Something Quite Beautiful

by Amanda Prowse

  ‘Good afternoon, how goes it?’

  Keegan lifted a spoonful of gravy-soaked potato and allowed it to slop back down onto the tray, causing a satisfying splat. The machine that issued their food at the press of a button had messed up again. He rubbed his head, scratching at the stubble. ‘Oh, just frigging perfect. I don’t know what’s worse, the lumpy, sauce-smothered shite which hides God knows what or the fact that I have twenty years to get used to eating it.’

  Warren grimaced and nodded. ‘At least it’s better than being hungry—and I’ve had a bit of that in my time.’ He pictured his younger self, curled tightly on the bare mattress of his bed, wearing his school uniform for warmth and with a towel draped over his torso as he tried to ignore the gnawing pain in his stomach. He would imagine chips that dripped with salt and vinegar, steaming battered cod that would scald his fingers and smear his mouth with grease, plates of ketchup-doused sausages, fried eggs sprinkled with salt, hot buttery toast and heaps of apple crumble and custard. He remembered trudging to school in those same clothes that had kept him warm at night, trying to concentrate on what was being taught while ignoring the taunts of his class mates, Rubbish Binns, Looney Binns, Stinky Binns.

  Keegan caught Warren’s eye momentarily; it was rare to offer this kind of insight in prison, it didn’t do to give too much of yourself away. The less people knew about you, the less chance there was of them exploiting any weakness.

  ‘Have you seen Hooray?’ Warren gave Henry his newly acquired nickname.

  Keegan shook his head. ‘Not for a couple of days, I heard he wasn’t too well.’ He tapped the side of his head.

  ‘Oh.’ Warren didn’t know what to say, he hadn’t warmed to the bloke, but wasn’t about to enjoy his misfortune. ‘That’s not good.’

  ‘No,’ Keegan concurred, ‘that’s not good at all.’

  As he spoke, he became aware of a burly West Indian man listening in on their conversation. Bo had a reputation as a gossip and a fear monger. Keegan and Warren generally tried to stay away from him. Now he squatted down at the end of their table and rested on his haunches, his wide thighs splayed under the regulation blue trousers. He looked like he was relishing what he was about to say.

  ‘I don’t want to be the bearer of bad news, but I’m afraid your friend ain’t coming back.’

  ‘Is that right?’ Warren noticed that Keegan made no attempt to deny their friendship this time.

  Bo looked to the left and right, checking no guard was within earshot. ‘I expect he is one of the disappeared.’

  ‘The what?’ Keegan laughed at the kid who was, in his opinion, another nutter.

  ‘You can laugh, but I’ve been here since the beginning and I’m telling you, my friend, that for all her cool politeness and fancy shirts, Justice is a cold, cold bitch. I bet she told you you’d do twenty, but the truth is no-one here will do twenty, you’ll do forever, trust me. One bloke trashed a plant in the recreation area and got an extra five. I’m not lying, five years for a plant!’ he sucked his teeth, ‘but that’s not the real worry, it’s the ones that disappear you should be concerned about. She kills them or has them killed and there ain,t fuck-all you can do. She is the law in here, completely untouchable. She removes their file, bangs shut that drawer and it’s like they were never here; gone. I’m tellin’ you, man—’

  ‘I might be wrong, but isn’t that Henry, over there?’ Keegan used his spoon to point over the soothsayer’s shoulder. All three turned, and, sure enough, Henry, who looked a little worse for wear, unshaven and as if he had lost some of his sparkle, sidled onto an empty bench with this tray.

  ‘He’s not disappeared! Just a bit late for his dinner!’ Keegan chuckled.

  Bo shook his head, ‘He may have turned up and you can mock all you like, but when there is fuck-all between you and the nose of that Smith and Wesson, I bet you won’t find it quite so funny.’

  Keegan leant closer to Bo. ‘Here’s the thing, mate, there’s been rumours and hearsay at every children’s home and nick I’ve ever set foot in and it’s usually done to scare the new kids. But I ain’t a new kid and you ain’t scaring me or Binns, so fuck off.’

