O My Days

by David Mathew

  There are clichés aplenty in the books to which my job allows me easy access—clichés about fear and about wanting. Especially fear. So what is my heart like? A drum? A thunderstorm? It’s beating so fast that I cannot hear anything else as I squint at the pillowcase. It’s marked with something dark but the light is too poor to be able to see for sure what it is. Turning on my lamp will illuminate a tiny light on the power board in the office and a screw will come along, wondering why I’m awake so early; all I can do is hold the pillowcase up to the slits, and then wondering how Dott has managed to smuggle a pen into the block, I rely on a different sense. I sniff the pillowcase. Blood. I will later find out that Dott has written his message to me with blood from the sole of his left foot, using a short sewing needle that he has secreted in the flesh behind his right shin. Drop by drop. Stitching bloodstain to bloodstain, for my benefit. The letter must have taken the better part of an evening: little wonder that he has been quiet. He has been working.

  But I can’t read it! I have to wait until first light at 5:47 before I get any relief from the biting frustration I’m feeling. But I still can’t read it properly. My new next-door is a Czech lad named Jacob. I don’t know if that’s his first name or his family name, but he clearly believes he owns the Seg Block, the cunt. At 5.50—rise and shine!—he shouts for attention; it’s almost as though he knows something is going on that he wants to ruin, but he’s probably been sleeping. He rings the night bell. Footfalls on polished tiles, the screws come running. Jacob is on suicide watch and he’s attempted before, bare times. It will be a matter of seconds before they arrive. It’s in those seconds that I realise Jacob has given me my reason for turning on my light; other inmates will be doing the same, protesting against their sudden alarm call. If the screws are with Jacob, they can’t be with me. Thank you, cuz, I’m thinking as I light up the room.

  Seven.

  I’m faced with a series of worries and dilemmas. In no particular order. Before I face Number One Governor at the Adjudication I am sweating in my cell, fearful of losing my Redband and my Enhanced status. Lose those and it’s no Library job for me. In a few days’ time I will enter the small court of law at the end of the Seg corridor, limbs trembling, eye sockets twitching no doubt through lack of sleep.

  Take a seat, Alfreth, the Governor will tell me without looking up from his paperwork. Hands on the desk. You know the routine.

  Yes, sir. But no, sir, I will want to protest. I don’t.

  The desk faces his; there’s a space of two metres between the two facades. In addition to me and the Governor, there are officers to my sides in case I make a sudden violent movement; there’s the officer who will read the charge, and the officer who will give the eye witness statement.

  Second worry is Julie won’t get me my books.

  Third worry is, if I lose Enhanced, my mail will get read in both directions—and I need to send a letter to some of the boys I roll with. I need my money back from this fucking Bailey waste—and I need to offer him a reminder, via the medium of non-verbal communication, that I am not to be fucked with. The money gets returned (this itself a sub-concern: how far can I trust my own boys not to spend the rewards?); and he stays away from my ting and my daughter. In return, once his bruises heal, he has given back to him the full use of his limbs and the only visible memories will be the shank scars on his torso, every one of them a tale to tell, a tale that was told.

  My fourth worry is what Dott wrote in blood on the pillowcase.

  And my fifth—and most pressing immediately—is how I’m going to get rid of the fucking thing. Flimsy prison-issue pillowcase it might be, but it’s still a pillowcase. I can’t dash it out the window—it’ll get found and I’ll get blamed. Not even the Dellacotte winds, up here in the hills, are going to move a pillowcase far once it’s snuggled up nicely to the tulips in the flowerbed. And I can’t eat it.

  I’m tempted to wrap it inside my towel for when I’m allowed a shower, but then what? The single shower down block is checked before and after every rinse, just in case someone leaves something— a sewing needle, for example—for someone else to use. (I wonder if Dott has dashed the needle out the window. It’s the sort of thing he can easily hide in his mattress, after all. What’s he thinking?)

