Ball of Confusion

by Ian Black

  •

  That afternoon in the prison garden, three proud gardeners stand back, admiring their green-fingered work. A cleverly constructed debate, over which walls receive the most sunlight, guided the guard to sanction planting tomato plants in two areas: up the perimeter wall adjacent to the oil tank – utilising an unplanted area of garden, and up the outside wall to their cell – so George can closely monitor the growth. Now a dozen bags of fertilizer are positioned in each area, and planted with small tomato plants tied to sticks. The satisfied guard rubs soil from his hands, commenting, “Well done, lads. We’ll soon be feasting on fresh tomatoes… I’m off to wash my hands.”

  •

  Chapter: 25

  Que Sera, Sera

  Later on in the cell, sat over a game of draughts, Hazma is annoyed by an email he’s just received from Millie. In exasperation, he asks himself more than George, “Why would she visit Ruparela?”

  George offers, “She’s a reporter… She’s probably reportering.”

  “She’s fishing!” snaps Hazma.

  George is shocked, “She went fishing with your friend?”

  “Not fishing you moron!” Hazma shakes his head, disgusted by George’s lack of comprehension, “Fishing for information!”

  George shrugs, “Oh!”

  Their conversation is interrupted then by the cell door squeaking open to reveal Pixie’s frame filling the doorway with two cronies peering over his shoulders. As with royal protocol, George and Hazma stand as they enter.

  “Evening, Abdul,” Pixie greets Hazma cheerily, and nods to acknowledge George, before gesticulating and commenting gaily, “You both remind me of that rock band… from the ’80s… with the beards and the hair… What were they called?”

  “ZZ Top!” one of the cronies pipes up smugly.

  Pixie grins, “ZZ Top… that’s it, with the beards and the hair. ZZ Top! Well fuck me you’re the spit!” After a moment’s contemplation, he begins jiggling around a bit, and strums an air-guitar while belting out a self-modified one line vocal, “They’ve got beards… and know how use them!”

  The room falls quiet. George and Hazma’s faces look blank. Both cronies look a bit awkward too, as Pixie continues waffling, “With the beards and the hair… Do Pakistanis like rock music, Abdul?”

  “My name’s not Abdul!”

  The chef ignores him, “I think Freddie Mercury was a Paki… or half-Pak at least. Did you know that, Ab?”

  “My name’s not—”

  “Sit down, please sit, I’m not royalty!” Pixie chuckles and manoeuvres in closer with his men, totally overcrowding the cell, and towering over both seated cellmates.

  Still smiling, and quite charming in a creepy sort of way, Pixie requests, “I’d like that music now please!”

  Hazma cranes his neck up, “What music?”

  “That classical music you keep playing,” Pixie scans his eyes around the cell, “I like it, it calms me… How do you play it? The music… what do you play it on?”

  Both men remain silent, which prompts Pixie’s tone to become notably more serious as he pontificates, “Your silence speaks volumes my bearded twins… I cannot see a CD or media player. So, by process of elimination that means you’re playing it on a mobile phone, secreted inside your cell.” He shrugs. “We won’t need Scooby Doo and Shaggy to solve that one!”

  Their continued silence annoys Pixie more. He stoops over, plonks his palms onto the draughts board, completely wrecking their game, and demands, “Where’s the phone, Abdul?”

  Pixie’s men both inch in nearer, looming down, adding weight to the intimidation.

  Hazma mutters, “My name’s not Abdul!”

  Pixie finally explodes, “I don’t give a fuck what your name is! Where’s the fucking phone?”

  An uncomfortable silence follows. George and Hazma’s eyes flash repeatedly at each other, before the Iraqi replies nervously, “You can’t have it!”

  Pixie invades Hazma’s air space, “You what?”

  “It’s hidden… ” he explains. “I can’t get it… not at the moment.”

  “Why not?”

  Hazma’s secretive eyes say it all – he won’t say, which prompts Pixie’s hairdryer treatment; he bellows big time, “WHERE IS IT?”

  The barrage of hot breath and spittle does its job; Hazma nods at his cellmate and replies, “Up his backside!”

  Absolute horror flashes across George’s face.

  Pixie swivels his neck around, to focus on George, whose jaw hangs open as Hazma attempts to explain, “So you can’t have it. Not right now!”