  Bo raised his palms. ‘I don’t want no trouble with you Keegan, not in here, but I’m telling you. I took the joinery class; I was there when they took delivery of a stack of rectangular, wooden boxes, they came in on a big truck. I couldn’t figure out what they were at first, but it soon became clear, they were coffin boxes,’ Bo’s hand shook as he pointed a finger towards Keegan, ‘and the worst thing about them boxes, is not how you end up in one, but the idea that no bastard would give a shit, no one at home would be told, no one would mourn you or miss you. You’d be shoved under the moor with the soil rattling against the lid and no one would even know let alone care. It’s not a good way to end your time.’

  The two men pushed their trays away as the troubled Bo wandered off; both had rather lost their appetites.

  ‘Actually,’ Warren coughed, ‘he did scare me a little bit.’

  Keegan laughed. ‘Well don’t ever tell him that!’

  ‘As if.’ Warren smiled. ‘Do you think its true, Keegan?’

  Keegan hesitated, chewing the inside of his cheek. He placed his clasped hands on the table in front of him. ‘I dunno, mate, this whole place is fucked that’s for sure. And it shits me up because it’s not like anywhere else and so I don’t know what to expect. I’d heard something similar before I even got here. Apparently a couple of boys who were in rooms just down from me have gone, vanished and no one mentions them, like they were never here, as if they’re scared to mention them. It’s like no one is supposed to have realised, or remembered about them. It’s weird shit definitely. I don’t know what’s going on, but I’m not going to go around asking questions, I’m keeping my nose clean. I’ve been thinking about it and in twenty years I’ll be thirty-six, that ain’t too old, I’ll still have time to have a life. I can still get my car, cruise around, go down to the coast, hang out.’

  Warren nodded, his mum was thirty-six, it seemed old to him, too old to start a life, to catch up.

  ‘What classes are you taking?’

  Keegan shook his head. ‘Well, definitely not joinery, I don’t want to see those bloody boxes!’ He grinned. ‘Nah, I’m not taking any. I’ve decided to pass, can’t see how map reading or bookkeeping is going to help me in here, I’d rather hit the gym than fill my head with all that useless shit. You?’

  ‘I’m taking both of those—map-reading, bookkeeping, and also horticulture and computing.’

  Keegan smirked. ‘That’s why you’re such a weed Binns, you should ditch a class and come to the gym—it’d do you more good!’

  Warren shrugged, ‘Maybe. Or I could keep hanging around with you; your biceps are the size of my bloody waist.’

  ‘Ah, so its protection you’re after. And there was me thinking we was mates.’

  Warren smiled, acknowledging the admission.

  ‘Is it true El Dictator drops by those classes unannounced and sits at the back, snooping?’ Keegan obviously had his ear to the ground.

  ‘Yes, but it’s more like she’s checking on things, she makes notes. Not really snooping...’

  ‘Christ, Binns don’t defend the cow, you saw what she did to Hooray, she’s a fucking psycho. What sort of bird would want to be trapped up here with a bunch of crims? She’s got to be some sort of freak and definitely a dyke. And what are you taking all them classes for? It’s a mug’s game, completely pointless. You’ll be a right old brainbox by the time you leave here—shame you’ll be too old and messed up to get a job. No one is going to give you a job, Binns, not when you tell them where you did all your learning; this is hardly university is it? You should do like me, keep fit and think about all them honeys that will be waiting.’ He rubbed his hands together at the prospect.

  Warren studied the tray in front of him. ‘I can’t do that, it’d drive me mad not to have something to do—I mean, with my brain. I know it
probably won’t help me and maybe it won’t mean a job on the outside, but at least if I’m learning things then this won’t of all been a waste.’

  Keegan shook his head. ‘What’s a waste, mate, is that I have a hot bird fuck knows where, doing fuck knows what with fuck knows who, while I’m forced to sit in this shithole!’ Keegan threw his spoon down and pushed his thumbs into his temples as if to relieve some unseen pressure.

  ‘It won’t do you any good thinking like that. That’s why I take the courses; I figure I may as well. It’s good to keep busy. It stops you from thinking too much.’

  ‘Christ, you sound like my Nan! Nah, I’ve thought about it and it I ain’t gonna bother. You’re no different to me, one of us may know how to switch on a computer and grow beans, but we are both fucked.’

  Warren smiled grimly. He was right.

  ‘If you could have one day back, just twenty-four hours, what would you do?’ Keegan leant forward.

