Ball of Confusion

by Ian Black

  On his arrival, word spread quickly around prison that George is a convicted double murderer, and now, as rumours are embellished on the grapevine, he’s considered by most inmates a psycho! His over-friendly nature (unusual inside prison) and over-hairy appearance only support this general consensus. Consequently, most stay away from him, which unfortunately means that George spends long periods alone in his cell. As he is now; but his trancelike stare at the ceiling is broken by the clanking of a turning key echoing around the cell, as the lock’s cogs turn. The steel door creaks open, a guard stands in the doorway who introduces, “A new cellmate for you, George.”

  Intrigued by this exciting news George leaps down from top bunk, while the guard steps aside, allowing a new inmate to step inside. The guard then leaves and locks the door behind him.

  The new cellmate appears to be of Middle Eastern ethnicity, and seems swathed in attitude and disdain towards everything and everyone around him. Carrying a small bag of personal possessions and standard-issue rolled up bedding, he looks around the cell and straight through George as if he’s not there.

  But rather than being offended by this, George is actually intrigued. The man’s intense stare is the kind of thousand-yard stare that war veterans can bring home from war. Whereas most people would choose not to stare back, to avoid confrontation, George dives straight in and invades the man’s personal airspace, examining him right up close. He’s not intending to be deliberately intimidating, but is genuinely fascinated by this man’s arrogant demeanour, and more so, his uncanny bodily and facial similarities to George. The man is similar in age, height and build. He also wears a full beard and long hair to his shoulders. The only major differences are this man has black hair, dark swarthy skin, and a noticeable large brown mole in the corner of his left eyelid.

  The new cellmate has noticed these similarities too, and for a few uncomfortable moments both sets of eyeballs swivel around as they visually examine each other, obviously surprised at the startling likeness, except for hair and skin colour.

  George offers his hand and introduces himself, “I’m George.”

  The new cellmate blanks him, totally, ignoring his offered hand, and stares out through the window up towards the sky.

  Unperturbed, George leaves his arm outstretched and repeats his introduction, but slightly louder, “I’m George.”

  The man again ignores him, but George perseveres, practically shouting this time, “I’m George!”

  This time the man moves; he tosses his bag and bedding onto the empty bottom bunk then begrudgingly, half-heartedly accepts his hand. But George’s lack of guidance in life’s etiquettes means he’s not exactly au fait with handshaking protocol. He grasps the man’s hand far too tightly, shakes it up and down too vigorously, and for far too long, much to the other man’s surprise, who goes along with this perpetual pumping handshake, and in accented Middle Eastern English replies, “I am Hazma Sahar.”

  Confused by his foreign accent and name, George attempts to pronounce it, “Asthma Zelar?”

  Hazma repeats his name, slowly, “Hazma… Sahar.”

  Still vigorously driving the handshaking, George tries again, “Hamsta Zarar?”

  Now irritated, the Iraqi replies very clearly, “Hazma… Sahar.”

  George knows he can’t ask again, so replies “Oh!” nodding as if he understands.

  Bored of handshaking, Hazma snatches his hand back and asks, “What are you in for?”

  He’s honest as always, “I killed two people… You?”

  “I make bombs,” Hazma replies rather flippantly.

  George doesn’t know what to say, so responds, “Oh!”

  As their hands fall to their sides the new arrival notices George’s tattoos. He nods down and enquires, “The dragon… an unusual place for a tattoo?”

  George holds his hands up and explains, “It’s a good and evil thing… to remind me of right and wrong.”

  Hazma reaches into his bag and pulls out a leather-bound copy of the Koran, and replies, “That’s why I have this!” placing the book carefully on the table.

  George, in turn, reaches beneath his pillow, pulls out his well-worn Saint George and the Dragon storybook and places it next to the Koran stating, “I’ve got this as well!”

  Hazma’s not impressed, “You trying to be funny?” he responds aggressively.

  “No!” George is genuinely confused, “Why?”

  He snaps back sternly, “You dare compare a comic book to the Koran? The Koran is God’s spoken word!”

