The Enemy of the Good (39 page)

‘But you’re surviving?’

‘I’ve learnt to keep my head down. Prison’s like the rest of the world writ large… packed with people ready to hurt you, betray you and drag you down in order to feel better about themselves.’

‘You’ve not been bullied or got at in any way or…?’

‘Don’t worry. Granted my cell-mate’s an acquired taste. Dwayne. He’s put in a request for a new mattress on the grounds that the old one’s giving him nightmares. I kid you not! We do have one thing in common.’

‘What?’

‘Guess?’

‘Come on, Clem…’

‘Humour me. Think of your three least favourite letters.’

‘Ah!’

‘You see? Although “in common” is putting it too strong. As he never ceases to remind me, Dwayne is a red-blooded male. But I’m bored with me! I want to hear all the gossip from home.’

Mike duly obliged, conveying the love and support of so many friends that Clement wondered if he had simply memorised his address book. ‘I talk to your mum regularly. I asked if she’d like to come today, but she said “next time”. I think she was afraid she’d be intruding.’

‘Sounds like Ma.’ The thought of her selfless love was almost too much to bear.

‘Carla’s up in the Lake District putting the finishing touches to her window. Not that I see the appeal of all those smug little animals myself.’

‘That’s because you never knew Nanny Goddard.’

‘But she’s done a splendid job.’

‘Tell her to send me a photo. Poster-size. I’ll stick it up on the wall.’ He smiled at the thought of Dwayne’s bemusement.

‘I went to visit Newsom in the Mildmay.’

‘I’ve written to him but I’ve yet to receive a reply,’ Clement said, troubled by Mike’s change of tone.

‘I shouldn’t expect one. Not for a while. But he’s being brilliantly looked after. And he says that if anything’ll help him pull through, it’s the thought of being around when you’re released.’

‘I don’t suppose you’ve heard anything from Shoana?’

‘You don’t suppose right.’

‘She’s written to me twice.’

‘I hope you chucked the letters straight in the bin.’

‘Not on your life! Even an estate agent’s circular would be welcome in here.’

‘What? Advising you they have a prospective buyer for your bijou south London cell?’ Mike asked, triggering Clement’s laughter. ‘Sorry, that was tasteless.’

‘Yes, it was, and all the better for it… Shoana asked if there were anything she could do for me.’

‘Certainly. How about an apology and a divorce?’

‘Come on, it’s never going to happen. I think the letters themselves are a kind of apology. I asked her to go and see Ma as often as she can and carry on writing to me.’

‘You’re a good man, Clem. I’ve always known it, but never as surely as I do in here.’

Despite the constraints of the setting, they chatted so freely that Clement felt almost human. When the time came for Mike to leave, he sank into such despair that, for the first time, he understood those prisoners who preferred not to send Visiting Orders than to be reminded of ‘life on the out’. His misery increased when he returned to the cell to find Dwayne locked in a heated dispute with an officer about the pair of speakers he had ordered from Argos.

‘Them are sitting there at reception. Reception say it’s not their job to bring them and Canteen say it’s not their job to fetch them. I’ve been waiting two weeks. I’ve paid £3.95 delivery. That’s thieving, man.’

‘So what am I meant to do about it?’

‘Go get them for me. This is the Prison Service, man! Why they call it a service makes no sense to me.’

‘Because we devote our lives to looking after scum like you! Don’t you think that wog-box of yours causes enough aggravation already? Now if you’re a good lad and keep your nose clean, your Uncle Gordon may think about going to collect them in a week or so.’

Dwayne’s reaction was so predictable that Clement suspected the officer of engineering it. Venting months of frustration, he flung a chair at the wall before springing on his tormentor. Clement flattened himself against the bunks as the officer blew his whistle and was joined within seconds by four colleagues who fell on Dwayne, pinning him to the ground and frogmarching him off for a spell in solitary, while he shrieked that ‘The bastards are twisting me up!’ Left alone, Clement cleared up the mess and made some tea, recycling his two o’clock teabag, whipping it out to ensure that there was enough left for one more cup. Then he lay back on his bunk to contemplate his own spell in solitary, made all the more attractive by the discovery that Dwayne had not been wearing his watch.