  Warren sighed. ‘I don’t know...’ There were so many things he would like to cram in, it was difficult to know in which order to place them. Besides, it would depend if it was a day that Sheffield Wednesday were playing.

  Keegan was almost whispering now. ‘I don’t have to think about it. I’d get me the biggest bucket of fried chicken that you have ever seen and I’d take my bird to the pictures. We’d watch a really good film, like The Godfather or the first Die Hard and we’d eat so much chicken that we could hardly move. Then I’d go to a swimming pool and swim twenty lengths until I was exhausted, then we’d be collected by motorbikes, I’m thinking a couple of big, fat Harleys, and we wouldn’t bother with helmets, we’d be driven up the Embankment really fast back to my swanky flat—’

  ‘Do you have a swanky flat?’ Warren was intrigued.

  ‘What do you think? Course I bloody don’t! But this is my perfect day and before you say it, yes I know that driving without a helmet is not a good idea and I’d probably catch a cold if my hair was still wet—Jesus! You are my Nan!’

  Warren laughed. ‘I can’t help it, I just have a more practical mind!’

  ‘Practical or boring?’

  ‘Both probably.’

  A few hours later, in the early evening, Warren lay on his bed, staring at the concrete ceiling with its strip light, and considered Keegan’s words. He knew exactly what he would do with his twenty-four hours: he’d rock up at Weavers Row and put the key in the lock, just like any normal day. He’d have a cup of tea and some toast and spend time in the front room chatting to Amy, catching up, maybe explain why he was convicted and give her some advice about how to have a brighter future than him. He thought about the next twenty years, doing the sums over and over. He was seventeen, so in twenty years he would be thirty-seven and that was nearly forty. Forty. A whole lifetime spent in this shitty cell, breathing second-hand air that had already been breathed by more than three hundred stinking blokes, without feeling a breeze against his skin or the sun on his face. He wanted to open a window; not necessarily to escape, but to drink in deep gulps of air unfiltered by a pipe and vent. And Amy, sweet, sweet Amy. By the time he got out she would be beyond his reach: married, maybe with kids. It was unthinkable. She would have a life that excluded him, a life in which he didn’t figure. The Warren-shaped wound in her mind and heart would have healed over like skin and it would be as if he had never existed for her. Without warning a sharp pain spread across his chest. It felt like a band being tightened and caused him to cry out, he could feel his heart racing. He slammed against the metal-panelled wall and placed his hands against his breast bone. He bucked and pummelled on his bed and started shouting, ‘I can’t breathe! Help me, I can’t breathe!’ He kicked out, and heard the metallic ring as his foot made contact. The ceiling seemed to be getting closer and Warren sweated profusely as he fought for breath. The light above his cell door flashed red and emitted a whining pulse.

  It was only a minute or two before a guard and a medic were by his side.

  ‘Relax, just relax.’ A gangly, bespectacled medic wearing white scrubs was trying to calm Warren down.

  ‘I can’t... fucking... breathe!’

  The man took Warren’s pulse and placed his hand on his chest,

  ‘It’s okay, Warren, you are having a panic attack and I know it’s frightening, but it will pass and so the sooner we can calm you down, the sooner this will be over, there is nothing to worry about, try and breathe deeply, pal. It’s okay, it’ll pass. You are going to be okay.’ The man’s tone was measured and soothing, unlike the guard who stood by the open door with a suspicious expression and a finger that twitched near the inside of his shirt, just in case. He had seen and heard enough in his time to know that trust was not an option.

  Warren slowed his breathing and tried to remain calm. Amy’s face came into focus; she looked at him with indifference and without the faintest hint of recognition. Forty... forty... a lifetime. Warren felt a surge of energy that started in his feet and swept his body, he felt strong, empowered, but above all, he felt angry. With a roar he leapt from the bed and, using his elbow, he landed a blow in the solar plexus of the unsuspecting medic who lurched backwards and crashed to the floor. He sat, dazed, his back against the wall, clutching his chest. The guard acted quickly. With his gun drawn and cocked, he sprinted forward and put the muzzle against the boy’s temple. Warren could feel the cold press of metal against his skin. His stomach turned to ice as it shrunk around his bowel. He sank down onto the mattress. ‘I’m sorry,’ he wailed, calmer now that his breathing had returned to a regular pattern. ‘I don’t know what happened, I just felt so angry, I’m sorry.’ Warren Binns was terrified. He did not want to die.

