Cages, p.8
Cages, page 8
‘Annabeth! We meet at last. Goodness, what a cheerless place! Well-run, you can see that immediately, but frightfully dispiriting. George here was telling me it has its own ghost. How fascinating, and what a boon for our lessons. Do you want to tell me how you’d like to play things or shall we just busk it? I’m rather excited about all this. I did Northallerton when I was starting out but this seems a different kettle of fish, if you’ll excuse the cliché. Actually, remind me of this when we put the punt in the water, would you please? Origins of the word “cliché”. Past passive participle, borrowed from the French and not given back, early nineteenth century, I think. Same period that gave us “saboteur” – the act of throwing a shoe in a loom …’
Annabeth realizes she hasn’t spoken yet. Puts out a hand. Orton shakes it, miming seriousness. She fancies he would have offered a hug were he sure of the rules.
‘You talk as you write,’ she says, shaking her head. ‘Your messages, not your books. It’s like there’s fireworks in your head.’
He grins, delighted. ‘I did warn you. They do say that listening to me talk is like getting molested by a thesaurus.’
‘Do they really,’ asks Annabeth, retrieving her hand.
‘No. They just say I talk a lot of bollocks.’
‘Then you’ll be right at home,’ butts in Hale, and gives a barked laugh as he raises a hand in farewell and stalks back out towards the doors.
Annabeth keeps her eyes on Orton’s as Karen fusses around him, procuring pens and blank paper, exercise jotters and printed worksheets. Annabeth pushes her hair behind her ear. Gets a fleeting whiff of woodsmoke and tobacco. Expensive soap.
‘It’s nice to meet you in person,’ she says, quietly, as Karen momentarily disappears and bustles off towards the noticeboard at the back of the library. ‘She was flapping.’
‘I was here in plenty of time. Got chatting to a lovely young lady on reception.’
‘Neck tattoo?’
‘Yes – Frida Kahlo and arum lilies. Not a reader, apparently, though still intrigued to meet a writer.’
Annabeth rolls her eyes. ‘I rarely get the chance to use the word “incorrigible”. Thanks for the opportunity.’
He doesn’t smile as she had expected him to. He seems to have exhausted his supply of froth and frivolity. He’s turned inwards, darkness in his eyes, as if something is troubling him. He presses his lips together in a bloodless line.
‘Are you all right?’ she asks, her voice soft. ‘Are you OK with this? If it’s the VP, I can still say no. I only said yes because a colleague wore me down. I didn’t think you’d mind. One peep of trouble and he’s out.’
Orton shakes his head. Wrinkles his nose: a child sniffing something unpalatable on a proffered spoon.
‘Bit nervous, truth be told,’ he says. ‘Never very good at getting the rough boys to like me. All seemed very different in my imagination. Rather shitting the old plus-fours now I’m here.’
Annabeth reaches out. Squeezes his forearm. He’s strong. Beneath his soft cords and rugger-bugger wardrobe, he’s made of teak. ‘I’ll be here the whole time,’ she says, and as she speaks she wonders just what she would really like to happen next.
‘You’re littler than I thought,’ he says, looking her down and down. ‘The uniform suits you. Not everybody can shine in polyester.’
Then Karen is back in the doorway, holding out a pristine copy of RedGreen. ‘Would you mind signing this please, Rufus? I adored it. I’ll only forget to ask if I don’t ask now. Then we’ll get you a coffee and crack on, yes?’
He looks momentarily pained. Then he’s back in what passes for character: humble and blushing and fumbling about on the desk for a suitable pen.
Suddenly, she’s worrying. She feels like she’s about to throw a lamb to the wolves.
Wonders what it says about her that she rather wants to know what he will look like when they tear him apart.
NINE
He enjoys making an entrance.
There is something delightful about seeing the heads turn in his direction: big meaty necks rotating like doner meat on a spike. Eyes widening. Hackles rising. It makes him feel as if he is a star taking his turn on the stage: perhaps an A-list singer making an impromptu appearance in a village pub.