  George is shocked by his aggressive stance. “Err… calm down, Amza.”

  “HAZMA! It’s Hazma! HAZMA!” He corrects him, “HAZ… MA!”

  George holds his hands up, in surrender, “Okay, okay, take it easy. I’m not having a go at you, or your book.”

  Hazma reminds him harshly, “Never insult the Koran. You insult the Koran, you insult Allah himself.”

  George knows he’s touched a nerve, so attempting to calm his new cellmate he sits at the table and, trying hard to be friendly, comments, “Yeah, I’ve heard about you Ikea people…” he picks up the Koran, nods at it and enquires, “this is why you make bombs, right?”

  Hazma snatches the hard-backed book, and smashes it over Georges head, yelling “DO NOT INSULT ALLAH!”

  “Bloody hell!” exclaims George, shocked, rubbing his head.

  “Do not blaspheme!”

  A new word to George, “Blas-what? What the bloody hell does—”

  “Do not swear!”

  “You’re a bit touchy aren’t you?”

  “Touchy?” Hazma unzips the flies of his trousers, “Touchy you say? What about I urinate on your book then?”

  George snatches his storybook, bolts upright and confronts the Iraqi aggressively. Standing toe to toe they sneer at each other, as George snarls, “My ma gave me that book!”

  For several moments they stand in silence, nostrils flaring, each weighing the other up, until eventually, Hazma offers the olive branch, tentatively holding out his hand, saying, “This prison cell is very small, too small for two men to fight in. I don’t want to fight you… unless I have to… If you can accept my beliefs are different to yours, and try not to be disrespectful… we may get along. If we can’t… life will be very uncomfortable.”

  Hearing his words, and seeing the man’s handshake offer, George is pleased; he hates drama. A Cheshire cat grin forms, he looks Hazma in the eye and they shake, but as before, George’s emphatic handshake is just far too emphatic.

  “Mutual respect!” quotes Hazma, looking quizzically at their roller-coasting hands.

  “Mutual respect!” replies George (not knowing what it means).

  •

  Chapter: 15

  ShowTime

  Several hours later the large prison canteen is crammed to capacity with hungry convicts. A background chatter of deep voices murmurs behind the clanking and clanging of plates, cutlery and kitchen utensils.

  While they both stand queuing for food, Hazma looks across the room for the first time. After soaking up the atmosphere, examining faces, and mulling thoughts over in his mind, he turns to George with a look of disgust on his face and quietly offers his observation, “A freak show!”

  “What?” asks George.

  Speaking through the side of his mouth Hazma confirms, “I’ve never seen so many ungodly looking scumbags in one room. Look at them… and they’re all trying to look as aggressive as is humanly possible… I’ve been dropped in the wild animal enclosure at the zoo!”

  “You mean they look like you did when you first came into the cell?” George replies, “Giving it the big one!”

  Hazma sees the irony, “Touché!”

  George looks confused, “Touchy what?”

  Hazma shakes his head, “Forget it.”

  “I know what you mean about looking hard though, Haz… We used to practise psycho stares in DC. They do it here too… Last week I saw a bloke practising in the mirror.” George
snarls up his face as an example.

  Unimpressed (he rarely smiles) Hazma replies, “I’ve got to get out of here.”

  “You can’t take food outside,” George confirms.

  “The prison… I’ve got to get out of this prison.”

  George looks surprised, “You just got in!”

  “I’m ready to leave.” Hazma looks uncomfortable as the queue shuffles forward. He’s finding it difficult himself to keep wearing an arrogant, aggressive expression all the time, but when everyone else around you is doing it…

  A commotion begins at the serving counter, where a fat tall completely bald colossus of a man is dishing out food. He’s a prisoner in his early forties promoted to work as a serving chef, and wears chef’s whites adorned with a red armband of authority. Obviously irritated by something, he slams his serving utensil down on the steel surface and yells aggressively, “YOU!”

