If my words had wings, p.9
If My Words Had Wings, page 9
I pick up my pen, and this time I can’t stop the words from coming. It feels good to try and put the lines in some sorta order, to try and structure them in a way I can understand, cos nothing else in my life feels like that.
I don’t know how long I’m writing for, but time goes really fast, and I’m disappointed when Malik tells us to stop. My fingers are throbbing, cos I can’t remember the last time I’ve ever written so much, and I’m still trying to work out the order of the last few lines when Malik goes: ‘Does anyone want to read out what they’ve written? I do have one rule, though – I’ll never force you to if you don’t want to.’
There are a few nods, and I’m a bit surprised that Dadir says he’ll read his too. One by one, people start to read out their poems. They’re all so different. Some people have only written a few lines and that, but they still read them out anyway. My heart starts to quicken, cos it feels like I’m sharing another piece of myself, and I ain’t sure I want everyone to hear it. I fold my poem in half and move it towards me.
‘Tyrell?’ Malik asks.
‘Nah, nah,’ I say, and he doesn’t try and persuade me to read or anything. He just nods and moves on to the next person.
When the session finishes, we have to wait to be escorted back to our different wings. There’s only me and Dadir and a few others from Jay left in the room. Before some of the screws take us back, tho, I go up to Malik. The poem clutched in my hands.
‘You all right, Ty?’ Malik asks.
‘Yeah,’ I say, and I feel my hands trembling. ‘I just wanted to say thanks and that for today. I really enjoyed it.’
Malik smiles. ‘I’m glad!’ he says.
I can see Dadir and the other guys looking at me and I know I have to be quick, cos we’re gonna have to go soon, so I hold my poem out towards Malik. I feel embarrassed, cos a couple of people are looking, but I don’t want Malik to think that I weren’t interested in the session or anything like that. Besides, I just want to know if I’m at least on the right track.
I clear my throat. ‘I, err, I wrote something and I didn’t wanna read it out in front of everyone, or nothing like that,’ I say quickly. ‘But d’you think you could, like, read it and see what you think…?’
Malik pauses for a split second, and I swear it feels like a lifetime. I regret asking him right away.
‘It don’t matter if you’re too busy tho,’ I add. ‘It’s probably a load of rubbish anyway—’
But before I can finish, Malik shakes his head. ‘I’d be honoured to read it, Ty,’ he says. ‘I’ll let you know what I think in the next session, yeah?’
‘Yeah,’ I say. ‘Thanks.’
Malik reaches his hand out to take the piece of paper from me, and even tho it’s just a few words, it’s harder to let go of than I thought. Cos it ain’t just a poem. It’s more than that. It almost feels like I’m trusting Malik with something precious and fragile and important. Longman and two more screws come to the door.
‘Forrester, Hassan, Mullard, Biddy, let’s go.’
‘Yeah, boss,’ I hear a few people say.
‘I’ll see you all next week,’ Malik says.
‘Bye,’ I reply, and I find myself wishing that it was next week already as we head out the door.
* * *
I’m waiting in line at the servery so I can get my dinner and take it back to my cell. Dinner’s been the same since I first arrived at Ryecroft. A dry sandwich, an apple and a packet of crisps. You only ever get two choices as well: rubbery cheese, or chicken that don’t taste like any meat I’ve ever had. I scan my surroundings, cos the servery and by the showers are where the worst fights can kick off. Even tho I’m trying to see who’s about, I can’t stop thinking about the fact I gave my poem to Malik and if it was the right thing to do. What if it really is rubbish? What if he didn’t wanna read it in the first place, but felt like he couldn’t say no?
Dadir’s in front of me in the queue and he says, ‘Y’know what? I never thought I’d like all that poetry shit, but… it’s all right, y’know. It’s actually made me miss writing music as well. Like, I swear, I just wanna get behind a mic again. I forgot how much music helps me to escape.’
‘You still can,’ I say. ‘Just tell Davidson you changed your mind and you wanna do the music sessions.’
Dadir nods. ‘Yeah, I think I might still, y’know. Could do with something else to help me pass the time in ’ere.’ Dadir reaches one of the people handing out the sandwiches and he goes: ‘Yeah, cheese, please,’ and they put the sandwich on his tray.