  Now Pixie invades George’s air space, and in his campest voice enquires, “Is it set to vibrate?”

  George stammers, “I… um…”

  Hazma replies for him, “He can’t get it out… it’s stuck!”

  Pixie seems delighted with this news, “Stuck you say!” Lifting his hand in the air, he sticks a finger out, bends it over mimicking a hook and suggests gleefully, “I’ll go fishing!”

  Which perplexes George. “Why is everyone fishing?”

  Hazma attempts to halt Pixie’s train of thought, “It won’t come out… but he’s taken laxatives, so it should come out tomorrow.”

  Pixie ponders, then asks, “What phone is it?”

  “An iPhone!” confirms Hazma.

  “Well fuck me…” Pixie is well impressed. “Nice work! I must admit I’ve done Nokias and Motorolas myself… but never an iPhone. They’re a rare commodity in here… a proper treat… I really must have it!”

  Seeing Pixie’s eagerness, Hazma spots an opportunity and enquires, “What will you trade for it?”

  “How about fuck all!” Pixie snaps back.

  “But you just admitted they’re rare!” the Iraqi retorts nervously.

  After consideration, Pixie admits, “You’ve got bollocks, Abdul, I’ll give you that.” Then states his terms. “Okay, here’s the deal… because you’ve got bollocks, and I like you… for the iPhone, loaded with my soothing classical song, I’ll give you two crappy old bog-standard phones, so you can both have one each!”

  Hazma mulls over the offer, which annoys Pixie, who clarifies the terms, “That’s non-fucking-negotiable, Abdul. Two phones or fuck all!”

  The Iraqi nods, “Two phones it is then… okay!”

  “My cell, tomorrow night, seven, with the iPhone,” he points at Hazma, “You come alone… Okay?”

  “Okay!”

  Well satisfied with himself the smarmy chef turns and waddles out. His cronies take a moment to scowl down menacingly, a token gesture, then dawdle out behind him.

  George picks his jaw up and blurts, “Why did you tell him…”

  “I had to, for my plan!”

  “But why tell him it—” George stops suddenly, interrupted by Pixie’s face peering inquisitively around the door frame.

  “What colour is it?” he enquires.

  “White!” they reply in unison.

  Pixie leaves, reminding them over his shoulder, “Don’t forget to wash it!”

  •

  Newsrooms never sleep. Later that evening Larry sits with Millie in his office and comments, “Not too good with the doctor today then?”

  Slumped in the seat, she replies downheartedly, “No.”

  “Why not?”

  Rolling her eyes Millie replies, “He’s a real sharp cookie, Larry… and the only thing I learned about him…” she shrugs, “was he’s a real sharp cookie!” Millie shakes her head, “I got nothing new out of him. He knows we know he’s covered in it, right up to his neck, but he’s so slick… like Agent Williams said, he’s squeaky clean!”

  “Until the shit sticks!” points out Larry.

  She sighs, “The whole thing stinks!”

  He shrugs. “That’s shit for you… you just gotta keep digging!”

  “But I failed to dig anything out of him, just like I failed with Hazma. They must think I’m some pathetic American tart peddling politically biased bullshit!
I’m really disappointed, Larry.”

  “Have you heard from the tramp or terrorist again, on that phone you sneaked in?”

  She sighs again, “Yeah… a couple of times.”

  Larry’s strength has never been subtlety when staff moral is low; he fires up, “For fucks sake, girl, stop feeling sorry for your self! Stories don’t write themselves, you’ve got to bleed it, tease it softly, pushing, probing, ducking, diving, bobbing and—”

  “Weaving!” she finishes it off for him. “You’ve told me before!”

  “I know I have! I’m just reminding you,” he states, while throwing a few fisted air-jabs, and goes on. “Lots of little jabs soften up the target… before the knockout!” He throws a straight right into fresh air, and suggests, “Is it worth another go at the doctor?”

  Millie shakes her head, “I don’t think so.”

  “Back to prison then,” he states. “That original piece with the Iraqi was so God-damned-good… Proper conflict, so get back in there, Mills. I’ll sort that governor. I know he refused permission for another shoot with the Iraqi, but I’ve got a British copper buddy who’s a Mason. All these high-ranking Limeys are Masons, scratching each others backs; you know how it works… He owes me a favour… I’ll see what I can do.”

