The Enemy of the Good

by Michael Arditti

  ‘But its value to me is sentimental. It was my brother’s… He died,’ he said, hating himself for the plea.

  ‘No prisoner’s permitted a watch worth more than £50. It’s been booked and you’ll get it back when you’re released.’

  He signed the inventory and was taken to a cramped holding cell, which was empty apart from a bench. Despite a fear of being sick, he was grateful for the lack of a lavatory. He sat alone, trying to adjust to the sudden transformation, daunted by the dank silence and the feeling of eyes staring at him through the peephole. Moments later, an officer announced that his ‘legals’ were there to see him. Lloyd came in, but Gillian stayed in the corridor, grinning and raising her thumb, which deeply offended him until Lloyd whispered that she was claustrophobic.

  ‘Believe me, you got the best possible deal. It was clear that the judge wanted to be lenient, while at the same time sending a strong message to society that it’s not on to kill your parents.’

  ‘Let’s hope society’ll thank him.’

  ‘Besides, as I’m sure you’re aware, three years is actually only eighteen months.’ Clement wondered if this new method of calculating were another reason for depriving him of his watch. ‘Or less… fifteen, since, if you keep your nose clean, you’ll be eligible for tagging.’

  ‘No time at all, really!’

  ‘That’s the spirit! The important thing is not to let yourself brood. You’re an artist; think of it as a learning process.’ Deciding that the first lesson was to avoid vapid conversations, Clement turned to the wall, leaving Lloyd floundering. ‘Well, good luck. If there’s anything you need, you know where to find me.’

  ‘Likewise,’ Clement said, as the barrister hurried out. Then, realising that he didn’t have the least idea where he was being sent, he called the officer, who was surprisingly forthcoming.

  ‘Brixton.’

  ‘How much longer’s it going to be?’

  ‘How long’s a piece of string? First, the clerk has to prepare your warrant. Then we have to wait till there’s enough of you to fill up a van.’

  ‘Will my mother and my… friend be allowed to say goodbye?’

  ‘Where do you think you are? Gatwick airport? You’ll be given a Visiting Order to send out from the nick.’

  The officer’s departure left Clement with nothing to curb his increasing obsession with time. The man who had been happy to spend an entire morning rapt in contemplation of a patch of red or blue was determined to keep track of every minute, as though it were the only way to survive the loss of liberty. Despite his fear of alienating the staff, he asked for updates at intervals which he swore were at least half an hour and they insisted were only five minutes, until he no longer knew if they were baiting him or he were going mad. Finally, with the clock in the hall reading half-past four, he was handcuffed to an officer and led out to a van, where the cuffs were removed and he was locked in one of eight small cubicles. Feeling totally cut off, he leapt up and pressed his face to the frosted glass, desperate to catch every last glimpse of freedom.

  On arrival at Brixton, he was instantly aware of a change in the quality of light, which he prayed was due to nothing more sinister than the massive walls. He was once again handcuffed and escorted to a holding cell, where he sat on a scuffed bench with six companions who, to his relief, paid him no attention. His first interview was with a doctor, who chewed his pencil and questioned him about his health.

  ‘Touch wood, it’s fine,’ he replied, ‘I’m asymptomatic. My T-cells hover around the 600 mark and my viral load’s undetectable. But it’s imperative I have my pills. I’m on an easy combination. Ritonavir-boosted Atazanavir, Tenofovir and 3TC, which I only have to take once a day, but it makes missing a single dose even more dangerous.’

  ‘I’ll order some up from the pharmacy. Then tomorrow I’ll get one of the nurses to speak to your clinic doctor.’

  ‘Will you have them here?’ Clement asked doubtfully. ‘They’re expensive drugs.’

  ‘Do you suppose you’re the only man in Brixton with HIV? You’d be surprised.’

  Returning to the holding cell, he was directed to a hatch which he took to be some kind of checkpoint, only to be offered a cup of tea by a prisoner, whose affability stood in sharp contrast to the notice that Each prisoner is entitled to the following: I Sachett of Sugar; I Sachett of Milk; I Teabag. Do Not Ask For Extras. The Cleaners have their Orders. Not even the misspelling could hide the fact that he had moved to a world where even the smallest indulgence was rationed.

