O My Days Read online

  Dedicated to

  Anthony Edward Mathew,

  1945-2005

  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

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  Project Editor – Charlie Franco

  Managing Director – Charlie Franco

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  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.

  Part One:

  Are You Listening?

  One.

  No one kicks off in the Cookery class. Kicking off in Cookery means the class is cancelled, and for some of us it’s the only good meal of the week. So there are consequences. Naturally enough, the D responsible gets a battering later on. That stands to reason. But far worse than getting twisted up is the cold shoulder the brother receives for the duration of the Cookery ban. Some rudeboys can’t handle that at all. They can’t stand not being spoken to; can’t stand the pantomime reactions, the dilated nostrils, that suggest a bad aroma has wafted over. Anyone busted? the D will hear.

  Roller really should have known better. The Gov goes for the bell, and he moves fast for someone so hench; I feel the air whip past my ears. I turn. And Roller’s got Meaney in a headlock; he’s pounding the brother’s head with a rolling pin. No expression on his face. No build-up to the incident, no bickering, no beef. It’s like someone’s flipped a switch. It happens from time to time, but not in the Cookery class.

  There’s blood on the rolling pin by the time the screws arrive, a couple of seconds later. We’re all shouting, Allow it, bruv, Allow it, cuz, but Roller keeps on rolling. Doesn’t hear us. Doesn’t hear how desperate we are not to lose our bangers ‘n’ mash or our chicken terrine every week. Even doing the fucking theory worksheets is worth it if it means a Wednesday apple crumble or cauliflower cheese.

  Allow it, blood! I’m screaming.

  Just as quickly as it began, it ends. Roller loses interest and starts blinking away some tears. He releases Meaney. Brother falls to the floor in a jellyfish heap. There’s blood on his face like a Balaclava. Roller looks confused, even as the screws start to twist him up. They are surprised that he doesn’t fight back. We all are. The screws don’t like it; they’re not used to passivity or playing possum. Their confusion lends them energy and malice. What would normally have waited until ‘an unfortunate accident’ during Sosh or after the evening meal is executed, there and then. They twist him up something different. So much so that the Gov is going again for the panic bell — to stop this new scuff.

  It doesn’t happen. Activity ceases. There are two broken bruvs on the Cookery Room floor; six inmates looking stunned — I count myself among this number, and if I don’t look stunned I certainly feel it; a hush in the air, of dust settling, maybe; and a dreadful smell tickling the hairs in my nostrils. My bacon’s burning, my eggs are turning brown; how the fuck has that happened in a hot minute? It’s going weird.

  O my days! someone says.

  Then the fun starts again. Food is burning in three or four frying pans; an oven is belching out dense burps of smoke. The fire alarm squeals. The screws’ radios begin bleating—and then comes the bit that makes Ray, the Cookery Gov, pale visibly—like he’s just been shanked—and that guy’s old school and he’s been in the army.

  Simultaneously the two screws lean down, one over Roller and one over Meaney; and do you know what? It’s horrifying. In the smoke, the pong and the din, do you know what? Those screws lips the co-Ds.

  Swear down. Mouth-to-mouth kisses. They lips the brothers and the scuff re-commences, and no one knows what to do. Ray’s veiny thumb-pad hits the bell. We should dust, I’m thinking; we should get the fuck into the corridor. They’ll come in charging. The afternoon’s flavour has changed; I’ve never tasted it before. I don’t know if I like it or I don’t.

  Someone sighs. O my days! the cuz breathes.

  O my days! someone answers. O my days!

  Two.

  Man! When man get to Big Man Jail, well, man! That when man know man blessed, rudeboy. Man know it and man allow it.

  It’s Ostrich talking. We call him Ostrich because of the length of his bird. He’s a lifer. Murder. A Johnny-99, full stretch. Chair leg to cranium.

  Man, he is mumbling on.

  Me? My bird is five years. Wounding with Intent. It could’ve been worse. I say, Why, Ostrich-man? Big Man Jail tough. This is sick.

  This ain’t sick, Ostrich contends. This is explosive.

  Twos on that, I add, hoping to change the CD. I’m referring to the burn that he’s pinching—oddly—between third and fourth fingers. He hands me the cigarette. I drag. Hand it back.

  Ostrich is still in happy-clappy land, in his head. Me own duvet. Me own cloze, he says. Me this. Me that.

  Twenty-four seven bang-up, I say.

  That noise, rudeboy.

  We’re outside, although it’s cold. Why not? You live in a box, you want to be unwrapped, time to time. There in our grey sweats, with our burns. And I’m longing for Canteen, Friday morning. I’ve earned well this month and I should be eligible for a new pack of burn and a bash mag.

  What you make-a this morning? I ask Ostrich. Cookery, innit. That time ting. It was put on peculiar.

  Man? says Ostrich. Like I don’t even know. Are you listening?

  I’m listening.

  Time went long. Yeah. Difficult.

  Allow it, cuz. Time went devious innit. Allow it again.

