Prisoner

by Ross Greenwood

  ‘Happy to be going home, gents?’

  ‘That’s right, sir,’ says Fats. ‘I was just telling Braddock about your boy, Colt.’

  ‘God, what’s he been up to now?’

  ‘Him and his gang are doing everyone’s head in on the wing. You know what the YOs are like. They’ve just got too much energy to stay out of trouble. Gronkowski lost his rag today and told them to shut the hell up when they were messing about in the servery queue.’

  ‘Oh, dear.’

  Fats’s face splits open into a huge grin and he chuckles loudly.

  ‘Yeah, there were four of them. They all attacked him. It was funny really. I was behind the servery counting the food, so couldn’t leave because the dessert was Penguin bars. I didn’t realise that Lennox was off the wing. It was like Jurassic Park, man. You remember the bit where the velociraptors attack the T Rex, and they’re too quick, and keep nipping him, and he looks clumsy, until he chomps them.’

  I don’t really want to know the end of the story but I suppose I should ask. Abi might want to know if her brother has been eaten.

  ‘Are they alive?’

  ‘Colt is. The other three are in Healthcare. That Colt is a crazy mofo, yes, sir. He was on Gronkowski’s back, trying to gouge his eyes out. Gronkowski pulled him off and threw him down the wing, but, luckily, he didn’t hit anything. First Response turned up and separated them, but Colt was ready for more.’

  ‘He must be suicidal,’ I say.

  Fats and I share a look. We both know the truth. There’s a generation of young men of all colours and creeds growing up who don’t value life. Theirs or anyone else’s. Everything’s a game, and getting respect is more important than losing, even if that means it’s game over.

  When we get outside, Fats wanders off towards the car park.

  ‘Your bike not fixed?’ I ask. ‘Want me to come around and help? I’ve got a spare puncture kit.’

  ‘It’s cool, Dalton, sorted, but Braddock offered to give me a lift this morning and I’m a lazy git given half the chance. He said Hitler has paid his dues. Invited me round for dinner tonight, too.’

  Braddock smiles at me. ‘My sister offered. I think she has a soft spot for his soft head.’

  Fats’s face reddens, and he scuttles off after Braddock. I watch them leave, feeling like a schoolchild whose best friend is going to another kid’s house for tea.

  34

  Cycling home is a slog. I understand why Fats sometimes pushes his bike, but I force myself to continue pedalling. There’s only a slim chance of a nice meal when I get back, but at least I can spend time with the kids. Yet, when I walk through the back door, the only thing waiting for me is another note. I pick it up with trepidation, but all it says is:

  Gone to KFC with Maggie.

  I take a shower and deliberately stay under the water until it runs cold. Let’s hope Abi gets a sweat on with the Zinger burger. I step out of the bathroom naked and pad into our bedroom. Abi has pulled the stuff out from the back and on top of the wardrobes. There are two piles.

  I rummage through the pile closest to me. It contains some running medals, a load of the children’s school reports and those diary things they give you when they’re born. I remember Abi filling in every box for Tilly, adding photos where appropriate, and ticking each milestone achieved. I pick up Ivan’s. It’s filled in properly at the start, but then tails off, until the entries finally stop. Poor Ivan. We can’t help who we are. It’s tough to be measured against other people’s standards.

  The other pile is of my old clothes and under that there’s a big box of my knick-knacks and past bank statements. I pick up a few photo albums of the holidays I took before I met Abi. God, I look so young. My old friend, Martin, and I stare at the camera as though to say this is brilliant, but we know there are more good times to come. Perhaps it’s better to believe that.

  Growing up was tough without a dad. Perhaps that’s why I have more patience than most with many of the prisoners who grew up the same way. Mums do a great job, but a man’s hand is helpful when puberty hits.

