O My Days

by David Mathew

  Cheers.

  The water is warm; my heartrate remains fast; too much fear, too much fear. This is going to kill me, I think, closing my eyes. I saw the water; I flew towards it. The smel —I can smell it now, in the showers—something putrid, vile and offensive. I can see the Oasis. Low sun a dream-blade, a mere metre from my eyes; patches of white ground, bald of dark sand smoothed elsewhere hereabouts by a combing wind. And the water is mauve where oil has spoilt it; black in other places; there are octopi eyes of the purest blue—the sky above pulses with perfect azure. Fist-sized in the distance, the Prison Ship, a rectangular brick of black. A rowboat is ten metres from where I now stand. The captain of this modest vessel has skin stretched like plastic (he resembles a burns victim)—plastic pulled tight across a face with no nose or mouth. The eyes are silver. He or it—she for all I know—waves me forward. It’s your turn, Alfreth. Voice like something automated, gadgetry; I’m afraid of my journey to the Prison Ship.

  It’s your turn, Alfreth, the mouthless one says again. But how? The voice is in my head—I can feel it behind my eyebrows—It’s your turn.

  With a jump and a cough I return to the showers in the changing room at the Gym. The cough, in fact, is more of a choke; falling water has filled my mouth, and though it has left it late enough, my gag reflex has probably saved my life. I might have drowned, there and then. I spit out hot water. Shelley is holding out my shampoo bottle for me to take.

  It’s your turn, Alfreth, he says again. How many times has he said it? You okay?

  Just dreaming. I take the bottle.

  I know the feeling, Shelley goes on.

  He turns away from me, wanting to talk but not wanting to see my penis. This is mandatory good behaviour, as iron-bound a law on the inside as it is on the out.

  I think they’re putting something in the water.

  This causes me to start.

  What’s that stink, man? shouts Sarson, a few heads down to my left.

  It’ll give some indication into my sleep- deprived, wired-up, wankered state of mind to say that my first instinct, on hearing this demand, is to think I have drawn back into reality the stench of the Oasis from my trance-life.

  It’s the butter beans, blood! Jaakko is protesting. Too much fibre!

  Do you smell me, cuz? Sarson continues. Do you think I had a motherfucking steak instead? I ate the same food, boy!

  Audibly this time, Jaakko lets another one rip; then he laughs.

  Fucking hell, Shelley calls out, turning away from me and also laughing, anybody injured? He has shampoo running down the crease of his spine.

  Two minutes, lads! Pequod shouts above the din of water sprinklers. Then it’s up the hill to Bedfordshire! Nighty- night time.

  Wanker, I mutter. How old are we again?

  Did you hear about Bachelor, Alfreth? Shelley asks me.

  No. Puppydog yoot? I ask.

  The very same.

  Shelley turns off his water and reaches for the towel that he has draped over the rusting shower head; the towel is already wet, but Shelley doesn’t seem to pay this fact any mind.

  Got twisted up on the gardening detail. I was tempted to join in, the dirty bastard.

  Why, what’s he done?

  He raped that woman in Truro, Shelley answers.

  No, what did he do today? To get twisted up.

  Oh.

  Shelley has started to dry himself off. I decide to do the same.

  Well, he was acting weird, cuz. Talking all about hearing voices. Seeing things. And talking about that Ronald Dott yoot.

  I am rubbing my chest dry. What about Dott? I ask.

  Yoot’s saying, like, fucking, Dott’s got this mind control voodoo shit going on. You know? Like he made the yoot scratch up his own fucking arm.

  Yeah, right.

  Yeah right, Shelley agrees, frowning; but the funny thing is, Alfreth, you know, in all the time he’s been doing gardens with us, man’s never shown himself to be a self-harmer. You notice shit like that, don’tcha, specially with a Pup. Not a mark, blood. Yet here he is this morning, left arm like a roadmap, cuz. Sliced to ribbons. And then, right? We’re doing some weeding in the bed by the swimming pool? Fucker plucks one of them yellow roses and starts to cut himself up again on the thorns. One right across the wrist.

  Fuck.

  Right there! In front of everyone!