Of course it only takes a moment for things to turn. Once they realize who he is, what he is, things quickly sour. The air fills with that certain, indescribable something. It’s primordial: an ancient impulse to fight or flee. He likes watching them make their connections. Sees them remember who they are, and how they are supposed to feel about him. He is Griffin Cox, pervert and killer, even if the courts have never proven it beyond a reasonable doubt. He is the man that the cops call ‘evil’ and whom prison rumour has transformed into the very devil.
The other players in his performance are all ready. All waiting. Sitting at their desks like schoolboys, with their plastic beakers of water and their felt-tip pens. Men with bad posture and spread legs, lounging in hard chairs or leaning forward on folded arms. The youngest, maybe twenty-two. The oldest, white hair and pale skin, maybe eighty, and not long for the world. Cox surveys the room in a glance. Takes them all in. Karen the librarian, ditzy and distracted; all wobbly flesh and flashy colours. The writer, out of place and staring around him like he’s on safari. And Miss Harris, professional and focused. She has gone out on a limb to accommodate his request. Were he the sort of man to remember a favour, she would’ve earned herself a place in Cox’s good graces. But Cox has no good graces. He remembers slights, not courtesies.
Then it begins.
‘Are you fucking kidding me? What in God’s name is that dirty evil bastard doing here?’
‘I swear to God I’ll tear out his eyes …’
‘He’s not on this course is he, miss? I’m not breathing in the same air as that murdering bastard.’
He stands in the doorway, all innocence. Mr Windsor lingers in the hall, trying not to meet anybody’s eye. Miss Harris has been lumbered with this, all so the inmates of HMP Holderness don’t begin to think he has a tattoo congratulating himself on having a sweet perineum.
It’s Suggs whose voice carries the most weight and venom. Suggs who is going to ensure whether the sessions are a success, or the scene of a riot.
Miss Harris stands, cool and casual. Gestures for Cox to come in and take the seat near her own. Cox nods his thanks. Walks, head down, to the plastic seat by the wipe-clean desk, his back half-turned to the rest of the room.
She gives Suggs her attention. ‘Settle down, Suggs, we are all going to play nice. Cox has had his request for inclusion granted and I have sworn that you can play nicely. I know you were very keen to participate in all this, so let’s not spoil it, eh?’
‘But he’s a fucking nonce!’ spits Suggs. ‘He’s a VP! We shouldn’t be anywhere near the sick fucker …’
Cox turns and examines the squat, brutish man who so objects to his presence in the drab classroom down the corridor from the library. He knows very little about him, but feels as though he knows his type. Suggs is a criminal, but in his own mind, he’s not a bad guy. He’s a veritable Robin Hood. He believes himself to be several revolutionary steps up the ladder from the sex offenders, grasses and paedos who people the VP wing. He feels it is his duty to kill or maim such men, so his gaggle of brats on the outside never have to be exposed to such ugliness. Cox has never considered engaging such a man in debate. He has never vocalized his opinion that it is men like Suggs who create men like him. It is the alphas, the big silverbacks, oozing testosterone like blood, who feed the demon in him. Men like Thomas and Rory, the popular boys at school, who saw the weakness in Cox and chose to exploit it for their own gain. Men who wielded their masculinity, their sexuality, their fertility, like a weapon. Men who raped him not because they found him attractive, but because they knew he wouldn’t like it, and wouldn’t tell.
‘I’m sorry, Miss Harris. Perhaps this wasn’t a good idea after all. Mr Suggs here clearly has some poetry in his soul and it would pain me to deny him the opportunity to get in touch with his repressed sensitivities …’
Suggs springs up, fists clenched, shoulders squared. ‘What did you fucking say to me?’
Cox turns away from him, catching the eye of another inmate. He gives a wink. The man, forties and shy, gives a little smile, then looks away, flustered.
