Liber Gomorrhianus Lima* (Act II)

FOLLIS BRITANNIA**

Welcome from Edwin – court jester to the disreputable houses of Europe and scoundrel to whatever remains. May I extend warm greetings from riotous Great Britain – that grandiose bastion of eavesdropping hacks, looters and more CCTV cameras per capita than the world’s most paranoid theocracies. Could it be that rather than ruling the waves, Britannia’s become a snooping, neurotic landlubber who’s having her metaphorical t*ts sucked dry thanks to a recent baby boom? (I’m curious about the rationale to expand the population whilst human activity compels our planet towards ecological catastrophe?)

…Is it patriotism that stirs in me or an attack of biliousness?

           

Enough of this brooding existentialism! Let me leave you with Act II of Liber Gomorrhianus Lima. So kick off those high heels, pour yourself a glass and enjoy…

*Latin for Book of Gomorrah (see Act I for details). ‘Lima’, means ‘revisited’.
**Latin meaning (literally) ‘wind-bag’. Follis forms the root of the word ‘fool’ – another word for jester. ‘Fool Britainia’ is a notional word play on ‘Rule Britainia’, arguably the most grossly jingoistic anthem known to man.

Liber Gomorrhianus Lima

ACT II – MANNA FROM HEAVEN

(The following story is intended for ADULTS ONLY.)

CHARACTERS (in order of appearance).

MOTHER LUCRETIA - Mother Superior of the Divine Sisters of Mammon.

SISTER CRAVEN - Bride of Christ and general lackey.

SIGNORE CORLEONE -  Dealer in rare antiquities, holy relics and upmarket tat.

HIS HOLINESS POPE CHIPOLATA II – Head honcho of The Roman Curia.
SISTER DIABOLIS - Bride of Frankenstein and hideous old crone.

* * *

Deep within the catacombs beneath Vatican City, the Divine Sisters of Mammon enjoy some fiscal stimulation... [Translated from Italian.]

‘Now did Luigi bring those personal effects for signore Corleone to handle?’ Mother Lucretia enquired haughtily while drumming podgy fingers on a leather topped desk.

Sister Craven glanced up sheepishly from her kneeled position, unable to meet the fearsome gaze of her Mother Superior. ‘Yes ma’am, I have them here,’ she said, offering up a gold collection plate with trembling hands.

Her superior inspected the proffered tray with beady magpie eyes. ‘Is this all there is?’ she snapped. She hauled up her corpulent form and lumbered ponderously towards her minion.

‘Yes ma-’ Sister Craven cowered as the plate was snatched from her clasp and flung onto the desk with a clatter. She felt the customary searing glare directed at her crouched form.

‘Whatever, all ill-gotten-gains help the coffers,’ Mother Lucretia purred. She smirked coquettishly at her subordinate. ‘Now, a little dickie-bird told me you’ve been having impure thoughts Sister Craven…that you’ve been idling in your room and concerning yourself with the visceral rather than spiritual…hmm?’

Sister Craven’s cheeks flushed. ‘Oh no Mother Lucretia…no,’ she bleated, ‘I’d never think about Sean…I mean…Father O’Leering in that way. I just wouldn’t…I-’

‘Father O’Leering is it?’ The Mother Superior cut in with a triumphal sneer. ‘I suspected as much! Is that ye’ dirty little game eh? Jezebel!’ she shrieked. She yanked at a stray lock of her sister-inferior’s hair.

‘Ouch!’ Sister Craven yelped. ‘Oh…thank you Mother Lucretia, thank you.’

‘Filius meretricis…ye’ daughter of a harlot, you!’ Mother Lucretia flared. She wiped away a bead of drool that had begun to irrigate the stubble of her triple-chin.

Sister Craven looked up tearfully. ‘But I didn’t…I’m not-’

‘Not what, hmm? Not virgo intactus? Is that ye’ confession Sister Craven…?’ The Mother Superior bristled. ‘Tell me! I demand to know what you’ve been stuffing into ye’ snatch?’ Without waiting for a reply she took a swipe at the cowering form, producing a startled squeak.

‘I might…perhaps…have touched it accidentally…when I was bathing,’ Sister Craven blubbed piteously.

‘I knew it,’ the Mother Superior hissed, ‘I just knew it…indulging in bestial carnality in this most holy of cities. It’s apostasy! I bet you’ve spent all night dreaming about huge throbbing heathen phalluses didn’t ye’…eh…eh…?’

Again, the quivering form squeaked unintelligibly.

‘Answer me when I interrogate you!’ Mother Lucretia commanded. She raked her fingernails along the subordinate’s flanks, pausing briefly to grapple and pinch at the prone pair of buttocks. ‘Oh, but what a brazen little slattern you are - what are ye’…?’

Sister Craven glanced up woefully, ‘a brazen little slattern ma’am.’

‘To bloody right you are!’ the enraged disciplinarian snapped. ‘Do you know what torments await indolent sluts like you in that infernal abyss, Sister Craven? Ravening demons force you to read Jackie Collins while they stuff pickled chillies up ye’ jacksy and whip up ye’ fanny-batter with an egg whisk! Imagine suffering that for the rest of eternity! But it’s nothing compared with what I’ll do to ye’!’ she screeched.

‘Oh forgive me Mother Lucretia,’ Sister Craven pleaded through her tears, ‘I didn’t intend to commit a deadly sin. It was such a terrible moment of weakness.’

‘This cannot go unpunished Sister. You’ll have to be severely admonished. And if you imagine you can oink and squeal your way out of this one then you’re sorely mistaken. Be at my chambers at eight-thirty tonight…or there’ll be hell to pay…’

‘Yes m’um,’ Sister Craven sobbed.

Oh for those halcyon days of proselytising with the aid of thumbscrews and red hot pokers… Mother Lucretia mused wistfully. She waddled backwards, perching a gargantuan pair of buttocks on the edge of a creaking desk. She hitched up her habit and took a moment to fondle her inflamed sex then dabbed it with her handkerchief.

Presently, she cast covetous eyes back over Cardinal Rightvinger’s belongings. Not a bad little haul… she speculated …the fact that proceeds end up in the pockets of defence attorneys is fecking scandalous. Oh those poor priests… unwitting victims of the most malicious and outlandish allegations. How dare those fantasists, philanderers and fornicators accuse those under the aegis of God’s sacred institution? Was that not the real act of defilement?

Momentarily her gaze strayed onto the tufts of ginger pubic hair that remained wedged in a set of Rightvinger’s false teeth. It called to mind a flaming-haired alter boy, Marcos, who’d loyally served the Vatican before meeting with an untimely accident…odd…?

