David Mathew - O My Days

No one kicks off in the Cookery class. Kicking off in Cookery means the class is cancelled, and for some of us its the only good meal of the week. So there are consequences. Naturally enough, the D responsible gets a battering later on. That stands to reason. But far worse than getting twisted up is the cold shoulder the brother receives for the duration of the Cookery ban. Some rudeboys cant handle that at all. They cant stand not being spoken to; cant stand the pantomime reactions, the dilated nostrils, that suggest a bad aroma has wafted over. Anyone busted? the D will hear.

Roller really should have known better. The Gov goes for the bell, and he moves fast for someone so hench; I feel the air whip past my ears. I turn. And Rollers got Meaney in a headlock; hes pounding the brothers head with a rolling pin. No expression on his face. No build-up to the incident, no bickering, no beef. Its like someones flipped a switch. It happens from time to time, but not in the Cookery class.

Theres blood on the rolling pin by the time the screws arrive, a couple of seconds later. Were all shouting, Allow it, bruv, Allow it, cuz, but Roller keeps on rolling. Doesnt hear us. Doesnt hear how desperate we are not to lose our bangers n mash or our chicken terrine every week. Even doing the fucking theory worksheets is worth it if it means a Wednesday apple crumble or cauliflower cheese.

Allow it, blood! Im screaming.

Just as quickly as it began, it ends. Roller loses interest and starts blinking away some tears. He releases Meaney. Brother falls to the floor in a jellyfish heap. Theres blood on his face like a Balaclava. Roller looks confused, even as the screws start to twist him up. They are surprised that he doesnt fight back. We all are. The screws dont like it; theyre not used to passivity or playing possum. Their confusion lends them energy and malice. What would normally have waited until an unfortunate accident during Sosh or after the evening meal is executed, there and then. They twist him up something different. So much so that the Gov is going again for the panic bellto stop this new scuff.

It doesnt happen. Activity ceases. There are two broken bruvs on the Cookery Room floor; six inmates looking stunnedI count myself among this number, and if I dont look stunned I certainly feel it; a hush in the air, of dust settling, maybe; and a dreadful smell tickling the hairs in my nostrils. My bacons burning, my eggs are turning brown; how the fuck has that happened in a hot minute? Its going weird.

O my days! someone says.

Then the fun starts again. Food is burning in three or four frying pans; an oven is belching out dense burps of smoke. The fire alarm squeals. The screws radios begin bleatingand then comes the bit that makes Ray, the Cookery Gov, pale visiblylike hes just been shankedand that guys old school and hes been in the army.

Simultaneously the two screws lean down, one over Roller and one over Meaney; and do you know what? Its horrifying. In the smoke, the pong and the din, do you know what? Those screws lips the co-Ds.

Swear down. Mouth-to-mouth kisses. They lips the brothers and the scuff re-commences, and no one knows what to do. Rays veiny thumb-pad hits the bell. We should dust, Im thinking; we should get the fuck into the corridor. Theyll come in charging. The afternoons flavour has changed; Ive never tasted it before. I dont know if I like it or I dont.

Someone sighs. O my days! the cuz breathes.

O my days! someone answers. O my days!

Man! When man get to Big Man Jail, well, man! That when man know man blessed, rudeboy. Man know it and man allow it.

Its Ostrich talking. We call him Ostrich because of the length of his bird. Hes a lifer. Murder. A Johnny-99, full stretch. Chair leg to cranium.

Man, he is mumbling on.

Me? My bird is five years. Wounding with Intent. It couldve been worse. I say, Why, Ostrich-man? Big Man Jail tough. This is sick.

This aint sick, Ostrich contends. This is explosive.

Twos on that, I add, hoping to change the CD. Im referring to the burn that hes pinchingoddlybetween third and fourth fingers. He hands me the cigarette. I drag. Hand it back.

Ostrich is still in happy-clappy land, in his head. Me own duvet. Me own cloze, he says. Me this. Me that.

Twenty-four seven bang-up, I say.

That noise, rudeboy.

Were outside, although its cold. Why not? You live in a box, you want to be unwrapped, time to time. There in our grey sweats, with our burns. And Im longing for Canteen, Friday morning. Ive earned well this month and I should be eligible for a new pack of burn and a bash mag.

What you make-a this morning? I ask Ostrich. Cookery, innit. That time ting. It was put on peculiar.

Man? says Ostrich. Like I dont even know. Are you listening?

Im listening.

Time went long. Yeah. Difficult.

Allow it, cuz. Time went devious innit. Allow it again.

Who that? asks Ostrich.

I look up. And here he comes, five foot and a squirt of shit, and hes in He-Man pyjamasblue and yellowfor trying to escape from the previous jail. Three-man escort, fully-armed. Im impressed, blood.

Hes a fish. Name of Dott, I tell Ostrich. Tell you more if you twos me on a burn. If not, ask the chaplain on Friday. Im going back in to play pool.

He the fish? Ostrich goes on. Thought he be a hench motherfucker.

Hes the size of a poodle.

Its at moments such as these that you start to get a grip on how the screws, the Ed.U Govs, the Health Care staff and others form an opinion about the collective psyche of the members of a non-voluntary club such as ours. Because Ostrich says, That squirt? Fourteen women?

Lifed off, I tell him.

Man, Ostrich says disgusted. Man shoulda known better than to stop at four, man, he says. Man knew man was only breaking cherry.

I accept the offer of his tiny burn. What you mean? I ask cautiously.

Theres three man no man know about, rudeboy, Ostrich tells me.

And I guess thats where it all begins.

Seven-thirty in the a.m. and Im awake a long time before I need to be. I bash one out, using whatever porn I havent lent out in return for burn or for a favour, and I sit at my desk with my beads in my hands. I pray. I contemplate the day: Thursday.

Im looking forward to next Tuesday in the same way that I always do, and it seems like a distance, blood. But its a mark. Tuesday is the day I get to meet the new fish in the pond, traditionally: unless they are deemed unsuitable for interaction with other prisoners (for whatever reason; for protection for them or for us), or unsuitable for interaction with the staff. There are some I dont get to meet as theyre immediately strapped into Health Care, into Suicide Watch, into Maximum Segregation (going down block) or the worst of the worse: to the Puppydog Wing. If I have to, Ill talk about that at a later date. I havent had my breakfast yet and my stomach is still queasy from yesterday and from a bad sleep on what sometimes feels like a bed of rusty nails. Feeling sick, I wait for unlock.

The screws make no attempt to take you by surprise. Thats what happens at some of the remand centres Ive known: they creep to a certain lucky someones door. They flip back the peep slot. Catch you bashing, youre falling down a flight of stairs sometime. Me, Im staring at the metal door and waiting first for the movement of heavy feet, and then the club on the frame. Quite often they dont even bother to open the slot.