  The answer to the pillowcase conundrum arrives, as so many solutions do in this place, when I am moving my bowels into the fire brigade red plastic bucket. I have heard from other lads that when you’re down block, it’s best to time your bowel movements for just after breakfast. You don’t want to eat your cereals with a container of shit in the corner of the cell. But I can’t wait. My body clock is out of sync from so little shut-eye. I must be quick. Clenching my batty cheeks, I knock-knee my way back to the mattress. The pillowcase is under it. I complete my defecation into its open maw, a sense of self- disgust rising within myself. As best I can, I flatten down the waste and replace the loaded linen beneath the mattress. I wipe myself clean and dry. What the screw will see in the bucket, if he’s one of the sick govs who look, is a small amount of prison-issue shit, battleship grey, bulked up with too much paper.

  Slop out, I’m told in due course. When I empty the bucket into the chute there is no comment. And when I empty the bucket, eventually, containing the shit-soiled pillowcase— its whiteness stained darker—with my faeces and a load of bumwad, I hope there will no comment either.

  I have been allowed one roll-on deodorant for my stay here in Hell’s Hotel. I apply a layer of it to the pillowcase, to ease any smell that might start wafting. It’s as close a procedure to feeding a pet as I’ve ever known. I don’t recall having a pet in the flat when I was a boy. Not allowed.

  At the Adjudication I plead guilty. Hot on the heels of my belief that I have no choice but to do so is the thought that I am still innocent until.

  Allow it.

  It’s to your advantage, Alfreth, I’m told, that the assailant refuses to make any kind of statement at all. What did you pay her?

  Eighty-five fucking grand, I want to say. Good old Julie. I nod my head; it’s a sympathetic, humble gesture.

  So I have no choice, he adds, but to hold you here pending further psychiatric reports. I want to be sure, Alfreth, clean record or not.

  My backside rises now from the plastic seat.

  Sit down, Alfreth, I am told.

  I deep-breathe to regain my composure.

  Sir. I’ve never been in trouble before. I’m going legit.

  I’d like to believe that, Alfreth, the Governor tells me.

  It’s true, sir. I’m going to be an accountant.

  Is that so?

  Yes, sir, it’s so. It’s true, it’s actual. Everything is satisfactual.

  Less of it, Alfreth.

  Sorry, sir. I glance up at Kate Wollington. She’s there as my compadre. I don’t know why, but you learn to ride it. I can’t stand that smirk on her face though still. Or the thought that she’ll be reporting back to Kate Thistle. I wish her dead. At this moment. Swear down.

  Alfreth. As this has been your first serious charge since you entered this institution, I am willing to offer you the benefit of the doubt. The tone is weary, icy. You may keep your Enhanced status.

  Thank you, sir. May I ask you a question, sir?

  The question has him wrongfooted and distracted. He thinks he’s done me a favour but he says, Go ahead, Alfreth.

  Sir, why is Miss Wollington present here today? I don’t look at her. I want to exclude her from the inquiry.

  She’ll be writing your psychiatric assessment, Alfreth.

  I understand that, sir.

  Don’t stand up.

  I’m not about to, sir. I just thought I’d mention that this is highly irregular and I would like a reason. Most psych reports go on the evidence of the court report and I’m curious why Kate Wollington is here right now.

  Yeah, Charlie, I know her fi
rst name. I know yours too. I have painted him into a corner and he knows it.

  He betrays a sign of weakness by asking: Are you taking the piss out of me, Alfreth?’

  No, sir. Quite the opposite. I’ve shown nothing but politure.

  Politure?

  Yes, sir. I don’t run the risk of offending him further by defining the word although I want to. I simply wish to understand this breach of protocol.

  It’s my prison, Alfreth. That’s the only sort of protocol you need to know. Do you understand me?

  It’s at this point that I think it’s his arse that’s going to rise from the seat.

  I understand you, perfectly, sir, I say. I turn to Kate Wollington. Please say hello to Kate Thistle, I ask her. (Yeah, I know her forename too.)

  Will do, is Miss Wollington’s only contribution to the conversation.

  Thank you, sir.

  And I am led back to my temporary pad in the Seg. It smells like a tramp’s beard in there, but already still the officers have ceased to remark on it. I’ve heard them all—the insults.

