Cages, p.9
Cages, page 9
‘… the book that’s out at the moment, RedGreen, is essentially about a feeling of intense, concentrated empathy: a character who feels in several dimensions all at once, who hears in colours – who looks at a sharp object and can feel it manifesting physically in needlepoints down the backs of her legs …’
Annabeth gives Rufus her attention again; turning her back on the blowtorch attentions of Cox’s dark, staring eyes. Facing away from him, his glare becomes a feeling on the back of her neck: the slow, stalking footfalls of an ice-cold spider. She feels the hairs stand up on her arms. Feels suddenly cold, uncomfortable, as if her hair is being pulled at the roots; as if there is something grating, inexorably, into the soft parts of herself. She tells herself to ignore him. That she’s an adult, a mother; a prison officer tipped for a bright career. She’s dealt with him, and his type, before. But the fear is real. He doesn’t look at the person she portrays at work. It is as if he is looking at the person she was, years ago, when those things were done to her, and she had to fight back. She has the sudden and absolute feeling that he knows. That he has seen what she has endured. Seen what she has done.
‘… of course, character is everything. There seem to be authors today for whom the notion of somebody’s character is their hairstyle and the model of their car. I, for one, would hate to be reduced down to something so fleeting and incidental. Character is so much more than that. Look at Holden Caulfield in The Catcher in the Rye. Sensitive, intuitive, appalled by the ugliness of the world, and yet his manner is jaded. Cynical, even. That is a human being, not a character in a book. We are all inconsistencies and doubts, poor decisions and temper tantrums; moments of kindness, moments of weakness, peculiar, trivial, selfish …’
Annabeth wants to listen. Wants to lose herself in his enthusiasm for his subject. Cox is spoiling things for her. Baiting her. Goading her, without saying a word. She wants to yell something at him. To tell him to pay attention, or to stop bloody staring, but she doesn’t want to interrupt Orton while he’s in full flow. The rest of the class seem to be going with him, appreciating his passion for the subject even if not fully understanding what he’s talking about. She takes the opportunity to throw a savage glare at Cox. He’s not even looking. He’s eyeing Rufus, with the rest of them, doodling something on his paper without a care in the world.
‘… we’re talking a conflation of the senses – so the things you see are felt on your skin. Imagine that. Just imagine what Julietta experiences every single day. If she sees another person’s injuries, or sees them caressed, or touched, she feels that on her own skin. Every single day, she sees something that triggers waves of pain, making it very hard for her to participate in what we think of as reality. She can’t watch violence, for example. To see torture is to experience torture. And yet when she watches something positive – she’ll watch ballet, and feel as if she is pirouetting. It’s uncontrollable. It’s called “mirror touch synaesthesia”. And in essence, the whole book came about because I thought “what if?” …’
He stops for a moment. Becomes aware of himself. Gives a self-deprecating little smile and pushes his hair out of his eyes. Flicks a look at the clock.
‘Golly, I do prattle on, don’t I? No wonder the critics say that I’m somewhat fond of myself. Perhaps if we stop for a moment and I can let you all have a turn – learn a little about you, so we can come up with some exercises that will be of particular use—’
‘I’ve got a question.’
Heads turn, noses wrinkle. It’s Cox. He puckers his lips, using forefinger and thumb to wipe the edges of his mouth. He angles his head, a bird hearing a worm.
‘Well, there’ll be plenty of opportunities, but sure, if something’s just occurred—’
‘Do you feel what your characters feel? I read that for a character to be authentic, to be believable, there must be some element of lived truth within them. Some part of the author. Each character, from the smallest cameo walk-on to the main series protagonist and antagonist, they are all elements of the author’s inner life. I ask, because I read your third book. I was drawn very much to the housemaster character. Mr Deacon, I believe. Weak. Vulnerable. Cruel. Perverted, in the eyes of some. Rent asunder by the conflicting urge to coddle the boys in his care and to bend them to his will; repelled by his own reflection apart from when he is involved in acts of brutality with a victim. It was, I confess, quite harrowing. Where, might I ask, would such a character come from. And do you feel the same affinity for the abuser, as the abused, in that passage. I ask, essentially, whether you wrote those scenes while curled in a foetal ball, or tumescent with unspent vigour.’