I ask for the same. Out of the corner of my eye, I clock the new guy in the grey tracksuit who was on the landing last week. I see him arguing with some other guy who’s a lot smaller. Then the next minute, he headbutts him in the face. They start fighting, tho it ain’t really a fight, cos the guy in the grey is about twice the size as the kid on the floor. The noise starts too, the shouting and the banging, and my heart starts to race quicker. Even when you’re prepared for it, when you’re constantly waiting for it to happen, it can still come out of nowhere, the violence, and that’s the scariest thing. Cos it’s like one explosion after the next. An alarm goes off; then some screws run over and break them apart, and twist them both up. Then another fight breaks out. Me and Dadir walk off with our trays, and even tho I’m shaking, I don’t look back. Some people are jeering and shouting, cos they just see it all as entertainment. I hate it tho.
‘Another day in the madhouse,’ Dadir goes. ‘Eh,’ he continues, as we make our way along the wing. ‘Did I tell you what my mum said when she came to visit yesterday?’
Dadir’s words sting, cos over the past couple of years, I’d have given anything for Mum to have visited me more. It’s like she’d always find some reason not to come and it was usually to do with Isiah. I swallow hard and try to push down some of the pain.
‘Nah,’ I reply. ‘What did she say?’
‘She said how the trial was in the paper,’ Dadir continues. ‘But not how it was the first time, when they were calling it a “gang conspiracy”. They actually said it was a miscarriage of justice, and my mum reckons it’ll help my appeal… I mean, it has to? Innit?’
I hear a bit of hope in Dadir’s voice, and the thing is, I don’t know. It’s hard to believe in any kind of justice when people like Dadir and Emmanuel are even in Ryecroft in the first place.
‘Yeah,’ I say, and I think I say it out loud, cos I desperately want it to be true. Dadir smiles, and I’m about to say something else, when Spider, Jason and Kofi come down the stairs. Dadir shoots me a look, probably to check that I’m all right. Even tho Spider and them stare Dadir down, they let him pass. I go to follow Dadir, but Spider steps in front of me and blocks my path.
‘You all right, Forrester?’ he says, and the corners of his mouth twist into a smile. I feel my body tense, and Spider glances down at the tray in my hands. ‘Don’t think you need that, do you?’ he says. Then he reaches down and grabs my sandwich before I can try and do anything to stop him. ‘Just like old times, eh?’ he says, and there’s a glint in his eye.
Jason and Kofi laugh, and I know what Spider’s doing. I know that he’s trying to get some sorta reaction out of me. First, my phone call with Kias, and now this. My heart starts to pound in my chest, but I turn to Spider. You barely get enough to eat as it is in prison, and now I’m gonna have to wait another five hours till my next meal. It’s like he’s taking away anything that gives me even the tiniest bit of happiness.
‘E-yar, yo—’ I start, but Spider gets right in my face.
‘What?!’ he spits, and he’s so close to me that I can feel his breath on my skin. I dunno why I even said anything back in the first place. Maybe cos I’m still so upset and mad that I never got to finish talking to Kias yesterday. I can feel people circling us, waiting for whatever’s about to happen to kick off. My legs start to tremble and suddenly I wish I’d never said anything. That I’d just kept my big mouth shut.
‘You going to do anything about it, Forrester?’ Spider asks me. ‘Go on,’ he continues, and he moves his head so that he’s staring right at me. ‘I dare you.’ His mouth curls up and I catch a glimpse of one of his chipped teeth. I’m proper frightened and I just wanna get out of here quick-time, but I know I can’t. I try not to show Spider and everyone else just how scared I am, but I move away. Spider and his mates all laugh.
‘Better make sure nothing don’t show up in your cell, Forrester,’ Spider says. ‘Especially when you’re so close to getting out. The last thing you need is one of them screws finding a phone, a chiv, some spice… I’d watch my back if I were you,’ Spider finishes, and then him and his mates head off.
I let out a breath, now that Spider’s cleared off, and even tho I was scared, a part of me just wishes I could stand up to him again. I guess there’s more riding on it this time tho. I turn to Dadir and he looks really worried.
‘I knew all that stuff he was spouting the other day about you two being cool was a load of bullshit,’ Dadir says.
‘Yeah, I know,’ I reply. ‘Never trusted him for a minute.’
