David Mathew - O My Days

Fortunately for me, I have all but burnt the strips of paper into which I’ve torn Kate’s letter when the door is unlocked and opened. The toilet cistern is still refilling from the most recent batch of washed-away cinders.

Screw Jarvis is on the threshold. What’re you doing, Alfreth?

Burning, sir, I answer.

I can see that, numb nuts. What are you burning?

Letter, sir. My missus has dumped me. Don’t wanna read it again.

Hard lines, son. But I’m afraid it’s about to get worse. Cell spin.

Okay, sir, I sigh wearily, standing up from the side of my bed. May I ask what you’re looking for, sir? My only unaccounted-for item is Roger Ackroyd .

You may not. Wait in the Sosh Room with Sarson. Door’s open.

He moves to the side as I walk closer. Anything to declare? he asks me.

No, sir. I’m a reliable Y.O. You said so yourself in my last report.

Indeed I did. He seems to relent a little. Just routine, Alfreth, he goes on. Let the dog see the rabbit.

I imagine Jarvis is simply trotting out a withered piece of verbal garbage, but there’s some truth in the order. Stepping outside into the corridor, I see one of the drugs dogs, tail wagging like a helicopter blade, being held by its master. I know the drill. I keep my feet apart slightly in order to make it easier for the dog to sniff my crotch. I have nothing to hide. Why then do I feel so suddenly nervous when I glance down and notice that the dog’s playful tail has stopped moving? It’s dropped like post-coital dick. The drugs dog sniffs again; it makes a tiny whine, a whimper.

What’s your name, mate? the handler asks me.

Alfreth, sir.

You changed your tobacco recently, son?

No, sir. We only get G.V.

Stopped or started smoking?

No, sir. Has the dog identified something out of order? I ask politely.

He doesn’t know what he’s identified, do you, boy?

I haven’t done anything wrong, sir, I say—both to the handler and to Jarvis, who has remained standing stock still on the border of my cell. I’m nervous; I shouldn’t be—nervousness will enflame their curiosity.

I’m a Redband, I add; I’ve got too much to lose, sir.

Jarvis speaks. You’re friends with Ostrich, aren’t you, Alfreth?

Well, I was, sir. He’s been shipped out.

I’m perfectly aware of what’s happened to the twat.

Point being? asks the handler.

Point being, adds Jarvis, that that twat was always on the hooch or worse. He get some down you, did he, Alfreth?

No, sir! I protest. I don’t touch anything!

Piss test, I’m afraid, son, says the handler.

Go to the Association Room, says Jarvis. I’ll be along when I’ve finished ransacking your belongings.

Perfectly candid at least, I think to myself, mooching off.

Sarson is livid—he is fizzing with rage. Refusing to acknowledge the presence of the officer assigned to watch us for the next few minutes—a screw I recognise but can’t place.

Sarson says: They think I’m on drugs!

Me too.

Do you have to do a piss test?

Allow it.

O my days! he continues, more in sorrow than anger now. He slams a hand down on the surface of the ping pong table. This could fuck me.

Not if you’re innocent, the screw says from the first of the two doors—the one that is open, as Jarvis said it would be. The metal door with bars has now been locked—we’re locked in with the screw while they spin our cells.

Why just us, sir? I ask.

It’s not just you, mate. It’s the whole Wing. Some brown was found behind the water pipes of a YO who’s been shipped out to adult prison.

Some brown? The hell does he get that? I want to know, but my question is no more than rhetorical.

Does who get that, mate? asks the screw.

You’re talking about Ostrich, aren’t you?

I didn’t say that, son. Know something I don’t?

I don’t know dick. Sir.

What the fuck has that got to do with us? Sarson demands. I’ve got an interview on Monday to see if I get me Enhanced! This ain’t gonna help!

The screw is stoic—offensively so. If you’ve got nothing to hide then what’s the problem? We’re asking you to pee in a bottle, not give blood.

I’d rather give blood, Sarson huffs.

The screw shrugs his shoulders. Then you’ll get your blood tested instead. Easy peasy. Relax, son.

Don’t call me son. Ain’t your son!

How do you know? Maybe I made your mum squeal.

There are some screws who do like a joke with the yoots, and there are plenty of yoots who, from time to time, appreciate a giggle with the screws. But there are limits, unless the two strata know one another essentially well, blood. And if you’re new to a Wing, as a screw, quite fresh, and if you happen to be locked in a room with two YOs who are already pissed-off at being targeted for random drugs and alcohol testing, then as a piece of advice I might say that it’s best to lay off the I-raped-your-mother insinuations.

O my days! I echo Sarson—as Sarson makes a lunge.

It takes all the strength and speed I possess—a diminishing supply—to stop the yoot before he can get to the screw. Why do I bother? Because, despite everything, I think I’m deep down a good boy, as my Mumsy would say, and I don’t want to see him fucking up his chances to become Enhanced. Seeing Sarson struggle in my arms is a source of amusement for the screw. I could hit the bastard myself, but instead I spend my energy on telling Sarson to calm down and I walk with him in a kind of headlock to the window.

Out of earshot I say to Sarson: You okay straight, bruv?

Reluctantly he replies: Yeah, blood.

Tell me something. You been sleeping a lot, right?

More than usual, yeah. Why do you ask?

Can you remember any of your dreams?

His left eyebrow arches upwards. My dreams?

Yes. Can you remember any of them? Recently I mean.

He thinks about the poser for a couple of seconds and then answers. I’m in a kind of wasteland, he says. Just sand and bones. Weird pony shit.

I think I’m thinking it but in fact I’m saying it: It can smell the desert.

What?

I realise I’ve spoken aloud. Nothing.

Did you say the dog can smell the desert? he asks with incredulity.

Yeah I did. Aiming to make light of everything, I bust a chuckle. Maybe Ostrich did leave something in my drink, I add.

What are you two yobs whispering about? the screw calls over.

The pleasure of your company, sir, I call back.

Careful, mate. I’m not renowned for my good humour.

It shows, sir. Can we please have our piss tests?

When they’ve spun your cells.

And then the others will come in, is that right, sir?

Sarson is looking at the side of my head; he’s trying to suss me out. So is the screw, safely over there by the door with his pouch of keys.

What others?

The others Dott’s got to , is what I’m saying inside my mind. How many is that?

Rest of the Wing, sir, is what I actually say.

But I know it won’t be the rest of the Wing. Know the dog has already been up and down the landings—along the ones, the twos and threes—and sniffed out the candidates for the embarrass-a-thon we call a piss test. It can smell the desert .

That’s our business and not yours, son, says the screw.

Sir, my name is Alfreth. I’d be really grateful if you don’t call me son.

I’ll call you fucking Sally-Anne if I feel like it, he retorts.

I ignore the insult. And what’s your name, sir? I ask.

Officer Oxford.

He’s been wrongfooted by my courtesy.

When you’re ready, sir, only I’d like to enjoy my weekend if possible.