by M. J. Hyland
‘After breakfast,’ he says.
At breakfast, I eat every scrap of slop served on my tray. I eat the cornflakes in the warm milk and the rubbery scrambled eggs and the small dog penises they call sausages.
I’m going to gain weight and get some energy for exercise in the yard and today I’m going to sign up to play on the football team and I’m going to put in an application for a cell transfer. Maybe see if I can get onto F Wing where Smith is.
Farrell comes to the cell after midday chow and flattens his hair with the palm of his hand. He behaves as though he can’t be seen.
‘I’m taking you to the phones now.’
I queue up and wait my turn and, by the time I get to a phone, I’ve only got two minutes left.
‘Hello?'
‘Mum, please don’t hang up. It’s Patrick.’
She doesn’t miss a beat, speaks like a robot whose button’s been pressed.
‘Oh, Debbie,’ she says. ‘You’ve called at such a bad time. Could you call back tomorrow? At the same time?'
My father must be home on a rostered day off and she doesn’t want him to know it’s me on the phone.
‘Okay,’ I say.
She hangs up. What she’s done is a good thing, a whole lot better than nothing. She wants to talk and she wants to do it in private.
My mood’s good and I’m looking forward to tomorrow’s chat.
Next day, Farrell takes me back to the phones at the same time and I stand in the queue for fifteen minutes listening to two cons begging for money and cross-examining their wives and girls about where they’ve been, why they didn’t answer the phone last week and why they’ve not sent more fags and food.
I get my turn, stick the coins in.
‘Hello.’
It’s my mum. The sound of her voice floods my chest.
‘It’s me,’ I say.
A pause.
‘Did you get my letter?’
Silence.
‘Mum?'
‘Yes. I did. Thank you. Are you all right, Patrick? Is everything all right?'
‘Yeah. I’m getting used to it. How are you?'
‘I went back to work last week. Everybody looks at me a different way now, but I’m back on my feet and it’s good to be working.’
‘That’s good you’re back at work.’
‘Yes. Do you work in there?'
‘Listen, I don’t have much time. When are you going to come and visit?'
‘I don’t know if I’m ready yet.’
There’s the sound of a chair scraping across the kitchen floor. She’s talked about not being able to stand up and now she’s got herself a seat. She’s in the kitchen with the yellow walls and the blue tablecloth and the big fridge and the jars of jam and the loaves of fresh bread. I close my eyes and the idea of fetching a chair, this simple idea, and this simple choice, followed by a simple action, the thought of it makes me homesick and sorry for myself and my craving for freedom takes a hold of my stomach and twists it.
‘Mum?'
‘Yes, son.’
‘I want to say I’m sorry.’
‘Why did you do it?'
‘I don’t know.’
‘How could you not know?'
‘It happened in a split second.’
She’s crying.
‘I’ve just been starting to recover,’ she says, ‘but now the sound of your voice in that awful place.’
‘So you won’t come and see me?’
‘I don’t know.’
‘Will you at least consider it?'
‘I’m still very angry and upset. We’re all very, very angry. We’re very upset.’
The phone’s beeping. I’ve hardly any time left.
‘I understand,’ I say. ‘I don’t blame you, but I want to say sorry in person and tell you what happened. Can’t you come and visit me?’
‘It breaks my heart. You’ve broken my heart.’
She’s stopped crying.
‘Just let me tell you what happened,’ I say. ‘Let me tell you in person.’
‘Write another letter,’ she says. ‘Write a long letter and try and see if you can make some sense of it.’
Her voice has changed and she might as well be talking to the gas company.
I lower my voice. ‘I’m saying all that’s worth saying now. I’m saying sorry.’
She sighs, just like there’s somebody wasting her time.
‘I need to think about it,’ she says.
A prisoner has come right up close behind me.
‘Get the fuck off,’ he says. ‘You’ve got two seconds.’
I don’t turn round to him.
