Jake's Long Shadow (17 page)

THE GATES OF Hell didn’t creak or groan at their steel weight being opened and closed yet again. The gates to Hell opened with a well-oiled whisper and closed behind with a heavy thud, of steel vibrating and a key turned with just the softest of rattles against others on an expertly handled key ring. Toted by one of your guards.

It wasn’t an experience but a sensation, a final step with a finite time to be served before you started stepping again. Life had suddenly and
unspeakably
stopped, right here. Worse, it was not belonging that killed some part of you in the instant of entering.

You were met by the sight of your fellow tenants, and it hit that you were officially one of them, nothing separated you, you wore the same
prison-issue
clothing, blue and grey, muted (but surely I don’t look like them facially?), controlled, corralled. Yet every face said these men were out of control. Their wiring was bad.

Some of these freaks were whispering as Abe came into the recreation
area on the ground floor, some were eyeballing him, trying to let him know they were here first so show us what you’re made of, newcomer. Eyes ran all over him, trying to fit, slot him. Hell echoed in a cavernous three-tiered enclosure: voices, cell doors, steel grilles, footsteps, laughter, grunts. Inside, Abe Heke’s thoughts were screaming.

Tattoo marks spoke the same childish story. Emotional eff-ups. Worked arms and chests, bulging muscles, said brawn held sway here since no thinking mind could survive in this place. If you had a mind you’d not be in here.

No single face read a genuine interest, an intelligent curiosity in a fellow human being for his own sake. Just uniform, fixed sneers and snarls, and pain oozing out every facial expression. If only they knew it.

Abe sat down on a bench and stared up at the TV, seeing nothing, but feeling the eyes on him, their questions itching to get out so they might know his place in the pecking order. Just in case his natural place was high up the chain. Or in case he was lower than he looked. He was thinking, Go to hell, you scum. Gonna (got to) do this on my own, make no friends, keep to myself. I shouldn’t be here. (I was only defending myself. Jesus Christ, has a man no fundamental right to defend his bodily health, his right to dignity?) Burning with a sense of injustice and, yes, he had considered ending it all in the first few days of being in this nightmare. (But that would make me another Grace, and I couldn’t do that to Mum. Can’t even let her know I’m here.) Wondering how many of his fellows here felt obligation to a mother.

It wasn’t so much the physical conditions, a man could imagine worse. It was the quality of the company: inadequacy and banality stared from nearly every face. The absence of a moral code was palpable — if you had eyes for seeing it. The company you have bad dreams of being thrown amongst, like into a den of wild animals no less.

Every metallic sound was a reminder to Abe of his workplace; and the laughter could be his former workmates, and yet it couldn’t possibly be for this laughter had something desperate in it: ugliness, callousness, without even having to state it as such. (I want to be what I was four days ago.)

He could see and sense a discussion going on about him. The prison clothing made everyone look even more hideously the same, bereft humans in one glance. Possessed of what an absent moral code did to your physical appearance, a draining, a big blank space in the normal feedback you get in free life. Worse, they clearly had no inner reflective self, not as an individual,
not as a collective. (They think they’re pretty damn cool.)

The discussion was between several inmates, ranging in age from twenty to mid-thirties, gathered round an older man, maybe forty, big as a house, bulging with the necessary muscle, deep grooves in his cheeks, chest tattooing up to his throat, all over the powerful arms, hair prematurely grey. Kingpin written all over him.

Eyes of a kingpin (remind me of my old man) in front of Abe and making him look up, demanding acknowledgement and it better be respect, if not more than that.

Despite the mood Abe was in, his instant assessment of the likely fighting qualities of the man said the kingpin would have some tricks and then some. But he wouldn’t win. He just wouldn’t. (Abe wasn’t Jake’s son for nothing.) But then Abe’s lawyer said he had an excellent chance of winning his appeal, free of these sewer scum, so he must keep his nose clean. Yet he was so angry inside he’d welcome a way to vent it. (No. I’m here because I lost control.)