  His shout silences the canteen, and all crane their necks to see what’s happening. Artificial light from low-hung fluorescent tubes enhances a considerable show of sweat shimmering across the chef’s large shiny head.

  George leans in close to Hazma and whispers, “That’s The Pixie.”

  Hazma screws his face up at the name, then watches in amazement as Pixie leans across the hotplate and with massive hands grabs a shocked scared-looking inmate by the scruff of the neck, yanks him across the counter and bawls, “DO THAT AGAIN AND I’LL BITE YOUR FUCKING FACE OFF!” then tosses the man away, who lands awkwardly in an embarrassed heap on the floor.

  The canteen remains silent, in anticipation, hopeful for more… This is Pixie’s ShowTime… it happens a lot. No one knows what he’ll do next, and no one interferes. Even the guards don’t; they watch too, with baited breath, as the chef points his fat face up towards the heavens and exhales loudly through pursed lips. Then, sliding his palms down beside his thighs he strikes a statuesque pose, which resembles an awkward clumsy attempt at a kind of Zen calming movement (his regular calming exercise).

  After a moment’s silence, Pixie lowers his face and surveys the canteen, his audience. Composed once more, his accent and mannerisms change immediately from violent psychopath – to jolly gay giant, and though he now speaks in a frightfully frightfully camp accent, he still manages, by sheer presence, to retain an air of confident authority. “Ahh…” he sighs softly, “that’s better.”

  With the show now seemingly over, background noise is restored. The queue shuffles along until Pixie looks directly at George, who’s next in line to be served, and gaily presents the food options, “Curry, spag bol or chips and egg?”

  “Chips and egg,” he replies. Pixie fills his plate; George shuffles away, as Hazma moves across to be served next.

  “It’ll be curry for you then… Abdul!” Pixie assumes, with a cheeky smile, but very dark eyes.

  Hazma stares back, directly into those eyes, carefully considering his response (especially after what just happened). But then, on remembering his father’s advice (if you’re going to be a bear, be a grizzly bear) the Iraqi throws caution to the wind, skim-tosses his empty plate into the chip tray and replies, “Chips and egg for me, fatty!”

  Chattering in the area stops, instantly. The intrigued Pixie tilts his fat head to one side, onto his shoulder, and raises his eyebrows, with a look of amusement on his face. He takes a long long look at Hazma, weighing him up, before exclaiming, “My, my… a Paki with spunk!”

  Hazma knows he must front it out, and continue with the charade. He stares back intensely, to give the impression he’s neither intimidated nor impressed by the chef’s goading showmanship.

  Pixie picks up the empty plate, scoops on chips and egg, and offers it back, but as the Iraqi reaches out to accept it, Pixie slaps his spatula firmly onto Hazma’s palm.

  He pulls his hand back, it smarts, and scowls at the chef who wears a maniacal grin, until he purses his lips, blows an air-kiss at Hazma and confirms, “I do like a man with spunk!”

  George sees Hazma’s eyes raging; bulging from their sockets. He shuffles back, grabs his plate and ushers him away.

  Hazma objects, “What are you doing?”

  George leads him to two empty seats well away from the counter, muttering, “You’ve been here ten minutes, and you’ve upset The Pixie!”

  As they sit, Hazma’s not happy, “I’ve upset The Pixie? A Pixie! I told you this is a freak show!”

  “Shush!” hushes George.

  “Shush,” he’s seething “for a Pixie?”

  “Haz…” George tries to explain, “you don’t understand… he runs this wing. He’s real nasty… You don’t upset The Pixie.”

  “The Pixie?” Hazma won’t let it go. “Pixies are tiny and cute! He’s eight feet tall!”

  “He’s dangerous!” warns George.

  “I’m trembling in my boots,” Hazma replies sarcastically.

  “He controls this place, and the guards don’t do anything; they work for him. If you upset him, you get hurt! And guess what… he’s in the cell next to us!”

  George turns his attention to food, “Pass me the red sauce.”

