by M. J. Hyland
The siren blares and Mr and Mrs Welkin get up and when they reach the door they wave goodbye and they smile.
They’ve smiled at me.
I smile back.
Gardam’s sitting on his cot, knees up to his chest, and he’s eating a bar of chocolate.
‘How’d it go?'
‘Not too bad.’
I sit on my cot and face him.
‘What they say?'
‘That they think it’s unfair. That they feel bad for me.’
‘They must be saints.’
‘You’re right. They must be.’
Gardam offers me some chocolate.
‘No thanks.’
He wraps up what’s left, puts it under his pillow.
‘It’ll melt there,’ I say.
‘Yeah.’
He takes it out and eats it.
‘Are you doing association tonight?'
‘Yeah.’
‘Is it good?'
‘Yeah, it passes the time.’
He lies down, face up to the ceiling.
‘All I get is a cup of cocoa.’
Men who don’t get association have an extra cup of cocoa brought to their cells at 8.30 p.m.
‘Wish I hadn’t knifed that guy in remand,’ he says. ‘Wish I wasn’t such a cunt.’
‘How long before you get off basic?'
‘A year, maybe more. I wouldn’t mind it so much, but I’m not like you. I’ve nothing to do to pass the time during the day.’
‘Why don’t I borrow some books for you?'
‘Nah.’
‘What kind of books do you like?’
‘Cowboy stuff. Some comic books.’ ‘I’ll get you some.’
‘Nah.’
‘Why not?'
‘Takes me too long and I get bored. I’ve never finished one.’
‘I could get somebody to send in some new cowboy books then. Maybe some comic books.’
‘Who?'
I think straight away of Georgia.
‘I used to know a really nice girl. Her name’s Georgia. She might send me some.’
‘You should ask her to come and see you, Ox.’
‘I will.’
‘What about your family? Still not talking to you?’ ‘I think they need more time.’
‘That’s rotten, that is.’
‘Yeah.’
I eat the evening meal, every bit of the sausages, mash and peas.
In showers this morning, I noticed my stomach’s starting to get plumper and I feel like I’ve got a bit more energy.
The cell door’s opened and Farrell comes for me.
‘Time for association,’ he says.
As soon as I walk into the rec-room, I’m called to the pool table.
‘Hey Oxtoby,’ says Harrison. ‘I won the last game. Table’s mine. Want to challenge?'
‘I don’t have anything to play with.’ ‘You can cover it with an I.O.U.’
I lose two games and owe him a third of snout and now, more than ever, I’ve got to arrange for some money, or start work in one of the stores. I want to pay my debts and buy some extra food from the canteen.
Lumsden watches and, when I’m finished, I go to sit with him.
‘I was in the library today,’ he says. ‘I waited.’
‘I’m sorry,’ I say. ‘I had a visitor.’
I tell Lumsden about Welkin’s parents.
‘They were good to me.’
‘They sound like nice people.’
‘They are.’
He leans in close, whispers.
‘Try again tomorrow. The library.’
‘Okay,’ I say.
Maybe he’s got some inside information about my file from the deputy governor’s office, some good news about my first meeting with the Board of Visitors.
Gardam’s not in the cell. I ask the con next door what’s happened.
‘He cut himself. He’s in the box.’
‘How bad is it?'
‘It wasn’t bad enough for the hospital, so they’ve banged him up.’
Next day, I go to the library with Farrell and sit at the desk and read and wait for three o’clock.
Lumsden doesn’t show.
I go on waiting for him, then get up and move books on the shelves, sit again and look at the clock.
I count the seconds and can’t concentrate on reading.
He doesn’t show.
I borrow a book and tell Farrell I want to go back to my cell.
I lie on my cot and read the book. It’s written by an ex-con. The author was once homeless and it turns out he had a super high IQ and, when he landed in prison for a long stretch, he learnt to play chess and won a bunch of tournaments. It’s a very good book.
I’m glad of the break from Gardam but I’m also a bit surprised how much time I spend thinking about him. I can see him in the box, probably with the suit on, strapped up. And I know they don’t get a mattress or bedding in there, just a PE mat, and the food’s bread and water, and I wonder what his state of mind must be like, how much worse he’s gone and made it for himself.
At morning chow, I take Gardam’s tray as well as mine. The con behind me notices.
‘You can’t do that,’ he says.
‘Right.’
‘And, if you do, you’ll have to give me the toast.’
‘Okay.’
I do what he says.
‘I’m Oxtoby,’ I say.
‘I know that,’ he says. ‘I’m Stanislavsky. Stan.’
The one whose girl grassed him up when he’d got all the way to Portugal.
‘Right,’ I say. ‘You’re the one who got the two million.’
‘That’s me.’
He shakes my hand. ‘Thanks for the toast.’
I’m happy back in the cell. I’ve got two boiled eggs, two bowls of cornflakes and two bananas.
On a full belly, the day goes well.
I read more, can concentrate better, and don’t feel like sleeping before evening chow and, when the meal comes, I take both trays, get two helpings of meat loaf and spuds, two bowls of jelly, two oranges and two cups of tea.