‘I have to go,’ I say. ‘Goodbye, Mum.’
‘Goodbye.’
She hangs up.
I put the phone back in the cradle and walk away.
She doesn’t want to know me. I’m short of breath and sick and being angry feels just as bad as feeling sad, maybe worse.
I don’t bother going to the library when Farrell comes to fetch me. I stay in my cell the rest of the day, lie on my cot with my back to Gardam and fake sleep.
I’m only killing time till association at eight o’clock. It’ll be my first time in a room with all the others from the landing and I need to get my head straight for it.
The cell door’s opened at eight o’clock.
‘Association,’ says Farrell.
Gardam gets up too.
‘You’re not going anywhere,’ says Farrell.
In the rec-room there’s a small TV stuck on a black metal arm high on the wall, a dozen or so plastic chairs, a pool table and a table tennis table. The room’s full of smoke and, with all the shouting, the noise and stink is awful.
I sit in the only empty seat and face the TV.
A short, beefy bloke offers me a fistful of straws.
‘Good luck,’ he says.
The man who draws the shortest straw chooses what all the men will watch on TV for the next hour.
The winner selects a football match, but when it comes on I can’t sit still and I’m the only one who hasn’t got a chat going. I’m too conspicuous here.
I get up and pace by the back wall, still boiling hot from what my mother’s said.
An old con comes to me.
‘Show us what you’re made of,’ he says.
He wants me to play a game of pool with him.
His name’s Harrison, he’s about sixty, serving a five stretch for fraud.
We play four games and I win them all.
‘You could turn pro,’ he says.
‘Maybe. I’ll look into it.’
‘There are tournaments between prisons, you know. You could win a few quid.’
He tells me how and when and where.
‘You can sign up outside the canteen.’
I tell him I’ll do it. I probably will.
Gardam’s asleep and he’s snoring.
I sit on my cot to read for a while but the stink of his ash is everywhere and I’ve got an urge to wash the whole place out with soap and water.
I take a cloth from the sink and soak it in soap and water and wash my face and hands, then take the cloth and douse it again and start washing the floor round Gardam’s cot. I wipe up some of the ash and clear away the butts and dump the mess in the bucket.
He wakes and sits up.
‘What you doing?'
‘Cleaning.’
‘Let the screws do it.’
‘There’s ash everywhere.’
‘So?'
‘It stinks.’
‘What do you want me to do about it?’
‘Nothing, but I want to clean a bit.’
He lies down again, rolls over on his side, says, ‘Knock yourself out.’
I’ve spent the afternoon in the library, and then banged up again after evening chow for a couple of hours listening to Gardam talk about how he wants to die. Now it’s time for association.
There’s only one chair left, and it’s in the ba
ck corner next to the pot plant and that’s where Lumsden sits. Lumsden’s in F Wing, so I rarely see him on the landing or at meals, but I’ve heard a bit about him and I’ve seen him in the library a couple of times. Yesterday he was playing cards with a bloke called Wiman.
Lumsden’s not like the rest. He’s about twenty-four and his thick blond hair is clean. He’s got no stains on him, no tattoos, no cuts or bruises. Even though he’s been inside for four out of a seven stretch for manslaughter, he’s the picture of health.
He’s got a cell to himself and always wears a clean, perfectly ironed uniform. And since he’s on enhanced privileges because of good behaviour, he’s even got pockets in his shirt as well as his trousers, and his shoes lace up and he’s got a part-time job on Saturdays in the deputy governor’s office.
He’s sitting alone, staring straight ahead at the wall and, even though he’s doing nothing but staring, he doesn’t look bored and he doesn’t look afraid. He looks more like a free man than a prisoner.
I might ask for a cell transfer so as I can share with him.
I sit down beside him and he smells of soap, maybe even aftershave.
‘Where’s Wiman?’ I say.
‘He got paroled.’
He turns away to watch the pool game.
‘Do you play?’ I say.
‘Not as well as you.’
