by M. J. Hyland
I take the blanket off.
‘Was it a woman?'
‘Yeah.’
‘What’s it say?’
‘Nothing important.’
He sits on my cot and I get a fresh whiff of his ashy skin and breath. He should brush his teeth, drink some water, smoke less. But he refuses to do anything that’s good for him, nothing but sleep.
He’s probably afraid that, if he does anything other than sleep and talk of suicide, I’ll not believe he wants to die. It seems nothing matters more to him than that I should believe he wants to die. This matters more, I think, than the idea of death itself.
‘If it’s nothing important, then why do you look like somebody kicked you in the head?’ he says.
‘She just made me want to get out of here.’
‘Don’t you always?'
I don’t tell Gardam the truth. Truth is, now that I’ve been inside for a good while, I don’t always think about my release, and I don’t always want to get out.
I’m sometimes happier in here than I was out there. I’m under no pressure to be better in here and life’s shrinking to a size that suits me more.
The siren sounds for association and I go out to line up.
Lumsden doesn’t show again.
I wait a while and play a bit of table tennis, then go straight back to the cell.
Gardam’s got the radio on and he’s listening to country and western. I can’t stomach it.
He smiles at me. ‘This is good, this is.’
‘What you listening to?'
‘You can change it if you want. It’s your radio.’
‘I wouldn’t mind.’
I tune it to the station recommended by Lumsden. It’s classical music.
‘That’s fucking rank, that is.’
‘Let’s give it a bit of a chance,’ I say.
‘I’d rather stick pins in my eyes.’
‘Just half an hour,’ I say.
Gardam closes his eyes and he keeps them closed, lies still on his back, and doesn’t light a cigarette for at least an hour.
He doesn’t talk either.
We listen to Beethoven and Bach and Chopin and Schubert. I don’t mind it.
He doesn’t speak and doesn’t smoke.
When we’ve got our cocoa, he comes and sits on my cot.
‘Could we maybe listen to some news now?'
‘Sure,’ I say.
We listen to the BBC World Service, the nine o’clock news bulletin.
‘I think she’s probably really tall,’ says Gardam.
‘Who?'
‘The woman on the radio.’
After lights out, I masturbate facing the wall, and Gardam pretends to sleep, and when it’s his turn I do the same for him.
When I get back from the library next day, Gardam’s sleeping with his head at the wrong end of the cot, no pillow and no blanket.
His eyelids flicker, probably dreaming.
He sometimes moves the cot away from the wall or moves his pillow to the other end of the bed, as though by changing positions he’ll fool his body so that he can begin a fresh sleep.
I turn on the radio and Gardam wakes.
‘I’ve a nickname for you, Ox. It came to me in a dream.’
‘What?'
‘I think I’ll call you Miss Otis.’
He picks the sleep out of his eyes and wipes it on his trousers.
‘Well, what do you think?'
‘Nothing.’
‘Do you know the song?'
‘No.’
‘Miss Otis regrets she’s unable to lunch today.’
‘What’s it about?'
‘It was on the radio last night.’
‘I don’t remember.’
‘It’s about a woman who killed a man, and she can’t keep her lunch appointment. Or something like that.’
‘What’s Miss Otis got to do with me?’ I say.
Gardam smiles. ‘It came to me in a dream.’
‘And you think I’m like a woman?'
‘I didn’t say that, did I? Did you hear me say that?'
‘Why couldn’t you find a sad song involving a man who can’t make his appointment?'
‘Forget about it,’ he says.
Gardam’s good mood is finished.
‘I just thought you’d want a better name than Ox, seeing as you’re more like a fucking rabbit than an ox.’
‘Right,’ I say.
‘It’s not even time for chow,’ he says. ‘Why the fuck did you wake me?'
‘Sorry. Go back to sleep.’
He moves his pillow to the other end of the cot and within minutes he’s snoring.