At eight I go to the rec-room and sit with Lumsden.
‘You didn’t turn up today,’ I say. ‘I was in the library at three.’
‘Keep your voice down.’
‘Right.’
‘I’m sorry,’ he whispers. ‘It’s a long story.’
He turns away.
‘So what was it about?'
‘I can’t say now. Later.’
We watch the table tennis. Two men trounce their opponents and win a packet of fags. The fight’s so fierce they might have been playing for their lives. The losers opt for doubling up, and you can see from a mile off they’re going to lose again.
‘You should write that long letter home,’ says Lumsden. ‘The one your mum asked for.’
‘I don’t want to beg.’
‘I think you should consider it.’
‘Yeah, but I don’t want to push her.’
‘What about your brother?'
‘We were never that close. He’s seven years older. I was only ten when he moved out of home.’
‘Did you get along?'
‘Not really. When we were alone in a room, we always ended up putting the TV on and turning it up loud. The only time we laughed together was when there was a comedian on the telly.’
‘Then you should try your mum.’
He’s probably right. It might be better sometimes to say something that isn’t quite true than to say nothing at all. It might be best to make the first proper move, tell the story in a way that’ll make some sense to her.
‘Yeah,’ I say. ‘You’re right.’
He looks at me. ‘It took me a long time to ask my ex-wife for forgiveness,’ he says.
‘When I finally did, I felt a lot better.’
‘What happened?’ I say. ‘With my wife?'
He looks down at the floor, then back at me. He’s gone a bit red in
the face.
‘I smothered my son. He was five months old.’
‘Jesus.’
‘And my wife didn’t forgive me, but I still felt a whole lot better for asking.’
He gives me another cigarette.
‘Take this,’ he says.
I put it behind my ear.
The siren goes.
31
Gardam’s back in the cell.
I sit on my cot.
‘They fucking put me in the strongbox.’
‘I heard.’
‘Didn’t even stitch my wound.’
He bends over to get his pouch of tobacco from under the bed and, while his back’s turned, I look at the cigarette Lumsden gave me, then put it under my pillow.
‘They wouldn’t do that to an animal,’ he says.
He holds out his arm for me to see.
It’s a small cut near the wrist, but deep. He squeezes the flesh round the wound and, sure enough, it bleeds.
I go to the sink, get the cloth.
‘Is that the same cloth you used on the floor?’
‘Yeah,’ I say, ‘but I washed it.’
‘All right,’ he says. ‘Thanks.’
He takes the cloth and dabs at the wound.
I go back to my cot.
‘What happened?’ I say.
‘I cut myself. Just a practice run, but lots of blood. I raised the alarm and they threw me straight in the box.’
‘Why don’t you get some help?’
‘Don’t fucking tell me I need help.’
‘That’s not what I meant.’
‘What then?'
‘Maybe get more drugs or something. See the nurse and ask for stronger meds.’
He gets up, reaches in under his bed.
He’s got a can of baked beans.
‘What I really need’s a can opener so I can make a better knife out of this.’
‘Why don’t you have Johns get you one?'
Johns is Gardam’s mate and he works in the kitchen.
‘They’ve got extra screws in there now. Every meal, every sandwich or bowl of fruit, a screw supervises the knives, and whenever they need a can opened it’s done by the screw.’
‘Hopkins’ idea?'
The new governor.
‘Yeah.’
‘Wish I could help more,’ I say.
‘You do what you can.’
Strange thing to say.
‘I’m going to sleep now,’ he says. ‘Don’t do anything I wouldn’t do.’
Next day, I go to the library.
The screw who’s on library-watch stands by the table near the window reading a magazine. I go to the back corner of the library.
Lumsden’s standing behind the tallest shelf, out of sight of the screw.
I go to him.
‘Hello,’ I say.
He says nothing, just walks behind me, swaps places. He’s standing where I was just standing a moment ago, and I’m where he was standing just a moment ago.
‘You look jumpy,’ he says.
‘Yeah?'
‘I can probably guess why.’
‘Why?'
‘You don’t know why we’re here.’
‘Not really.’
‘Maybe you thought I was going to give you a kiss.’
Lumsden says this like a kid in the schoolyard. I should laugh as though he’s made a joke.
‘No,’ I say.
‘Well, I’m not. I want to give you my radio.’
He reaches into the bookshelf behind me and gets the radio out from behind some books. It’s one of those small black portables, like old men take to the park for listening to race results.
‘Here,’ he says. ‘This is yours.’
‘Thanks, but don’t you want it?'
‘I have two.’
‘Thanks.’
He steps closer, says, ‘So, you were afraid I might kiss you?’
‘Not really.’
‘I’ve never done it. Have you?'
I put the radio down by my feet and clear my throat.
‘No.’
He puts his hands in his pockets.
I’d have thought that, if somebody was going to say something serious like this, they’d take a lot longer to say it.
‘Do you ever think of it?’
‘Not really,’ I say.
‘But it gets lonely.’
‘I’m not bent.’
‘Nor am I,’ he says.