‘I’m not so good.’
‘I watched you win four games straight yesterday.’
‘I used to play snooker.’
‘Are you still on special-watch?'
‘Yeah, but not for long. I’ve gained seven pounds.’
He lowers his voice.
‘Next time you play, you should lose a few games.’
‘Why?'
‘You’re a sitting duck if you win every game.’
‘Okay.’
He stands and goes to the pot plant in the corner. He takes a pencil out of his pocket and uses it to make a mark on the wall.
He sits down.
‘A hardy ficus,’ he says. ‘It’s grown seven inches in four years.’
‘Right,’ I say.
‘I love that plant,’ he says.
‘How can you love a plant?'
‘It’s probably not love, but I care what happens to it. Sometimes they throw table tennis bats at it and I get furious. You’ve got to care about something.’
‘Yeah.’
‘If there was a dog in here, I’d care about that,’ he says, ‘but we can’t have a dog. All we can get is a budgie after we’ve served eight years. So it’s the plant.’
‘Fair enough,’ I say.
I turn away and he turns away. We pretend to watch the table tennis.
‘Do you have a window in your cell?'
‘Yeah,’ he says, ‘and I can open it a few inches.’
‘Lucky.’
‘It’s down the end of the ones in F Wing. Near the library.’
I rub my leg and he stares at me doing it.
I stop rubbing my leg.
‘The cue ball’s going to go in-off the black,’ I say.
The cue ball goes in-off the black.
‘Good call,’ he says.
Next day, I’m in the library and Farrell takes me away to the nurse for weighing.
The nurse, a short guy with acne, tells me I’ve not gained enough weight to be taken off watch, so I can’t yet use the yard or join the football team.
I tell Gardam.
‘Maybe you should eat my food,’ he says. ‘Maybe we could kill two birds with one stone.’
‘I get fat and you get dead?’
‘Yeah, that’s it.’
But, when evening chow comes, cottage pie and chips, Gardam’s forgotten all about it and eats so fast it’s like he’s in a race and he gives himself such a bad case of hiccoughs he nearly spews.
‘So much for Gandhi,’ I say.
‘What?'
‘Don’t worry.’
At eight, I go to association and sit with Lumsden.
We face the pool table, to make it seem as though we’re talking about the game.
It turns out Lumsden was an apprentice solicitor, not quite a solicitor, but almost.
I’m surprised. A con being a solicitor is the kind of thing that’s likely to be widely known in here and I’d not heard it before. Gardam didn’t tell me and he’s pretty much told me everything else.
‘How did it happen?’ I say.
‘The murder?'
‘Yeah.’
‘I was in my first year out of law school,’ he says. ‘I was working for a big city law firm.’
He looks back at the table.
‘And I didn’t really want kids,’ he says. ‘It was too soon.’
We pretend to watch the game.
‘What happened then?'
‘Not now,’ he says. ‘I’ll tell you later.’
He offers me a cigarette.
‘I don’t smoke.’
He hands me the packet, ‘Take one,’ he says. ‘I insist.’
There’s a fag already poking out of the packet and that’s the one I take.
‘Stick it behind your ear,’ he says.
Back in the cell, I wait for Gardam to turn away and then I take a look at the cigarette. Lumsden’s written on it: 3 lib. Takes me a few minutes to work out what it means. 3 p.m., library, probably. Tomorrow.
30
Next day, on the way back from breakfast, Farrell tells me I’ve got visitors coming.
Visiting hour is 3 p.m.
‘Who?'
‘The parents of your victim. Something arranged by welfare.’
‘Why wasn’t I told?'
‘How would I know? Just be ready to go to the visiting room at three o’clock.’
‘I don’t think it’s a good idea.’
‘Well, they’re booked in to come.’
‘I don’t think I should see them.’
‘Up to you. But you’re the one who’ll be facing the Board of Visitors.’
Maybe this has something to do with Lumsden.