  Smells like a rat crawled into this shit-hole and died, Alfreth.

  Yes, sir.

  Smells like a scabby whore’s Mound of Venus, Alfreth.

  Yes, sir.

  Insults don’t matter here, at Dellacotte Young Offenders. Why not? Because insults are the air you breathe and you get used to them quickly.

  There’s a note from Reception. It’s been pushed under my cell door, and I unwrap it immediately. It’s about the books I’ve ordered via Julie. Bless her, Julie has tried her best. For whatever reason. The books have gone straight into my Personal Belongings in Reception. All three of them. Rationale: Material not suited to a prisoner. Allow it and fuck it. I don’t need the motherfuckers anymore. Where has she got the money? That’s sixty sheets.

  Eight.

  Five things.

  He asks two questions, but without question words, does Dott. Prometheus? he asks. Hair shirt? he asks. And then he asks a question, in blood, with a question mark. It doesn’t take a genius of memory. He insults me, bruv. Prometheus is the Titan chiefly honored for stealing fire from the gods in the stalk of a fennel plant and giving it to mortals for their use. I can read, you know, Dott. He is depicted as an intelligent and cunning figure who has sympathy for humanity. Promethean refers to events or people of great creativity, intellect and boldness. Allow it. But we’re not done. Next comes the real question, and it makes me sit down on my mattress.

  What is your earliest memory of fear? he wants to know.

  If he thinks I don’t know what Prometheus and a hair-shirt is, he’s playing me for a div-kid cunt. The question, on the other hand, will need further thought. So I think about it now. I have no choice.

  My earliest memory of fear stems back to when I was seven years old. It’s my earliest memory of anything at all. It’s my garden—or rather the communal garden, round the back of the flats where I grew up. I’m playing off-ground tag with my sisters and I’m stung. A bee lands on my right forearm and sperms me his worst. My muscle is inflamed for a week. It is not until this moment that I know I’m allergic to bee stings.

  The second-to-last thing Dott has written is this: A million years of bee stings, Billy. Think about it. And I do. I think about it and I read these words for a good half an hour, careful to listen out for footfalls. Obsessive compulsive. He knows, I’m thinking. But how? I am stranded on an alien island. Don’t like it. Cunt knows. But how does the cunt know?

  The last thing on Dott’s pillowcase is elementary. Read your visitor’s message, it says, and take heed. I am allowed out for exercise. I do my pull-ups. I don’t get the reference to Prometheus or to the hair shirt. I await my so-called visitor’s message. And eventually it comes. It comes on the day after the Adjudication. I’m asleep. My time down block has offered me a chance to catch up on my sleep if nothing else. Most of all I miss my job in the Library. Christ alone knows what my reception will be like if I’m ever allowed back there: my reception, I mean, from Miss Patterson and Miss Thistle. For I feel that I’ve let them down. A silly sensation, maybe, but it persists.

  Screw Wells is taking up my doorframe. If you imagine your stereotypical montage of what a prison officer looks like, you’re thinking of a hench hard body like Screw Wells. Who tells me now:

  Slag wash, Alfreth. On your feet. You’ve got a visitor at ten.

  I’m not expecting anyone, I reply, but I know that this isn’t true. I’ve been expecting someone since I took possession of Dott’s pillowcase. Who is it, sir? I ask Wells.

  Even his shrug is seismic. How the fuck would I know? he tells me. And while you’re at it, empty your slops box, would you? It smells in here.

  Yes, sir. By now the pillowcase is good and stained with faecal matter. Although I’m sweating like an athlete, my passing of the shit and the fabric into the chute elicits nothing more than a sneer of professional good conduct.

  Bet that’s a relief, Alfreth, innit?

  Oh yes, sir. More than you can imagine.

  His dumbfuddled frown burning into my spine, I return to my cell with the bucket and wash my bits and pits in cold water and prison issue lubricant. The stuff is as slimy as spawn. Satisfied not to know all, Wells closes and locks my cell door. My pulse is racing and I can’t resist it any longer.

