My Prison Journey part 2 – Leaves on the Line

 

Part 2 of the ‘My Prison Journey’ set of short stories. See also

Part 1: My Prison Journey part 1 – Sweat Box Odyssey

Bronze award winner of Koestler award.

 

“Leaves On The Line.”

Time was passing like treacle through a sieve. Inconsistent. The light struggled through the scratched and tinted window in much the same manner. The sweat-box from court had made a few stops on the way (how many jails are there?) sporadically disgorging souls before I was finally cuffed and discharged at my destination. No smiling hostess to thank me for my patronage this time!

I was spinning. I felt like a man that had just finished a long sea voyage, with rubberised legs that weren’t quite up to speed with following instructions yet – almost like there was a delay in my neural relays. Perhaps it’s leaves on the line?

Leaves on the line?

WTF?

It’s shock. It must be. It’s just random thoughts popping and trying to find some obscure association. It’s like a dream, when the school bell actually turns out to be the alarm clock. I know that, I’m a smart guy. Get a hold man. Clam down, deep breaths. Relax. Breathe in, breathe out….in…out.

Oh God. House. Mortgage. Car. Fuck.  Work. Where’s my phone gone, how do I sort them. What about the holiday deposit. Is that insured? Oh Jesus H Christ, it’s all gone tits up. Hey Dorothy! We’re not in Kansas anymore.

“Are you suicidal?”

“How would you describe your ethnicity?”

“Strip in that cubicle.”

“Have you served in the armed forces?”

“Sit on that scanner for me”

“Are you drug or alcohol dependent?”

“Any allergies lad?”

“Who’s your next of kin?”

An amalgam of anonymous faces blurring one into another. A merging collage of blue and black uniforms enveloping my inquisitors. I sense my petitioners are willing me to deliver compliant, monosyllabic answers in exchange for open-faced sympathetic nods.

Single room alone.

Room with prisoners.

Empty room.

Interview room.

Noisy room.

Alarm.

I hadn’t even seen a fight but I was minded of ‘Monty Python’s – Life of Brian’ as a preposterous procession of white shirted prison officers all but appeared from thin air. Like soldier ants they identify the threat, swarm and remove it. Whatever ‘It’ was, the only traces left behind were the swirling dust motes that danced in angry protest at having been disturbed.

Quiet room.

The pungent smells of sour urine competing with the sweetly acrid disinfectant assaulted my nose and seemed to pierce the fog as I found myself in a weird waiting room. With banks of metal chairs bolted at intervals to the floor, I almost felt like I had arrived at a train station to the dread realisation that I had missed the last train home.

Maybe it’s leaves on the line?

My eyes fell down to my feet. Ding-Ding! We have a winner! Ultimate Fashion Police faux-pas! My shiny black shoes did not match my recycled and re- issued grey tracksuit bottoms.

Now, what would Gok Wan say?

“It’s all about the confidence darling!”

Oh I’ve really lost it now.

Mouse like, I surveyed my surroundings. Listening carefully first, I allowed my gaze to inch up an extra few degrees of exploration before I found my eyes scurrying back to their non-confrontational levels. Each time I gazed just a little further, just a little higher.

I scanned the walls. The posters were unlike the usual offerings I knew from the tube. Gone were ‘Cats’ or ‘Mama Mia’ at the West End; no more luxury rentals at Canary Wharf! Forget the London Eye and Cirque de Soleil. The special offers here included treats such as Hepatitis B, HIV, drug addiction and even longer sentences.

 

When I saw the toilet I was relieved that my insides were knotted. There was no door, no seat – in fact no visible flushing mechanism. Its rim and sides bore the scars of frequent high altitude bombing raids. It was sandwiched in a corner of this purgatory with a waist high partitioning on the room facing side.

I blew a lunatic’s gaspish chortle.

“I was worried there for a minute lad. Thought we’d lost you”

I sharply reclaimed the breath that had momentarily left in said gaspish chortle while I located the source of this voice. While sight of the speaker would previously have inspired no small discomfort, on this occasion, on this day, I was delighted that he was here. It wasn’t just voices in my head! At worst it was full-on hallucinations and that promised far more excitement!

As I looked at him it was hard to figure out anything about him. He was just so non-descript. He had a face that could have been 28 or 58 years old. He was wearing a mismatch of brands and badges from head to foot. In truth, had I seen him on the street I would have crossed the road or at the very least busied myself in order to avoid eye contact – no doubt he would want to bum change!

“You OK lad?”

Scouser. Broad accent.

I replied, “Dunno. I’m still finding my bearings I think.”

“Well, and mind you I’m going out on a limb here lad, but it looks to me like it’s your first time?” When I nodded, he reciprocated, then continued, “And that being the case I would say that you’re doing OK. You have finished the worst bit already, that’s getting here.”