  Ready, lads? Let’s go! Shorts on. Cold out there! Pequod yells.

  Like we were gonna go back to the Wing with our pieces swinging. Silly bastard.

  So who, I ask, twisted him up?

  The screws, blood! Who else? Shelley seems to wonder genuinely.

  I thought you meant someone hit him with a shovel or something.

  Nah! But let’s face it, shit coulda got scrappy, right? Screws bundling Bachelor, so what’s to stop us doing the screws? They don’t think, that’s their problem, Shelley tells me in a tone of the profoundest disgust.

  We are getting into our sweaty Gym kit for the journey back. I can’t wait to get into bed: for the warmth. Not the sleep (I won’t sleep, I’m certain of that) and definitely not the dreams. It’s a fact, I reckon, that I’m going to get dreams that I don’t want and can’t afford, emotionally speaking.

  Thing is, Alfreth, Shelley pauses. Promise you won’t tell no one.

  Promise.

  Mumsy’s life?

  Mumsy’s life, I repeat.

  I think I kinda know what he was talking about: the voices. His eyes give my face the once over, but I’m not giving anything away, as far as I am aware. He pushes his lips together and pushes them out, a fat kiss. You don’t believe me. I can’t say I blame you.

  I believe you, I tell him. O my days I believe you, Shell. We’re all having strange feelings, blood.

  Well, what is it? Shelley rolls up his towel. His skin is still damp; he will freeze in the air outside. Do you know what I think? Something in the water.

  I stole water, Dott’s long message to me read. I was thirsty. Dying of thirst.

  How do you mean? I ask Shelley. I know what Dott meant.

  Shelley shrugs. What better way of keeping us all under control?

  Than what? Psychotropic drugs? Come on, Shell—don’t make sense. Think of the cost, apart from anything else.

  What cost? Fuck it’s cold! What cost, really? I was shotting on road, don’t forget; I know how cheap you can get brown, or a bag of sugar—as long as you buy in bulk. Now me: that sort of thing’s a risk, cuz. I’ll be the first to admit it, bruv: I’m small potatoes when it comes to shotting. Bit of zoot: that’s usually my max. Get Judas? Slap on the arse, rudeboy. Nuttin. But these cunts? Government endorsement innit. Wouldn’t surprise me. Nothing would.

  Sounds like bollocks but I give him: It’s an interesting theory.

  He shrugs again. Whatever the weather, he remarks.

  We are halfway back to E Wing, our passage swift on account of the chill, before Shelley speaks again.

  Can’t believe how fast that hour went, he says.

  Allow it.

  This whole month has gone full-pelt, bruv.

  Allow it, I say again.

  Are you listening?

  Yeah.

  Are you sleeping a lot more these days, Alfie? Shelley asks.

  Nah man, the opposite. Can’t keep down, I tell him.

  And I am having bare twisted dreams, rudeboy. Even during the day. Even today! Finish gardens, have a poxy baguette, what the fuck was that meat, by the way? Something dug up from the cemetery tasted like.

  I haven’t thought about the cemetery for some days.

  Then I’m dropping off. Nigh got this dream, blood, I’m standing beside this big fucking lake, right?—but I don’t want to be there. And I’m trying to make these guys understand, I’m in the wrong fucking place, blood. The
y want me to get into this little rowing boat but I keep saying: no, ninguna.

  What does that mean?

  It means no. In Spanish. And then one of the guys there, he’s talking to another guy, and they’re dressed up in those long dresses that desert blokes wear. And they shout out to this little kid holding a horse. He brings the horse to me.

  We are entering the Wing.

  They’re offering me the chance to get away from the water, on horseback. But I can’t move. They start laughing at me; and one says, No sabe montar a caballo.

  And what does that mean? I ask at the foot of the metal steps.

  He doesn’t know how to ride. Then I wake up sweating like a rapist.

  I didn’t know you speak Spanish.

  I don’t.

  We are standing outside his cell.

  Es una de pérdida tiempo.

  Move on, Alfreth, says Pequod.

  It’s a waste of time, Shelley translates for my benefit.

  Four.