  •

  Next morning as spring sun shines across the prison garden, George prunes roses while Hazma focuses intently on tiny green tomato plants, tied to growing sticks planted into fertilizer bags.

  From a distance, it appears to the happily smoking guard that the Iraqi is watering plants from a bucket. But in fact, Hazma is pouring oil from the heating tank’s leak bucket into the fertilizer bags, via small holes torn at the stems of the plants. As he pours, several drops of heavy viscosity oil spill, bead and roll across the smooth printed plastic liner of the bag.

  •

  After evening meal, George lies on top bunk, observing his cellmate with interest as he kneels on his mat praying. He respectfully waits for him to finish then comments, “Religion is real for you, Haz.”

  “I’m glad you understand,” he replies.

  As Hazma rolls up his prayer mat, George asks, “Did you say a prayer for help with the Pixie?” “I’m not concerned… ” he dismisses the suggestion, “my real enemy is greater than him.”

  Going off on a tangent, George waffles, “You know what, Haz. I know Pixie’s gay and all that, but why does his voice keep changing from a deep mad bloke’s voice to a soft woman’s? Do you reckon he puts that voice on, or is it normal? Does that happen when you’re gay, that your voice changes and goes both ways like a man and a woman?”

  Hazma’s not interested and ignores him.

  George continues waffling, “He is massive though! If he comes at you… even if you button him with your best shot, I don’t reckon he’d flinch!”

  “Thanks for that!” Hazma didn’t need reminding; he’s already considered all options and is well focused on his task ahead. He checks the time on the iPhone, pops it into his pocket, and after a nod to his cellmate, takes a deep breath, and leaves the cell. He takes several paces along the corridor to where one of Pixie’s cronies guards the door, like a bouncer. The beefcake knocks twice then steps aside, allowing Hazma entry.

  Inside, Pixie is laid out on the bed… Seeing him chilling is a chilling sight: encouraged by gravity, his relaxed body mass sprawls across his midriff, as the chef watches gay porn on TV. He’s squeezed into a tight-fitting white-towelling dressing gown, which sags open at the top, revealing his drooling tattoo.

  Unfortunately, the Iraqi’s eyes stray downwards to where they shouldn’t have. He quickly averts his gaze after spotting between Pixie’s spreadeagled thighs – his blotchy meat and two veg.

  As Hazma looks away, turkey giblets spring to mind.

  “Ah, Abdul!” Pixie greets him, chuckling at his own audacity. His clean-shaven rosy red face shimmers like his bulbous moisturised head glistens.

  “My name’s not—”

  “I know, I know,” Pixie interrupts him, “but you are a Paki.”

  “No!”

  Pixie looks aghast, “You look like a Paki!”

  Hazma snaps, “I’m from Iraq!”

  Pixie chuckles at Hazma’s spirited response, as he hoists up his bulky frame and sits on the edge of his bed. In doing so his dressing gown sags open wider, to reveal how powerfully the man’s frame is built. His upper body is formed over a big boned base, and a solid structure of underlying muscle lies beneath wobbly layers of blubbery white fat.

  As his bare feet touch the stone floor, Pixie squeals (like a girl) “Ooh, I hate cold floors!” whilst unravelling in his hands a pair of black ankle socks. Hazma then watches in disgust as Pixie’s enormous belly restricts him from leaning forward enough to put his socks on using the conventional method. Instead, while sitting, he bends one leg straight at the knee and lifts his foot up, balances the straight leg on his supporting knee, then proceeds to fish his socks onto his toes, using a kind of lassoing/netting technique. Hazma watches him flounder, until he eventually captures both feet in socks.

  As Pixie stands, his white robe hangs virtually open, with the short black ankle socks stretched right up over his shins… It’s not a pretty sight, and the exercise appears to have taken it out of him. Slightly breathlessly he exclaims, “Hmm, that’s better… warm toes.”

  Pixie turns off the grunting TV, and beckons Hazma to sit at the table, where a nearly full bottle of sambuca is placed alongside two full shot glasses, and two old bog-standard-looking mobile phones.

  “Sit!” Pixie commands, as he sits down himself and urges, “Drink!”