  I remember the last year of junior school. Our class had been performing a musical, Aladdin, and it was Father’s Day. The headmistress thought it would be good to do a fathers-only performance. Ironically, I was one of the thieves. I just assumed that I would have nobody there, but when I stood up to sing my piece, I spotted my granddad at the back. He’d been ill for years with a variety of creeping cancers and had never come to anything before. I belted the songs out. I’m not sure why he made it that day. I never got the chance to ask him because he died a week later, but I’ve always remembered it. Afterwards, I swore that I would be a good dad, but I’m making a mess of it.

  My attention returns to the piles. I pick up the little album of our wedding that Abi’s mum kindly did for us. She gave us two copies, but I can’t remember why. I think one was for my mum, but she fell ill shortly after. At the time, Abi joked that it was one each for when we split up. I place my copy back in the box.

  It seems there’s a pile for Abi and the kids, and a pile for me. I pull on a pair of jeans and a T-shirt. The house feels strange, as though nobody lives here. Perhaps they’ve left for Spain already and told me they were eating out to get a head start.

  The fridge is pretty bare, as usual. I turn on the computer and make a cheese roll. There are two very plain-looking yoghurts at the back of the fridge. The type where you need to read the ingredients to find out the flavour. I don’t notice how out of date they are until I peel the lid from the second one and get rewarded with a strange smell. I eat it anyway.

  That’s another thing that pisses me off about Abi. I’m busting my gut doing six or seven-day weeks, and she’s out with the kids paying for fast food. We’ve had more recent yoghurts since these, and they were more expensive. Abi eats those first, chomps the fresh bread before the older stuff, and throws carrier bags in the bin, even though you pay for them now. She even throws food away that’s still in date.

  It’s not a big deal, only pennies really, but it all adds up. I tell her that she wouldn’t step over ten pence if she saw it on the floor, but maybe she would. Her family is used to having money. Perhaps scrabbling around for loose change is beneath them. The old laptop beeps and chugs, giving me time to empty the bins in the ten minutes it takes to boot up.

  I surf various sites, but my heart’s not in it, so I check my bank balance. The prison salary will drop in my account a week on Friday, but there won’t be much left after the rent and bills come out. The Child Benefit money goes into Abi’s current account but she also has a card for our joint account when that’s run out.

  I log into Facebook, but no one’s interested in my life. Forty-six friends seems depressingly few compared to others. After a few clicks, photos of my friends’ lives appear in my newsfeed in front of me. I haven’t seen most of them for years, decades even. I’ve no idea who a few of them are any more. I click on Abi’s profile. She has over six hundred friends. I have a look at her page. She used to post loads of pictures of us as a family, but it gradually became just the kids. There’s been very little activity these last few months. There are a lot of birthday messages to her, which she hasn’t responded to. Surely she’s not too busy.

  I find my thoughts dragged back to the prison and the girls. It’s strange to think they live their lives without computers and mobile phones when the rest of us are glued to them. I picture Tara reading in her cell and remember her using the word angsty to describe the nurse at the med hatch. I grin when the online dictionary reveals that an angsty person is nervous and frustrated. Most of the prison nurses probably feel the same way.

  I consider going to see Fats and Lena, but it’d be weird if he wasn’t there. No one wants to come home and find their girlfriend and a work colleague sitting on the sofa together. My mind wanders to the jail and the chickens. I know nothing about raising chooks. If you put them in your garden around here, their life expectancy would be shorter than that of
a KFC chicken.

  I research types of chickens and their lifestyles, and think I’ll print it off for Billie at the nick. She can wow old Myerscough with it. Our printer is ancient. I plug it in with the vain hope there’s enough ink, and amazingly it seems to work okay. Abi and the children arrive home as I’m folding the piece of paper.

  ‘Daddy, we had KFC!’

  ‘Nice, did you bring me some back?’

  ‘No, you said it was greezy!’

  Tilly laughs. Ivan comes in behind her, looking tired. It’s nearly 9 p.m., which I think is too late for him on a school night. It’s another easy topic for me and Abi to enthusiastically argue over, where we let off steam instead of dealing with the real things that bother us. The kids drop into bed without a story, proving me right, but I keep silent about it. I make Abi and me a coffee while she does the washing up in silence. She must know I’ll have seen upstairs.