  The guard kicked at his shins with the heavy toe of his boot and pointed with the barrel of his weapon. In seconds Warren was flat on the floor of his cell, his nose millimetres away from the medic’s Nike trainer. He felt the bite of cuffs against his wrists. In a matter of minutes, and following a manacled shuffle of shame, Warren found himself entering a small dark hole on the ground floor. It was no more than a box; about six foot in width and four foot in height. It made him long for his cell, which seemed almost luxurious in comparison. For only the second time in recent years, but the second that night, he wept.

  Angelo knocked and entered the Principal’s office.

  ‘What was it?’ Edwina had been alerted that a siren had gone off and this nearly always meant trouble. She braced herself for the answer.

  ‘It was Binns, Ma’am. A panic attack apparently, but then he lashed out and winded one of the medics. We’ve put him in solitary, he’ll be checked hourly.’

  Edwina nodded, thinking, What a shame. ‘Thanks Angelo, keep me posted.’

  ‘Will do, Ma’am.’

  Edwina rubbed at her temples and stretched her arms over her head. It had been a long day.

  ‘Do you know I’m feeling quite fed up tonight, Matthew!’ she shouted across her office, to where Matthew was sitting at his desk. It was unusual for her to utter anything negative, and even this she uttered with a vague hint of positivity.

  ‘Well, we are all allowed off days, you more so than most. You’ve got a difficult job, it can’t be easy.’

  ‘It’s not,’ she concurred, ‘but if it was easy, I wouldn’t be interested. I’m weird like that.’

  Matthew shook his head; he didn’t think she was weird at all, far from it. He placed a mug of camomile tea in front of her, with a little shortbread square, the perfect antidote for her flustered pulse and a low blood sugar. He liked to do little things for her to make her life easier. He liked looking after her.

  It was rare that she had days like this, days when everything felt a little overwhelming, leaving her wondering if she wouldn’t be better off activating plan B, the life that she and Alan had planned, a life that she promised him she would still seek. They had spent hours over the years on country walks or over the breakfast table, describing a little villa in the Italian countryside, where she would hike and forage duri
ng the day, wearing a raffia hat and a loose linen dress while he captured the sky in watercolour. In the evenings they would play Backgammon and drink red wine. The plan had changed since Alan’s death of course, but Edwina still envisaged sitting in her garden, watching the sun sink against the Tuscan horizon, eating fresh pasta with torn basil from her herb beds, topped off with a drizzle of her neighbour’s home-pressed olive oil. Chatting to Alan’s empty chair from the other side of a wicker table on the covered terrace, she would tell him all about the discoveries of her day, surrounded by sweet scented lemon trees, potted olives and a vibrant trumpet vine that wound its way around the wooden arbour overhead. A neat border of boxwood and miniature cypress would form a pretty boundary to her land. She breathed deeply, and could almost smell the intoxicating scent of this imaginary Mediterranean garden, which would be bursting with heady perfume and vibrant colours after a day of basking in the hot sun.

  She held the mug between her cupped palms. ‘Thank you for my tea, this is just what the doctor ordered. And I’m sorry to sound a bit defeated. I don’t know, Matthew, sometimes it gets to me; in fact most days recently, I think I’m tired.’

  ‘Of course you’re tired, it’s inevitable, you have a great deal of responsibility, more than any other governor I’ve known. It’s not like you have a team to shoulder the load, it’s just you.’

  ‘And you,’ she interrupted, ‘I don’t know what I’d do without you, apart from go stark staring bonkers.’

  Her acknowledgment caused Matthew’s heart to swell. ‘Well, yes, and me, but I’m more of the support act and you do an amazing job if you don’t mind me saying.’

  She smiled over the rim of her hot drink. ‘I don’t mind one bit.’

  He blushed; it was rare that their conversation strayed outside of the perfunctory or garden matters, and it lifted his day. ‘I worked at Belmarsh for three years before I came here and even though they weren’t all lifers, it was far more depressing. It felt like a conveyor belt, the same faces in and out—and if not the same faces then the same type, they could have been the same person. Similar expressions, attitudes, it often felt pointless. It’s different here. It feels hopeful.’