Clement was given only three hours to prepare for the move to Bullingdon. At nine o’clock the principal officer told him that he was to be transferred and, at noon, he was led out to a cross between a refrigeration van and a Portaloo, much like the one in which he had been brought from the Old Bailey. Despite the discomfort, he savoured the brief return to the outside world, grateful even for the M40 lane closure which extended the journey by an hour. On arrival, he was taken through the same reception procedure as at Brixton but, whether because he had grown stronger or simply tougher, he felt no
humiliation
. Standing stark naked in front of the officers, he knew that pride was not the same as dignity. They could strip him of his clothes, but not of his self-respect.

Kitted out in a burgundy tracksuit, he was taken to an interview room where he had a bruising encounter with Senior Officer Willis, a gaunt man with a pencil moustache, clipped white hair and chipped teeth, who displayed an alarming hostility towards him, as well as an unexpected familiarity with his case. ‘This is a Category B prison. You should be in Category A. Strings have been pulled and I don’t like it. I don’t like it one little bit. I have my eye on you, lad. Step out of line just the once and I’ll be down on you like a ton of bricks. Understood?’ Clement nodded. ‘Good.’

He escorted Clement down the landing to a cell which was cleaner, brighter and, above all, fresher than the one in Brixton. An elderly man sat on the bottom bunk, carving something out of cardboard. He jumped to
attention
as the officer walked in.

‘Your new pad-mate, Parker. You’ll show him the ropes.’

‘Yes, boss.’

‘A word to the wise, Parker. Never use the wrong toothbrush. And make sure you sleep on your back!’

Willis went out, leaving Clement with his cell-mate, an owl-like man with a few strands of hair ineffectually combed over his bald spot who, unless prison had prematurely aged him, had to be in his seventies. Since the prisoners’ code ruled out a direct question, Clement speculated on his crime, picturing tax evasion, benefit fraud and identity theft, before fixing on a refusal to pay his Council Tax in protest at cuts in local amenities. Although perturbed by his greater sympathy with white-collar crime, he was grateful that the physical threat ever present with Dwayne had been reduced.

‘Am I on top?’ he asked. Parker grunted his assent before jumping up and dividing the cell into two ‘halves’, which were so blatantly unequal that Clement assumed he was either myopic or trying his luck. Resolving not to object but to reclaim his rights by stealth, he clambered on to his bunk from where he surveyed the room. It was the familiar hotchpotch, with the welcome addition of a rickety TV on the chest of drawers and the even more welcome absence of pin-ups, the only female presence being a matronly face in a frame on the windowsill.

‘Your wife?’ Clement asked.

‘What’s that?’ Parker spun round, gripping his Stanley knife like a
cornered
schoolboy.

‘This photograph. Is it your wife?’

‘That’s right.’

‘She has a kind smile.’

‘Oh yes.’

‘Does she live nearby?’

‘What?’

‘For visits?’

‘She’s dead.’

‘I’m sorry.’

‘It’s not your fault.’

Parker worked in silence until tea when, after responding tersely to
Clement’s
questions on Bullingdon life, he grew more voluble on the subject of his modelling and the many Golden Hinds and Cutty Sarks he had bottled for sale by a prison officers’ charity. Eager to make the most of his short time with the knife, he returned to his ship for another hour, before asking if Clement minded his watching TV. Clement was so disarmed by the courtesy that he put up with a programme in which a group of minor celebrities was submerged in a submarine. After a battle royal between a daytime newscaster and a
footballer’s
ex-wife over the benefits of Botox, Parker switched it off. Rummaging under his bunk, he produced a bottle of cloudy liquid and offered Clement a drink. ‘It’s cider,’ he said, in response to his dubious expression. ‘First, I leave the apples to rot. Then I ferment them in sugared water. The kangas allow me the bottles for my ships.’ Clement downed a mug with enthusiasm, which he paid for in the early hours when he was struck by agonising cramps and chronic flatulence. His one consolation was that Parker slept through it all, waking up to dismiss his mild reproaches with the claim that a trip in the ‘meat-wagon’ would upset anyone’s stomach.