So Abe nodded to the big guy, flicked a deferential smile, waited for the man’s judgement. Which took its time in coming and had all the guys in hearing and seeing distance fall quiet.

They leaned over the railings of the two landings, staring down on the new boy. The light here had a steel-grey quality to it, like new paint. Over another layer of old. Even the pathological chatter and discordant outbursts of laughter fell away and died in the deliberate silence of the kingpin’s making.

Finally, Abe was asked, in a deep sonorous voice, What’re you in for, bud?

As if he wasn’t already aware, this evident kingpin of this astounding joint whose lackeys would supply him with information on everyone and
everything
.

Abe smiled respect enough so there could be no misunderstanding. I lost it in a (it wasn’t a fight. A fight you go into voluntarily, this was self-defence) — I got into a fight.

A fight? What kinda fight?

Just a fight.

Ya don’t get sent down for just a fight, bud. Papers said it was four on one — you took on four? With a bit of nature’s help, so the paper said. Namely a fence paling. Not as good as an iron bar, hahaha. But then they don’t have fences made of iron bars, do they, except prisons — hahaha.
Though the laughter was brought to an abrupt, unnatural halt. Four? Against just you?

If Abe was meant to take this as a compliment it went right over his head. Four of them, me and a mate.

Paper said your pal did nothing. What, he turn evidence against you?

(Evidence?) A reminder of what he himself had done to Apeman, which had helped put the gang leader away for life. (And here I am in a prison, too.)

No, he just didn’t fight back.

And you did? Kingpin made that a personal challenge to himself, his own fighting mana, in his tone, the you-try-me look.

They were head-kicker shits.

What, you mean skinheads who hate niggers head-kickers?

(Niggers?) Abe shifted weight from one foot to the other. (Who’re you calling a nigger?) His father’s genes stirring (again). Maybe they were
skinheads,
I don’t think that was the issue.

Issue? Whoo, issue he says. You mean you, Mr wild warrior Maori, didn’t take kindly to being mob-attacked? I mean, everyone knows what
Maoris
are like. Right?

Abe didn’t say anything. (I just want to do my time, not have a
discussion
on race.)

Stand up. Now.

Abe sighed and stood up.

Kingpin said, You’re a big unit. A man can take on four by himself, the hunk a wood notwithstanding. I could respect that. Couldn’t I, guys?

Yeah, a chorus seemed at the ready. You could respect that, Ambo. If you must, it said in the unspoken back echo.

Abe swallowed (his pride), made himself forget the nigger reference and told the kingpin, I think I know the rules, mate.

The man mountain smiled and said, Yeah. I am the rule. As in ruler. Ya hear?

Sure, Abe said. That prideful lift of jutting jaw reminding, bringing back an image of his father (Jake the Muss. What a handle. What an idiot he was, my old man. Like this idiot in prison issue, demanding I now step up and shake his heavily tattooed hand).

Flicking a sweeping glance at the faces around him, Abe saw their
disappointment
in him, knew they’d assessed his size as having something behind it. But he didn’t give a stuff of their opinion of him.

Roger Ambrose. Call me Ambo.

The man’s handshake was strong indeed, big hands belonging to powerful arms, a lot of iron pumped here in the gym, press-ups on the cell floor. And born strength. This is where he thought he’d got to, the mountain he believed he’d climbed.

Abe Heke, Abe said, wanting this ritual to be over so he could go back to his cell, hide the hurt threatening to expose him to these hyenas. Surreal it was, this place, these people, this sensation of being locked up, your right to make any decision gone, except to breathe, to hurt. To hurt. Or be hurt. In disbelief that he was waiting for permission from Ambo to take his leave to go to his cell. (My
cell
?) Like a school kid asking, Please may I go to the toilet, sir?

Permission was granted when Ambo nodded his balding head and ambled away like an appeased bear.

Abe headed quickly for his cell before his heaving stomach gave him away. (My cell? My cell?) Unable to accept what had happened to him.