Shaking herself from her reverie, Mother Lucretia noticed that her charge was still crying. ‘Now, come dear, you mustn’t wail so. You’re simply making a spectacle of yourself. It’s most unsightly.’

‘But I’m unworthy of the solemn vows I took, Mother Lucretia,’ Sister Craven wept. ‘Oh! my mind is so riddled with uncertainty.’

The Mother Superior extended a chubby palm and stroked the trembling cowled head. ‘Of course you’re worthy my delicate little rosebud. Oh dear, perhaps I was a tad harsh on you? I didn’t mean to seem uncharitable. It’s just that you’re such a jaw-droppingly repulsive old troglodyte, aren’t you dear? It’s so difficult to overlook sometimes. But you really shouldn’t blame yourself. Naturally, you will remain with the Divine Sisters of Mammon. We welcome all devout souls no matter how pig-ugly they might be.’

‘Yes ma’am…thank you ma’am,’ the Sister said, attempting a feeble smile.

‘That’s better.’ The dominatrix handed the Sister her frowsy handkerchief to dry her eyes. ‘But just try not to roll those hurt little piggy eyes at me okay? Otherwise, (and I mean this with the utmost kindness) you’ll be sanctified with another slap. Understood?’

There was a sudden knock at the door.

Immediately, Mother Lucretia straightened her robes and ushered her subordinate to the corner of the room. ‘Please enter,’ she said curtly.

A tall, immaculately suited man strode into the room and parked himself on a chair unbidden. His gaze fixed upon the tray of trinkets speculatively. ‘So ‘dis is what you have for me most holy Mother?’ he said, receiving Mother Lucretia’s hand and planting a slobbering kiss.

‘Indeed signore Corleone,’ Mother Lucretia simpered. ‘…and though our church shuns pecuniary concerns and the filthy luca, earthly blessings sometimes fall like manna from heaven. Especially, I might say, in matters of rare and wondrous objet d’art.’

‘Ah yes, I pay ‘da usual prices. But let me see…’ Signore Corleone grinned, plucking an eye glass from his pocket and examining a small specimen jar. ‘And ‘dis is…?’

‘Oh signore, a most prized artefact!’ the Mother Superior exclaimed. ‘I don’t know if our order could ever part with it. You are holding the sanctus gluteus-minimus papilloma - apt only for the most discerning of tastes….’

Signor Corleone shot the Mother Superior a quizzical look. ‘Signora…?’

‘Sir, it is the sacred anal wart. It was appropriated from our most revered Cardinal Rightvinger just before his ascension on that heavenly stair lift,’ the matriarch elaborated. ‘But look, there so are many saintly relics that might also be of interest. We have the sacred undergarments - sanctus pantaloons…and the sanctus pubic saeta.

‘Sanctus what…?’ Signore Corleone enquired.

‘Ah, I’m most happy that you ask!’ The Mother Superior gushed. ‘They are the divine follicles - gathered after Cardinal Rightvinger’s short-crack-and-sides waxing session.’

A telephone began to ring. Mother Lucretia directed her minion to answer it with a withering glare.

‘It’s those researchers from Oxford University again ma’am,’ Sister Craven explained. ‘They wish to carbon date the sanctus skid vestigium to verify its authenticity…’

‘Certainly not!’ Mother Lucretia squawked. ‘Tell them we will never grant permission again. Tell them we refuse!’

Signor Corleone raised an eyebrow. ‘I confess that I’m curious about this ‘skid vestigium’. Would you care to elaborate most eminent mother?’

Sister Lucretia clasped her hands together and took a moment to compose herself. ‘Signore Corleone…it is hard to find words to convey the sacramental nature of this cherished relic. You see, our Saint Rightvinger left a stain on a hotel bed sheet during a visit to Turin. It is said that the mark depicts an effigy of our Lord if you squint at it whilst performing a handstand and possess a keen appreciation for Abstract Expressionism.’

Signor Corleone glanced at his watch. ‘That is all very interesting signora, but I need to discuss a matter of the most delicate nature.’

Mother Lucretia pricked up an ear and pursed her lips. ‘Of course signore.’ She scratched idly between a roll of fat that had acquired a healthy crop of mildew.

‘As you are aware, I am but a simple man,’ Signore Corleone explained, ‘…a humble patron of our church and very much lesser mortal.’

‘Indeed, and we are most grateful for your continued generosity,’ the Mother Superior urged.

‘So my request may at first, seem…unorthodox… Although I assure you it derives from the most steadfast and noble of motives.’ Signore Corleone felt encouraged by his counterpart’s approving nod. ‘I simply propose to take a mould from Saint Rightvinger’s most holy edifice and preserve this great man for posterity.’

‘Edifice?’ Mother Lucretia queried.

‘Yes signora, ‘da sacred manhood,’ her counterpart confided. ‘Then hey presto, admirers might enjoy Rightvinger’s blessings ‘til Kingdong™ come. You must agree to this request, signora, I beg you.’

The Mother Superior needed no encouragement in any profitable venture but feigned an expression of mild disapproval.

‘Perhaps you might think of it,’ Signor Corleone continued, ‘as your saint conducting a different kind of service for parishioners. Allow me to elaborate. Imagine if pilgrims to this most holy of theme parks could take with them a memento of their religious experience…a prized souvenir that might stimulate their faith for years to come…’

‘I’m not sure I understand…’ Mother Lucretia fibbed nonchalantly.

‘Madame I refer, of course, to ‘da Saint Rightvinger marital aid; lovingly crafted in polyurethane in order to preserve the dignity and sensibility of our holy institution. It would also come with a presentation gift box picturing our dear Saint at his most alluring. Furthermore, it could play a selection of his most poignant addresses at St. Peter’s square that would be motion-activated. It might even recite a few post-coital Hail Mary’s to assuage any residual guilt. Surely it would become a prized possession for the faithful and elevate their heavenly rapture to its climax. Let me assure you, Mother Lucretia, it would represent the epitome of good taste.’

The Mother Superior flashed a demure smile. ‘Well, I’m really not sure that would be appropriate given that-’

‘Oh please signora,’ Signore Corleone cut in, ‘will you at least consider my proposal? Naturally, I would make a wildly extravagant donation for your troubles. It is a most equitable arrangement, I think you’ll agree?’

The Mother Superior directed a stern look at her subordinate. ‘Sister Craven, if you’ve quite finished scratching your bearded clam maybe you’ll leave us to conclude business in private hmm?’ she taunted. ‘Go on ye’ repugnant little Caliban…scoot!’

As Sister Craven burst into tears and fled. The sex toy manufacturer raised an eyebrow.