Clement soon settled into the new routine, learning the basic hierarchies among both prisoners and staff. Time, as ever, hung heavily on his hands, although at least it could now be measured on a cheap
Star Wars
watch, which not even Willis could overvalue. Parker went to work every morning, filling bags with polished stones for sale in design shops, a task that would have defeated one of Carla’s Zen masters. Left alone in the cell, Clement had the perfect opportunity to plug the gaps in his reading but, despite an appeal to the governor, he was refused permission to bring in any books. While resigned to the constant flow of drugs, the authorities were intent on blocking the entrance of
Madame Bovary
and
Buddenbrooks
. Their only advice was that he ask a friend to present them to the library in the hope that he be allowed to borrow them first.

One afternoon, as he lay on his bunk, grappling with a formulaic thriller, he was summoned to see the Head of Learning and Skills. The fear that he would be offered a choice between basic plumbing and
GCSE
maths faded when she asked if he would be willing to teach art.

‘Don’t you have anyone on the staff?’

‘We did. He was sacked for selling prisoners’ underwear to America.’

‘I’d have thought it was cheaper there.’

‘Soiled underwear.’

‘Oh! I see.’ He shuddered.

‘It’s one of the most popular courses and we can’t find anyone suitable. We’d pay you £2.35 an hour and give you enhanced status.’

‘Would that mean my own cell?’

‘As soon as one becomes available.’

For all his doubts about his abilities as a teacher, he accepted. He was amazed at how rapidly the news of the course spread and, at Association that evening, he was waylaid by several prisoners keen to take it. He realised with dismay that the twelve places would be grossly oversubscribed, earning him more enemies than friends. He explained that it was not in his gift; although he was determined to earmark a place for Stick, a hyperactive man in his early twenties, with permanently tousled hair and track marks on his arms. He still felt guilty for his misapprehension when, after trailing him round the exercise yard, Stick had sidled up and introduced himself.

‘They call me Thick,’ he lisped. ‘Do you know why?’

‘Take no notice. They’re the ones who are ignorant.’

‘Go on, guess!’

‘Because you’ve not had the right educational opportunities?’ he proposed hesitantly.

‘No, because I’m thin as a thick insect.’

Clement’s relief that Stick had failed to catch his drift vanished when a group of onlookers pointed it out, in the hope of provoking a fight. Far from satisfying them, Stick seemed to see Clement as a brother in confusion, further warranting his sobriquet by clinging to him like a burr. Assured that he felt nothing more for him than for a stray dog, Clement resolved to take him in tow.

‘You like reading then?’ Stick asked, spotting the luridly covered thriller.

‘Most things.’

‘Me too! Last week I read a book about the Gulf War that was one and a half inches thick. Before that I read one about Rommel that was two inches thick. That only took me nine days.’ As he talked, Stick’s tic grew worse and he cast repeated glances over his shoulder. ‘Can I lend a phone card? Ring my kid?’

‘Of course,’ Clement said, shocked at the thought of such a callow father.

‘You what?’

‘Of course you can borrow it.’ He held it out to Stick, whose hands seemed to be operating independently as one reached out to take it while the other pushed it away.

‘You didn’t ought to do that! It’s wrong!’ He sounded affronted. ‘See, you wouldn’t just be giving it to me but taking it away from your own family. I know God says, if someone asks you for something, you got to give it to them but I bet you He understands.’ Clement was as bemused by his point of
reference
as by his change of heart. ‘Do you want to hear my joke?’

‘If you like.’

‘Who’s the biggest liars in the world?’

‘I don’t know. Who are the biggest liars in the world?’

‘Chemists, cos they keep making things up.’

Scarcely had he delivered the punchline when he was felled by an actual punch. As Stick clutched his jaw, Clement stared at the three men who had crept up behind them.

‘Beg pardon, your honour,’ one said with a mocking bow, ‘but this little tart has some business with us. It’s pay-up time.’

‘Tomorrow,’ Stick squealed.

‘You can’t add up, Sunshine. The day after yesterday equals today.’

Stick’s terror galvanised Clement. Feeling that nothing the men could do to him would be as painful as the knowledge of his cowardice, he pressed forward. ‘Leave him be!’ he ordered, thankful that his voice at least had not betrayed him. The men gazed at him dumbfounded. ‘I can see that he owes you – ’

‘You’re fucking right he does. Big time!’

‘But I’m sure there’s some way it can be settled.’