‘You need to be careful, tho, Ty,’ Dadir adds, and he lowers his voice. ‘I swear, you didn’t make it this far just for him to set you up.’
‘I know,’ I say, and I mean it. Cos if my cell got searched and they did find something, there ain’t no way they’d believe that it wasn’t mine. And it ain’t like I could grass and say that Spider planted it, either, cos then my life really wouldn’t be worth living.
7
I’m in my cell. The first thing I did when I got back here was check to make sure that Spider hadn’t planted anything. The last thing I need is one of the screws doing a random cell spin and finding something. Everything looked exactly the same as it had done when I’d left, but I still checked in all the places people usually stash stuff to make sure that there was nothing hidden. Between the layers of tissue paper in a loo roll, down the hole in the drain, inside the back of the telly and behind the metal panel that’s part of the sink. I had to undo the tiny screws that keep the panel in place with some nail clippers, but I was relieved to see that there was nothing in there.
Spider was just trying to make me even more para. As if being in prison didn’t do that already. Even if Spider was just messing with my head, tho, I still wouldn’t put anything past him.
After we looked at those poems in Malik’s session, I just want to read more. So I’m reading through Caleb’s collection that Gareth gave me. It ain’t just cos I connected to his poetry tho. I’m trying to distract myself from how hungry I am too. That packet of crisps and dusty apple barely did anything, and all I can think about is food. In a weird way, reading these poems seems to help tho. It’s almost as if I get lost in them, and for a split second, I can forget about my stomach rumbling, or that I’m even banged up in Ryecroft, cos I’m thinking about all the images and the sadness and anger and joy that I feel. And even tho I was brought up in Moss Side and not in Peckham, I recognize it. It feels like home to me, but at the same time, it helps me to escape too. Just like Lemn Sissay’s poetry did. I’ve never had that before. I’ve never really been able to get lost in something and escape.
I read through ‘Thirteen’ and ‘Coping’ and ‘Things I Have Stolen’, then ‘Schrödinger’s Black’, ‘On Magic / Violence’, ‘Poor’, ‘Concrete (IV)’, then ‘East Dulwich Road’ and ‘Yard’. Then ‘Here Too Spring Comes to Us with Open Arms’ and ‘On the Other Side of the Street’. I even re-read the poems that Malik showed us in our session too. Only, it’s kinda like I’m reading them for the first time, now that I’ve read what goes before and after them.
My mind is buzzing. Caleb talks about brotherhood and pain and music and loss. And how sometimes you behave a certain way or do certain things cos that’s just how you’ve learned to cope. He talks about being hassled by the police, and rich people moving into your area, and the people who’ve lived there for years being kicked out. He talks about fear and frustration and anger, and how kids from areas like that are judged. How we constantly feel like we’re walking on a narrow ledge, with no one to catch us. Cos maybe the world wants us to fall. But it’s also about imagination and love, and the beauty of being from a place that’s made up entirely of concrete and walkways and tower blocks.
I kinda want next week to hurry up even more now so I can talk to Malik about the rest of Caleb’s poems. I turn over the page and I try to think about some of the stuff we learned today – about the verses and the line breaks and why some of the words are on their own – when I hear a scream. It echoes all around me, piercing and thin. Then the next minute, I hear someone shout: ‘Get off me! Get the fuck off me! My hands… You’re hurting my hands…’
An alarm goes off on the landing, screeching loudly, and I get up off my bed. The screaming only seems to get worse and I rush out my cell. Maybe it’s cos of the noise and the fact that the alarm is barely even drowning out the cries, but my chest starts to feel tight, and my whole body is trembling. A few other people come out their cells to see what’s going on, and a couple more screws come running.
Oxy’s across the landing from me. He’s on the floor and they’ve got him folded up, with his thumbs pushed right back. I already know that they’re gonna take him to segregation, which is a wing in another part of the prison, where they keep you separate from everyone else. They do it as a form of punishment and it’s even worse than being on basic, cos you ain’t allowed no letters, or visits, or to go to education, or nothing. They put you in an empty cell and you’re only allowed out for fifteen minutes of ‘exercise’ a day. So you can walk around the yard, by yourself, while a screw watches. That’s if they even let you do that. They can keep you there for days or even weeks and it proper messes with people’s heads, cos you’re just there, on your own, for all that time.