There’s been a change. The old mess hall’s been opened and that’s where we’ll all be having our meals from now on. Just like it was in remand.
There’s a new governor, ex-Parkhurst, and he thinks eating together, the men from three wings mixing together, will boost our morale.
We’re taken across at noon.
Gardam sits next to me in the mess. I look for Lumsden and see him in the corner. He’s sitting alone, but doesn’t look as though he’s in the least bit bothered about it. And he’s got a big book on his lap and an expression on his face that’s damned close to a contented smile.
Gardam finishes his food.
‘You look nervous as hell,’ he says. ‘Why are you so scared of these Welkin people?'
‘I killed their son.’
He shrugs. ‘Still, you have to try and relax.’
‘Can I have one of your pills?’
‘All gone,’ he says. ‘But I’d give you one if I could.’
‘Why are they coming?'
‘Maybe they’re doing that forgiveness thing that the shrinks always talk about.’
I give him my lunch, he takes it, gobbles it down.
‘Your visitors are running late,’ says the officer who takes me to the visiting room. ‘You’ll just have to wait.’
I sit in cubicle seven and hope they won’t show. I’ve no idea what I’ll do or say. It hasn’t even started yet and my back’s soaked with sweat.
They arrive fifteen minutes late, look at me a moment, then sit down, slow and calm.
They’re both small. Welkin’s height must’ve come from his grandparents.
My heart’s pounding so hard I get to thinking they’ll see the vein pumping in my neck.
I cover my throat with my hand.
Mrs Welkin’s got a pretty, clear-skinned face and she wears a blue skirt and blue shirt. Mr Welkin also wears a blue suit, darker than hers.
They both take a telepho
ne receiver and they put their free hands in their laps. They’re not nervous. They’ve got the same confidence Welkin had. They don’t fidget, and they look at me, as he did, right in the eyes, not blinking.
‘We want to say a few things,’ says Mrs Welkin.
‘All right,’ I say.
My lip’s trembling.
‘We know how unfair it must seem to you.’
‘Seeing as you only hit him once.’
‘But you wanted to hurt him.’
‘So we wanted to meet you to tell you that we can understand if it seems unfair to you.’
‘But you brought our son’s life to an end and for this we think you should be punished.’
‘We think you deserve to be punished.’
I shift in my seat and move the phone to the other ear.
‘I understand how you feel,’ I say.
‘We don’t expect you to say anything,’ says Mrs Welkin.
I take a breath. ‘I appreciate you coming,’ I say.
There’s silence a while, but it’s not a comfortable silence like with Dr Forbes. Far from it.
They look at me and wait.
‘I don’t think it’s unfair,’ I say.
Mrs Welkin untwists the tangled phone cord.
I clear my throat.
‘I don’t think it’s unfair. He’d still be alive if I hadn’t hit him.’
‘Yes,’ says Mrs Welkin. ‘That’s right. He’d still be alive.’
Mrs Welkin wipes her eyes with the back of her sleeve. ‘Where are my tissues, Derek?'
‘I don’t know, love. Maybe they’re in your bag.’
‘Can’t you get them for me?’
‘If you want.’
‘Yes. Yes. Please.’
Mr Welkin finds Mrs Welkin’s tissues and both of us watch while she wipes her eyes. She hasn’t exactly cried. It’s more like seepage, like she was full up.
‘I’m sorry,’ I say.
‘We don’t want an apology,’ says Mr Welkin.
‘We don’t expect an apology,’ says Mrs Welkin.
Mrs Welkin looks up at the clock.
‘I liked him,’ I say. ‘Your son was a very nice man.’
‘You don’t have to say that,’ says Mrs Welkin.’
‘He wasn’t perfect,’ says Mr Welkin.
‘He was more than me,’ I say.
Mrs Welkin frowns.
‘More perfect than me,’ I say.
Mr Welkin sighs. ‘It’s a very sad situation,’ he says. ‘You seem like a good boy.’
