Alphabet (9 page)

She's standing in front of me. I'm rattled, I can tell something is going wrong and going to get worse, actually, I'm shit scared.

We're getting to The End. She says my name: ‘Simon', very softly, it makes the hairs stand up on my arms. And then I realise she doesn't have her glasses on. My heart starts to put out a steady beat as if I was running uphill.

‘What do you think?' she says. She's got these green eyes, very clear, sparkling from what she wants and I start to want to hit her.

‘I can't wear the hard ones but the technology's improved,' she's saying. ‘These are extra soft. I can keep them in for three hours now.'

‘They're fucking shite,' I tell her. ‘Put your glasses on, or get back dressed again. Phone a cab. Go home, now!' She doesn't do any of it.

‘What?' she almost laughs. ‘What's the matter with you?
I've always hated my glasses,' she says. Well, I knew that.
We've all got things we hate about ourselves and that was one of hers: quite small on the scale of things. ‘I look much better like this,' she says. ‘Don't I?' She comes over, takes hold of me, squeezing, rubbing herself against me. ‘Come on, now,' she says. She takes my hands and puts them on her hips. She slips her own hand up between my legs but there's nothing going on there by now and I push her away hard and she staggers into the coffee table, shrieks.

‘Get off !' I tell her. I turn the TV on again and sit down again, act as if I'm watching it, the late news, though I'm too angry to take it in. She comes over, squats down in front of me, blocking the view. She's still stark naked, she puts her hands on my knees and looks into my face.

‘Don't you ever do that again,' she says. ‘Look, I don't mind doing the things you want, letting you watch, all that, it's been fun. But I won't lower myself. I won't wear glasses for you when I don't want to. That's the end of it . . .
Listen, Simon Austen, I do know I've got nice eyes. I know because I've been told. And if this thing is going nowhere,
well, let me tell you, I get offers. In fact, I've even been out with another bloke, once or twice – but we haven't done anything, really we haven't . . . I'm just saying this, because I'd much rather it was you, I really would.' Then she starts crying.

It's one of the gym instructors, she says, without me even asking. ‘I've always fancied you,' she goes on. ‘I don't mind going slow. I'm quite shy but I'm not a prude. But I'm beginning to wonder whether maybe you're just some kind of weirdo.'

I'm thinking, quicker than it takes to blink but at the same time so strongly that it fills me right up:
this has got well out of
hand. It's upside down, the wrong way round. I can't have this,
and by that I don't mean her doing whatever she did or didn't do with the gym instructor or keeping things from me or even standing there naked and making me lose it completely, telling me I'm weird. I mean her not doing what I wanted, just exactly that, and trying to get me to do things her way. It makes me feel like I'm nothing and there's nowhere to go –

So then,
I just flipped
: that's the thing you say, and in due course, I said it. Is this what you wanted to know?

12

The lights went off two hours ago. If hours were people they would be thickset men with flat feet and asthma; eight more of them have to pass through every bit of the prison before the doors are unlocked. The typewriter is zipped in its case, the letter addressed, stamped; the flap of the envelope is open in case it is one that the censor selects to check for threats, accounts of escape plans, or plots . . . Simon lies on top of his bed, eyes wide. Vivienne asked the impossible. Tasmin asked him to do this, just very, very difficult. What he has written is hers, he reassures himself. On the way to breakfast, he will hand it over. He will feel better for just getting rid of it and then, when she actually reads it, it will become fully hers. She asked for it. She can decide what next.

If he makes it through until she answers, well, then he'll be able to cope with whatever comes next, but until then, there can be no more going back. He must be alert; he must concentrate, resist the sly approach of those sudden bursts of remembered sound, the waves of nausea and terrible intimate glimpses that seem to want to return, now that he has once let his guard down. He will keep busy. Seek out talk, effort, work of any kind. Of course, there will be the nights to deal with.
He needs batteries for the radio and should have thought of that before he started out. So right now, the only thing is to keep his attention out, not in. For example, listen: an officer just walked across the courtyard, whistling through his teeth, and let himself in to A wing. If he tries really hard, he can just about make out the rumble of the occasional bit of haulage on the main road, a quarter of a mile beyond the wall. But in between, it's quiet, the very quietest time of night. Think of
something pleasant, he tells himself, as he finally gets his heart rate under control, think of something simple and sweet, like ice cream.