There is a pause as the rest of the class digests this. Orton gives a quiet laugh. Callan leans to the younger inmate to his left, and whispers, none-too subtly, ‘Tumescent means “hard-on”.’ Suggs, hearing this, gives a disgusted groan.
‘Miss. I can’t be sitting here listening to this – why’s he even here, why’s he fucking here …?’
The rest of the class joins in, turning on Cox and demanding to know why he’s being a prick. It’s almost as if they are embarrassed to be shown up: humiliated by any notion of association with such a vile specimen.
‘Sorry, mate,’ says Swift, a middle-aged accountant who broke his neighbour’s leg with a golf club when he made an inappropriate remark about his wife. ‘Just ignore him, he’ll slither off back to the VPs at lunch …’
‘It’s fine, it’s fine,’ says Orton, keeping it light. He gives Cox an appraising glance. Smiles, as if enjoying the sudden intellectual challenge. ‘Cox, was it?’
‘Yes, Rufus. And may I say, I thought the use of the phrase “plummy, tortured and toothless” was particularly unnecessary. Some of these critics are just out to make themselves look good.’
Orton sticks his tongue in his lower lip. Closes an eye. Nods. He understands, Annabeth can tell. This is the battle that will set the tone of what’s to come.
‘Well, Mr Cox.’
‘Griffin, please …’
‘Well, Mr Cox, I admire your question. I admire the frankness of it, and your own courage for asking it in such an environment. And I agree, yes, that every character should contain an element of the author, however vile that character may be. Characters need to be multi-dimensional. They need to have a believable psychology. I believe that most everyday people can conceive of truly terrible deeds and perhaps even the reasons behind them. That truth feeds into the character and informs their actions. The skill to being a functioning member of society is in not giving in to such impulses.’
Annabeth wonders if she should jump in. Wonders why he can’t see the trap he’s walking into, so wide-eyed and innocent he should be wearing a red cape.
‘A little harsh, Rufus, wouldn’t you say? You’re essentially saying everybody has the same base impulses but only the weak-willed give in to them. Brave words, in a room full of convicts.’
The eyes turn on Rufus. He swallows. Flashes a smile. Looks to Annabeth for help. She begins to stand.
‘The last thing I am doing is passing judgement on anybody in this room. I’ve made it my business not to enquire about the past misdeeds of anybody here …’
‘You’ll have heard of me,’ boasts Hawkes, an energetic young car thief from Warrington. ‘Stole a fucking baby, didn’t I? Nicked a Cavalier from a petrol station forecourt and didn’t know there was a nipper in the back ’til I was forty miles away!’
Laughs all round, as if this could have happened to anybody. Suggs doesn’t join in.
‘You’ll know Cox,’ he says, his voice cutting through the hubbub. ‘Kiddy fiddler. They reckon he’s done loads of them. Be a cold day in hell before they let him out. Coppers are back every few months trying to get him to admit to this and that. Dirty bastard. Somebody should fucking shank him.’
‘That’ll do, Suggsy …’
Cox puts up his hands in surrender. Sits back. Licks his lips. He’s enjoyed himself.
Rufus breathes out. Annabeth tries to catch his eye, to check he’s OK, to see if any of the past few minutes has rattled him. If it has, it doesn’t show.
‘So, before we have our little break, I’m going to tell you what we’ll be up to. Just to get a sense of who we all are, the different energies we’re all bringing, I want you to complete a simple writing assignment. Just write about a safe space, OK. Somewhere that, in your mind, you would associate with comfort. I understand that your present accommodation means the task could be considered a little cruel, but I’m presuming that you spend a lot of time thinking your way out of these walls. Creative writing starts with creative thinking. So, let’s take a few moments just to chat, run a few ideas around with your chums here, and then we’ll start writing, yes? You all have pens, paper … good …’
Annabeth breathes out, relieved. At once the room becomes alive with chatter: men knocking about bawdy jokes about feeling comfortable with somebody’s legs wrapped around their face, or feeling at their best propping up the bar in the White Horse. She is about to use the hubbub as a cover to chat with Rufus, to see if he’s doing OK, when she notices him walking over to Cox. He leans down. Whispers in his ear. Stays there, bent over, for several moments. When he straightens up, there is a red welt on the back of Cox’s wrist. Though he tries to hide it, pain is etched on his face.