  Who that? asks Ostrich.

  I look up. And here he comes, five foot and a squirt of shit, and he’s in He-Man pyjamas—blue and yellow—for trying to escape from the previous jail. Three-man escort, fully-armed. I’m impressed, blood.

  He’s a fish. Name of Dott, I tell Ostrich. Tell you more if you twos me on a burn. If not, ask the chaplain on Friday. I’m going back in to play pool.

  He the fish? Ostrich goes on. Thought he be a hench motherfucker.

  He’s the size of a poodle.

  It’s at moments such as these that you start to get a grip on how the screws, the Ed.U Govs, the Health Care staff and others form an opinion about the collective psyche of the members of a non-voluntary club such as ours. Because Ostrich says, That squ
irt? Fourteen women?

  Lifed off, I tell him.

  Man, Ostrich says disgusted. Man shoulda known better than to stop at four, man, he says. Man knew man was only breaking cherry.

  I accept the offer of his tiny burn. What you mean? I ask cautiously.

  There’s three man no man know about, rudeboy, Ostrich tells me.

  And I guess that’s where it all begins.

  ###

  Three.

  Seven-thirty in the a.m. and I’m awake a long time before I need to be. I bash one out, using whatever porn I haven’t lent out in return for burn or for a favour, and I sit at my desk with my beads in my hands. I pray. I contemplate the day: Thursday.

  I’m looking forward to next Tuesday in the same way that I always do, and it seems like a distance, blood. But it’s a mark. Tuesday is the day I get to meet the new fish in the pond, traditionally: unless they are deemed unsuitable for interaction with other prisoners (for whatever reason; for protection for them or for us), or unsuitable for interaction with the staff. There are some I don’t get to meet as they’re immediately strapped into Health Care, into Suicide Watch, into Maximum Segregation (‘going down block’) or the worst of the worse: to the Puppydog Wing. If I have to, I’ll talk about that at a later date. I haven’t had my breakfast yet and my stomach is still queasy from yesterday and from a bad sleep on what sometimes feels like a bed of rusty nails. Feeling sick, I wait for unlock.

  The screws make no attempt to take you by surprise. That’s what happens at some of the remand centres I’ve known: they creep to a certain lucky someone’s door. They flip back the peep slot. Catch you bashing, you’re falling down a flight of stairs sometime. Me, I’m staring at the metal door and waiting first for the movement of heavy feet, and then the club on the frame. Quite often they don’t even bother to open the slot.

  Alfreth?

  Gov! I answer.

  You showering this morning, son?

  No, sir!

  Fine, son. Get ready for Movements.

  Yes, sir!

  Just to explain, I tend to save up my shower entitlement for the weekend. I’m not one of those filthy bruvs who can’t be arsed. I queue for my cereal. I take it back to my cell. Then I queue to dispose of the rubbish: the carton and the small pot of milk with a postage-stamp sized rectangle of cellophane over the top. It’s another day in Paradise. I listen to some Death Rap as I munch. Then it’s time to Move. At eight-thirty the doors of us fortunate to have a prison job, or a class to amble over to, or Gym, snap open, and it’s off to work we go. For me it’s the tiny Library. I work in the prison Library. And as I’m released from the Wing at nine, along with the rest of us, I cross the exercise yard, then the yard between D and E Wings—acknowledging the Wogwuns and the back slaps, shoulder crashes and reminders of favours of half a dozen yoots on the way, all the while thinking: Can’t wait to meet Dott next Tuesday.

  Tuesday being the day the new boys get their thorough Library induction. The morning is as charged as a hotwired engine. Screws know it; cons know it; in about a hot minute I’m going to understand that the civilian staff from the County Library Service know it too. There’s scarcely a lip not flapping with rumour: about yesterday’s events, in the Cookery class.

  Wuppan? I’m asked.

  Is it true yat?

  Dunno, is all I can answer. I’ve started to doubt my own eyes. But there are facts—and I do mean facts, blood—that can’t be denied. Such as: Roller and Meaney are down block, awaiting their Friday adjudication (loss of TV and Canteen privileges, is my guess; and a nice long solitary stay in a six by six, on a mattress with no bedsprings beneath it); and the fact that the screws in question in the incident—not on my Wing so I don’t know their names—have been sent home, pending a full investigation.

  The Education block smells of bad vegetables, as ever. It’s into the holding area, and then through the heavy green gates, up the stairs. The Library is as big as a lounge.

  Morning, Alfreth, I’m given.

  Morning, Miss.

  I make my way round to the business side of the counter, trying not to meet the eyes of the stranger standing next to Miss. Sit. Boot up the old PC.

  Alfreth? says Miss Patterson. This is Miss Thistle.

  All three of us stand up in unison.

  All right, Miss? I say.

  To my surprise she extends a hand for me to shake. Not only is she not, therefore, prison staff, or even civilian staff (whose hand you won’t touch either, and believe me I’ve tried), but she is something else. Another step removed. But a hand’s a hand, right? I take the opportunity: the first female flesh I’ve encountered in two years, four months and seventeen days. With hindsight, I grip it, I think. I’m confused. It’s like stepping on the moon or curtain-working an alien.