  We sit on opposite sides of the sofa watching the TV. It feels as if there’s a force field between us. I don’t believe it’s up to me to mention the piles of belongings, but I can’t be bothered with games any more.

  ‘Are you going, then?’

  ‘I think so. I’ve been sorting through our things.’

  ‘I saw.’

  ‘Maybe we should just have a holiday there for two weeks. Get our heads in the right place and some distance from our lives here.’

  That’s unexpected. I turn my head so I’m looking at her, and smile.

  ‘I have enough holiday for a week, and I could pull a sickie for the following week. As long as I didn’t go back with a suntan, nobody would know.’

  She doesn’t turn her head to match mine and the penny drops after a few seconds.

  ‘The invitation to Spain is for three only.’

  This time, she does look at me. ‘Yes, only for three.’

  ‘Don’t your parents want our marriage to work?’

  ‘They want the best for me and it’s obvious I’m struggling.’

  ‘What can I do to help?’

  ‘Nothing. You’re at work nearly every day.’

  ‘Yes, but for us, for our family. I’m not there because I want to spend every second at work. We need the money. You must know that.’

  ‘If I go to Spain, my parents can babysit and I can get rebalanced. I’m desperate for some space alone, to think, read, walk. Anything but have kids constantly pulling on my arms. I just need a full night’s sleep where I wake up naturally, just that would probably save my sanity. I need to do it for me because otherwise I’m going to be no good to anyone.’

  ‘You don’t think I want those things?’

  ‘You have a job, a—’ She stops when she sees my eyes narrow.

  ‘Go on.’

  ‘I’m sorry, but it’s already organised. My dad took charge and booked the kids and me open-ended flights for Saturday.’

  ‘You aren’t coming home, are you?’

  ‘Honestly, I don’t know.’

  After this dismissive conversation, I’m not sure I want her back either, but I have to have Ivan and Tilly in my life. I need them to be with me, or all these years of bullshit will have been for nothing.

  ‘What about me seeing my children?’

  ‘You can use Skype or FaceTime.’

  ‘Well, aren’t you thoughtful? Is that forever? Or shall I have them alternate Christmases until they forget who I am?’

  ‘Maybe Ivan will be better in a quieter environment with his grandparents.’

  ‘What? You’re kidding, aren’t you? If your dad wanted to help, he could send us cash for a deposit on a house instead of paying for the flights to separate us.’

  ‘I might have known you’d bring it back to money.’

  ‘Well, stop wasting it when we don’t have any. How was KFC? We had curry at the prison. It was hard to identify the meat, but I ate it because it was free.’

  She stands up and scowls at me, but there’s a high-handed expression on her face. The horrible cow has set me up. She was waiting for me to mention KFC.

  ‘Maggie paid. She knew you’d moan otherwise.’

  ‘Oh.’

  ‘Apology accepted. I have more good news. I found a big puddle of oil under our shit car.’

  With that, she stomps up the stairs. Our bedroom door slamming indicates I will be sleeping in my usual spot. Aren’t relationships great? Abi will now use my moaning about her spending to ease her conscience when she clears off with my children.

  I need to think. I turn the TV off and sit in the dark. After an hour or so, my mind automatically starts making plans. I could just about afford this place on my own, but it would be tight. I’d be better off saving my money in a house-share. There might even be people like me who’d want to go for a beer or the cinema one night.

  It’s strange to be in this situation. If this had happened in the past, I wouldn’t have given a damn. Screw Abi. I’d have just got my stuff and gone to my mum’s, but I have a family now. I can’t lose without a fight. What do I do? What can I do?

  It makes me think of Mum. Things would be better if she were here, I’m sure of it. But she left me too.

  35

  Funeral

  My mother died suddenly. She had a seizure, went into hospital, and a few hours before her bypass operation, her heart stopped. She never regained consciousness. Tilly had just started school and Ivan had started failing to meet developmental milestones. We were already stressed. My mum had been having Tilly overnight at times and had been a great help. I knew we would miss my mum in so many ways.

