David Mathew - O My Days

He got twisted up innit, says a yoot called I don’t know. Pressing the night bell all night. Sounded like panic attacks.

Don’t sound like him, I answer, making a show of returning the Prison Poetry books back to the shelf.

Why, you know him then? I’m asked.

Well as I know any cunt on Puppydog Wing.

That’s fighting talk, Redband.

I shrug again. Start it up. See who does Seg: me or you.

We both will, and you know it. Loss of TV.

I don’t watch TV, four-eyes.

What am I doing? I wonder, picking a scrap with a dilapidated granny batterer and handbag thief. And no one’s gonna see me throw the first punch.

I dare you.

For a second I think he’s going to cry. I am certain of what he’s about to say, before he says it. We’re not all rapists on that Wing, you know?

I didn’t say you were.

We are Vulnerable Prisoners.

I know that.

So why would you say something like that?

Like what? Like I know Dott as well as anyone on your Wing?

That’s not how you put it, Redband.

Pardon my manners. Excuse my gutter tongue. Now get away from me, you dirty oaf. Stop trying to make friends with normal criminals.

To my surprise he moves away, feigning a spontaneous interest in the atlases and Who’s Who? I don’t know why I’ve done what I’ve just done. I am angry and frustrated, and these things don’t help. So Dott’s been beaten up, has he? Good . Tired to the core, I execute the remainder of my morning duties in all but total silence, confidently not bringing up further antagonistic utterances, and in fact only speaking when I’m directly spoken to. I make the tea. Miss Patterson is sitting pretty, not moving an inch. Maybe she’s got a piss-bag, a wet-bag. What do you call them? When you just go down your leg, in a tube. I’m tempted to offer her one of her own gins, just to speed up the process a little.

At eleven-forty, the screws’ radios start to bleat and whistle. The morning session is coming to a close, Movements are about to begin.

Papa Alpha to Charlie Two… and Charlie Two answers in the tiffany-thin code it’s assumed we’re all too pigshit-thick to decipher.

There’s no time. In another couple of minutes it’ll all be over until Monday. I can’t wait that long. The Library door is anchored open with a small table on which sit what remains of a pile of Inside Times newspapers—free to any con fast enough to get a copy. Charlie Two today is a young female screw. She leans into the room.

Ready, Redband? she asks. We’re off.

Dejected I say, See you next week, Miss—the singular form of the noun intended to embrace both members of the staff I’m leaving behind.

Billy, don’t forget your book! Kate calls when I’m at the door.

Holding it out in front of her, she takes the few necessary strides in my direction. I have not issued out a book. I have plenty to read in my pad that I do not read without having another addition to the pile stamped.

With a smile I accept it and say quietly, Call me Alfreth in front of Angela.

Kate nods. I take the book.

And call her Miss Patterson, she responds.

Safe, I tell Kate, thereby thanking her for reminding me not to leave the book behind. I don’t even dare read the title in case Miss Patterson sees me doing so and starts to wonder whatever an old girl starts to wonder when she finds her career stalled in a rat-infested shit- hole such as Dellacotte Young Offenders. It’s only outside I dare glance at the cover.

I’ve been given a copy of Agatha Christie’s The Murder of Roger Ackroyd.

Blood quickens. While acknowledging the Wogwuns and occasional hand-slaps of inside-friends, I make a beeline for my pad. Because you know what? I got a memory, rudeboy. Got a memory, cuz. Since I’ve been Library Redband I must have seen the list of available titles a thousand times or more. Not once—not once in my memory—have I ever seen a copy of an Agatha Christie novel on the shelves, or even on the screen of availables. Not once. So where has this come from? From on the out.

It’s a relief when the screw locks me in. It’s a hassle to wait for my call to collect lunch—so much do I want to open the book. I don’t dare. Trembling slightly, I claim ownership of my Friday-treat baguette (extra filling). Fuck . It’s Friday, I keep forgetting—this means there’ll be Canteen, where those who have paid for them from their spends are able to get chocolate, sweets, crisps and noodles. I myself have a collection to make. Last week I ordered extra packets of cup-a-soup, back when I used to get hungry on a regular basis. This means Kate’s book will have to wait even longer to be opened.

A door being locked never sounded so sweet. Outside my open window—open despite the nip in the air—a couple of ducks seem to sound pleased on my behalf. Their quacks are the same as applause.

Ask him one question.

Card in hand, I queue for the telephone. It’s Saturday, just after lunch. I intend, at my own undoubtedly exorbitant cost, to call Julie. Mobile phone, naturally; it’s hard to think of Julie actually having an address because she’s never at home. She lives on the street. Maybe literally. Who knows? Now that that Bailey waste has done a hop, skip and jump with my money, what’s Julie living on? There’ll be benefits of course, the usual handouts, but still.

The D in the booth is called Finer. He seems to have accumulated about an eon’s worth of phone credit. Through the plexiglass I can hear him in a mumbled fashion going on about what food he’s been eating. I want to bang on the door and say It’s not important, save your money . Or say I only need a minute or two, could you call her back? , for I’m assuming he’s talking to his Mumsy. Who else would want to know details like that?

Yes, he’s getting plenty of exercise. Yes, he’s keeping himself out of fights (an out-and-out lie, by the way). And yes, his chances of parole look solid. Which is bullshit: no one ever gets paroled from Dellacotte YOI.

Even the ducks outside, dropping black messages wherever they waddle, are serving life sentences: either Mandatory, Discretionary, Automatic, or Imprisonment for Public Protection—the old IPP, bless it, and save all those who sail in it. All I want to know is if Julie has booked her visit with Dott. After time out of mind I get to ask. One thing about Julie is, she never turns her mobile off. Never. She always takes the call. In the cinema, in the shower—more than once she’s spoken to someone when she and I have been having sex. The first time this happens is offensive; the second time onwards you realise, ah, well we all have our quirks. There she was, riding me on top and discussing her sister-in-law’s hen night. It’s possible she’s having sex right now, I suppose, as she answers. I don’t bother to identify myself—she knows my voice.

Did you book it? I ask.

Booked it and done it.

Pardon?

I’ve been in already. Yesterday, Julie tells me. I didn’t have to wait long for a visit appointment because no one’s been to see him yet.

You travelled all the way up yesterday? I ask.

Yeah. It’s what you wanted me to!

Well, yeah I did. Didn’t think it get done so fast.

You sound disappointed, she says in a disappointed tone of her own; and I know that she is trying to please me—to make amends. She must have driven through the very early hours. Visits start at ten.

It’s stupid, I admit. I wish I’d known you were coming.

You weren’t answering your phone, she tells me with sarcasm.

Okay. Do you ask the question?

Yes. How do you spend your time? I have to say, Billy, if it wasn’t you I might have thought you were going a bit stir crazy in there.