Apeman, AKA Montgomery Black, meanwhile, had been given a date for his transfer from the maximum-security prison north of Auckland to medium-security in the pretty city of Christchurch, where a river twisted its way through. In five weeks’ time he’d travel, under escort, in a prison van with two others whose transfer applications had also been granted, be held overnight in a prison outside Wellington, special exemption made to keep the prisoner passengers in their vehicle for the three-hour Cook Strait crossing, then it was about six hours’ drive to Christchurch.

He’d just had an extraordinary bit of information, about the man whose face was burned deeper in his brain than the tattoos electric-needled into his face. Such a handsome face was Abe Heke’s, too, no denying that. Son of Jake and sharing residence. Fancy that. It comes to he who has (utu) patience.

ALISTAIR WAS AS worried about himself, his own pathetic reaction, as he was the cause itself: the (damn) baby crying. And its damn mother gone for a drive — again. Stuff her, the irresponsible bitch. Worried that he was sitting watching television with the volume turned up once, twice, to try and shut out the sound, since there was nothing he could do, Sharns could be anywhere, so why not just shut it out? Not his problem. I didn’t have the thing. Not my baby.

His watch kept telling that his inaction was an evolving thing in itself, like the baby’s crying had evolved, in the process of hunger — and wanting attention — even over the din of the television. This passage of time was evolving into either him walking right out, or exploding. Or, just possibly, doing something about the bloody kid.

One hour had passed, then two. He couldn’t stand it any longer and up he got and stomped down to Sharns’s bedroom. (Bloody woman, why don’t you take care of your kid?) This bedroom that he’d violated once, and only
that once, before. Sharns had shocked him with the ferocity of her defence of her private space; the anger and confusion at why he had the photograph of her out in the passage. Worse, she tore into him about what a big sook he was regarding his need for Kayla. Which is why, if nothing else, he’d not called out in his whining, demanding manner for Kayla to come offer a solution. Not with Sharns’s words forever seared into his brain. For she was right. He had become totally dependent on Kayla, his existence had come to count on her validating it, otherwise it was not worth living.

Had become, as in the past tense, because with Kayla he had done a bit of self-weaning. On top of that, this baby had changed all their three lives. The mother’s obviously — and shamefully — Kayla’s since she was always walking the baby around at night once they heard its wailing unattended, which almost invariably said Sharneeta had gone walkabout or drive-around, and so Kayla would go and get the baby and make it some milk mix and walk and rock it for ages, it evolving that she was becoming more little Rachel’s mother than Sharns. Poor, dark-mooded Sharns. Lovely, uncomplicated Kayla.

It had changed his life because the baby’s presence, and the mother it got cursed with, imposed a certain responsibility on the couple and certainly more sobriety. Kayla initiated that because she feared being drunk and/or stoned might mean she’d miss hearing the baby if its lost mother had
abandoned
it again.

He stood at the door for several moments, afraid to be caught in there again. But the baby’s crying was a din, got right inside a man, he had no choice but to go and pick it up.

Sodden. Soaked to the skin, its wet had crept all the way up its clothes. She was cold and so distressed, Alistair feared her sobbing would break bones in her tiny little body.

He ran the bath and undressed Raych on the floor on a towel. She stunk. She was a sore red all over. Poor thing. Found himself talking to the child, It’s all right, Uncle Ali’s here. Uncle’ll look after you. Going to give you a bath, get you nice and warm and cleaned up. Then Unc’s gonna feed you. There there, honey child, come on, get you into a nice warm bath. Just like his mother had talked to him (maybe my father too?).

Gently cradling the child in one hand she was so tiny, he washed water over her and though she continued to cry it was not nearly as bad. Three months old, her father must be a Maori by her features and skin colouring,
or a Pacific Islander. You’re a beautiful baby, he told the little creature. And he took a cake of soap and smoothed it over skin and bumps of rolled fat; amazed at how the soap seemed a quarter the size of her body.