‘You’re right there too. Mr Phillips is waiting for him in his cell.’

Stick whimpered.

‘He’s just a boy.’

‘He’s a tart. A little tart,’ one of them said, signalling his disgust with his foot. Clement searched for the officers but they were both deep in
conversation
, no doubt with the trio’s associates. He tried to pull Stick away, only for one of the men to grab his arm and hiss in his face: ‘I won’t tell you again. Keep your nose out of places where it don’t belong. Else you’ll be next on the list.’

Refusing to back down, Clement pushed the man off and leant over to help Stick up. He felt a wrench on his shoulder and steeled himself for a blow when the command to ‘Give it up!’ made his attacker freeze. Clement assumed that the clash had been spotted by one of the officers, but a quick glance showed that they remained occupied at the far end of the hall. His rescuer turned out to be a mountainous bodybuilder, reputedly the strongest man on the block, a claim that might soon be put to the test.

‘Lay one finger on him and you’ll be pissing out of plaster trousers.’

‘Leave it out, Des!’ said one.

‘This has nothing to do with you,’ said another.

‘I say different. Now get the fuck out!’

Clement watched amazed as the three men yielded to Des’s quiet authority. Muttering curses and with a final face-saving kick at Stick, they slipped away. Stick jumped up and immediately began punching the air. ‘I could take them. They came at me from behind. Two minutes more and I’d have had them.’

‘Piss off, freak!’ Des said.

‘I tell you I could have – ’

‘I said “Piss off!”’ As Stick slunk away with an injured expression, Clement gazed at Des, wondering at his change of mood. ‘You should steer well clear of that little bastard. He’s anyone’s for a Twix.’

‘Do you know what it was all about?’

‘Drugs. More dealers here than King’s Cross. But don’t worry. They won’t bother you again. Not if they know what’s good for them.’

‘Why?’

‘I’ve been watching you.’

‘You have?’

‘I’ve been watching out for you.’

‘Who are you?’ Clement asked nervously.

‘Desmond Connelly.’ Clement shook his head. ‘Rafik’s friend.’ Clement’s heart missed a beat. ‘I was sent down eighteen months ago.’

‘I remember.’ Clement’s gratitude for his rescue was soured by rancour towards the man he blamed for Rafik’s deportation.

‘Since then I’ve done a lot of thinking. Well I’ve had the time, haven’t I? I know I was a total arsehole. But Jesus forgives me.’

‘Jesus Christ?’

‘He found me here in this nick. I went to a prayer group run by one of the screws. He brought me the good news of Jesus’ love.’ The mention of Christ turned Clement’s thoughts back to Rafik. For all his offer of protection, he remained unsure how much Desmond knew of their friendship and how far his jealousy had been cured.

‘I wonder…’ he asked tentatively. ‘Have you had any news from him… Rafik?’

The cloud that swept over Desmond’s face anticipated his answer. ‘Not from Rafik, no. I wrote to the only address I had in Algeria. To him. To his father. Not a word!’

‘Me neither! I went down the Embassy route, but it was hopeless.’

‘Then, after a year – no, more like a year and a half – of silence, I got a letter six weeks ago. The landlady of our place in Willesden, she forwarded it. Somehow she registered it was important.’

‘Maybe the stamp?’

‘Maybe,’ Desmond said, as though the thought had just struck him.

‘And…?’ Clement asked anxiously.

‘It was from one of his friends… a teacher. The one Rafik used to say had taught him everything.’

‘Really?’ Clement was determined to give nothing away.

‘He wrote that Rafik was dead.’

Clement steadied himself as the floor began to shake and the room drained of colour. The news to which he had thought himself inured began to seep through his body. He pictured the lustrous olive skin and limpid brown eyes that he had made such vain attempts to capture. Turning back to Desmond, he felt a renewed resentment of the man who had known the comfort of Rafik’s flesh rather than the struggle for its depiction. His Christ was dead, and the journey that had brought him here was complete.

‘Did he say what happened?’ he asked, both needing and dreading the details.

‘Near enough. He’d been in prison and released in some sort of
government
amnesty. That didn’t please his friends, the mullahs, who sent him death threats. Then, when he went into hiding, they kidnapped two of his brothers and swore to kill them if he didn’t give himself up.’