The siren sounds for evening chow and, as usual, Gardam and I sit together in the mess, but his eyes are so full of pus I can’t look at him without being put off my food.
Lumsden’s alone again and he’s got that same book in his lap. He doesn’t look at me.
I’ll see him tonight.
A message gets passed along the ones. There’s been a riot and a knifing in F Wing. Somebody’s gone at a screw with a pair of bolt cutters.
We’re all in lockdown.
‘Wonder which one it was,’ says Gardam.
‘I hope it wasn’t Johnson.’
‘That fat bloke in remand?'
‘He was all right.’
‘I knew that Lumsden would fuck you up.’
‘It’s got nothing to do with Lumsden.’
Gardam puts the radio on, tunes it to country and western.
I read more of the book about the criminal law and start a letter to my mother.
After morning chow next morning, I’m taken to the nurse and weighed. It’s the short fat nurse with acne.
‘Okay,’ he says, ‘You should be taken off special-watch now.’
Farrell takes me back to the cell.
‘When can I start using the yard?'
‘You can go out today if you want.’
‘Thanks.’
‘I’ll get you at eleven.’
At eleven, Farrell takes me out to the yard.
There’s a small football field and a cricket pitch, but most of the men are walking back and forth on the tarmac, talking and smoking, just walking up and down in straight lines. And then there are the Wombles, that’s what they call the men who collect the drugs that’ve been sent over the fence inside tennis balls. The guards see them but don’t stop them.
I run two laps of the field and I plan to do more, but that’s all I can manage.
When I’m done, I sit by the wall to check my pulse. It’s way too high. I’ve got to get fitter and get my resting pulse down, probably down to near fifty-eight or sixty.
About halfway through the exercise hour, four men start playing football. When they stop for a break, I ask one of them if I can join in.
‘Go fuck yourself,’ he says.
‘No problem,’ I say.
I do more laps, run until I can’t run any more.
For the rest of the hour I go on laying low, mind my own business and, when the exercise ends, go to the back of the line-up, walk inside with my head down.
In the cell, I wash up a bit at the sink, then sit on the cot, ready to read.
Gardam wakes.
‘Morning,’ I say.
‘Fuck the morning.’
‘You were in a good mood yesterday. What happened?'
‘I remembered I want to die.’
I look at my book, but not for long.
‘I have a knife,’ he says.
He stands and comes over, stands right by my feet.
I put the book on my lap.
‘I got hold of a blade,’ he says.
‘Yeah?'
‘Maybe you could help me out?’
He sits down next to me.
‘What do you want me to do?’
‘I can’t do it myself.’
‘What?'
‘I was thinking if I gave you the knife you could stick me in the middle of the night, stic
k the knife right in my preliminary artery or something. But you’d have to make sure you do it right. I don’t want to end up like a cripple or in an iron lung or anything.’
I laugh a tight laugh.
‘I’m serious,’ he says.
‘It’s a stupid idea.’
‘Why?'
‘If I killed you, then I’d never get out of here.’
‘You’re wrong. I’ve thought it all out. We can make it look like self-defence. You just say that I attacked you and you fought back.’
He’s sitting so close and I can smell his sweat and it smells like it’s got diarrhoea mixed in with it.
‘You knife me,’ he says, ‘and then put my body on the floor. And then you give yourself some defence wounds, like a small stab in the arm or something.’
‘I don’t think so,’ I say.
He draws his fist back as though to strike, then lowers it.
‘Not this time,’ he says.
‘Right,’ I say.
‘And I’m going to make some threats in your direction during chow. That way the whole thing is kind of set up.’
‘I can’t do it.’
He stands and goes to his cot, reaches under his mattress and takes out a knife.
‘I got this off one of the screws,’ he says.
It’s a safety knife, the kind they use for cutting down suicides.
‘How did you get it?'
He doesn’t answer, just comes back to my cot, stands over me and flashes the knife through the air in front of my face. He smiles. Flish, flish, goes the knife.