‘She’s such a dear little soul but so terribly capricious,’ the senior nun apologised. ‘Heaven knows how we might help that poor tormented child… Anyway, as you were saying signore…?’

The businessman flashed an easy smile. ‘Signora, let me tell you a little story if you’ll indulge me. You see, a few years ago a holy relic came into my possession. A manhood of the most august pedigree. Indeed, it was the earthly appendage of a Saint. Being as I am a purveyor of only the finest merchandise, I had a cast made which proved an overnight success among those seeking earthly solace. It became obvious to me that there was a yawning hole in the market. So I create ‘da ‘Fred Phelps Fag’s Finger Butt-Bung™’. It also proved an instant hit so I expand operations to America. It was there that I devise the ‘Scott Lively Pink Squat-Tickler™’ and the ‘Terry James Muff-Mecca™’. I cannot tell you, madam, how those good people of the U.S. clamour for ‘da goods. It was then that I set up production in Uganda with ‘da ‘Martin Ssempa Sludge-Funnel, Mask & Scat Blanket™’. And for those who enjoy a sluice-with-a-da-juice, I make the ‘Giles Muhame Gutter-Bib & Slops Tray™’. (Mr Muhame, of course, was prone to spew out the most seminal ejaculations.)

‘I must confess signore; I find this assortment of erm…bedroom adornments a trifle disconcerting,’ Mother Lucretia admitted, ‘…if not a touch base.’

Signore Corleone patted her hand with a clammy palm. ‘Oh no, not ‘base’ signora. I concede that my approach may seem cavalier, but I’m merely providing sermons from a different kind of mount.’

‘I suppose I can see where you’re coming from,’ the Mother Superior conceded.

‘Signora, you are an immensely gracious lady and I heartily thank you for it,’ the businessman crooned, oozing subum and charisma in almost equal proportions. He gazed appreciatively at the near walrus-sized woman slouching before him. After rifling through an attaché case, he presented the object of his desires with an elegantly wrapped box. ‘Perhaps I you might accept a small token of my devotion Madame. It’s a prototype. It is my heartfelt wish for you to be the first...’

‘Why, thank you kind sir,’ Sister Lucretia giggled, unceremoniously grabbing the gift, ‘but what, pray tell, can it be?’

‘You are actually holding ‘da ‘Osama Bin Laden Vulvic-Volcano™’. It spouts ‘Allah be praised’ at the point of climax.’

* * *

‘Mother Lucretia, may I humbly request your counsel? I need to speak with you on a matter of utmost urgency,’ Sister Craven said anxiously.

‘Just remain in my chambers - as ordered. Impudent child! And don’t forget the egg whisk this time or else!’ Mother Lucretia snapped. She resumed her counting of the large bundles of Euro notes piled on her escritoire.

Sister Craven lapsed into melancholy contemplation. The gloomy bowels of the Vatican had served to intensify a suffocating sense of confinement that went beyond mere physicality. She sighed inwardly.

There was a sharp rap at the door. Sister Craven took delivery of a parchment and handed it deferentially to her senior. There was a wax seal bearing the impression of the Pope’s ring. It read:

“It is decried tthat hiss most holey eminence, Cardinal Rat Rimmer be sanctified at too thirty to daye. By order of his hole-in-arse Pope Chipolata II.”

Mother Lucretia scowled at the spidery lettering. ‘That good-for-nothing boss-eyed scrivener!’ She cursed. Jesus, wasn’t it about time they carted the old fart off the fecking glue factory?

* * *

As implied previously, the clandestine rite of beatification was presided over by His Holiness Pope Chipolata II.

Christened ‘Fedele Chipolata’, the would-be pope had been raised in Las Vegas. He was one of six little darlings brought over to the States by impoverished Italian emigrants. A singularly precocious child, he’d been widely disliked by his peers thanks to a preoccupation with snitching over the pettiest infractions of authority. Fedele’s weasely adherence to convention had inevitably drawn him towards the more pious mindset. At the tender age of fifteen he’d experienced his first epiphany and had been ‘born again’. This transformation heralded a meteoric rise in his fortunes. By seventeen, he’d assumed the guise of an evangelical lay-preacher-cum-faith-healer.

After two decades of fabulous affluence (and indeed effluence), Pastor Chipolata opted to return to mother church and mother country. Remarkably, this second ‘Damascus road’ moment coincided with a criminal investigation into his mentoring sessions with a deeply troubled young parishioner (who just happened to be an underage rent boy). In Rome, the Holy See were quick to recognise the talents of their newly acquired turncoat. Consequently, Fedele climbed through the ranks faster a gravity-defying martyr on Ascension Day. On the advent of Pope Rightvinger’s tragic demise, Cardinal Chipolata seemed the obvious successor. His diabolical fusion of sophistry, egomania and sanctimony had already all but bewitched a whole new generation of unquestioning automatons.

Pope Chipolata II eyed Mother Lucretia gravely. ‘I believe we’re ready to begin,’ he informed her haughtily.

‘Certainly, your Grace.’ Mother Lucretia intoned. She proceeded to throw open large set of doors revealing a lavishly adorned baronial hall festooned with flickering candles. The centrepiece was a shrouded coffin on a low marble plinth.

The pair strutted stiffly into the room like a pair of haemorrhoid victims. Mother Lucretia turned. ‘Right, come now youse disgusting little sin-pigs. Get yer fecking arses in ‘ere or, so help me God, I’ll make bacon rashers of the lot of youse. A disorderly herd of nuns clambered and crawled on all fours into the room and congregated about the stage.

‘Right my porcine princesses you know the procedure!’ Lucretia barked. She promptly peeled back the shroud revealing the withered naked body of Saint Rightvinger who’d mysteriously acquired a beatific smile (expression no. 49 of the Mortician’s Guild catalogue).

‘You may begin.’ Chipolata commanded. ‘Nomine Patris, et Filii, et Spiritus Sancti. We are gathered here to slaver the cadaver...’ he droned. When the interminable solioquy was finally over, he regarded Mother Lucretia rather pointedly.

Mother Lucretia unfastened a bullwhip from her belt and sidled over to her minions. With one sharp crack of her whip the jostling, fawning herd began eagerly licking at the suppurating carcass. Amongst the chorus of slurping and sucking noises were gleeful little oinks and snorts.

Abruptly, Mother Lucretia unleashed a stinging hail of lashes upon her cowering underlings. ‘Repent! Atone yourselves damn you, Repent!’ She shrieked, lashing out indiscriminately and mercilessly. ‘Indolent, ungodly swines!’