13

The Canteen Officer, Richards, shiny with sweat, mops his face with a handkerchief and speaks through the circle of holes drilled into the Perspex grille:

‘You are only allowed four at a time, but anyhow, we're out of them!' he repeats. ‘They didn't have any at the Cash and Carry. It's not my fault.' The canteen is in the basement and the news echoes up the stairs.

‘No batteries – bloody forgot them, didn't they!'

‘No fucking batteries!?' It won't be long before everyone knows, but Simon's having trouble believing it. ‘No batteries?'
he asks again. His voice comes out thin and hoarse.

‘You've got £8.90 credit. Do you require something else instead, Mr Austen, or are you going to move along?' Behind Richards are shelves on which sit the boxes of confectionery, Mars, Curly Wurly, Toffee Crisp, Murray Mints, Marathon, but no KitKat, Toblerone, Yorkie or Fruit 'n' Nut, nothing with foil; a crate of softening Golden Delicious apples and a few withering oranges but not any bananas –
Not my fault mate,
some idiots dry out the skins and smoke them
– the dried milk, sugar, HobNobs, the Marlboros, Old Holborn and Hilton (less than half price), the special orders, vitamins, biscuits, washing powder, magazines, all bagged up and labelled on the top shelf, a box of Sure deodorant, Gillette shaving foam, disposables, but no batteries, not even the little ones that won't do that much damage when knotted into the end of a sock and used as a club, no batteries, not a sign of them.

‘I mean it, Austen.'

‘Tobacco then, I'll take it in tobacco, Old Holborn, and papers, and a Curly Wurly.'

‘Plan on smoking a lot this week, do you? Three pence left in your account, sign here and let's pray we go back onto the pre-orders before I drop dead.' Simon scoops his purchases up, drops the cigarette papers, and, as he bends, finds the floor rushing up to meet him, the world whiting out. It doesn't last long enough. Minutes later, he's parked head in hands by the wall waiting until things come back solid. The queue has moved on.

‘You all right?' asks a new bloke in dirty glasses he doesn't know the name of. The first thing he does is check his goods; it's a good thing none of the four packets of tobacco has gone missing.

‘I need batteries,' he replies pushing himself upright.

It's not until evening Association that he gets them, supposedly brand new but probably just hotted up, one set for two packets, a deal. Plus four thrillers from the library; it's going to be harder than he thought, but she'll answer as soon as she can, he's pretty sure of that.

14

Blake in the landing office is a trim, shortish bloke who cultivates the Hitler look but without the manner; once he bought in a pot of E45 cream for a bloke with bad skin. Now, he weighs Simon's envelope in his hand like some odd vegetable he might or might not buy.

‘This has come back. Too much,' he explains, throwing a sideways glance to check that Simon won't go apeshit, then lifting the unsealed flap so he can peek inside. ‘Way too much!'
Yards away, a door crashes shut.

‘But I put seventy-five pence on there!' Simon hasn't slept since he wrote the letter. Also, he's having trouble with food, has to keep swallowing his saliva down, and noises bore right into him, he can feel them in his bones. His back has gone stiff, his hands too. He knows he needs to be careful, mustn't over react.

‘Staff shortages. Too much for the censor to read, should he want to.
Too long
,' Blake informs him, brandishing a scrap of paper.

Simon disconnects, somehow, from his fury at this turn of events, but finds himself pushed by an older rage from that chair in the flat in New Cross Road. He's up, reaching for her, seeing her see him, her mouth loosen, gape . . .

He digs his fingernails into the palm of his hand to bring himself back: ‘Two pages max at the moment unless it's legal,' Blake tells him. ‘Take it, then. What's up with you?' Blake says, putting the letter in Simon's hand and folding the fingers over. ‘Move along, or you'll miss exercise. You OK? Did you get your batteries?'