“What about you” I asked, “Is it your first time?”

“No lad, (he chuckled), I’m on me way to having a wing named after me here!”

The Scouser stood and made his way towards me, “Do you Smoke?”

I nodded again and delved into the clear plastic bag that contained all of my worldly possessions now. Amongst the basic toiletries, distorted photo-copies of ancient leaflets and bedding I found the smoker’s pack that I had been issued containing tobacco, rolling papers and a lighter. I spent the next few minutes in a cringe-worthy attempt of trying to roll my cigarette, until finally the cigarette paper split and I ended up with a lapful of tobacco. This was the strand that broke the camel’s back.

“BOLLOCKING POXY BOLLOCKS!” I blurted.

Any semblance of withdrawn shyness was cast off in a petulant tantrum, “It’s over, my life is over. I can’t even roll a poxy smoke. What’s the point?” I launched the smokers pack at the wall.

Scouser, who had perched himself at the end of my bench while I was failing to roll a smoke said nothing. He stood calmly, walked across the room, recovered the pack and sat back down beside me. Embarrassed as I was, I couldn’t look him in the eye, I opted to watch his hands.

I was entranced with the digital ballet that followed, a crisp, practised series of motions that efficiently delivered a perfectly rolled cigarette, waiting to be licked, stuck and smoked. He handed this to me, “better using your own spit lad” before he returned my tobacco and papers. He then produced a polished wooden box from his pocket. I noticed it seemed to be made of matches. With a delicate twist, the seamless lid revealed itself. Scouser opened the box and produced a pre-rolled smoke of his own.

There followed a brief, comfortable silence as we smoked. The only sounds being the crinkling burning of paper as drags were dragged, and their accompanying satisfied breathing’s.

“Listen lad,” said Scouser, “Things may feel a bit shit right now, but as for life being over? Well I don’t like to hear anybody talk like that. Like I said earlier, you have already done the worst bit.”

I looked at the Scouser. I told him, “It’s hard to see that just now.”

“Fair enough” said the Scouser, “But indulge me, just for a bit will you?”

When I nodded he continued, “You seem like an educated sort. Tell me this. How many people are on this planet?”

I paused briefly before I answered, “They reckon its 7 Billion plus now”

“Wow, 7 Billion is it? Fair enough.” The Scouser paused and considered the enormity of the number. I must admit that I did the same. To my shame my first instinct was to feel so sorry for myself that I wished I was any one of the 6,999,999 others!

Scouser philosophised, “So what do you reckon the odds are that while we are sat here smoking, some poor soul, minding his or her own business, is walking home along a mountain path somewhere on this planet.”

I shrugged my shoulders as I thought about his suggestion, and on the whole it seemed a realistic proposition, “Probably a fair chance if not a good chance really. Probably more than one person, likely to be dozens I expect.” I eventually ventured.

 

Scouser accepted my point with a reciprocal shrug, “Dozens you reckon? Right now, this minute?”

Now I can smell a rhetorical question a mile off, and they were two rhetoricals if ever I heard them, therefore I did the polite thing and didn’t answer them. Instead I waited for Scouser to continue, which he duly did.

In almost the style of Peter Falk’s Colombo adding that ‘…just one more thing…’ Scouser asked “So let me get this straight in my own head here. Right now, across the world, there are likely to be dozens of people – innocent people mind you, making their way across mountain pathways while we sit here and smoke?”

His questioning style reminded me of my recent experiences with a rather zealous prosecuting barrister. “Yes, that sounds likely.” I could only agree with the logic.

“Therefore, it stands to reason that at least one of the poor bastards – an innocent poor bastard, has just slipped and is falling through the air to their death right now?” Scouser stubbed his cigarette out on the metal bench to perfectly emphasise his point.

I was shocked. There was literally nothing to say. So I said nothing.

Scouser continued, “Or somebody else in another part of the world is just now letting go of a steering wheel and bracing for impact. Their life is flashing in front of their eyes. They can see their end now, with no way of avoiding it, too late to change anything, too late for apologies or making amends.”

Scouser had a defiant look in his eye, a look that said ‘I can do this all fucking day long!’

I knew that he could, I meekly volunteered “I had never thought about life like that”

Scouser saw that something had clicked in me. He turned sideways to face me and crossed his left knee over his right ankle. As he spoke I saw that his right leg was a prosthetic limb – what a way to rub it in! But Scouser smiled at me as he referred to his earlier examples and said, “Now THAT is life over lad. Yet here we are. Me and thee talking, having a ciggy. While it might not be the Ritz, we have a roof, food and TV provided. While you are here you can re-educate yourself. You can take stock of your life. What I’m saying is that you still have choices lad and as long as you have a choice your life is not over.”

That Scouser may have saved my life.