Pope Chipolata II looked on imperiously from his throne. He grimaced somewhat as he noticed one of the more enthusiastic brides of Christ burying her face in Saint Rightvinger’s leathery groin. ‘Mother Lucretia! Will you get her to stop muzzling his private parts?’

Mother Lucretia’s face fell. ‘With the greatest respect your grace I think she’s rooting for truffles. Ah, will ye’ look at ‘em – happy as swines at a slop trough. They’ll soon have him beatified your grace.’ She looked approvingly as the elderly Sister Diabolis began sucking at the furry papal earlobes. ‘That’s my good little piglet; one should never forget to wash behind the ears.’

After covering almost the entire cadaver with copious sputum, Mother Lucretia instructed her ‘snivelling piglets’ to turn the body over.

‘You don’t find this form of spiritual ablution a little…ah…vulgar?’ Chipolata queried. (Being relatively new to the post, he’d not been privy the beatification ritual.)

‘Ach no, I find it to be the height of sophistication, so I do. It’s a good crack too.’ Mother Lucretia observed, noticing that one of her charges was rimming the recumbent form adoringly. Following another savage round of whipping, she promptly disrobed.

Pope Chipolata II gazed on in disdain as Mother Lucretia emerged from her vestments like a huge, over-brimming blancmange. She wobbled precariously into the fray, clad in only a PVC basque, matching chaps and nine inch stilettos. As she got on all fours, her enormous pendulous cleavage swung apart, drooped and smacked together again as if offering a polite round of applause. ‘Now come here my good little piglets. Mother sow has a special reward for youse. Come and get your teat treat my little suckling porkers.’

As the congregation jostled to take their turn amongst the rolls of fat, Mother Lucretia snorted contentedly and released a long hissing fart.

Pope Chipolata II gazed down imperiously. ‘Mother Superior, I fear you’re charges seem to be labouring under a misapprehension?’

* * *

It was some hours later that Mother Lucretia shambled back to her private quarters. Sister Craven was perched on the chaise lounge and glanced up timidly. ‘Mother, I’ve been thinking about leaving the order. You see I-’

‘Sister, I don’t have the patience for your puerile whining!’ Her superior snapped. ‘Besides, if it wasn’t for your gluttonous self-adoration you wouldn’t even have these misgivings. May I remind you, Sister, you’ve taken solemn vows. To break them is sacrilegious.’

‘But it’s not just the vows Mother. It’s the teachings…it’s the tainting of young minds…of innocents, with notions of guilt, sin and unworthiness…Is that not a betrayal of the human spirit…a desecration of that inner-Eden we call our ‘soul’?’

The Mother Superior glared at her, eyes ablaze. ‘What the hell are you prattling on about ye’ she-devil? ‘Y’know, I think I’ve had just about enough of your obstreperous attitude!’ The Mother Superior fumed and began fingering her whip. ‘Besides, you should never underestimate human folly sister.’

Sister Craven stared tearfully at the floor. ‘But I have irreconcilable doubts Mother Lucretia. Despite your disciplines, there’s no means to substantiate the existence or non-existence of God. Such things are unfathomable and unknowable. Without certainty, all these rules, these rituals…all this guilt, stricture and moral absolutism disintegrates into vain absurdity. It is but a house of cards; hinged on conjecture and propped up with the complicity of sovereigns, knaves and fools. Beyond this toppling wonderland, I aspire for those finer sentiments of human nature and accept its innate diversity. A multiplicity that defines us, our world and the dreams that garland our heavens.’

Mother Lucretia rounded on her. ‘You’ve been guzzling communion wine, haven’t ye’?’ She screamed as she advanced towards her prey. ‘…no-good drunken trollop of a halfwit troll. How dare you defy me! I’ll make pork cutlets of ye’!’

‘Leave me alone, you monster!’  Sister Craven shrieked.

Whether it was her bloated, overfed body, her unduly agitated state of simply an act of God was indeterminate. Whatever, without warning, Sonia Lucretia O’Brien’s carotid artery imploded sending her sprawling to the floor in agony. Sister Craven could only gaze on in horror as her superior plunged into a dark and irredeemable oblivion.

© Edwin Black 2011

Prison Drama…

Greetings - and apologies for a belated reappearance. Oh, the bane of writers block! Liber Gomorrhianus Lima (Act II) remains half-written since one of my characters, a vicious sadist, has had me rather hogtied (creatively speaking).

In the meantime, I would like to offer you a chapter from a novel that I’m working on, Touching Base. It finds the central character, Winston Grub in a dire predicament.

I confess to being fascinated by prison and have often considered petty crime to facilitate an insider’s view of one of these most marvellous institutions. Jean Genet, after all, composed many of his finest works behind bars (when he wasn’t jerking off, that is). Truly, he blossomed as narrator and poet in the ‘luxury’ of isolation; languishing as he did with his fellow outcasts and pariahs.

I digress. I hope that you find the following tract amusing.

EB

* * *

Touching Base - Chapter 7

Winston gazed at his cell wall confused, perplexed and deconstructed. The world had chewed him up and spat him out.

Winston’s cellmate was known as ‘Masher’. He was a convicted rapist with a sadistic predilection for mauling women. The chances of him being reformed by the penal system seemed, at best, pretty remote. Winston managed a simple form of communication with him by means of monosyllables, grunts and gesticulation. Since he’d frequented many of Rheadon’s bars, it was a language that was more than familiar to him. During the night he had the dubious honour of being kept awake with Masher’s incessant masturbation on the bunk above. It was usually so vigorous that it caused poor Winston’s head to knock against the bedrail. In the latter stages of Masher’s crescendo, the whole bunk would lurch towards the opposite wall. The sole object of Masher’s passion appeared to be a soiled newspaper clipping of one of his victims.

Masher’s other defining quality was his chronic flatulence. His exchanges with Winston were invariably punctuated by trumps and hisses that rendered normal conversation quite impossible. The stench emitted brought a burning sensation to the eyes and frequently left Winston gasping for breath. However, he thought it best not to mention this delicate problem to the muscle-bound pugilist since Masher was not someone who took kindly to criticism.

As Winston faced the bleak prospect of two years of incarceration, he pondered Oscar Wilde’s imprisonment and how he’d survived his ordeal. The answer became apparent. Hadn’t writing set him free? Winston decided that he would emulate his literary hero and compose some poetry. Yes, that was it, he’d write The Ballad of Blackhurst Gaol. That night, he grabbed a few sheets of toilet tissue and a copy of the Bourgeois Herald to rest it on. With his trusty pencil in hand, he proceeded to pen his very own classic:

Prison life is quite a gas, in much more ways than one,

Thieves and brigands, pimps and killers fill the institution.

