David Mathew - O My Days

I think he’s the one who sits in the mosque, looking bored, when we do Friday prayers. Well, not me; when the lads who do Friday prayers do Friday prayers.

I will clean my own cell, sir, Marwell continues, but I am not cleaning up another man’s shit. That’s unfuckingdignified, man!

And don’t call me man either! You’ll do what we say.

We’ll see about that. Sir. There’s only so many cells in the Seg, sir.

Your own cells are gonna be worse than the Seg cells for a little while. The screw—is it Simmons?—now smiles. I’m not even certain your cells are safe anymore. Facing facts for a sec, I’m not sure what we’re doing is legal.

I can see the future clearly. Twenty-four-seven bang up. No appointments, no visits, no Education, no Library, and no Movements. One unlocked at a time to collect a meal. Cold food. One shower a week. Body odour and a rising sense of compound rage. They will punish us for what has happened—for what Dott’s done. But where is Dott now? Has he also been released from the hospital? Has he vanished from the hospital? If I ask the screws in the butcher’s van, here, I’ll raise suspicion. I ride the rest of the journey in silence, wishing for a window to look out of. Rather than see the hills we climb, I feel them in the extra efforts of the vehicle itself—as the driver in the cab up front drops down a gear and then another to bust the incline. When we stop at the front gates, I can smell the place. It smells of hatred.

With my newfound trust in the positive aspects of not keeping time, I have no idea how long passes before the YOI is on track to some semblance of normality. My thoughts, in the meanwhile, are proved correct: we are kept locked up. Nothing happens; days die. Scarcely do I notice them go and I don’t attend their funerals. I lie on my bed and think of what has occurred. I talk to no one, and no one talks to me. There are no Association sessions; no games to play; no gambling to win at or lose; no hot water. There’s no right to a phone call, or an appointment with a Wing representative, or the Prisoner Council; there’s no TV. There is no electricity after the fall of darkness. No response to a night bell. There is no Canteen—no extra crisps or choccies at our own expense. There are no shop Movements.

There is bedlam. Protestive acts are commonplace, even boring, and continue unabated and are seldom challenged by the screws. What’s the game? What’s the intention? That those routinely responsible will burn themselves and burn their anger out? These screws have got a long, long wait; but haven’t we all? So I lie down on the bed or on the floor, reading nothing, composing the few letters I must write; and I wait for something from Dott. Meanness makes me feel stronger. I hope he’s beginning his journey from old age to youth once again. I hope what happened in the desert failed. I will not need to face him another time in my span on earth. Maybe the next time that I go around, circumstances will paint another picture. But I won’t remember any of this, and there’s nothing I can do about times to come.

Because I’ve kept my cell clean since rebounding back to Dellacotte, I am eventually allowed back to my job in the Library, where I promptly resign on my first day of duty, with a smile and a handwritten note. Miss Patterson is displeased: she thinks I’m the best Library Redband she’s had working for her in the last decade of her time in the prison. For these words I thank her warmly, and then wish she’ll leave the room so I can talk to Kate. It takes till nearly the end of second Movements before I can speak to her alone. I am as certain of what she’ll say as I am of my decision to leave this job. She will tell me she doesn’t know what I’m talking about. She will tell me I recite a good story, a good yarn; she will ask if I’ll put the kettle on. And why do I think this? Because I’ve made a few points of detection: I have checked the long wooden box in which are kept the borrowing cards of all the yoots who’ve signed up with the Library. There is no card for ‘Dott, Ronald’ and when I’ve mentioned his name a few times, in passing—and only with screws—there’s a blankness about the face, a twitch of the shoulders. Perhaps I’ve killed him before he’s born. If I have, he’s never been here—been to jail or been to England—if I’ve got that correct. I’m not sure. I’ll wait for signs.

Hit me back, Dott.

I will try to read humour in the eyes of Kate Thistle—when she’s quizzing me over, asking me to decode and decipher rougher nuggets of slang she’s found within these walls. I will help her. I’m a good boy. But I’m leaving the Library, I tell her. After that she will need a new translator. Or alternatively, she can find me—elsewhere in the prison. I won’t be far away. Promise. I’ve got plenty of time to exhaust.

David Mathew is the author of two previous novels, Ventriloquists (Montag Press) and Creature Feature with M.F. Korn (Post Mortem Press) and Paranoid Landscapes, a volume of short stories. Born in Bedfordshire, England, David has travelled widely, working in a variety of countries. He has since returned and lives in Bedfordshire once again. As a researcher and technical writer, David publishes academic work and focuses on developments in education, health and psychoanalysis.

First Montag Press E-Book and Paperback Original Edition July 2015

Copyright © 2015 by David Mathew

As the writer and creator of this story, David Mathew asserts the right to be identified as the author of this book.

All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic or mechanical, including photocopying, recording, or by any information storage and retrieval system without the written permission of the author, except where permitted by law. However, The physical paper book may, by way of trade or otherwise, be lent, re-sold, or hired out without the publisher’s prior consent.

Montag Press

ISBN:978-1-940233-22-2

Cover art © 2015 Daniel Serra

Jacket and book design © 2015 Rick Febré

Author photo © 2015 Jonathan Jewell

Montag Press Team:

Project Editor – Charlie Franco

Managing Director – Charlie Franco

A Montag Press Book

www.montagpress.com

Montag Press

1066 47th Ave. Unit #9

Oakland CA 94601 USA

Montag Press, the burning book with the hatchet cover, the skewed word mark and the portrayal of the long-suffering fireman mascot are trademarks of Montag Press.

Printed & Digitally Originated in the United States of America

10 9 8 7 6 5 4 3 2 1

This book is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents are either products of the author’s vivid and sometimes disturbing imagination or are used fictitiously without any regards with possible parallel realities. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, events, or locales is entirely coincidental.