  He was summoned to an office and asked to confirm his name, date of birth and sentence. Questioned about distinguishing marks, he was about to cite his appendix scar when he caught sight of the officer’s heavily tattooed wrist. His last jot of dignity vanished with the blunt order to strip naked. While his unwashed clothes were placed in a box to be kept for his release, he stood with his hand held casually in front of his genitals, afraid that any more marked concern for modesty would expose him to ridicule. He waited tremulously to be told to touch his toes as an officer shone a torch up his anus and inquired about ‘maladies honteuses’, but the language in which the fear was couched alerted him to its inauthenticity. Instead, he was provided with a flimsy gown and sent to line up at a second hatch, where he was given the regulation uniform of blue tracksuit with red flashing, maroon T-shirt, grey socks and underwear, black shoes for workshops and brown slippers for the cell. Kitted out and handed a first night pack of razor, soap, toothbrush and toothpaste, he was sent back to the holding cell, where the reception officer gave him his prison number, which he promptly forgot.

  With one officer in front and another to the rear, the seven new arrivals were escorted on to a wing packed with prisoners, several of whom ran up to greet old friends with playful punches and bear hugs, until the leading officer genially told them to ‘save the snogging for later’. While four of his companions stayed behind, Clement and two others were taken up to the hospital wing. Having presumed that it was on account of the HIV, he was deeply shocked first to learn that he was deemed to be a suicide risk, and then to be locked in a stark metallic cell that would be enough to drive anyone to thoughts of suicide, let alone a man so alive to colour.

  Just as misery threatened to overwhelm him, he was visited by the prison psychologist. For all his qualms, he was grateful for the show of sympathy. The mere use of his Christian name was enough to make him lower his guard. The psychologist asked about his family and whether anyone knew that he had been sentenced, before reminding himself with a laugh that the trial had featured on the six o’clock news.

  ‘Have you been abused or interfered with?’

  ‘I’ve only just arrived!’

  ‘I don’t mean in here! By an uncle or teacher or friend when you were a child.’

  ‘Sorry to disappoint you. Only self-abuse, or doesn’t that count?’ Clement’s relish of his retort faded as, watching his interrogator make a note, he suspected that he would now be classed throughout the prison system as a chronic masturbator.

  The doctor’s remark about HIV encouraged him to ask if he might share a cell with another positive prisoner. He assured the psychologist, whose stock assumptions would have been comic in any other context, that he was prompted not by a desire for sex or even a fear of intimidation but by the hope of companionship. The psychologist left with a sceptical smile and a promise to do what he could. A few minutes later, although with the current concertinaing of time it was impossible to be precise, an officer brought him a meal of stew and sponge, which he rejected, and his pills, which he devoured as hungrily as if he were an addict rather than a survivor.

  ‘Did you go to a public school?’ he asked so abruptly that Clement steeled himself for a stream of invective.

  ‘Yes,’ he replied apologetically.

  ‘Good. We find it helps.’

  Then leaving him with the unexpected freedom to switch off his own light, the officer went out. Clement closed his eyes, but the prospect of slee
p slipped away when, at regular intervals, the peephole was thrust open and a torch shone on to his face. After five or six such intrusions, he wondered whether they were checking that he were still alive or confirming the psychologist’s report of his onanism. Eventually, exhaustion prevailed, and the alternating light and darkness formed the pattern of his dreams.

  The next day was one of introductions. After a visit from the governor, who expressed a concern that he might think he was better than everyone else and a hope that he would soon be transferred somewhere more suitable, he was led up three floors of the five-storey building and down a clanging metal walkway to his cell. As he walked through the door, an acrid stench foreshadowed the announcement that he was to be ‘twoed up’. The officer beat a hasty retreat and he surveyed his new home. Sanitation having assumed more prominence in his mind than he would ever have thought possible, he gazed in dismay at the stainless steel unit with its basin, lavatory and cracked mirror tile. He turned away, first to the noticeboard, where the only comfort to be drawn from the graphic display of collagened lips, siliconed breasts and shaved vaginas was that his cell-mate was not a racist, and then to the bunks, which brought back memories of Wells and his fights with Mark over who should be on top. Here there was no contest. Not only was the upper bunk occupied, but a glance at the weights on the windowsill made the cell’s pecking-order clear.

