David Mathew - O My Days

In the showers I am still next to Shelley. He has forgotten to bring his shampoo, and asks to borrow mine.

You ain’t got no hair, bruv, I tell him.

Got a goatee and knob-brush, though, innaye? he retorts.

Fair dues. I hand him my Head and Shoulders, thinking: I’m about due for a haircut myself.

Cheers.

The water is warm; my heartrate remains fast; too much fear, too much fear. This is going to kill me, I think, closing my eyes. I saw the water; I flew towards it. The smel—I can smell it now, in the showers—something putrid, vile and offensive. I can see the Oasis. Low sun a dream-blade, a mere metre from my eyes; patches of white ground, bald of dark sand smoothed elsewhere hereabouts by a combing wind. And the water is mauve where oil has spoilt it; black in other places; there are octopi eyes of the purest blue—the sky above pulses with perfect azure. Fist-sized in the distance, the Prison Ship, a rectangular brick of black. A rowboat is ten metres from where I now stand. The captain of this modest vessel has skin stretched like plastic (he resembles a burns victim)—plastic pulled tight across a face with no nose or mouth. The eyes are silver. He or it—she for all I know—waves me forward. It’s your turn, Alfreth . Voice like something automated, gadgetry; I’m afraid of my journey to the Prison Ship.

It’s your turn, Alfreth, the mouthless one says again. But how? The voice is in my head—I can feel it behind my eyebrows— It’s your turn .

With a jump and a cough I return to the showers in the changing room at the Gym. The cough, in fact, is more of a choke; falling water has filled my mouth, and though it has left it late enough, my gag reflex has probably saved my life. I might have drowned, there and then. I spit out hot water. Shelley is holding out my shampoo bottle for me to take.

It’s your turn, Alfreth, he says again. How many times has he said it? You okay?

Just dreaming. I take the bottle.

I know the feeling, Shelley goes on.

He turns away from me, wanting to talk but not wanting to see my penis. This is mandatory good behaviour, as iron-bound a law on the inside as it is on the out.

I think they’re putting something in the water.

This causes me to start.

What’s that stink, man? shouts Sarson, a few heads down to my left.

It’ll give some indication into my sleep- deprived, wired-up, wankered state of mind to say that my first instinct, on hearing this demand, is to think I have drawn back into reality the stench of the Oasis from my trance-life.

It’s the butter beans, blood! Jaakko is protesting. Too much fibre!

Do you smell me , cuz? Sarson continues. Do you think I had a motherfucking steak instead? I ate the same food, boy!

Audibly this time, Jaakko lets another one rip; then he laughs.

Fucking hell, Shelley calls out, turning away from me and also laughing, anybody injured? He has shampoo running down the crease of his spine.

Two minutes, lads! Pequod shouts above the din of water sprinklers. Then it’s up the hill to Bedfordshire! Nighty- night time.

Wanker, I mutter. How old are we again?

Did you hear about Bachelor, Alfreth? Shelley asks me.

No. Puppydog yoot? I ask.

The very same.

Shelley turns off his water and reaches for the towel that he has draped over the rusting shower head; the towel is already wet, but Shelley doesn’t seem to pay this fact any mind.

Got twisted up on the gardening detail. I was tempted to join in, the dirty bastard.

Why, what’s he done?

He raped that woman in Truro, Shelley answers.

No, what did he do today? To get twisted up.

Oh.

Shelley has started to dry himself off. I decide to do the same.

Well, he was acting weird, cuz. Talking all about hearing voices. Seeing things. And talking about that Ronald Dott yoot.

I am rubbing my chest dry. What about Dott? I ask.

Yoot’s saying, like, fucking, Dott’s got this mind control voodoo shit going on. You know? Like he made the yoot scratch up his own fucking arm.

Yeah, right.

Yeah right, Shelley agrees, frowning; but the funny thing is, Alfreth, you know, in all the time he’s been doing gardens with us, man’s never shown himself to be a self-harmer. You notice shit like that, don’tcha, specially with a Pup. Not a mark, blood. Yet here he is this morning, left arm like a roadmap, cuz. Sliced to ribbons. And then, right? We’re doing some weeding in the bed by the swimming pool? Fucker plucks one of them yellow roses and starts to cut himself up again on the thorns. One right across the wrist.

Fuck.

Right there! In front of everyone!

Ready, lads? Let’s go! Shorts on. Cold out there! Pequod yells.

Like we were gonna go back to the Wing with our pieces swinging. Silly bastard.

So who, I ask, twisted him up?

The screws, blood! Who else? Shelley seems to wonder genuinely.

I thought you meant someone hit him with a shovel or something.

Nah! But let’s face it, shit coulda got scrappy, right? Screws bundling Bachelor, so what’s to stop us doing the screws? They don’t think, that’s their problem, Shelley tells me in a tone of the profoundest disgust.

We are getting into our sweaty Gym kit for the journey back. I can’t wait to get into bed: for the warmth. Not the sleep (I won’t sleep, I’m certain of that) and definitely not the dreams. It’s a fact, I reckon, that I’m going to get dreams that I don’t want and can’t afford, emotionally speaking.

Thing is, Alfreth, Shelley pauses. Promise you won’t tell no one.

Promise.

Mumsy’s life?

Mumsy’s life, I repeat.

I think I kinda know what he was talking about: the voices. His eyes give my face the once over, but I’m not giving anything away, as far as I am aware. He pushes his lips together and pushes them out, a fat kiss. You don’t believe me. I can’t say I blame you.

I believe you, I tell him. O my days I believe you, Shell. We’re all having strange feelings, blood.

Well, what is it? Shelley rolls up his towel. His skin is still damp; he will freeze in the air outside. Do you know what I think? Something in the water.

I stole water , Dott’s long message to me read. I was thirsty. Dying of thirst .

How do you mean? I ask Shelley. I know what Dott meant.

Shelley shrugs. What better way of keeping us all under control?

Than what? Psychotropic drugs? Come on, Shell—don’t make sense. Think of the cost, apart from anything else.

What cost? Fuck it’s cold! What cost, really? I was shotting on road, don’t forget; I know how cheap you can get brown, or a bag of sugar—as long as you buy in bulk. Now me: that sort of thing’s a risk, cuz. I’ll be the first to admit it, bruv: I’m small potatoes when it comes to shotting. Bit of zoot: that’s usually my max. Get Judas? Slap on the arse, rudeboy. Nuttin. But these cunts? Government endorsement innit. Wouldn’t surprise me. Nothing would.

Sounds like bollocks but I give him: It’s an interesting theory.

He shrugs again. Whatever the weather, he remarks.

We are halfway back to E Wing, our passage swift on account of the chill, before Shelley speaks again.

Can’t believe how fast that hour went, he says.

Allow it.

This whole month has gone full-pelt, bruv.

Allow it, I say again.

Are you listening?

Yeah.

Are you sleeping a lot more these days, Alfie? Shelley asks.

Nah man, the opposite. Can’t keep down, I tell him.

And I am having bare twisted dreams, rudeboy. Even during the day. Even today! Finish gardens, have a poxy baguette, what the fuck was that meat, by the way? Something dug up from the cemetery tasted like.