‘There’s gonna be a cell search soon,’ he says, ‘so you’d better do me this favour quick.’
‘I don’t think so.’
‘I’m going to leave this under the mattress,’ he says.
‘I can’t do it,’ I say.
He comes over again and stands in close.
I bring my teeth together.
‘If you don’t use the knife,’ he says. ‘I’ll do some damage in another direction.’
‘What’s that supposed to mean?'
‘It means maybe I won’t use it on myself. Maybe I’ll flip my lid and use it on somebody else.’
Gardam coughs, goes to his cot to get a cigarette. He sits with his back to the wall, puts the knife under his pillow and lights the cigarette. Then he lights another, and another.
I pretend to read.
‘Don’t worry, Miss Otis. I’m probably not going to come after you.’
The siren sounds for chow and we file out.
I go to association but Lumsden’s not in the rec-room. I win three games of pool and get enough credit to pay off my debt to Harrison.
Back in the cell, Gardam’s in a funk. He’s not talking to me. He’s got the radio turned up loud and he’s chain-smoking.
I have a whole lot of trouble reading and when the lights go out I know straight away I’ve little hope of sleeping.
And that’s how it is. I don’t sleep.
32
When the morning siren goes, Gardam’s up and waiting at the cell door.
He says nothing to me.
He doesn’t get in line-up for the mess. He’s going down the end of the landing to report for special-sick.
I hope he gets put in the psych unit so I can have some rest.
I eat both breakfasts and I’m just finishing off my second cup of tea when Farrell comes to get me.
‘I’m afraid we’re running late,’ he says. ‘There was a fire down in the store.’
‘Late for what?'
‘Your appointment with Dr Forbes.’
‘Is that today?'
‘Yes, but you’ve only got fifteen minutes.’
I’d thought I’d never see Dr Forbes again and I’m glad of the news. I’ve got a lot to get off my chest.
Dr Forbes is wearing a suit, all buttoned up, a white shirt underneath, and she’s got black, flat shoes.
‘Hello, Patrick. Take a seat.’
She sits and smiles at me and moves in closer to the desk, uncrosses and crosses her legs. ‘Looks like you’ve gained weight.’
‘Six pounds,’ I say.
‘That’s good,’ she says.
‘I’ve been using the library,’ I say. ‘And I went out to the yard yesterday.’
‘Do you feel better? You look better.’
I doubt it.
‘Yeah.’
She waits for me to speak. I don’t know where to start. There’s Gardam and Lumsden, my family, and my appeal that’s going nowhere. And the fuck-off I got yesterday in the yard. And there’s Welkin.
‘I think if I went to university now,’ I say, ‘I’d probably do a lot better.’
‘Do you think you’ve changed then?’ ‘I think I have.’ ‘In what way?'
‘I think I’ve got more patience or something, or maybe my expectations are just lower.’
‘That’s a good thing. So you might study something? Now or when you’re out?'
‘Nah. If I was free, I don’t think I’d like studying at all.’
‘Not necessarily.’
‘That’s how it is with me. I didn’t live a proper life when I was free and I don’t think it’d be any different if I got out.’
‘Maybe that’s not true.’
I look at the floor. My breath’s got shallow.
‘You look angry,’ she says.
‘I’m not.’
‘What then?'
My mouth’s full of the threat of tears and I can’t speak. I feel like I’m about to lose control.
But then, after a long gap, the silence between us starts to cover me, almost like being touched. The longer the stretch of silence, the more it feels like we’re touching each other.
‘Tell me more about your family,’ she says. ‘Have they been to see you?'
‘No. I’m a fucking orphan now.’
I’m too agitated to sit.
‘Patrick. You need to stay seated or I’ll have to raise the alarm.’
I sit.
She takes a deep breath.
‘Do you feel betrayed by your mother?'