Though walls are high and bars are thick, the screws attempt to train us,

And bandits plot their fellow’s escape then slip one up the ladder.

‘I’m not exactly sure about the last line,’ Winston grumbled moodily. Just then, Masher began his nightly ritual and Winston found himself at the epicentre of a localised tremor. There were grunts above as the bed began to wobble and creak during the course of its inexorable migration to the other side of the cell.

‘I’ll never get this finished,’ Winston said despondently as he heard a rasping fart explode overhead. A particularly damp squib followed hot on its heels.

Shortly after a guttural growl, Masher’s sweating face came into view. He extended a clammy hand and promptly grabbed Winston’s literary endeavours. ‘Cheers mate! I just spilt something.’ He cackled hoarsely.

‘That’s okay,’ Winston mumbled, ‘It was only a first draft anyway. I’m glad somebody’s creative juices are coming thick and fast.’

Prison life was all about routine. Oh, how repetition could so easily deaden a man’s wits! Winston decided to occupy himself some of the time with a graphic design course. He had already attended a creative writing class but the tutor expelled him for composing ‘obscenities’. Feeling hard done by, Winston had finally plucked up the courage to speak his mind. It had to be said, however, that any pleasure derived from calling the tutor a philistine, was somewhat undermined by the loss of all privileges for a whole week. A week is a long time in prison life. Even so, he muddled through and tried to get along with the eclectic mix of characters.

Winston often pondered disturbing paradoxes within the prison community. Not content with being judged by society, the inmates seemed intent upon judging eachother. Without exception, they felt compelled to define the relative wickedness of their fellow inmates’ various felonies. It was like some bizarre horse-trading ritual.

Comparing the relative immorality of a crime seemed, to Winston at any rate, a manifestly subjective exercise. Moreover, it struck him as an idle indulgence in hypocrisy. Nor was his particular crime against humanity (or at least the animal kingdom) easily categorised within this pecking order of villainy. Eventually, consensus placed him above habitual gross indecency but below serial rape. He was also instructed to respond to the name of ‘birdman’ and perform the Birdie Song when told to do so by convicted rapists and murderers. (Oh, the indignity, that his love for Angelo [an obliging ostrich] should occupy such a monstrous and base perception!) It was precious little more than an exercise in absurdity, of course, but then Winston was no stranger to the absurd.

Despite the fact that prison did not prove to be the great leveller that Winston had expected, he bided his time. He tried to unravel the machinations of fate and understand how he had found himself in such a place. He attempted to keep his spirits high and his mind free, especially while performing the Birdie Song. Sometimes, he would read his poems to other inmates. This caused much hilarity. True, this was hardly the reaction an aspiring bard might have wished for but it served, in part, to lift the spirits. Besides, who can deny there are advantages in having a captive audience? Whatever, it helped restore, in part at least, his natural humanity, flagging as it was within those imposing grey walls.

By now, Winston had been obliged to fend off certain dishonourable intentions proposed by several other inmates. It dawned on him that the term ‘doing a stretch’ might be less of a euphemism than an anatomical reality. In order to avoid creating a precedent in the showers, he’d purchased a soup-on-a-rope. However, prevention is rarely perfect and, despite his avant-garde airs, Winston was not unappealing to the sex-starved prison population. Moreover, word got around that he was a little ‘ephemeral.’ Consequently, the less savoury elements began to regard him with avarice.

After his experiences at the hands of Genéral Delaguerra, poor Winston realised that he was likely being sized up for a fitting. It was an unnerving notion, one that unseated him from the complacency of maverick prison poet. He was therefore relieved to discover a friendly face in this tumult of uncertainty. It happened one morning when he stumbled from his cell, gasping for oxygen as usual.

‘Awite babes?’ a catcall purred along the balcony.

‘God, am I that obvious?’ Winston replied listlessly.

‘You’re sweet bruv. ‘Low it. Relax yeah?’

Winston looked towards his would-be suitor. Before him was a tall, wiry black guy with glittering tigerstone eyes alive with mischief. He wore a broad confident smile and had a gaunt, pockmarked, forty-something face. Dextrous hands rolled a cigarette as he leant casually against the railing. His relaxed demeanour suggested he was no stranger to institutions. The overall effect was disarming, even quite beguiling.

‘What’s yer name bruv?’ The man smiled.

‘Erm, Winston.’

‘First time?’ The guy inquired.

Winston was uncertain whether he was referring to his stay in prison or whether he meant being importuned. Maybe the question was intended to be ambiguous? ‘Yes.’ Winston smiled back, imagining that it was the right reply.

‘Cool bruv. The name’s Jerome.’ He said gazing over intently.

‘Nice to meet you Jerome.’ From behind him, there was a fart like a thunderclap that reverberated around the ironclad heart of the prison.

‘Oh mate, you sharing with that?’ Jerome said, gesturing towards Winston’s cell.

‘Yes, its reeking havoc with my sinuses but I’ve been in worse places.’ Winston said pensively. ‘Life really stinks sometimes.’

‘Life really sucks sometimes ‘n’ all.’ Jerome smirked, adjusting his crotch suggestively.

‘Hmm, I see,’ Winston floundered, ‘well, erm, it was lovely to chat, but I’m attending a class in half an hour and I…’

‘I get you bruv,’ Jerome interjected. ‘I’ll see you around though, yeah? Take care, man. Good to meet yer.’

‘Likewise,’ said Winston, nervously flashing a smile.

Jerome drew closer. ‘Listen, you ought to do something about that cellmate of yours. I heard somewhere there’s laws about air pollution. You should check it out yeah?’

‘I will. Thanks Jerome.’ Winston made his excuses and left Jerome to his cigarette.

* * *

Time dragged ever onward for Winston. His daily regime of scrubbing porcelain, designing prison leaflets and strolling around the tall concrete enclosure of the courtyard continued. Sometimes, he would stop and chat to Jerome. The latter seemed very much at ease with his often haphazard musings. It became obvious that Jerome had developed quite a fondness for him. Sometimes he would even give Winston cigarettes or offer advice about coping with captivity.

Winston had begun to investigate European laws on air quality. One day, in the prison library, he unearthed an obscure ruling intended for agricultural labourers. It stated that, should methane release exceed a certain level, a clause could be invoked that forced organisations to fit ventilation systems or supply breathing apparatus. He wasted no time in writing to the European Court of Human Rights seeking their advice about his noxious dilemma, copying the letter to various other human rights organisations for good measure.