‘Steady, Suggs,’ says a large man, seated at the next table. He’s a big lad. Older than most of them. Red-faced and bearded. He’s quiet, but his voice carries an authority. Suggs sits down, grumbling to himself. Cox wonders if this is Callan. He’s heard the name but not yet had the pleasure of meeting the man. He was an armed robber, on the outside. A good one too. Only got caught because one of his crew gave him up when cutting a deal with the police. Callan had to spend a lot of money to get access to the grass. Paid a computer wizard to alter the database so there was no mention on either of their files that they should be kept in different jails. Then he had himself transferred. Was waiting for the grass in his own cell. Beat him to death over the course of nine hours. Cox wishes he had such useful contacts. Were he the sort of man to have dabbled in organized criminality, escape would not prove difficult. A rope over the wall, a mobile phone in a friendly rectum, and he could be a free man within a week. But Cox has no such contacts. This is why escape is going to be all the sweeter.
‘You’re welcome to leave, Suggs,’ continues Miss Harris, holding his gaze. ‘It would be a shame, but we can all just about muddle along without your contributions. It’s just, I’ve seen your letters of complaint about the staff and canteen, and I know you’ve got a lovely turn of phrase. “Twatwaffle”, “cock-blanket” and “sphincter-bandit” are all particular favourites …’
Titters, from the group: pressure escaping from a valve.
‘That’s not fair …’ begins Suggs, looking petulant. He’s probably thirty. Muscled, tattooed and pretty damn fond of himself. He dresses much the same inside as he did before he was convicted: grey jogging suit and flashy white trainers. He’s got tramlines shaved into his short hair and the blood-speckled rash on his neck suggests that he’s fighting a daily battle against the thick dark hair that sprouts out of him like an animal pelt.
‘Excellent, thank you, Mr Suggs,’ says Miss Harris, taking control. She pushes herself away from the desk and walks to the front of the classroom, where the writer is standing, tight-lipped, a little embarrassed smile on his face.
Cox considers him. Knows him. Knows him all the way through. Posh boy. Sensitive. Wordy but useless. Hopeless romantic and a true mishmash of arrogance and self-doubt. Cox has to stop himself from smiling. Congratulates himself, silently, instead. He’s chosen right. Rufus Orton couldn’t be more perfect if Cox had written him himself.
Miss Harris flashes a smile at the writer. Cox sees something in the glance. Something that makes his pulse quicken.
‘So, this is Mr Orton …’
‘I’m fine with Rufus, actually,’ says Orton, pulling a face. ‘Mr Orton is my father.’
‘And Mr Orton, or Rufus, is going to be helping you learn how to write creatively. We are very lucky to have him here. He’s won lots of awards for writing and is one of my own particular favourites. So, give him your attention, listen to what he says, and please don’t dick about.’
Orton stands up, smiling widely, as if he’s just been welcomed on stage at a literature festival. Pulls a hardback book from the satchel at his feet.
‘Well,’ he says, brightly. ‘Where do I begin …?’
Miss Harris takes her place by the door. Stares at him in fascination. Devours him.
Oh yes, thinks Cox, settling back. This is going to be so much fun …
TEN
It doesn’t take Rufus long to find his stride. He stumbles a little while introducing himself, as if he isn’t quite sure which level to pitch his message at, but Annabeth enjoys watching him expertly tune himself in to the correct frequency. She fancies there’s a little battle taking place inside him about which level to pitch at. Whether to impress these new associates; to come across as humble, blokey; one of the guys. But as soon as he begins to talk about books and the art of storytelling, his enthusiasm is infectious. His hand gestures become more animated, his voice full of passion and positivity. It’s like watching an evangelist. She can imagine a gospel choir arising behind him, silky robes and big hair, as he somersaults and backflips his way through a rousing, triumphant codetta.
‘I hear people tell me they don’t have the time to write – then they tell me what they love to read. So, there’s the decision first off. Do you want to continue adoring other people’s work, or is the need to create your own more pressing? Do you just love stories, or do you need to tell your own? That’s the first question. Because if you have time to read, you have time to write. If you have time to watch TV, or play some game on your phone, or hit the gym or play five-a-side with your chums, then you have the time to write. But if you don’t have an absolute and all-consuming desire to do so, then don’t do so.’