I’m not sure if the truth will make any sense. The truth is, I thought I was rejecting my mother when I left home. I was sick of her poking and prodding and I didn’t want her to interfere in my life and ask questions about Sarah. But it turns out she was the one doing the rejecting and it’s just the same with my father.
‘I think she hates me,’ I say.
‘Maybe she doesn’t hate you. Maybe she needs time.’
‘Or maybe she always hated me and I gave her the perfect excuse.’
‘What about your father? Has he been in contact?'
‘No.’
She turns the little clock on her desk to face me then scrunches up her nose.
‘That’s a pity,’ she says. ‘Our time’s up.’
Gardam’s not in the cell after chow and I find out he’s been taken to the psych unit. He should be gone for at least two days.
I’ve some time alone and the radio’s mine.
Within an hour, I already feel a bit better and I have a nice fantasy before I sleep. I’m sitting in a café and the table’s covered in a white cloth. I order a bottle of wine and tuck a napkin into my collar. A woman with pale skin and long red hair comes to meet me for dinner and we’re the only people in the café.
The waiter stands in the back corner, facing away from us. The woman wears a blouse and, when she’s finished eating, she unfastens her buttons and slides her blouse down over her shoulder and she shows me one of her tits.
After the library, I go back to the cell. Farrell opens the cell door, as he usually does, but he doesn’t look at himself the way he usually does. I know something’s up.
‘Get in,’ he says, and then he shuts my cell door and leaves.
Two prisoners are sitting on my cot and I can’t get out.
I’ve been inside a good while now and I’ve never been beaten. It’s been so long that, until the fuck-off I got
yesterday, I’d stopped even wondering about it.
But here it is.
‘We need a word with you,’ says Osborne, a lifer who killed his girlfriend.
‘Okay.’
‘We need you sorted,’ says Platt, a short bastard serving fifteen for the manslaughter of his best friend who turned in some evidence.
I go to the gap between the desk and my cot.
‘We’ve noticed the fuck-nest you’ve got going with that pansy Lumsden.’
‘No I haven’t.’
‘Stink’s got his eyes on you,’ says Platt.
Peterson, nicknamed Stink, is the ugliest man in D Wing, a prison-bent ape serving life with no prospect of parole for murdering two prostitutes. His face is fat and looks like it’s had grease rubbed over it.
‘We’ve decided to give him access to twice-weekly buggery.’
‘Unless you give us what we want.’
‘What do you want?'
‘The usual. Snout, cash. Whatever is yours is now ours.’
‘I don’t have anything.’
Platt pulls a belt out of his trouser leg. He’s had it hidden there, tied on with a bit of rope and he runs his hand slow along the stiff leather, wraps the end of the belt round his left hand, takes a hook out of his pocket, thick and sharp, a small scythe.
He steps forward.
I want to call out for Smith. I should’ve got a transfer to F Wing. I should’ve seen the governor. I should’ve seen this coming.
‘First,’ says Osborne, ‘Peterson buggers you senseless, takes you up the shitter good and proper. You’ll probably bite your tongue in half. That’s what happened to West, isn’t it, Platt?'
‘That’s correct.’
‘And then if we still don’t get what we want,’ says Osborne, ‘this belt goes round your neck, and we pull real hard and, when your eyes are poking out of your stupid skull, we insert the hook right through your socket, and pull real hard and turn you blind.’
I step forward, no idea where I might get to, but I’ve got to move.
‘You go fucking nowhere,’ says Platt.
I take another step forward, make for the cell door.
The blow comes from behind, connects hard and fast, like a block of wood to the base of my skull and, when I’m going down, another blow to the top of my spine, a crack so hard, a pain so large it takes everything with it.
I wake in the infirmary next morning and, all things considered, I don’t feel too bad. There’s a drip in my arm giving me glucose and even though there’s a shooting pain in the top of my head, a throbbing in my temples and at the base of my spine, I’ve slept a long time and I’ve woken feeling glad it’s happened. This is my chance to get a transfer to F Wing.
