Cages by David Mark (reading fiction TXT) 📗

from lunch and informed her that Cox had been called back to the VP wing for a previously scheduled conversation with his lawyer.

‘He’s asked for you to bring him any handouts, and has promised to catch up on whatever he missed,’ said Karen, pulling a face that suggested she hadn’t enjoyed his tone this morning. ‘I’ve never seen that side of him,’ she’d whispered, conspiratorial. ‘He’s very keen on the library, though sometimes I think he likes to request certain books just to make fun of the staff. He’s had me searching the shelves and the database for books that turn out to be the Latin names for all sorts of venereal diseases. But he’s clever, certainly, and he’s helped a couple of other vulnerable prisoners with their reading and their letters home. I don’t know, people are complicated, aren’t they? Maybe he’s not all bad …’

Annabeth hadn’t offered any thoughts of her own. Just said a silent prayer of thanks that she wouldn’t have to keep the peace.

Distractedly, she leans over the shoulder of Dougie: an inmate whose pencil is moving swiftly across the third sheet of lined paper. She can barely read his writing, but there’s passion in his words and she doesn’t want to interrupt his flow. She feels eyes upon her, and looks up to see Callan, the hard-case, watching her intently. He gives a nod, as if she’s passed a test, and Annabeth cannot help but feel strangely pleased: the same feelings running through her as when she meets with her superiors and receives a few words of praise.

‘You’ve never been so quiet, Suggs,’ she says, lightly, giving him a moment of her time. He’s been paying attention, asking questions; even offering up a story to the class about a supply teacher who loaned him a book when he was fourteen and for whom he reckoned he could have been persuaded to try harder at school.

‘For my lass,’ he says looking up, using his forefinger and thumb to wipe the dew drop from his nose. He gives a cheeky, schoolboy smile. ‘Not exactly a romance but I’m trying to tell her how it feels being away from her like. I try and tell her on the phone but it’s not the same, is it? I just get embarrassed and sad and pissed off and end up giving her jealous shit. Like people used to, when we was civilized …’

From the front of the class she hears Rufus clap his hands.

‘Right, gentlemen. That was a treat to see.’ He licks his index finger and holds it up. ‘The air is bloody crackling with creative energy. Honestly, that was better than I could have begun to hope for.’ He looks around the room, pulling faces as if he’s teaching kids. Gets smiles in return. ‘So, anybody willing to let the class hear what you’ve got to say? Remember, there’s no right, no wrong, there’s just words on a page. Some of you may have chosen to go your own way and written something that presently matters to you. The others may have done as I suggested and written about a safe place beyond these walls. Would anybody care to …?’

‘Aye, I will …’

Annabeth is surprised to hear Dougie speak so clearly. Normally he’s all mumbles and shyness.

‘Excellent,’ says Rufus. ‘I applaud you. Which direction did you choose to go in?’

‘I’ve written about life inside,’ he says looking around him and seeing a largely supportive crowd. ‘Like, how they treat us, how it’s not what people think. How the screws fuck with you …’

Several pairs of eyes seek out Annabeth, who gives a good-natured shrug, as if he may well have a point. It seems to be the correct response, as everybody turns back to Dougie, who stands up holding his scribbled pages like a hymn sheet.

‘I won’t read all of it, like. Just the bit I want you to hear, y’know. Like, the blurb or whatever …’

‘Get on with it, son,’ growls Callan, and the younger inmate makes a great show of hurrying the hell up.

‘… if people knew what went on in here they would lose their minds. Even those who say if you can’t do the time don’t do the crime – they wouldn’t wish all these days and weeks and months locked up with rats and cockroaches and nothing to do …’

‘Come on, Dougie – this is fucking Butlin’s compared to Belmarsh …’

‘Belmarsh? Piece of piss, man. Full Sutton, that’s the one …’

‘You’re kidding me, they’ve got celebrity chefs in there sorting their canteen …’

‘Shouldn’t be giving out shit in front of miss, like that, she’s OK …’

Dougie reddens. Throws himself down in his chair. Slams his paper down on the table and slams his head onto his folded arms: a toddler tantrum from beginning to end.

‘Shall we leave it there?’ asks Annabeth, seeking to end on a relative high. ‘Mr Orton will be back tomorrow and if you leave your notes and handouts at the front, he has promised he will go over them tonight in order to provide feedback for tomorrow …’

There are the garbled sounds of the session drawing to a close. Tables and chairs squeak across the cord carpet. Inmates stretch, extravagantly, and give each other nods of approval. This was OK. It was better than any of the alternatives. They’ve done all right all things considered.

Rufus approaches her as she’s helping Mings find the lid for his felt tip. She knows it’s up his sleeve and believes that given the right amount of cajoling, he’ll miraculously discover its presence.

‘Tomorrow?’ he asks, wincing. ‘I thought it was Thursday …’

Annabeth shakes her head, ruefully. ‘No. Same time tomorrow. Is that a problem …? Ah see, there you go, Mings, isn’t that a surprise …’

‘Oh sod,’ he says, looking pained. ‘I’m dreadful. Truly. Such a mess of a human being. But, look, it’ll be fine. I’m resourceful. A bed for the night, or a sofa, or a rabbit hutch … all are