  The officer came back and took him to join a line of prisoners at a supply hatch, where he was handed his bedding, plastic plate, bowl and cutlery, and a hot-water flask for the urn. On returning to the cell, he found two forms slid under the door, the first offering a choice of weekly menus and the second of education, training or work. Clement, for whom official forms held no terrors, found himself as baffled as a pensioner applying for benefits. He could no more decide between the kitchens and workshops than between the chicken curry and macaroni cheese. The former decision at least was spared him when the residential governor, claiming to be doing him a favour, allocated him a job as a cleaner.

  Convinced that he was wreaking revenge on someone whom he presumed had never made a bed, let alone mopped a floor, Clement trudged back to his cell where he found a slight, balding man lying in wait. ‘Barry Jenkins, a Listener,’ he said, holding out a curiously delicate hand. ‘Anything you want to get off your chest, any gripes or hassles, I’m your man. We’re trained by the Samaritans, so mum’s the word!’

  ‘Pleased to meet you,’ Clement said. ‘You’ve come at just the right time. I do have a problem… a big one. I was asked to choose a job. Then, before I had the chance, they’ve given me one as a cleaner.’

  ‘What? You’re a jammy bastard, you are!’ Barry said. ‘Some blokes’d give their right arms for a cleaning job.’

  ‘Seriously?’

  ‘Course you must turn it down.’

  ‘Why, if it’s such a plum job?’

  ‘Because you’ll be marked down as a nark, see! There’s not enough work to go round. Half the blokes here are stuck in their cells all day. And the ones who aren’t are doing muppet jobs in the workshops. The best jobs are in the kitchens – extra grub, see – and cleaning, when you get to spend time outside your pad.’

  ‘But why should anyone think I’m an inform… a nark? I’ve only just arrived. I don’t know anything.’

  ‘Let me give you a word of advice. No offence like?’

  ‘Of course not.’

  ‘Watch your back! Ninety-nine per cent of the cons on A-wing are animals waiting for their next kill.’

  ‘I don’t expect I’ll be here for long,’ Clement said, shrinking from the image. ‘I saw the governor this morning and asked for a transfer to Bullingdon, a prison near Oxford.’

  ‘A day’s too long in this shit-heap. They’ll break you just for the crack of it. I’ve two tips for surviving in the nick – and, trust me, I’ve been in a few. First, keep your brain busy: read books; watch TV; exercise; sleep. The second: never look at the door. You’re OK with the window. Most of us don’t feel like jumping out of a third-floor window – though I wouldn’t put it past some of the psychos in here – but the door’s different. You can go mad waiting for it to open. It’s the door that keeps you trapped, see!’

  He left with an exhortation to ‘keep smiling’, which Clement had never felt less like heeding. His spirits were further lowered by a visit from the chaplain, who exuded the fresh-faced fervour of a man who refused to let experience sap conviction. Clasping Clement’s right hand in both of his, he placed himself squarely in front of the noticeboard, leaving it unclear which of them he was trying to shield.

  ‘I know you by reputation, of course.’

  ‘Which one?’ Clement asked.

  ‘What? Oh that’s good!’ he said, forcing a laugh. ‘I’m proud to call myself a Bible-based Christian, but that doesn’t mean I’m here to judge you.’

  ‘Thank you.’

  ‘Prison can be particularly hard for someone like you. For most of the men it’s in their blood.’

  ‘You are joking?’

  ‘Spend a few days here and you’ll see that criminal class is no hyperbole. So please, don’t be shy! If you need to talk, my door’s always open.’

  ‘That may be a problem since mine appears to be permanently locked.’

  ‘What? Oh yes.’ The chaplain repeated his laugh. ‘Put your name down for tonight’s service. It won’t be what you’re used to, but it may be a revelation. God bless.’

  The chaplain went on his way, leaving Clement alone with thoughts that threatened to pervade the cell. Sometime in mid-afternoon he was joined by his cell-mate, a huge West Indian with dreadlocks and thigh-thick arms. Clement stood up to introduce himself.

  ‘You don’t have to get up for me, man. I ain’t royalty.’ He gave a throaty chortle, revealing a silver front tooth. Ignoring Clement, he moved straight to the chest of drawers and took out a tube of cream, which he spread liberally on his hands. ‘I have to pay for this from my canteen. That’s wrong, man. It should be provided. You need asbestos fingers to pull steaming T-shirts off rollers.’