In the course of his epistolary pursuits, Winston also wrote to Detective Inspector Walton, care of Rheadon Police Station. As well as continuing with his assertion that he thought Walton was gay, he suggested several organisations that might help him come to terms with his sexuality. Winston considered this something of a magnanimous gesture, given that the man had been instrumental in his loss of liberty. Reiterating his sense of injustice at being imprisoned, he asked Walton him how his conscience allowed him to sleep at night. Who knows? By appealing to Walton’s better nature, they might yet share a laugh about events over a Superpilsner one day.

Jerome had seemed pleased that Winston followed his advice and was inclined to put an encouraging arm around him. Despite his rough edges, Winston considered Jerome to be a kleptomaniac prince among thieves. Jerome, in turn, enjoyed Winston’s docile, unassuming nature. He felt he had nothing to prove with Winston and could lower his guard. It was not long before they would eat together and banter endlessly about their mutual conquests. Jerome appeared a little concerned by Winston’s relationship with an ostrich-like creature but admitted he would probably have ‘slipped one in there’ if he were sufficiently stoned. Jerome’s female conquests would have read like a guest list at royal banquet. Winston was amazed that he had found the time to shoplift and smoke crack cocaine, given his obvious way with the ladies. Jerome often spoke wistfully of his miscreant days spent womanising and getting high.

Jerome also defended Winston from the harsher elements of the institution. When someone called Winston ‘birdman’ he had launched into the guy with fists flying. Winston didn’t really sanction violence but felt strangely moved by the gesture all the same. Jerome also appeared to have useful connections within the prison and other inmates began to leave him alone. Inevitably, Winton’s feelings towards his friend grew in scope and magnitude. It seemed that, even within the austere stone walls and cobbled courtyards, there were cracks and crannies where life and beauty took root and strived for sunlight.

* * *

Winston was awoken one morning by something of a commotion. He was unaccustomed to this since he was normally roused by the rather bracing alarm clock above him (or ‘smellarm’ clock, as he referred to it). Suddenly, he found himself surrounded by what appeared to be astronauts in white suits and breathing apparatus. All six crowded into the cell. It took four of them to roll Masher over and pin him to the bed.

‘What the ‘ells going on? Ere, get yer filthy ’ands off me!’ Masher yelled.

A fifth member of the group applied a muzzle to Masher’s face then proceeded to pull down his soiled underpants. The sixth member of the team came forward armed with an electronic box with a tube protruding from it that he shoved unceremoniously between Masher’s buttocks. This was accompanied by muffled squeals and a stifled fart from their captive. Winston watched dumbfounded as buttons were pressed on the device and readings were fastidiously noted down on a clipboard. A smaller hand held a funnel device, which was then held up to the window and the dimensions of the cell were measured. Winston noticed that their identity tags read ‘Environmental Emissions Testing’. Within a matter of minutes, they nodded to each other and somewhat hastily evacuated the cell.

Winston decided it was best to leave Masher while he ranted in the cell but was promptly greeted by the Governor and a host of guards.

‘Grub!’ the Governor bellowed, ‘Perhaps you’d like to explain why I’ve just been served a writ for human rights violations?’

Winston noticed that the entire level of inmates were staring at him and began to feel more than a trifle self-conscious. ‘Erm, can I talk to you in your office, sir? I can explain everything but it’s a little delicate…’ He glanced apprehensively at Masher who’d begun to eye him with suspicion.

Winston was frogmarched to the Governor’s office and the guards were promptly dismissed.

‘I knew you were a troublemaker as soon as I laid eyes on you!’ Governor Frank Tollman growled menacingly from behind his desk. His patience had already been tested to its limit by three remand prisoners being ‘mislaid’ due to a wildly incompetent electronic tagging contractor. Furthermore, the debacle had been filmed by an undercover reporter. Now he would have to explain yet another fiasco to his director.

‘Oh…erm. It was just a couple of letters, that’s all,’ Winston squeaked.

‘Siddown Grub! Just a couple of letters eh? Listen you little toe rag, I’ve just been handed a five figure fine from the Environmental Health Department and now they tell me they plan to carry out further spot checks. I’ve also got Amnesty International chewing on my arse and threatening to declare my prison a torture zone! That’s not to mention my own director telling me I should consider a change of career and prison reform groups calling upon trade unions to have us blacklisted! To cap it all, the Home Secretary is visiting next week as part of her ongoing review!’

Not for the first time, Winston wondered if he might exist in purgatory. At any moment, an irate Lucifer would make a theatrical entrance and prod him with his trident like an overcooked vegetarian sausage on a barbeque.

The Governor snatched up a piece of paper and thrust it under Winston’s nose. ‘Furthermore I’ve been issued with the results from the emission tests. They’re claiming that the toxicity levels of your cell exceed Health and Safety Laws by two hundred and thirty five percent. I’ve been told that if I don’t fit a powerful extractor fan immediately, I’ll be fucking closed down!’ Tollman snarled.

‘Oops,’ Winston mumbled shrinking even lower into his chair.

‘Listen, you little prick, I am ordering you to retract your statement in full to the ECHR. I’ve also drafted a press release that you will sign right now or, so help me God, I won’t be answerable for the consequences…’ Tollman bawled.

In his panic, the muse struck Winston like the poke of an electric cattle prod. ‘I’ll do all that you ask of me. I’ll tell the world what a reforming environment this prison is and retract all my other complaints. I’ll even give you my word as a gentleman not to write any more letters. But I need one thing in return. I want to be transferred to Jerome Baptiste’s cell. That’s all I ask.’

Tollman eyed Winston speculatively. ‘Why him? He’s that useless druggie isn’t he, the one who’s been banged up more times than a cucumber in a nunnery?’

‘Yes, that’s him. But he’s a good guy,’ Winston said indignantly.

‘Okay, I’ll authorise your bloody transfer. But if I get anymore shit from you, Grub, I’ll have you transferred to ‘C’ wing. We’ll see how long you last there.’ Tollman growled menacingly.

As Winston was dismissed from the Governor’s office, he felt elated. To be with Jerome was more than he could have dared hope for.

* * *

It was their first night together. Winston lay on his bunk staring at a space where he imagined the stars might exist. Already, he’d begun to plan a future with Jerome. Aspirations soared into the air, nebulous as the sentiments that gave them wings. He tried to articulate the yearning that dwelt within him but was pre-empted by Jerome.

‘You gonna get yer lips around this or what?’ He called up to his dreaming cellmate. In the murky half-light Winston looked down into the lower bunk and noticed Jerome toying with himself. His breath caught as he marvelled at the dark, lithe body that greeted his eyes.

‘How did you guess I was familiar with the penal system?’ Winston joked.

‘Whatever babes. Just give me some sugar, yeah?’ Jerome intoned gruffly.