  There were people there from all over the world, she says wistfully.

  You’ve said that. Tell me about your blindness.

  Well, I’m saying it again! My blindness. I was twenty. Mere slip of a thing, as we would have said in those days.

  What days? When was this?

  Late Fifties, early Sixties. I got a job working as a secretary for a law firm. Which I hated.

  Wait a minute.

  We haven’t got a minute. You said as much yourself.

  This is important, Kate.

  So’s the guard coming back. Officer. Just a second then.

  If you were twenty in the late 1950s…

  I must be a dry old bird by now, is that what you mean? How old do you think I am?

  Late thirties, I would have said.

  Close enough.

  You’re chatting breeze, Kate! You can’t be twenty in ‘59 and only forty in the twenty-first C. It don’t make sense!

  For the record, I never admitted to forty.

  Whatever the weather, Miss. It’s impossible!

  Who says?

  Fucking nature says, Kate! That’s not how it works!

  It’s how it works in the Hola Ettaluun, Billy; and believe me, mine is by no means the weirdest of the time stories you could have found there.

  I’ve never been there! I’d have remembered.

  You’ve changed your tune from a few minutes ago!

  Well, what a difference a minute makes! This is twisted.

  Maybe so; but you wanted it point blank, as you guys say. That’s just how I’m giving it to you. Both barrels, nine-mm, rudeboy. Allow it.

  Have you been at Angela’s gin, Miss?

  No. Drunk on excitement and nothing more, Billy. I should be serious, you’re right. I can imagine—I can remember—how difficult this must be for you. But ask yourself this: what possible advantage have I got in lying?

  None. None whatever.

  So shall I resume?

  Resume.

  Okay. The law firm’s name is not important. It was office junior stuff at first, and bear in mind the time we’re talking about. Grey suits and attitudes. Could you make us all a nice cup of tea, dear? Those moustaches. Jesus. Could you run out for a bottle of milk, my angel? Could you pick up the birthday pressie for the wife or girlfriend, or both; it’s all paid for. Actually, there was one guy there who bought exactly the same present for his spouse and his tart, just so he didn’t get confused.

  You’re drifting, Kate.

  Right. I need a nap. So where was I?

  Law firm.

  Yes. Law firm, first six months a living hell; but it was a living. I couldn’t afford a place of my own and no human male was taking any interest in me so I stuck it out, me and my double-glazing specs. Picture that! What a fox I must’ve appeared, staring down at each piece of paper, like a giraffe, you know, bending down to chew up some grass. But little by little, I earned a modicum of respect; I picked up speed in my work, got in early, stayed late more often than not. I could type. I could file. Less and less often I was asked to go outside on some silly errand. I knew Pitman’s shorthand; I learned it from a book and some cassettes. Cost a fortune, but it meant I could sit in on meetings and take minutes, or take notes from consultations with clients. You wouldn’t believe some of what I heard, Billy—the divorce cases, the arguments with the neighbours, the violence. Really not much has changed between then and now. It’s just reported differently now. There was one guy, Gerald Barter, I’ll never forget, he used to get his kicks by having a dump in the swimming pool in Swiss Cottage. Five times before he got.

  Kate, please.

  Sorry. Sorry, I just feel…

  Drunk?

  No, of course not. I feel…

  Kate. Am I making you nervous?

  I’ll tell you the truth, Billy. You’ve made me nervous from day one.

  But I’m harmless! Ish. Certainly in this shit-hole I’m harmless. What have you got to be nervous about? What happened?

  (I stole water, Dott says.)

  I heard a particular story, Billy, that’s what happened. Me in that office, with my pen and my spiral notepad, writing nightmare music as fast as I could, according to one of the partners.

  Nightmare music?

  Oh, it was nothing—a silly joke. His name was Patterson, funnily enough—the partner, not the client. Just like our good lady of the gin bottle. He used to say that my shorthand symbols looked like musical notes, I was writing a symphony, but it was nightmare music. I’ve always remembered that.

  I get nightmare music, Kate. The singing of the dead, sometimes.

  The Dead were a good live band. Dylan and the Dead.