Well be damned if that didn’t stop her crying; she was looking up into (Uncle) Ali’s face, and my God she actually smiled. Freaked him for a moment, as if she had supernatural powers and was showing appreciation, when a kid this age can’t appreciate, can it?

Maybe it can. Or this one could. He leaned right over and pulled her puny weight up with both (strong, loving) hands and kissed her. Then gave a gubblegubble against her chest with his air-blowing lips and side to side head.

She broke out giggling. He did it again and she giggled harder. Again. That was sheer laughter coming out of her tiny vessel of air, lungs, voice box and coursing blood and a mind for an engine.

Then she was anticipating his gubblegubble, yet not with tensed body but with a serene expression, straight (trustingly) into his eyes. Hey, this was pretty cool. Gubblegubble, gubblegubble. You like that don’t you?

Her skin colour returned from the deathly pallor of earlier, the redness no longer looked sore but alive and healthy, and she felt a little fatter. As he lifted her out of the water he noticed — and with instant concern — that the wall lining was black at the edging, indicating water had got behind the panels. Might the baby get an infection from all the bugs, the germs taken up residence there? Let’s get out of here.

He wrapped her in the towel and carried her into the living room. Damn TV, had he turned it up that loud, and just to shut out this beautiful little
at-peace
creature? Grabbed the remote and turned it off. So, it was just the two of them, these uneven and yet same existences.

The feeling as he went into the kitchen area, of holding Raych up with her head rested on his shoulder, whilst he fiddled with the milk-powder tin and filled the jug to boil the water, was pleasant indeed. Not that he had desires to be a father, not for a long while yet. (Only when I become a man enough to be a good dad.) When he got his shit together.

He wasn’t supposed to put cold water from the tap in with the boiling water used to mix the milk powder; something to do with bacteria. You were s’posed to put the filled bottle in cold water and let it cool naturally, but Rachel wasn’t waiting for that.

She was screaming her head off again, the ungrateful little blighter from
minutes ago when Alistair was the best thing since sliced bread and powdered baby’s milk for those with frequently absent mothers. And a man who was forced to play mother and father. Shush now, honey. (Uncle) Al’s here. I’m not going to leave you. (My class don’t do that. It’s so shameful to our lot it wouldn’t occur to us. And yet being a poor parent behind the scene is okay.)

Rachel went at that teat like a starving animal. But within only a few minutes she got herself in a tizz and kept twisting her head away, which only made her scream louder. And louder. (Please stop. It’s getting to my very soul, I swear, child.)

Suddenly, this wasn’t at all pleasant. Hold on, baby, Uncle Ali’s just gonna put some music on, thinking that might soothe her. Found a CD in the slot, it’d be Sharneeta’s black shit, which he didn’t really prefer. He pushed play, gave it some volume in case the baby’s screaming reached that unbearable pitch again. (The hell are you, Sharneeta?) And he walked the baby to the slow rhythm of the song. Humming sort of to the song, though he didn’t know the lyrics or the tune. Still. And maybe babies like music?

Walking and humming to the baby, not realising he was going into a pure emotional place.

Blow me, if the baby didn’t stop screaming and started looking up into Uncle Alistair’s face like she had in the bath. So he rocked her over to the sofa, sat down, and gently teased her tiny mouth with the teat, which she took and must have got the fit right this time, for she settled down to some serious sucking. He spoke the chorus line: You don’t have to worry. And watched her take succour from the bottle and his physical closeness (and love) and be damned if a man wasn’t a bit, well, teary-eyed. A bit emotional (pure?), but if Sharns walked in right now a guy would feel a right twit. He hoped she wouldn’t, hoped Kayla wouldn’t walk in, either. He wanted this moment for himself and Rachel, and them (us) alone.

I can’t believe this, my parents were right all along: responsibility does find even you who walks in the dark. Though how can anything penetrate the mother, Sharneeta’s dark? Unless, impossibly, it was him. (Me?) Me. Me? (But how? What’s happening?) What’s happened?