There’s about six screws holding Oxy down, and the other ones who came running over try to hold him down too. Someone’s kneeing him in the back, but Oxy’s still trying to fight them, and I hear one of the screws say: ‘Oxy, we’re taking you to the seg, all right? If you resist, it’s only going to hurt you more, cos we’re allowed to use reasonable force. Do you understand me? Do you understand?’
Oxy just yells again. Then he says: ‘My hands – you’re hurting my hands. Get off me!’
Then Davidson shouts: ‘All prisoners back in their cells. I want all prisoners back in their cells, now!’
But I can’t stop staring at Oxy. Even tho he’s mouthing off, there’s tears streaming down his face, and I can see how much pain he’s in. I ain’t never seen Oxy cry before. Someone’s holding his head down, and two of the screws make their way down along the landing and shout: ‘In your cells – get in your cells, now!’
But I can’t move. Someone else protests, and Longman goes: ‘If you don’t get in your cell, I’ll nick ya.’
Then the doors slam. One by one. But I still can’t look away from Oxy.
One of the screws gets to me.
‘Forrester,’ he says. ‘Did you not hear me? In your cell, now. Get back in your cell!’ he shouts.
I take a few steps backwards, and I’m only just inside when the door slams shut in my face. I hear the sound of the key, and he pulls the metal hatch down too. They’ll probably have us banged up for a while now. At least till they get Oxy out of here anyway. I dunno why, but I suddenly feel like my cell is too small, even tho I’ve been in the same one for almost eighteen months. Oxy’s screaming and the sound of the alarm seems so loud – louder than usual.
I start to feel proper hot. I’m sweating and then I feel this rush of emotions, like it’s all too much and I dunno how to handle any of it. Ryecroft, my dad, being banged up in this cell, all the stuff with my mum.
My chest goes tight and I suddenly feel like I can’t breathe. Like I’m about to pass out. I go to the window and I try to breathe in some of the air from outside, but it ain’t enough. My hands won’t stop trembling and I just wanna get out of here. I just want it all to stop. I think about pressing my emergency alarm, but I know it’ll just ring out. Especially now the wing’s on lockdown. Besides, the last time I felt like this, they told me it weren’t ‘an emergency’ and they just shut the hatch. And how can I tell someone what’s wrong when I don’t even understand it myself?
I go over to the shelf by the door, where my kettle is. I pick up the plastic container that I keep my teabags in and I reach my hand inside. I don’t even have the crappy disposable shaver that they give you in my cell any more. Maybe cos part of me was always scared that I’d end up using it again. But, still, it’s like I couldn’t get rid of everything. Like I knew, somehow, that I’d always need it there. I pull out the broken bit from a metal aerial, as the alarms continue screeching around me.
8
It’s been a week since the wing got locked down. I’ve got nine days till I’m released, and we’re back in education now for another one of Malik’s poetry workshops. We’ve only got one more session after this one, before we’re finished completely, and even tho I don’t want Malik’s workshops to end, I’m still gonna keep writing. Oxy’s out of seg, but he decided that he didn’t wanna come any more. There’s a few other people missing as well. That’s just what happens in here tho. People drop out, or change their minds, or get into trouble. I’m looking forward to it and that, but I’m still feeling a bit weird after cutting last week. I just feel… ashamed. Especially after I’d gone so long without doing it.
The past few days, I’ve barely even left my cell. I ain’t really been in the mood for talking. Not even to Dadir, and he’s one of my closest mates. I’ve been reading loads, tho, and writing too. I’ve even finished most of the books I took out from the library as well – Gold from the Stone, Rebel Without Applause, Poor, Adjusted, Search Party. I even read Poor and Search Party twice. I can’t believe I’d never even heard of Lemn, or George, or Caleb before. Their poetry’s kinda like music, and I get why Malik mentioned rap and drill in our first session now too. All I’ve done is sit in my cell with their images and words, and in a way it’s helped me to feel less alone. It’s helped me to feel seen and understood, instead of pushed out. And even tho they ain’t my stanzas, or lines, or words written in those books, it almost feels like I have a voice too. Like it’s there, deep inside of me, and maybe I can use it as well. Even tho I ain’t felt too good, writing’s seemed to help a bit, somehow. Which is funny, cos that was the thing I hated the most at school. This is different tho.
