David Mathew - O My Days

One day he chats: Has man heard the word?

What word? I ask him.

We’ve got, like, ten seconds before the Gov adds something like, That’s enough, Maxwell, and throws him out of the room and locks himself (and me) in again with the lads.

Mobile found, he whispers.

Who the yoot?

Some yoot on Honeymoon Wing, Ostrich tells me.

He’s referring to H Wing, in which some of the pads are co-occupied: two random strangers sharing a twelve-by-twelve and one khazi, with the only space available being vertically. Sky-walking. You want to get out of each other’s faces, you climb on to the top bunk and you try to forget about the floor for a while—at least until the sweats subside like a summer storm. It’s not pretty. But what is? Unless you’re a Mr and Mrs Smith, of course. So named—and excuse the digression—on account of the fact that it’s like they have checked into a fucking motel. They’ve got it sick. Not only are they co-Ds from road, they’re actually a couple. Pearce and Trent. One vast and one man tiny: sexual partners. And yes, it does make a man sick to the stomach. I wish I could hate them but Pearce (the senior partner) is okay. I don’t know Trent from a boil on my bum. He has never attended Education as he already has four A Levels and is never called up.

You don’t mean Mr and Mrs Smith? I wish to clarify.

Nar, man. Some other yoot. Keep the phone secluded up his arse on a piece of cord, innit, Ostrich answers. For four munt .

O my days!

Allow it, blood. Apparently, man’s screams could be heard from A Wing to the motherfucking Bricks Workshop.

When what?

When man, says Ostrich, tell him to squat, and then man see the cord and give it a playful yank. Like giving birth, rudeboy, through your rectum.

Heinous.

Allow it. But imagine. He spits a guffaw. If it’s Mr and Mrs Smith. Mrs Smith is behind him, reminding fam what fucking time it is, and then the phone goes off inside blood’s intestine.

We laugh.

Is that for you? I bust a chuckle.

Tell the motherfucker I’m busy, Ostrich elaborates.

He’s bumping his purple against technology, I tell him.

Leave the room, Ostrich is told.

It’s the same as now—in the Cookery Room: something is being hidden. I don’t like it. Something small inside something larger. A case of chicken escalations, once again. Shit always starts midget. Then expands. I’m not laughing now. I am terrified. I am risking a lot.

Getting up to leave the room, I turn to Kate Thistle. How well do you know Dott on F Wing? I ask, and with effort I keep my gaze on her face.

She retains her composure. I don’t know what you mean.

With respect, Miss, I think you do. He certainly knows you.

Governor Mannidge pipes in: What the fuck has that got to do with this, Alfreth? He is perched on the room’s one stool, for the old guy teacher.

I tell him that I’m not entirely certain. This is not chatting shit.

Questions will follow, Alfreth, Mannidge informs me.

Indeed they will, sir, I tell him. Such as why this interview has been conducted in a classroom and not in your Adjudication Suite. Which does not exactly fill me with confidence, sir.

Watch it, Alfreth.

But I’m in my full flow, four-cylinder.

What I’d really like to know is, why the change of location? If this is a disciplinary, sir, then please discipline me. Even if I’ve done nothing wrong. And if it’s not, please inform me of what precisely is going on. Is that fair, sir?

I expect a comment along the lines of what a cheeky swine I’ve been.

Mannidge says, Fair enough, Alfreth. And then I’m led back to my pad.

Morning, Billy.

Kate Thistle acts as if nothing but ghosts and ash have passed her way. The dislike I feel for her and for this reason is intense. Fuckable bitch or not.

Good morning, Kate, I return. Any more interviews for me?

The Library Manager looks up from the wishing well of her computer screen. Her smile is of a sated state. She is relieved that we’re not getting on. Intrigued by what I mean by interview . The remark goes unmentioned. I am sent, with my fluorescent sack, on my Wing duties. I am calmly aware of Dott’s TV guide inside the sack. You don’t do it in order but sooner or later you get to Puppydog Wing. And Dott’s cell. I’m just about to push the publication under his door, when I hear:

Open the flap, Alfreth.

Though distinctly repelled to the notion of a direct command, I grudgingly do so. I give him a Wogwun and I try to slake my fears. The pussy is shaving his oxters in front of me.

What time is it? Dott asks.

About ten. Blood, you could stop doing that for thirty seconds, yat.

Yeah I could. It’s ten-fourteen, he says, still looking into the mirror. And thirty-two, thirty-three, thirty-four seconds. He has not consulted a clock.

Then why’d you fucking ask me, dickhead?

It’s like the song says, he replies. I’m just checking you out. I’m just making sure. The raised eyebrow that he now offers me is like an arrow. It goes through the flap-glass and straight into my eyes.

What fucking song, cunt?

Before your time, he tells me. It was in the 70s. Billy Joel, Billy Alfreth. With which he turns back to the mirror and raises his left arm.

Dickhead, I repeat. I slam shut the metal flap.

The previous night I watched a documentary about wildlife. An alligator swallowed a baby deer. Right now, he’s the alligator. I’m the deer, I feel.

Oh, Alfreth, he calls out.

What do you want? I ask. Against my better instincts, I open up the flap. He is there: eyes to the glass. It disturbs me something peculiar.

A message, he says, for Kate Thistle. If you don’t mind relaying it on my behalf. Just tell her: Don’t try it. She’s nowhere near as smart as she thinks and I’ve left smarter women than her in a city car park. Bleeding from internal injuries and wondering what the hell they’ve done to deserve me.

Ignoring the puffed-up hubris, I reply: Try what?

Those silly mind games. They won’t work.

I’ll tell her, I confirm. If you tell me what you mean.

She knows what I mean. Ask her; you might get lucky enough for a response. Alfreth, do you know that a bee can only sting once—then it dies.

I’m thrown off-balance by the question. I’ve heard something of that nature, I answer.

Unlucky for some, no? he says. Wasps get greedy. I frown and ask him what he’s been smoking.

I’m the wasp, Billy. You’re the bee.

I wait for a second, churning that one over, like a cow chewing grass. And then he drops what is to be another bombshell.

Forget about alligators and deer, he tells me, and turns away.

I’m shaking so much—that noisy kind of shaking that makes you forget where you are for a few seconds—that I don’t hear Screw Jones mount the stairs to this landing. He has to say my name a second time before I hear him.

Stop talking to your boyfriend. It’s time for his afternoon wank.

Yes, sir.

I heard that, sir, Dott shouts. The closing of the flap clips his voice off.

How has the man read my mind?

What are you doing? Jones asks. Proposing marriage or summing? Get the fuck down those stairs and on your way.

Yes, sir, I reply.

Little queer that you are, Jones adds, fishing for an argument.

Yes, sir, is all that I’ll give him.

For the next two weeks I don’t see Dott. He is down block for a punishment: he has damaged Jones’s left cheekbone with his toilet seat.

I dream about Dott. We are sailing some endless waters. Up ahead, squalls; there are sharks in the water and octopi waving for attention. I have on a pirate’s hat. I am the captain of a voyage that feels like pain, and I am carrying a cutlass and I’m chewing tobacco. The waters drain away. We are sailing through the graveyard that rumour has it exists to the south end of Dellacotte Young Offenders. As the ship ploughs the land, the ghosts of the prisoners who were hanged here rise up like gusts of mist and genie-smelling wraiths. The ghosts start dancing. In the dream, Dott is the ship. It’s even called The Little Dot.