I want my hands in my pockets like he has, but I can’t copy him since I don’t have pockets and, anyway, copying him would be just the same as touching him.
‘Sometimes you want to do it though,’ he says.
‘Not really.’
The way he looks at me I might as well have said yes.
‘But it’s probably best not to do anything,’ he says, stepping back.
I want to keep talking, don’t want him to walk away, not yet, but I don’t know how to deal with what he’s saying.
‘But just to think it,’ I say. ‘That’s okay.’
I want to get at him, the way he’s got at me.
‘Yeah. Just to think about it,’ he says.
‘To only think about it.’
‘Yes. To think about it and not to do it.’
‘I agree.’ ‘Good.’
I’ve gone as far as I’ll go, but he reaches for my hand.
‘Relax,’ he says, ‘I just want to write down the name of my favourite station.’
‘Okay,’ I say.
He takes a biro out of his shirt pocket and tries to write on the back of my hand but the ink won’t take because of my sweat. He pulls his shirtsleeve down and wipes my skin. When he’s finished wiping, he doesn’t let go.
He’s holding my wrist.
‘I have to go,’ I say.
‘Okay,’ he says.
Still he doesn’t let go.
‘I’ll see you later,’ I say.
‘Good,’ he says.
I watch him leave and then I go to the law shelf and get a new book on the criminal law.
I take the radio back to my cell and put it under the bed and spend the rest of the day reading the new book and I underline the bits I want to ask Lumsden about.
At association I sit in the same spot, but Lumsden’s not there. He doesn’t show up.
I play some table tennis and watch some news on the TV.
Back in the cell, the lights are still on, but Gardam’s asleep, or pretending to sleep, curled on his side, foetal position, facing the wall.
And then I see what he’s done.
He’s been bleeding and it’s fresh, but maybe just a nose bleed. He’s left some of the blood in the sink. He’s left it there for me to see.
I go to his cot. ‘Gardam?'
He doesn’t move, but I think he’s awake. His breath’s too fast, too shallow for sleep.
‘Gardam? You okay? There’s blood in the sink.’
I shake his shoulder.
‘Gardam. Wake up. There’s blood in the sink.’
‘Hum?'
‘Wake up.’
He’s a terrible actor. He turns round, uses his knuckles to wipe the sleep from his eyes, stretches his hands up, a really shit, fake yawn.
‘What?'
‘There’s blood in the sink. Are you okay?'
He looks down at his wrist. He’s got another cut there, long and thin, the blood still fresh, the skin raised round the wound, but it’s not serious.
‘I cut myself.’
‘I can see.’
‘Just another practice.’
He should get put in the psych unit.
‘Do you want to go on watch?’ I say. ‘Do you want me to raise the alarm?'
‘No fucking chance. I just want to be left in peace.’
‘What did you use?'
He points to the corner of the cell, just beside the sink. ‘The lid off the tin of baked beans.’
‘Did you want to kill yourself?'
‘Not yet,
Ox. It was just a practice. I just wanted to see what it felt like and that.’
‘Can I have it? Can I have the lid?'
‘What for?’ he says.
‘I don’t want you to keep it.’
He sits up and reaches for his tobacco.
‘Mind your own business,’ he says. ‘What do you care?'
I stop and look at him, look at him properly, fix his gaze with my gaze, the way the Welkins do it. It’s hard to do it without feeling a bit of extra emotion.
‘'Course I care,’ I say.
He turns away.
I go to my cot, exhausted, sit with my legs over the side, watch him roll a fag.
‘You can’t wait to see the back of me,’ he says. ‘You’d get a transfer if you could.’
‘That’s not true.’
‘Yeah it is. I heard you’ve made friends with that solicitor, Lumsden.’
‘What of it?'
‘He’s a snob.’
‘No, he’s not.’
‘And he’s bent.’
‘I don’t think he is.’
‘Wait and see. You’ll learn the hard way. He’s bent and he’s the deputy governor’s pet. He’s probably a grass, too.’
The lights go out.
I lie down, but don’t undress. I might have to get up in the middle of the night.
When I get back from library next day, Gardam’s on my cot with a letter.
‘Here’s another letter for you,’ he says. ‘I didn’t read it.’
I go to my cot.
‘Who’s it from?’ he says.
‘I don’t know.’
Gardam goes to the cell door and stands with his hands in his pockets.
Dear Patrick,
I’m sorry I haven’t written sooner but I’ve been very busy and the time goes so fast. Don’t think I haven’t thought of you.
I’m certain that you didn’t mean to hurt that man. I’ve been meaning to say this to you ever since it happened. I’m sorry I couldn’t help you more in the trial. I hope you understand.
There’s probably no point saying ‘chin up’, so I wont. But I want you to know that I’m on your side.
Your friend, Georgia
I read the last part, where she says she’s on my side, probably a hundred times, then put the letter under my pillow, lie down and cover my face with a blanket, close my eyes, try not to make any noise.
Gardam comes over.
‘What’s it say?’ he says. ‘Who’s it from?'
‘An old friend.’
‘Why’ve you got the blanket over your head?’
