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.