconds later. Mohammed had fallen silent and adopted his ‘butter wouldn’t melt’ look, playing the victim to avoid punishment.

  The first guard put his hand on Les’s shoulder and quietly but forcefully urged him to follow them. For a moment his fixed stare flickered between Mohammed and Tazeem before something appeared to click back into place inside him, and he allowed himself to be led from the room.

  ‘You reckon he’ll get shipped out then, Decker?’ Mangle asked at the lunch table after Tazeem had finished telling the story.

  ‘Hard to say. He’s got a screw loose, no doubt, but he’s kept out of trouble since he’s been here so they might give him another chance.’

  ‘I guess that answers the question,’ Tazeem said pointing towards the door.

  Les walked in with the guard who’d arrived first in the classroom earlier. The guard exchanged a few words with Les and then left the dining hall. Les picked up a blue plastic tray and took his place in line without looking around the room.

  ‘He’ll have been in front of the Governor. Looks like Les is here to stay.’

  Tazeem looked down and pushed the remaining food around the plate with his fork. He hadn’t really wanted Les to get shipped out, but after staring into those coal-black eyes, seething with rage, Tazeem didn’t relish the prospect of working alongside him in the kitchen.

  5

  ‘How do you know where to go?’ Tatiana asked as they walked briskly through the city streets on a cold, wet Sunday morning. Broken bottles, discarded items of clothing, and used condoms were a visible record of the previous night’s enjoyment for some, and misery for others.

  ‘The girls on the street talk about it a lot,’ Natalia said, turning to face her. ‘It is what most work for these days. Drugs and alcohol are not the only way to cope with their lives; there is hope for the future.’

  Natalia led the way towards an old stone church, although any evidence of stained glass windows was covered over by thick wooden boards. A grim-faced man in a black leather trench coat stood smoking a cigarette by the door. He stopped them from entering as they tried to walk past.

  ‘What do you want?’ he asked, and flicked his cigarette butt over Natalia’s shoulder.

  ‘I have money, and we want deals for working visas,’ she told him, and produced two envelopes. The man opened them, flipped through the bills and slid both envelopes into an inside pocket. ‘We want to go to Garden Heights,’ Natalia said.

  The man’s laughter sounded like a landslide. ‘You don’t get to choose. Your contracts will be auctioned to the buyers; you will go where they have work.’

  ‘We’re dancers,’ Natalia protested. ‘That is the work we have come here to do.’

  ‘Yes, dancers,’ the man nodded as he ushered them past.

  Inside, the pews had been dumped haphazardly in a pile in one corner. Six folding tables were surrounded by moulded plastic chairs, occupied by expensively dressed, expressionless men. A dark-haired girl wearing just her underwear stood shivering in the centre of the floor.

  ‘Seven hundred,’ said a man with a pencil-thin moustache from one of the tables.

  ‘Eight hundred,’ was the response from two tables over.

  Pencil moustache glared at the man who’d outbid him, before saying, ‘A thousand’, through clenched teeth.

  ‘Fifteen hundred,’ came the immediate reply. Pencil moustache folded his arms and shook his head.

  ‘Sold,’ said a skinny man with a cigar as thick as his wrist from the front of the room, as he tapped his ash onto the floor.

  The girl tentatively picked up her clothes and followed the buyer through a door at the back of the hall.

  ‘You,’ the skinny man said, pointing at Natalia. ‘Lose the clothes, you’re up next.’

  ‘We’re a package deal,’ she said defiantly, and grabbed Tatiana’s hand. The skinny man’s gaze swept the room for any objections but no one spoke up.

  ‘Alright then, both of you strip.’

  Tatiana looked to Natalia as she hesitantly reached for her top button. ‘I’ll take them,’ a white-haired man wearing a purple cravat said in clear, unaccented English. ‘Five thousand for the pair.’

  ‘This is your lucky day,’ the skinny man said with a squinting leer and a wave of his arm. ‘Follow him. You’re leaving for Garden Heights.’

  *****

  Decker set off early the next day to collect a half jar of coffee, owed from the previous night’s card game on A wing. He decided to knock for Tazeem and Mangle to walk into work together on the way back. The corridor was narrow and dimly lit and smelled faintly of bleach as the cleaning crew had recently mopped the floors. As he approached Tazeem’s room, he saw some white lettering on the dark blue paint of the door. He gave three slow knocks and waited for Tazeem to open up.

  ‘Decker, what brings you up this way?’ Tazeem asked when he saw who it was.

  Decker didn’t answer but pointed to the door.

  ‘“Paki go home.” Not exactly original and I’d be more than happy to go home if it wasn’t for all the guards and fences.’

  ‘It looks like toothpaste so it’ll come off, no problem. Suppose you should go fetch one of the guards, they’re meant to log any racial stuff.’

  ‘Nah, I’ll just wash it off. Don’t wanna make the situation any worse than it is. Besides, if Mohammed or any of his lot see it, things will kick right off.’

  Tazeem came into the kitchens about ten minutes after the start of shift looking jaded and squirrely. Decker had knocked at Mangle’s door and explained what had happened as they walked to the kitchens, and told him not to mention anything for now. Mangle’s immediate response was outrage, as he and Tazeem had become pretty close. Being imprisoned day after day, month after month, with the same people, tended to amplify the impact and importance of situations that surrounded them. Friendships bonded quicker than they would on the outside. Decker still received letters from guys he’d served time with early on in his sentence, proving that the prison cliché, ‘out of sight, out of mind’, wasn’t necessarily true.

  Rivalries and disputes were also magnified, though, and could quickly turn into blood feuds. Having spent most of his adult life looking for warning signs to avoid trouble bef
ore it began, Decker’s gut feeling told him to distance himself, but something he’d learned from Alf returned to him now: ‘Family are one thing, but blood will still let you down. But true friendship, that’s real family, and if you find someone who will stick by you no matter what, then you do whatever’s necessary to hold onto them.’

  He had a good feeling about Mangle and Tazeem, and he admired the way Mangle was determined to stand shoulder to shoulder with his friend, but having seen just what could happen when things went off, he knew neither Tazeem nor Mangle were prepared.

  Decker watched them from his spot by the ovens, going through their usual veg-prep duties. Les was working alongside Jim, chopping portions of meat from a huge side of beef. Jim was a lifer, the same as Decker, and had perfected a knife juggling routine over the many years he’d spent working prison kitchens. He watched as Jim effortlessly tossed and caught three bloodstained cleavers. Les ignored him, having seen the routine any number of times before. He raised his own cleaver up high before slamming it down into the chilled cow carcass. If the writing on Tazeem’s door was anything to do with Les, then he was giving nothing away.

  Decker checked the timers on the ovens and went outside for some fresh air, as the atmosphere in the kitchen was thick from heat and humidity.

  Under other circumstances the countryside view from the doors to the kitchens could have been described as tranquil, with clumps of hazel and beech trees and fields of barley under a panoramic blue sky. Most shrubs had been removed from within the grounds as prisoners used them to hide contraband that was thrown over the 30 foot fence from outside. Decker watched two squirrels scamper around the trunk of a solitary elm; another ran expertly along the chain link fence.

  The serrated howl of a siren behind him snapped Decker out of his moment of relaxation. He turned and ran back into the building, hearing shouts from inside even over the deafening alarm. His first thought was that someone must have been stabbed.