  Miss Thistle is here from a university, says Miss Patterson.

  Is it?

  Yes. Miss Thistle can probably explain better than I can. Miss Thistle?

  Yes.

  And Alfreth? says Miss Patterson.

  My eyes sweep from the one woman’s to her considerably older counterpart’s. And I answer, Yes, Miss?

  Please let go of Miss Thistle’s hand, Alfreth.

  Sorry.

  So, I’m a D—I’m a Defendant—in a crime, for once, that I haven’t even contemplated. Sod’s Law if I get an extra 28 days on my sentence. Miss Thistle is more of a Miss Rose, looks-wise. To be frank, she’s still not buff, but beggars can’t be choosers. All of the pretty screws—certainly on Wings A to E—are chompers and refuse to take my mild attempts at flirting seriously. I let go of Miss Thistle’s hand. Sit down. Chat-time, is it? Seems so.

  Tell me, Alfreth. That’s a Derbyshire name, isn’t it?

  I nod my head as the other two women take to their twirly, expensive chairs.

  Innit, is all I’m happy to offer them.

  It is indeed. A town, I think, says Miss Thistle. Maybe a village.

  I nod my head, thinking: lose nothing by making conversation.

  Me old boy’s family from up that way, back in the day, like. Never seen it, cuz.

  Alfreth, Miss Patterson warns. Do not refer to our visitor as cuz.

  I swivel away to see my screen booted up. I type in the Library Staff password. I’ve heard enough, I almost say, but refrain from doing so in fear for the loss of the left-arm bicep Redband that speaks of my trustworthiness, compliance, and which has landed me the job in the first place.

  Better get wriggling, I offer.

  Miss Thistle is only making conversation, Alfreth, says Miss Patterson.

  Angela, it’s okay.

  Angela.

  I turn to the two women again, aware of a breach of protocol.

  Patterson is too. But it’s Thistle, blatantly trying to cover her tracks, who speaks next.

  I can see that Alfreth wasn’t aware of that, Miss Patterson, she says. I apologise.

  Although I can’t see any immediate mileage in knowing the Library Manager’s Christian name, it is good to see that Patterson thinks I might be able to use the information. But who is going to care?

  That’s quite all right, Miss Thistle, the old girl states.

  Alfreth is an Enhanced Level prisoner and as such has had to be trusted. So that’s what I’m going to do right now, Alfreth. I’m going to trust you.

  Thanks, I tell her.

  Because I’ll know where the information came from if it gets around, won’t I? she bangs on, point made but needing to be re-made.

  You will, I tell her. Shall I get on with the orders?

  I don’t want Patterson—and that’s Angela to her friends—or Thistle—first name unknown—to understand that I’m curious to learn why someone from outside has been allowed into the Library on the business side of the desk. In all my days I’ve never heard of it happening. Even th
e local councillors and politicians and other who-gives-a-fuck bigwigs who sometimes visit, they stay where they’re put. Swear down. As I start to tear open this week’s orders—mainly TV guides, a few bodybuilding mags, a periodical on trainspotting of all things (for one of the four-eyed wankers on Puppydog), a bit of bog-standard bash—Miss Thistle rolls her chair a half-metre closer to me. There is something she wants to say. Or needs to. I can smell her perfume, and it’s like a fresh drop of the disgusting hooch that Naylor on C Wing used to brew, before he was shipped out to Big Man Jail. The impact, I mean. Thistle’s perfume was sweet; Naylor’s hooch smelt like an enema. But they both go to the back of your head, no messing—one-way delivery. It’s the first perfume I’ve smelt in time.

  Do I call you Alfreth? Miss Thistle asks. Or would you prefer I used your first name?

  Angela starts typing away.

  No one’s ever asked me this before.

  You don’t know my first name, I inform her, perhaps a bit harshly.

  Your first name is William, she says, immediately scoring a point. She’s done some research on who—it seems—she’s to be working with.

  No one calls me William, I answer. Usually it’s Billy.

  Then Billy it is. Billy, I’ll be working here for the next little while, on a placement. Do you know what a placement is, Billy?

  Don’t play me for a cunt, I want to tell her; but instead I nod my head. It’s where you’re working for someone else and you’re getting an inside.

  Kind of. I work for the university. She leans forward slightly and puts her elbows on her knees. Good job that although she might not have been told about forename procedures, she’s at least been informed about dress code. The beige-coloured top she wears beneath her light-grey trouser suit is a polo-neck.

  She’s not worried about being in a prison and that’s strange.

  I’m writing about the Young Offender experience as part of my PhD in Adult Basic Skills Education, she goes on. I want to know all about the learning pathway for Young Offenders. Not the facts, she adds quickly, in a voice that leaks out bare disgust, that I can get from any number of reports. Not the stats. The experience.