Without another word, Winston clambered to the floor and indulged his lusty friend. However, after relieving Jerome of his frustrations, he wasn’t offered any assistance with his own outstanding dilemma. That didn’t seem to matter to Winston as he was offered the sanctuary of Jerome’s embrace. His universe finally became complete and it seemed that nothing could intrude upon the sacrament of their union. He sensed a blazing firmament of stars stirring his poetic soul. He had always found sonnets a little difficult, so instead he tried to compose a limerick in his head:

There was a young fellow in prison,

whose life was in some kind of schism

‘Till he met a nice scamp who liked a good champ

Then drenched his friend’s lips with his kisses.

‘Always the last line. Why is it always the last line that’s the tricky part?’ Winston asked of himself. Jerome didn’t really kiss much either, but he thought he’d afford himself some artistic licence. Feeling cosseted, he drifted off into the hallowed realms of sleep.

Some evenings, encircled in the arms of his paramour, Winston’s mind’s eye would drift the gauze veils of sunset. Walls and bars became as insubstantial as mists and eddies swirled about the breath of lovers. The sweet rapture of togetherness wove enchantments through the oceanic majesty of night. Months passed, but Winston had stopped counting the transitions of day into night. It seemed strange that time spent under the punitive regimes of prison restored a form of contentment. Maybe the lack of change was, in itself, comforting in a world constantly attempting to reinvent itself. Winston’s brave new hopes soared, unencumbered, into the great blue yonder.

Ah, but fate had other ideas...

One morning, Winston was trying to make sense of the Daily Muckraker in his cell when he heard a coarse shout. ‘Oi Grub. The governor wants to see you. Yer parole’s come though.’

‘What?’ Winston said distractedly as he glanced over the semi-coherent rants and images of silicon-enhanced starlets. A warder appeared at his door.

‘Listen Grub, You’ll address me as sir. Is that clear?’ The young guard growled at him.

‘Sorry sir, I was distracted. I didn’t hear you properly.’ Winston confessed nervously.

‘We’re chucking you out, birdman. The parole board reckon you’ve done enough. It’s high time you clucked off.’ The guard sniggered humourlessly.

As Winston was lead into Tollman’s office, his stomach performed a succession of somersaults. The ensuing conversation was a one-sided, perfunctory affair punctuated by telephone calls about staffing problems. Winston was informed he would shortly regain his liberty and return to mainstream society. Indeed, he had but a day to prepare. The Governor, grateful for Winston’s restraint from letter writing, had pulled a few strings with a golfing partner who worked in Human Resources for a marketing corporation. His associate had secured a job for Winston (without too many questions asked) in a place called Grot-on-Knuckle. Winston shook Tollman’s hand with genuine gratitude.

‘Well Grub, can’t say I’ll miss you much, but I wish you well. You’re not a bad sort so long as you’re not stirring up trouble. I hope you feel rehabilitated by your time here?’ The governor enquired (with about as much enthusiasm as a politically correct automaton) upon releasing a crushing grip on Winston’s hand.

‘Oh yes, I do sir.’ Winston winced. ‘It’s been…illuminating.’

‘Glad to hear it. Just keep you’re head down while you’re on the job.’

‘Yes sir, I’ll do that. In fact my cell mate often tells me much the same thing.’ Winston said, trying to suppress a smirk.

‘Yes, well. I’m not sure Baptiste is a good influence. Quite honestly, I don’t know what you see in him. I suggest you steer well clear of him once you get out. The guy’s nothing but trouble. I can promise you that.’ Tollman warned sternly.

‘Okay.’ Winston mumbled. But, he knew the impossibility of turning his back on a dawning truth, a truth that now blazed like a supernova and flooded his lonely planet with sunshine. Jerome was everything to him. It was as if he’d never truly lived before they’d met. Even the pain over Angelo seemed somehow distant. How could he abandon that? As he gazed abstractedly at a waxing sun, he realised there was a quiet, indelible truth emblazoned across his heart like a badly daubed tag-line.

That evening, Winston returned to his cell lost in deliberation. Jerome said nothing as he scrambled up to the top bunk. Still, Winston felt tentatively confident that his lover would consent to sharing a new life together once they were both free. Eventually, the cell was locked and the lights dimmed. Winston slipped furtively from his bed and sat by Jerome who appeared strangely distant. ‘You okay?’ Winston smiled, brushing a hand tenderly over his Jerome’s soft, fleecy hair.

Jerome made no response. He began to flick distractedly through an old newspaper.

Winston swallowed nervously, ‘Jerome I…’

‘What?’ Jerome cut in with a sidelong glance.

‘I wanted to explain something. It’s knowing where to begin that’s…’ Winston’s words trailed off.

‘Begin? Begin what? It’s simple isn’t it? You’re leaving. End of.’

‘But…’

‘Nah, it’s cool bruv. You don’t need to explain anything.’ Jerome sniffed with an air of casual indifference.

Winston fought back a growing unease. ‘Jerome, listen, please. Let me finish. What I’m trying to say is, things don’t have to change. When we’re both out of here, that is.’

Jerome eyed him with irritation ‘I’m not getting you. What’s that s’posed to mean?’ he said in a fractious tone.

Winston was a shade taken aback. ‘What I mean is…’ he gulped nervously, ‘I’ve become quite…I mean…really fond of you. In fact, you’ve become…erm…indispensable and…’ But the words just seemed to catch in his throat, fluttering there helplessly like caged doves. Jerome returned his attentions to the newspaper, pretending to scrutinise an article about colonic irrigation.

‘Jerome, you know I…couldn’t imagine losing you…’ Winston faltered, ‘I mean, when you get parole we could…you know?’

Jerome threw the newspaper petulantly to the far side of the cell, staring with contempt at the barred window.

‘What’s wrong?’ Winston said placing a hand on his friend’s shoulder.

Jerome shrugged it off. ‘It’s you. You’re wrong. You’re so totally wrong, get me? You really think we’re still gonna be rolling together on the outside? Shit. You don’t get it do you?’ he said in a cold mocking tone.

‘Get what? What do you mean?’ Winston implored. His mind began to reel. Dread and hope spiralled into a dizzying pall of confusion. ‘We’re happy…aren’t we? And you’ll be out of here next year. Then, who knows, we could have a future together…couldn’t we?’ Winston faltered as he tried to fathom the mysteries of his lover’s intent. Suddenly, the air seemed more stifling; the dusky half-light acquired menace as doubt cast its lengthening shadow. ‘What are you saying to me, Jerome?’ He whispered, half-choked.