Orton turns away from him as if nothing has happened. Smiles, as he witnesses the class engaging in the topic. Seeks out Annabeth and catches her eye. Gestures at himself, with a mock arrogance, that says, ‘I did this’.
She looks back to Cox. He’s looking at the back of his wrist. Staring at the livid red welt as if not quite believing it.
And he is smiling.
Grinning, inanely, as if listening to a joke nobody else can hear.
She crosses to his table. Looks down at what he has doodled on the paper.
Feels her heart clench; her insides turn cold.
He’s drawn a snow globe.
‘Like it?’ he asks, his eyes hypnotic, his face inches from hers.
And she is eighteen, again. Bloodied and weeping, trapped beneath the unmoving bulk of the man she has just stabbed through the neck.
ELEVEN
They’re looking at him as if he’s about to sing. Eyebrows up, pencils poised over clean, lined pages. Christ, if he’d known criminals were this eager to learn, Rufus would have sacked off universities and their lifeless, dead-eyed English students years ago. Sure, Karen the librarian is busy scribbling something more important than he is on her big A4 pad, but everybody else wants to know what Rufus Orton – a man who went from a rising star to yesterday’s darling without noticing anything very much in-between – is about to say. He likes it. Likes it a lot. He’ll hate himself later for basking in such unmerited adulation, but for now, he just likes having an audience.
They’ve had their coffees. Had their biscuits. He didn’t get a chance to chat with Annabeth as she was off doing something in the offices during the break, but she arrived back just as the second session was about to begin. He’s glad. This is the bit he prides himself on. He might be shit at almost anything, but he knows he puts on a good show.
‘Character’s not a difficult area to get right, provided you’re even slightly interested in human beings,’ he says, perched on the edge of the desk and addressing his comments to the room in general rather than a specific student. The last thing he wants is to make anybody uncomfortable, though he wouldn’t object to another opportunity to butt heads with Griffin Cox. He feels him on the periphery of his vision, sitting there and giving off a fog of bad energy: a compost heap on a hot day.
‘If you’ve had one meaningful conversation in your lives, you can create characters who are fully formed: real people, with flaws and dreams, regrets and secrets. It’s like building a snowman. You start with a snowball, and you roll it and roll it and it becomes bigger and more human until soon you’re looking at something that deserves a face and a name. Watch.’ A smile, to the group: a clown about to twist a balloon into a rude shape for the children. ‘I’ll show you.’
He glances at Annabeth. She’s staring at him as if studying a painting.
‘I’d like to introduce you to somebody,’ he says, smiling. He shifts his position and waves into the empty air to his right. ‘This is John,’ he says.
‘You’re off your box, mate,’ smiles Mings, with a grin, and is shushed at once by a hard stare from Callan: his eyes looking like they could cut a hole through a bank vault.
Rufus rubs his hands together. Presses on.
‘I won’t ask you to say hello because he can be a bit shy, can John, and he has a tendency to blush when he’s anxious. It’s a bit of a disability. He’s got Irish blood, you see, on his mother’s side. A tendency to freckle in the sun. Sweats a lot so he’s always paranoid that he’s giving off a bit of a whiff. Over-compensates. Splashes on the aftershave until it’s a bit overpowering. Big brown eyes that make him seem a bit soft – the sort of chap who might like to stay out of trouble rather than throwing himself in. Clever lad, is our John, though he doesn’t push it forward. Big reader. Loves the poetry of Seamus Heaney and can recite it from memory, though he’s got nobody to recite it to. Lost his wife, God rest her. Three months after the honeymoon and the doctors told her that she wasn’t going to make it to their first anniversary. Broke John, so it did, but she was determined to make the best of her last few months. Told John to take out the biggest loans he could so they could have the holiday of a lifetime. Sad thing though, John’s credit rating was shot to shit. His dad – bit of a wrong ’un. Been using his boy’s name to swindle credit cards. So John couldn’t give his dying wife what she wanted …’
‘Poor bastard,’ mutters Mings, at the front of the room, and nobody takes the piss.