Clayton Mings, a shoplifter from Newquay who stole a doctor’s briefcase while off his head on spice, tentatively raises a hand. He’s a scabby specimen; flaky skin and misspelled tattoos, but he’d been one of the first to put his name down when Annabeth first posted the notice on the library wall. He wants to write children’s books, so he says.
‘Yes, mate,’ says Orton, making guns with his hands. He’s bringing a lot of energy today. Annabeth wonders if he will sustain it, or drop before lunch.
‘What if you really want to write but you can’t work out which of your ideas you should be working on? Like, I’ve got this one story …’
‘Aw here we go,’ grumbles the man to his right. Ibrahim Curtis, a drug courier from Malton in North Yorkshire, is Mings’s cellmate.
‘Don’t start,’ mutters Mings.
‘He’ll get to it. You’ve always got to make it about you …’
Annabeth lets them grumble. They bicker like a married couple but it never goes further than that. She catches Orton’s eye and is delighted to receive a fleeting wink. He’s enjoying himself.
‘… every bloody night he’s whispering to himself like he’s praying, but nobody prays about dragons and goblins, do they? I mean, that’s not what you want to hear when you’re on the bottom bunk and your new padmate’s talking about exploding planets and upside-down volcanoes and shit …’
She tunes them out. Uses the opportunity to scan the room. They’re listening, there’s no doubt about that. That, in itself, is a victory. Everybody is staring at Orton and a couple of the inmates are even suppressing the urge to raise their hands or shout out. They remind her of children, in many ways: over eager and desperate to get it right, but afraid of their own baser natures. She wishes she had been in the job years back, when prisoners were given access to endless courses and educational facilities aimed at helping them use their time inside wisely. There’s no funding for that now. When she proposed bringing Orton in as a visiting creative writing tutor, she’d had to make a pitch outlining the investment-to-outcome ratio of the sessions, and even then, she’d known herself to be fighting an uphill battle. The accountants in the education department had told her the whole thing was a non-starter. She had to go above their heads to make it happen, applying to a charity on the outside for the funding to host the sessions, and promising to promote their involvement in an article with the local newspaper and the prison magazine. Even with the funding in place she had to get tough with a few people to make sure there were enough attendees to not look stupid. She’d all but bullied one or two into attending, convincing them this would look good at their next parole hearing, and promising them that going to sit in the classroom and listen to a visiting author would be like spending the day in a comedy club. She’s finally starting to relax.
‘… and “what if” are the most fascinating, inspirational and exciting words in the English language. What if, tonight, you could hear what was being said in the cell next door? What if you could witness the home lives of the officers? What if, you woke up tomorrow and you were a cockroach – that’s where all literature, all stories, begin to smoulder …’
‘I’d love to hear what was going on in Miss Harris’s room, Rufus!’
‘I’m sure you would, Swifty! Wahey!’
‘OK, OK, settle down …’
As she scans the room, she becomes slowly aware that she is, herself, being surveyed. She feels the strange prickling hotness of being the subject of somebody else’s attention, as if in the glare of a hot bulb.
Slowly, she turns herself into the full glare of the gaze. It’s Griffin Cox. He’s looking at her. Looking past Orton and considering her as if she were a painting on the wall of a gallery. He keeps turning his head this way and that, trying out different angles, staring into her as if trying to see every individual brushstroke and whorl.
Annabeth looks away, instinctively. She can hold the gaze of any prisoner on the main wings but she feels like a timid little girl when confronted with the very worst of the VPs. She sees so little of what they portray to the world: sees only the fibrous, worm-eaten thing that lives inside their flesh. She never wants to work on the nonce wing. Doesn’t trust herself around people like Cox, even while she tells herself that she must be professional and that no one abuser can serve as a proxy for any other. He is not the man who did those things to her. None of them are. That man is gone, just like the one who tried to take her child. She had to lie to even secure her place on the training course. Had to tell them she’d never been in trouble with the police or been the victim of any acts of criminality that could have provided an ulterior motive for her application. She guards her confidences fiercely. Cocoons her past. And yet the way Cox looks at her, it is as if her every sin and secret was carved into her flesh.