  Dott! I shout out through the window slits. Dott, are you listening?

  I’m listening! he calls back. Could it be that he’s been waiting to hear this question? The reply is just about loud enough for me to hear.

  Who’s my visitor, waste?

  There is no reply to this one. So I shout it louder—only to get a complaint from Jacob in the intervening cell. I tell him to mind his manners and make it clear that if he doesn’t do so there will be repercussions. He shuts up, but that doesn’t help me with Dott’s silence.

  Dott! Who the fuck is it? Show me your hand! Show me your motherfucking currency, blood! You want me to believe you show me!

  Who said I wanted you to believe anything? Dott shouts.

  WHO IS IT, CUNT?

  The answer is among the last things I expect. It chills the piss in my bladder and makes me tingly and numb at the extremities.

  It’s your Mumsy, Billy, Dott shouts.

  There can’t be any more doubt in my mind: Dott is in touch with some of the boys I roll with on road. Or worse, he’s linking with Julie. Man doesn’t even want to think about that noise.

  Who is it, Dott? I’m calling now. Who you chatting?

  I’m not chatting dick, Billy-Boy. I asked her to visit you.

  Is it better or worse to know that Dott has got something going with my mum or with my ting? Frankly, both notions make me feel sick; for a man who wants to know so much about everything that goes on, I am suddenly doing an impression of a guy who prefers to be wilfully ignorant. I am reminded of what Dott is in for.

  So much as touch her, Dott, and I swear I’ll make your life not worth living. Are you listening?

  Yeah, I’m listening, Billy, he replies. And what makes you think it is?

  Is what?

  Worth living. Dott does not wait for an answer. That question I asked, he continues immediately. When you were stung by the bee.

  How do you know about that? I demand to know.

  I was there, Bill. I was the one who poured water on the sting.

  It’s not often it happens, but right at this moment I am utterly speechless. I back away from the window slits and lean against the cool metal of the door. But my legs aren’t the equal of the task for long. My knees are drained of juice; as my body goes down, my gorge goes up. I vomit. Not another word passes between me and Dott. I treat myself to another slut wash at the sink. I freshen my breath on a swallow of toothpaste. No amount of rationalisation will chase from my head what Dott has told me.

  And it’
s summer again; I’m a boy. I have to view the pictures through the veil of pain that struck my body after the bee stung my arm. The pain is the overwhelming sense, and it takes me a few seconds to bite and kick my way back to the real memories of the event. I’m going nuts, I start to think. This can’t be right. There was a man there. There was an application of water to the afflicted area. He was a man who lived alone in one of the ground floor flats. He was in his early twenties then. I was in the communal garden and I remember his face at his flat’s kitchen window. He brought me two blue plastic beakers of chilled water. Through the residual pain I try to remember his face with more clarity, his voice with more clarity. In those pre-prison/pre-regime days it was first names we rolled with. His name was Ronald. And Dott’s first name is also Ronald. Wait. There has to be a sensible explanation. My brain can’t have distorted Dott’s age so badly, can it? That was thirteen years ago. That makes Dott in his mid-thirties at the youngest. But he looks like a twelve year-old.

  Screw Wells arrives to escort me to Visits. You look like you’ve seen a ghost, Alfreth, he tells me.

  I don’t know how seriously to treat the accusation.

  Nine.

  How the fuck do you know Ronald Dott, Mum? I demand.

  Mumsy appears shocked. Well, that’s a fine way to greet me, she retorts. You’re not too old to be slapped, you know. Ask Julie.

  Christ. She told you?

  Yes; and I’m glad she did as well, William, Mumsy tells me. What possessed you, young man? I didn’t bring you up like that.

  Mum. Have you forgotten where you’re visiting me? I see it in her eyes—that look of disappointment I have inspired on so many occasions—and immediately I regret the sarcasm.

  Don’t take that shirty tone with me, young man, Mumsy says.

  I am only referred to as young man when disdain is on the menu. It’s her way of refraining from saying something more apt and more bitter.

  Sorry.