  I’m being serious: ever since Dott arrived. Nightmare music is right.

  Anyway. The client’s name was Brian O’Farrell, and he was giving his deposition, pushed into it by his grown-up daughters. And as I’m listening I’m thinking, this isn’t for us. This isn’t law. You don’t need a solicitor, Charlie, you need a headshrinker; you’re nuts. ‘Cause he was talking about a— what do you call it?—a pilgrimage he’d made. To the desert. To the Oasis.

  What was he?

  A journalist. Travel writing… I think it was February, and the heating was on in the office, but it wasn’t that warm. He was sweating like a racehorse, fidgeting in his seat, wanting to talk about a lawsuit. So he comes to us—to Patterson, be precise—asking if it’s possible to sue a place.

  As you would. Sue a hotel, sue a restaurant.

  But you can’t sue a body of water, Billy. You can’t sue a township. So he says to his editor at his rag: okay if I go a bit further afield for my next piece? I’ve had it with Venice and Vienna, and so have the readers. What about somewhere a bit further from the beaten track? The Sahara Desert, to be exact. Well, the editor’s not exactly champing at the bit, so O’Farrell volunteers to fund the trip himself and not claim on expenses; all he’s asking for is the usual cheque on publication or a half-rate kill-fee if the piece is spiked; and to cut a long story short, he travels east. Trying to find something he’s only heard about in gossip and rumour.

  But what did he want to do there?

  Find out if it’s true. Find out if there really is a place on earth—if you’ll forgive the cliché—where time has stood still. Not metaphorically: literally.

  And what did he find out?

  There isn’t. Or if there is, it’s not the Oasis. Time doesn’t stand still there; that’s way too simplistic. Time there is—it’s like an unfelt storm. You think you’re in the eye of the hurricane but in fact the quiet part is where the forces are raging and infecting worst of all.

  Infecting?

  Yeah; and everyone in a different way.

  Don’t cry, Miss.

  Sorry. It’s. Sod it, I’m having another g
in; this is hard. Do you want one?

  The screw will smell it on my breath, Miss.

  Say it’s mouthwash.

  Gin-flavoured mouthwash? Anyway, we’re not allowed to have mouthwash: it’s got alcohol in it.

  Then I drink alone, Billy? There were children there— babies even!—who were shrivelled up like walnuts. They looked eighty. There were teenagers, their own bodies growing at different speeds, at different times—torsos twice as long as their legs, girls of ten who appeared pregnant with children they weren’t carrying or hadn’t even conceived. . . great bulky pregnant tummies. Christ, that’s better. Are you sure I can’t tempt you?

  You can tempt me. Then I’m piss-tested and fucked.

  You get the picture, though?

  Sure. It was a freakshow. Any radiation thereabouts?

  No. And don’t belittle this, Billy. I think you are. When you’ve seen a ninety year old woman gaining weight to take on her middle-aged spread, mate, it’s no laughing matter. She looked about forty but she was ninety.

  Bit like you.

  Similar. But more like Dott, Billy: moving backwards through time. Born at whatever age, like he was when he soothed your bee-stings, and getting younger. Younger as we would see it. Disappearing back to the egg. Me, I’m different: I’m going in the right direction. Only slowly. My years are longer—longer than yours. I was twenty in 1960, you think I’m late thirties now. You do the sums!

  . . .Why was O’Farrell suing?

  Because he was frozen! In time, Billy! He wasn’t ageing!

  Then where do I come in, innit?

  You don’t come in. You go out.

  Suddenly a screw pops the door open. Come on, Alfreth, he orders.

  Officer! I didn’t hear you come in!

  No, I bet you didn’t. Miss Thistle. Toe-rag here needs his sustenance.

  Of course. Off you go, Billy. Speak soon. Tomorrow?

  If there’s time.

  Five.

  That’s what Kate Thistle told me, Dott.

  So now you know, he replies. The question is, what are you going to do about it? Knowledge is one thing. . .

  The Cookery Gov is approaching. What’s this? he asks. Fucking sewing circle, lads? You couldn’t stand each other half an hour ago. Now you’re bending each other’s ears.