  We weren’t sure whether to take the kids to the funeral. In the end, we decided to spare them the experience. Maggie turned up to babysit but Ivan had one of his terrible tantrums and we thought it was best that Abi stay behind. My mum’s funeral was the day I realised how selfish I had been towards my mother, but it was too late to make amends. I spent the entire service lurching from sorrow to shame. It was hard not to think of my promises to be a success. Was she proud of me? I’m not even proud of myself.

  Her closest friend, Elaine, arranged the wake and funeral with me. Luckily, my mum paid into a funeral plan and with a bit extra we were able to give her a good send-off at the community hall. Everyone said kind words, and a lot of people came, but I knew virtually none of them. They all mucked in and helped tidy up at the end.

  Finally, it was just Elaine and me saying goodbye to the caretaker. Elaine was similar to Mum: overweight, widowed and easy-going.

  ‘Thanks for helping, Elaine. I couldn’t have done it without you.’

  ‘Do you want me to meet you at your mum’s to sort through her things? We had a chat in case something like this happened, so either of us could sort out the other’s affairs.’

  ‘That’d be great. I don’t suppose you know if she had much money. I’m about five hundred quid out of pocket for this.’

  Elaine shook her head.

  ‘No, Jim, she struggled to make ends meet. Us women from our generation don’t have pensions, and when our husbands go first, we often find it hard to get by. You might make a few quid by selling her white goods, but the rest of her stuff is old.’

  I knew that she didn’t have much, but I’d always thought she wasn’t bothered with material possessions, as opposed to not being able to afford them.

  ‘Was she happy?’ I asked.

  ‘Of course. Although she missed your dad, despite his uselessness. She talked about you all the time and loved your visits. We often had a laugh about what you got up to. She used to joke that she couldn’t wait for you to split up with your girlfriend again because you’d be back at home.’

  Elaine kissed me on the cheek.

  ‘Don’t feel guilty. You have to go and live your life when you’re young. It’s the curse of parenthood to be left behind.’

  I appreciated her kind words, but they were an ineffective balm to the guilt that swamped me. I’d barely seen my mum in the last few years apart from to drop the kids off or to pick them up. How of
ten did I stop for a chat? Or give her some money for helping out? She was always buying things for the children. I now understood she was going without to pay for them. My poor mother was lonely and poor, and I was too selfish to notice.

  36

  I have an early shift today and tomorrow, and then a seven o’clock start on Saturday. Abi and the kids’ flight is at 10 a.m. on Saturday, so we’ll be leaving the house at the same time. I’m dreading it. My sleep is no longer peaceful. My mind churns between thinking it will be good for us to have some space, and horror at the move becoming permanent.

  Her father has kindly paid for a taxi for them to the airport, which at least means I have the car, assuming whatever’s leaking is fixable.

  I’m on the YO wing with Sheraton and I watch him work with a new respect. He still walks as though he’s carrying a couple of rolls of carpet, but he’s engaged and friendly with the girls. It’s clear he’s genuinely interested in what the prisoners are saying to him as he talks to them while they are pulling the mops and brushes out.

  After the morning meeting, I stand in the office doorway searching for Billie. She comes out of her cell and stretches as if she’s just woken up. She doesn’t seem to have done any cleaning so far. Her tight T-shirt is too small for her and reveals a few centimetres of stomach that are bright white. She must have been sewn into her black Nike tracksuit bottoms. I beckon her over. She fails to keep eye contact as she steps slowly towards me, as though life has taught her always to expect bad news.

  ‘You have an interview at eleven.’

  ‘To do what?’

  ‘Egg collector.’

  ‘Eh?’ Then her face opens up. ‘No way, for real?’

  ‘Yes, don’t get too excited though. Myerscough is interviewing a few for the role.’

  She doesn’t look excited.

  ‘Fuck it. There’s no chance they’ll give me the job. Thanks for offering, but I’ll pass.’