So what is he to do with the fucking thing? I don't want it,
he thinks, not on me, not in my cell . . . Bin it? Flush it? Burn it and set the alarms off? Make it into paper planes, see if he can get it over the wall? No. It's Tasmin's; she asked for it. He could split it into five sections of two sides each, number them in sequence, unzip the infernal machine, type the address four more times, plus new covering letter to explain . . . What chance all five get there the same fortnight? Fucking lunatic rules. Fucking stupid woman putting him through this. He folds the letter in half and stuffs it in his front pocket. It digs into his groin with every step he takes.

Outside in the yard, it's turned chilly. He clenches himself against the cold, stamps his feet, does arm swinging with his sleeves pulled over hands, still not warming up. He's too low and stiff to run. Grey sky, spitty bits of rain in the air and no blood sugar doesn't help. Hardly anyone else is out: no blacks, just the fat-burgers and the nutters, and the glasses bloke, Dennis, who's now been found out: messing with kids – he won't last another day unless he gets himself on the Rule.
Of course, Big T is always on hand to make bad things worse.

‘What's up, android? Knockback?' he says, clasping Simon's shoulder, falling into step.

‘Fuck off. I'm right on the edge. And I've got no tobacco.'
I could do with one of those, Simon thinks, taking in the Chelsea bobble hat Tev's got on. Beneath it purplish white skin, a couple of days' worth of ginger stubble, two red-rimmed, ice-blue eyes swimming in water – looks as if he's being boiled:

‘Listen to this,' Tev says, ‘Straight after my appeal folds, she sends me a Dear John. Wants to live in Wales with the kids, get them a better life, new start, sorry, tara . . . Bitch!' he punches air with his right, then his left. ‘Bitch. Not that they're my kids, I never believed it, everyone's been in that cunt! Who does she think she is?' Steamy breath streams out between the words.
He grabs hold of Simon's arms, digs his fingers in. ‘What about me in here? What about my visits, my supplies? I tell you, I'll fucking kill her –'

Call this a problem? But there he is, banging Tev on the back through his parka, telling him, ‘Steady now. You don't need it. You're better off without,' even though he hates the bastard to kingdom come, and he's thinking, good luck to her, except why tell him where and Wales just isn't far enough and it rains too much, how about Australia or maybe the fucking Moon?

Teverson shakes his head like a wet dog then bangs Simon's back in return. ‘Too right. You're solid, mate. Plenty of fish, eh? But the thing is, I've gotta look in the mirror and shave, haven't I? I'll make her pay for it.' He wipes his nose on his sleeve, laughs, a noise like something wooden breaking apart.

‘Steady,' Simon tells him.

‘You –' the screw barks at Simon as they line up. ‘You, Austen, wait.'

‘What about some manners?' Tev yells back. ‘This is a mate of mine!'

‘Oh, fuck off, Teverson,' Simon tells him. ‘I don't have mates.'

In the Magnolia Zone they go on five doors past Dickie Walters's office and up to R. F. Grange, MSc.

‘I've not been this far before,' Simon comments.

‘You won't get much joy out of it,' the screw says as he knocks.

The office is double the size of Walters's. The desk alone seems to be the area of Simon's whole cell. There's a matching filing cabinet, both made out of some fancy grained wood and a computer on a separate stand close by. Grange, small and bald, very straight-backed, gestures at the empty chair.

‘So,' he says, ‘you have a pen friend.'

‘Yes,' Simon tells him.

‘You'll call me sir,' Grange says.

‘Yes, sir.' Simon says. He doesn't at this point care. It's very quiet in here, he realises. There's no need to shout, even a whisper could be heard. At the same time, there's plenty of light from the high-up windows and the brass fittings mounted
above the little paintings of horses and other livestock and it shows up flaws. He feels very shabby, in his layers of badly washed cotton and polyester, his underpants that have done three days, everything suddenly way too loose. Grange is in crisp, striped shirt sleeves, with the suit jacket over the back of his chair.

‘So, Austen,' he says, ‘who are you writing to at the moment?'

‘Tasmin Rolls-Hamilton, sir.' Grange's lips twitch and his eyebrows shoot up, like he's suppressing a laugh.

‘Tasmin Rolls-Hamilton,' Grange says. ‘Tell me about Tasmin Rolls-Hamilton.'

‘Nothing to tell,' Simon tells him. ‘It's a new thing. She likes poetry.' If he wasn't so cold and tired, he'd be more worried and more angry.