Jerome glared at him. ‘Listen yeah, it just ain’t happening. I’m sorry bruv but I can’t be with you on the outside. Never, you get me? Anyway I ain’t into that crazy shit. I thought you knew all that bruv?’

Winston began to cry. A dream was haemorrhaging, bleeding from downcast eyes.

‘Rarse!’ Jerome exclaimed, looking exasperated.

‘Crazy shit?’ Winston wailed, ‘How can you even say that? After…after everything…?’

Jerome extended an arm and tried to gather Winston to his chest. However, Winston recoiled. He got up, stumbled. After almost collapsing over the hand basin, he gazed searchingly into the mirror, hating what he saw. It was an ugly, stupid, tear-streaked face; the face of an idiot, a fool, a clown. Desolation swept over him like Arctic winds. He glanced pitifully at Jerome through blurring sight. ‘I thought you cared about me?’ he wept bitterly, ‘I thought…?’

Some minutes passed as Winston sobbed uncontrollably. Jerome gazed down at the floor with a remote sadness in his eyes.

‘Christ, Jerome, if there was ever one human being in the world I could have…’ What was the word he sought…‘loved’? He lifted his gaze to the vile, contorted face reflected at him. He slapped himself, then again, sending his glasses skittering across the floor. ‘Jesus! I’m such an idiot…why? Why do I always end up in this same tired old tragedy?’ His shoulders slumped. He felt faint, nauseous. He sank to the floor in a tangle of limbs.

Jerome stared at Winston worriedly. ‘You okay, blood?’

Reeling with a dizzying confusion, Winston turned on him. ‘No I’m not okay!’ he yelled.

‘Low it man, yeah? You’ll bring the feds in here for fuck’s sake.’

Winston looked up, eying him resentfully. ‘Yeah? Well, I don’t give a damn okay? Fuck you Jerome! You’re full of it. I hate you…’ But for all his rage, the aching inside was greater. ‘Just don’t talk to me okay? Don’t say another word…don’t…’ his protests trailed off to a whimper. He buried his head in his hands attempting to shut out a dull, sickly sensation that threatened to engulf him.

Jerome got up and went over to him, ignoring, as was his habit, a hurt that remained trapped behind the impregnable fortress a life on the streets had provided. His arms encircled the shaking, sobbing form that now lay sprawled in the gloom. But a steely resolve hardened in his eyes. As he knelt on the chill floor, Winston’s weight seemed to slump against him like a lifeless manikin. ‘Listen bruv, I never promised you nothing. It’s not like I don’t care, though.’ Even so, the soothing tone belied an emphatic determination to put an end to things once and for all…or else…what, exactly? Face up to all the taunts, the ridicule…the utter disgrace? Or worse even? No way. And if he couldn't simply rip out his shameful desires, he’d bury them beneath the onerous weight of denial. ‘I never said we’d be together after all this, Win. I never lied to you neither…did I? Everything changes...it has to…that’s just the way it goes.’

‘Not everything,’ Winston whimpered, clutching at his chest, ‘needs to change. Some things run too deeply for that. We could have been happy…?’

‘But, you’re not hearing me, Win. You never listen. You imagine all this shit and it’s like…’ Jerome grasped for the right words, ‘it’s like you’re high or something, dreaming things up all the time. But that stuff ain’t real, bruv. Shit, I’ve got family on the outside. Mates too…and bitches yeah? I’m not like you, man. I ain’t no battyman. Get me?’

The brutal frankness of Jerome’s words cut Winston to the quick. The most unbearable sting in the tail was that Jerome was right. It was true he led a fictitious life. He was a lover of impossible idylls, a dreamer and poet (of sorts). Guided by these phantoms, he’d built his fairytale castles, without foundation or reason. Now it was his turn to retreat behind a wall of denial. He felt a renewed surge of tears, angry tears, tainted with betrayal and self-recrimination. ‘You’re just weak Jerome, that’s what you are, weak. But worst of all, you’re a coward!’ he blurted.

‘Whatever bruv,’ Jerome murmured.

‘And how can you criticise my fantasies when you can’t even face up to your own sham of a life? Winston hurled spitefully. ‘Oh yes, we have so much in common, you and I. It seems we’re both exiles from the truth. And no, you didn’t lie. You are a lie. One big, fucking lie! Oh, I wish I’d never met you.’ He wanted to say more but he was cut short by a glimpse of something he’d never witnessed before.

For one defining moment, Jerome’s mask slipped. Winston caught sight of an expression that was at once vulnerable, hurt and immeasurably sad.

Jerome flinched as the home truths tore at him. It was true that the endless procession of drugs, women and petty theft were simply a refuge. They veiled his shameful secret. But how could he ever expose that truth? Better, surely, to let it slowly gnaw away at his insides? For all the guilt, sin and regret that he’d imprisoned, there could be neither liberation nor healing. It wasn’t enough, the sweet, beautiful feeling that flourished yet tortured him as he held Winston close. It would never be enough. His heart sank as he felt his lover struggling free. ‘Win, it just has to be this way. I’m sorry okay? Alright, so I’m a cunt. Is that what you want to hear? But it’s my peeps, bruv. Shit. You know what they’d do to me? Bruv, they’d fucking shoot me if they knew about our shit! It’s the truth, blood…I swear.’

Winston finally broke free of Jerome’s hold and stood up unsteadily. ‘Well go back to your old life then!’ he said petulantly ‘Go and make the same mistakes. That’s your choice. See if I bloody care. Now, if you’ll excuse me I have the rest of my life to get back to.’ With that, he clambered back up to his bunk and drew himself up into a tight knot against the wall.

‘I could still see you sometimes, yeah?’ Jerome said softly ‘Like when I’m in your manor and that? Nobody needs to know our business. You don’t have to hate me, bruv.’

Winston gave a hollow laugh. ‘Don’t flatter yourself, Jerome,’ he said cruelly, ‘you’re just as much a fake as I am. We both know that. How can I possibly hate something that isn’t even real? Maybe I’ll post you my address if I feel like it. It’s up to you what you do with it.’

‘Sure,’ Jerome mumbled dejectedly.

‘You can stick it up yer jacksy for all I care,’ Winston mumbled as an afterthought, cradling his head in his hands.

* * *

The following morning, Winston’s moment of freedom finally arrived. After a last desperate night of intractable silence, Jerome’s farewell was painfully curt. Winston too remained impassive, barely speaking. Perhaps there were no words to bridge the troubled waters of their separation. Clutching a small bundle of possessions, Winston chose not to linger at the prison gates or look back at his place of confinement with sentimentality. A chill breeze buffeted him as he trod anonymous streets, still feeling the oppressiveness of high walls.

© Edwin Black, 2011.