Rufus alters his posture. Enjoys knowing that everybody here is now emotionally invested in a fictional character he’s making up as he goes along.
‘But John here had a friend, who had a friend, who knew somebody that could help him out. Said he could have ten K in his pocket within the hour. No contract. No further discussion. No details about repayment rates or deadlines. Just a gesture that could enable John and his missus to make some memories before the end. He took it, of course. Took the money. Booked a break. Cruise to all the lovely spots his wife had dreamed of. Gave her the trip of a lifetime. Came home three weeks later to find that he had missed the first repayment. There was interest on top. Interest on top of that, too. His pal didn’t want to take his calls. And then there was a guy on his doorstep, wanting to explain the gravity of the situation …’
Rufus gives a theatrical shift of position. Points to the empty air to his left.
‘Come on, I’m not doing all the work here,’ he teases. ‘Who’s this chap?’
There is much shuffling and sitting up straight. He can hear dormant imaginations being stretched like tight hamstrings.
‘Doesn’t have to be a chap,’ says Callan, with a shrug. ‘A collector’s a collector, and blokes aren’t as likely to take a swing at a lass, in my experience. Good enforcers, women.’ He glances at Annabeth. Gives a little nod of respect. ‘Worth their weight in gold.’
There are titters and assorted respectful chuckles from the group. Annabeth smiles. There’s something delightfully sincere about it: a guileless moment of pure pleasure that makes him want to know her better. What had the bloke said on the walk across from reception? A bit of an enigma, our Annabeth. He finds himself wondering whether it would take a tiresome amount of unpicking for her to unravel. Dislikes himself for it at once.
‘OK, we have a lady on his doorstep,’ says Rufus, standing up. ‘What’s her name?’
‘Nicola,’ shouts Suggs. ‘Never met a Nicola who wasn’t a bit nuts …’
‘Jasmine,’ says an older inmate: lank grey hair dangling down to dandruff-speckled shoulders. ‘Posh lass gone bad, maybe. Did a bit of kick-boxing when she was at boarding school and when her dad lost all his money she joined the Army. Got an injury and the pension wasn’t what she expected so she’s teaching fitness full time but doing some collecting on the side …’
Rufus claps his hands, grinning. ‘She sounds superb, sir. Top of your head or somebody from your own circle of friends?’
‘Bit of both,’ he shrugs. ‘Lass at our local I’ve never spoken to, but I’ve looked at her plenty. Tried to work her out.’
‘Awesome,’ says Rufus, and looks around for the whiteboard, paper and pens. Flips over to a clean page. Starts to scribble illegible notes.
‘We happy with Jasmine?’ asks Rufus, to the room in general. ‘Anybody got another idea? Does the name make a difference? Do we have a different idea about somebody called Shaniqua to somebody called Agnes? Does the name inform the character or does the character inform the name?’ He looks at Annabeth. Smiles, bringing her in to the discussion. ‘Annabeth,’ he muses, then looks around at the inmates, pretending to have slipped up. ‘Sorry, sorry, don’t know if they know you have a first name. Miss Harris. What do you think? Would you be the same if you were called Pauline? Sharon? Moon-unit? Let’s imagine you’re called Morgana Morningstar, or Raven Beachbuggy, or somesuch. Would you still be working in a prison? Would it be an act of rebellion against the Bohemian parents who saddled you with their hippy beliefs and tree-hugging claptrap?’
To Rufus’s surprise, Annabeth doesn’t return the smile. Just gives a tight-lipped shake of the head – an instruction to move on.
‘So …’ he mumbles, trying to recover his thread. He hadn’t meant to upset her. Begins to worry at once that he has gone too far. Decides to try and make her laugh. Nobody can be cross when they’re laughing, he tells himself, as he so often does. He just needs to keep at it. ‘So, yeah. This is character. This is all about how to make people more than one-dimensional cut-outs. It’s about real people. Real lives …’
