Cages by David Mark (reading fiction TXT) 📗

and his missus to make some memories before the end. He took it, of course. Took the money. Booked a break. Cruise to all the lovely spots his wife had dreamed of. Gave her the trip of a lifetime. Came home three weeks later to find that he had missed the first repayment. There was interest on top. Interest on top of that, too. His pal didn’t want to take his calls. And then there was a guy on his doorstep, wanting to explain the gravity of the situation …’

Rufus gives a theatrical shift of position. Points to the empty air to his left.

‘Come on, I’m not doing all the work here,’ he teases. ‘Who’s this chap?’

There is much shuffling and sitting up straight. He can hear dormant imaginations being stretched like tight hamstrings.

‘Doesn’t have to be a chap,’ says Callan, with a shrug. ‘A collector’s a collector, and blokes aren’t as likely to take a swing at a lass, in my experience. Good enforcers, women.’ He glances at Annabeth. Gives a little nod of respect. ‘Worth their weight in gold.’

There are titters and assorted respectful chuckles from the group. Annabeth smiles. There’s something delightfully sincere about it: a guileless moment of pure pleasure that makes him want to know her better. What had the bloke said on the walk across from reception? A bit of an enigma, our Annabeth. He finds himself wondering whether it would take a tiresome amount of unpicking for her to unravel. Dislikes himself for it at once.

‘OK, we have a lady on his doorstep,’ says Rufus, standing up. ‘What’s her name?’

‘Nicola,’ shouts Suggs. ‘Never met a Nicola who wasn’t a bit nuts …’

‘Jasmine,’ says an older inmate: lank grey hair dangling down to dandruff-speckled shoulders. ‘Posh lass gone bad, maybe. Did a bit of kick-boxing when she was at boarding school and when her dad lost all his money she joined the Army. Got an injury and the pension wasn’t what she expected so she’s teaching fitness full time but doing some collecting on the side …’

Rufus claps his hands, grinning. ‘She sounds superb, sir. Top of your head or somebody from your own circle of friends?’

‘Bit of both,’ he shrugs. ‘Lass at our local I’ve never spoken to, but I’ve looked at her plenty. Tried to work her out.’

‘Awesome,’ says Rufus, and looks around for the whiteboard, paper and pens. Flips over to a clean page. Starts to scribble illegible notes.

‘We happy with Jasmine?’ asks Rufus, to the room in general. ‘Anybody got another idea? Does the name make a difference? Do we have a different idea about somebody called Shaniqua to somebody called Agnes? Does the name inform the character or does the character inform the name?’ He looks at Annabeth. Smiles, bringing her in to the discussion. ‘Annabeth,’ he muses, then looks around at the inmates, pretending to have slipped up. ‘Sorry, sorry, don’t know if they know you have a first name. Miss Harris. What do you think? Would you be the same if you were called Pauline? Sharon? Moon-unit? Let’s imagine you’re called Morgana Morningstar, or Raven Beachbuggy, or somesuch. Would you still be working in a prison? Would it be an act of rebellion against the Bohemian parents who saddled you with their hippy beliefs and tree-hugging claptrap?’

To Rufus’s surprise, Annabeth doesn’t return the smile. Just gives a tight-lipped shake of the head – an instruction to move on.

‘So …’ he mumbles, trying to recover his thread. He hadn’t meant to upset her. Begins to worry at once that he has gone too far. Decides to try and make her laugh. Nobody can be cross when they’re laughing, he tells himself, as he so often does. He just needs to keep at it. ‘So, yeah. This is character. This is all about how to make people more than one-dimensional cut-outs. It’s about real people. Real lives …’

A hand rises. Griffin Cox. Rufus ignores him.

‘So we’re going with Jasmine, yes? OK. Tell me, what does Jasmine care about? What’s the thing that excites her? What journey is she on, in life? What is she hiding?’

A young Asian man, short and bespectacled, is the first to answer. ‘Her boyfriend’s inside. He’s got debts. She’s doing collections for some gangster to try and pay it off.’

Rufus nods, impressed. ‘So in many ways she’s in the same situation as our protagonist, yes? That might lead to an understanding. To empathy. A connection …’

‘They’re gonna end up shagging!’ shouts out Suggs, and everybody laughs.

‘The choice is yours, mate,’ smiles Rufus. ‘Story structure is a different thing entirely but if the characters are strong enough, people will invest in the story you want to tell. Like I say, human beings are fascinated by themselves. We go our whole lives with the one brain, the one genetic code. Are we made or do circumstances change us? Can bad acts be compensated? Can a good person be brought low by circumstances? Are there such things as good people and bad people? This is what a writer is out to investigate – to ask the question without the need for an answer. It’s psychology, philosophy, sociology: it’s acting and engaging with your own inherent schizophrenia all at once …’

‘There’s no way to say who’s good or bad,’ grumbles Mings, pushing a hand through his hair. In the weak light from the window, Rufus sees tiny scraps of skin rise up like flakes of snow. ‘Like, that bloke you’ve just talked about. John, or whatever. I mean, how could he do anything else? The banks were the bastards for not giving him the loan. He had to go to a loan shark, didn’t he? And if he ends up having to do a job or go on the rob or something, it’s hardly his fault? But he’d still get sent down for it. Still have his life ruined for doing something that anybody with a heart would do. Still end up in a place like this …’

Rufus nods,