  Hazma shakes his head, “I don’t drink!”

  Pixie looks astonished, “Get behind me, Satan!” shaking his head in disbelief. “I’ve heard about you terrorist types before, the abstinence and all that. It is true then… you people don’t drink? I honestly thought everyone got pissed, all the time! How else do you get through the day?” Hazma hasn’t got a clue how to respond, while Pixie scowls at the mere thought of being teetotal, and urges again, “Anyway, just drink the fucking drink.”

  “I don’t—”

  “I heard what you said…” he turns nasty, “and I don’t give a fuck where you’re from, or what cause you’re fighting for. You’re in England now, in my cell, and I drink when I’m doing business… so drink the fucking drink!”

  He slides the full glass of sambuca across to Hazma, sinks his own down-in-one, and slams it noisily on the table.

  Hazma stares at the glass, mulling his options, and soon realises that thinking: I’ve gotta get out of here, isn’t going to help. He remembers George’s words about buttoning Pixie with your best shot, and again works the scenario through in his mind, but weighing up the man’s sheer bulk reminds Hazma how inadequate his own bicep power would be. However, he’s not sure how much more of Pixie he can take, but pragmatically knows, he must complete the deal to get the phones needed for his plan.

  Pixie persists, by stating pure facts, “Listen… Just drink the drink or I’ll just batter you and take the phone anyway!”

  “Okay, okay!” Slowly, Hazma lifts his glass, sniffs the contents, reluctantly sips, swallows, and grimaces at the taste.

  Pixie approves, “Now neck-it, in one!”

  Hazma knocks it back. His face contorts at this horrendous new experience. The disgusting taste and burning sensation in his throat make him cough.

  He slams the glass down, and watches in horror as Pixie refills both glasses and commands, “Quaff!”

  Hazma downs it. Pixie then leads them through a procession of slammers until both have downed eight in succession. Then as Pixie tops up the glasses again, he comments, “So, you’re an Iraqi terrorist… Cheeky! Makes sense though, coz if you were a Paki, you’d work in a corner shop or a curry house!” Pixie nods at the sense of his own logic, swallows another drink, and then demands with menace, “Where’s my fucking iPhone?”

  The Iraqi can really feel the effec
ts now; having never drunk alcohol before, it has hit him like a freight train. He fumbles in his pocket and holds the phone up, in the air.

  “Good boy!” Pixie smiles creepily, “Play the music then!”

  Hazma obliges, and the haunting melody of Strauss’s “The Second Waltz” wafts around the cell. Pixie closes his eyes and with gay abandon conducts the music gently with his hands, uttering quietly, “Ahhh.”

  Watching the Pixie swaying in his chair, Hazma becomes aware of how numb his own forehead feels, and of his head’s dizziness; intoxicating experiences he’s never felt before. The alcohol has also induced in him a more mellow mood, and as he speaks he slurs, “Can we swop sphones snow?” He’s drunk.

  Pixie pours more drinks.

  “No, oh…” Hazma slurs again, “I can’t don’t drink don’t I.”

  Pixie insists, “Down the hatch, good boy!”

  Hazma despatches it, clumsily drops the empty glass, and sticks his tongue out in disgust, “No more!” The Iraqi’s eyelids feel heavy, then as he blinks too long, Pixie snatches the iPhone from his hand.

  The chef caresses his new toy, stops the music, and then comments gaily, “I do love a tête-à-tête… especially with foreign brethren.”

  Hazma is close now to being paralytic. The alcoholic onslaught, onto a complete drinking novice, has smashed him. His eyelids are closing, and his voice is barely coherent, “C, Can…”

  Pixie quietens him, sensitively, “Shush now, Ab.”

  “Name not…”

  “You see, Ab,” Pixie explains, “I’m misunderstood in this place… People see me as… a homicidal maniac! A beast! Some even say, freak! And I like that, they’re right really. I get a real buzz from the extreme, but beneath all that, Ab, what most don’t realise is, that, deep down…”

  Hazma’s limbs feel limp. He can’t understand a word Pixie is saying, and though his confused brain reminds him to ask for the phones, his mouth won’t work; it just slavers from the side, dribbling across his open jaw, while his tongue feels fat and furry.