  ‘You work in the laundry?’

  ‘Hey man, you’re good. You should be on Mastermind. I’m Dwayne.’

  ‘Clement.’

  ‘Clement… Clement. What kind of a name is that then? I never met a Clement before.’

  ‘My parents called me after their favourite prime minister.’

  ‘No shit, man. I reckon I’m lucky my dad didn’t call me Margaret. He used to say “She’s one sexy lady!”’ Dwayne turned to the noticeboard as if for confirmation. ‘So what are your deps then?’

  ‘I beg your pardon?’

  ‘Your deps, man? Your depositions? Your sentence?’

  ‘Oh, three years for attempted murder.’ For the first time Clement made light of the charge.

  ‘Hey, you the fellow that was on TV last night?’

  ‘I don’t know. I didn’t watch.’

  ‘You’re famous, man!’ Dwayne’s face clouded. ‘Hey, you’re not a batty boy?’

  ‘No, I’m not,’ Clement said, intent on making a distinction that would be vital for his sanity and their relationship. ‘I’m a gay man.’

  ‘What’s the difference?’

  ‘The same as the one between nigger and black.’ Dwayne drew himself very close and Clement braced himself for a blow, but all that hit him was a gust of sour breath.

  ‘You can call me nigger if you like. I’m cool. I’ll knife you in the ribs, but I’m cool.’ Then, flashing him a broad smile in which the silver tooth glinted like the threatened blade, he tapped Clement on the cheek and, wiping his feet on his counterpane, hauled himself up to the top bunk. He remained there absorbed in his magazines – either the women’s breasts in Men Only or the men’s pectorals in Men’s Health – until, at five o’clock, they were let out to fetch their supper and breakfast trays, and evening medication.

  ‘This is gross, man,’ Dwayne said, toying with a spam fritter. ‘I wouldn’t feed it to my dog.’
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  ‘Oh, do you have a dog?’ Clement asked eagerly.

  ‘No-oo. You deaf or something? If I gave him this, he’d be dead.’

  Clement ate his meal, grateful that the shock of incarceration seemed to have dulled his sense of taste. As Dwayne turned back to his magazines which, to judge by the trembling of the bunks, were of the Men Only variety, he resigned himself to an evening of introspection, resolving that first thing the next morning he would ask to visit the library. A shout of ‘Chapel’ reminded him that he had put his name down to go and, unsure of the protocol, he consulted Dwayne, who told him to ‘ring for room service,’ only for the officer who answered the bell to announce that he was too low down the list.

  ‘But the chaplain invited me specially,’ he said, with a rush of alarm.

  ‘Tough! We don’t have enough escorts. So you’ll just have to pray on your own. I’m sure Dwayne here’ll help you.’ Dwayne made no comment. ‘I said I’m sure Dwayne will help you.’

  ‘Yes, sir,’ Dwayne replied, with a rancour that spoke volumes. ‘Cunt,’ he spat at the officer’s back.

  ‘I’d no idea that there would be such an enthusiastic congregation.’

  ‘It’s so’s they can get out of their pads. Talk to their mates off the other wings. Buy and sell gear. I mean, man, where you been all your life?’

  In cloud-cuckoo-land, Clement thought, stretching out on a bed which convinced him that prisoners would be better served by an osteopath than a psychologist. At ten o’clock he surreptitiously took his pills, only to discover that his discretion had been unnecessary when, half an hour later, Dwayne stood at the basin struggling to swallow his own dose.

  ‘Hey man, what you staring at?’

  ‘Nothing. I’m sorry… this cell is so small.’

  ‘Don’t you go getting no wrong ideas. Just because I take these pills I ain’t no batty boy… oh excuse me, gay man!’ He chuckled. ‘No sir. This here,’ he said rubbing his crotch, ‘is top quality Kitekat. Specially designed for pussies!’

  Clement was obliged to revise his opinion of the authorities. The accommodation was neither arbitrary nor cruel. But, while he was no longer afraid of being vilified or harmed on account of the virus, he gave up any hope that his cell-mate would be a soul mate. Glancing furtively at Dwayne rolling a table tennis ball along his biceps, he had never felt so alone.