  Hazma slides the bottle over, mumbling to himself, “I could sort this place out, no problem… The world would be a much better place.” and then watches in disgust as George drowns his food in ketchup and sprinkles sugar granules all over it. Hazma shakes his head from side to side muttering, “I’m living in a freak show!”

  •

  Chapter: 16

  Comparing Literature

  Later that evening, as moonlight floods through the small window, Hazma lies on bottom bunk reading Saint George and the Dragon, while on top bunk George aimlessly flicks through pages of the Koran.

  Hazma finishes the story, gets up, returns the book to his cellmate and says, “George… you simply cannot compare your children’s story book to the Koran.”

  George nods his head, closes the Koran, hands it back and agrees wholeheartedly, “Well, I didn’t want to offend you, Haz, but I must admit… the Koran isn’t quite as entertaining.”

  The Iraqi has known George only a matter of hours, but long enough to realise that he struggles to read, let alone understand complex literature, so he attempts to explain the Koran in layman’s terms. “The Koran is not just a book, George… it is a way of life. It reminds us of the prophet’s teachings, from olden times, and these stories guide us to live better lives… By worshipping and obeying Allah, it frees the mind from moral diseases, such as jealousy, craving material objects… and anger.”

  “You get angry,” retorts George.

  “I know I do,” Hazma agrees. “My religion doesn’t make me perfect, but it shows me the correct way to live my life… The Koran orders me to be a good person… to do the right things, and to stand steadfastly against injustice.”

  George nods emphatically, “That’s exactly why Ma gave me this book, and the tattoos.”

  Hazma nods, “I see the logic.”

  “But if the Koran orders you to be good…” asks George, “why make bombs? I saw that 9/11 on TV, killing people with planes… What’s that all about?”

  Hazma considers the question carefully.

  While he ponders George continues, “I know I killed people, Haz… but I only did it because they harmed my ma, and my mate.”

  Hazma moves to the small window, gets up on tiptoes and looks out; moonlight illuminates the prison garden outside, and the old fortified brick perimeter wall behind it. He sighs and replies, “You are lucky, George.”

  “How?” he’s intrigued to find out.

  Still looking out through the window, Hazma explains, “I know we’ve only just met, but from what I know of you so far, your beliefs are basically, very simple… In your storybook and in your life, things appear… black and white. What is good, what is bad; it’s all black and white, and uncomplicated.”

  “And?” enquires George “What’s wrong with that?”

  Hazma looks back at George and gives his theory, “Religion is
not black and white… As well as science, I studied theology at university, which is all about religion, and I learned that all faiths are clouded by… a kind of, grey area. A murky grey area that is open to interpretation and contradiction.” As Hazma pauses for thought, he twiddles his beard between thumb and forefinger, before explaining further, “You want to know why I make bombs?”

  George nods back from top bunk.

  “As a young boy,” Hazma explains, “I never wanted to harm anyone… I lived a normal, happy, uncomplicated existence… until one day… my family were executed!”

  George looks aghast.

  Hazma turns away again, lifting himself up onto his toes, and peering out through the window his thousand-yard stare returns as he focuses on a distant memory, and continues. “When I was six, my mother, father and uncle were killed… in cold blood… My family, who were good, law abiding, religious, loving people… Decent, moralistic human beings who never fought with anybody…” George detects emotion in Hazma’s voice, and the Iraqi’s eyes water as he explains, “The Americans and British bombed my parents… They obliterated our home and incinerated my family… But I survived! I was saved from death by an old man who saw me drowning… as he prayed for help from God.”

  George climbs down from his bunk to console him, and places a hand on Hazma’s shoulder as he states, “God saved me. I know that… He saved me to avenge the unfathomable injustices committed against my family… and my people.”

  George sits at the table, sympathetically consoling Hazma, “I’m sorry about that, Haz… If they’d done that to my people I’d make bombs as well!”

  Hazma sits alongside him, seeming touched by his understanding, “You feel my pain… and my need for revenge. Yet for some reason, people of the West call us fanatical lunatics, for wanting payback.”