Alphabet (7 page)

‘What do
you
think?' Barry asks, when he's finished taking notes.

‘I'm asking you,' Simon says.

‘I'd like to ask you something different,' Barry counters.
‘Can you see a difference between killing someone and, as you put it, fucking them?'

‘One of them's repeatable, the other isn't,' Simon says, fast and hard. Oh – throw away the key!

‘Anything else?' When Barry is riled, his mouth puckers up:
looks like an arse, Simon thinks.

‘Not that I can think of right now,' he tells Barry, just for the hell of it. ‘Pass.'

That's when he starts to cry.

‘Sorry,' Barry says, finding the tissues and taking one himself as well, to mop his forehead. ‘I overstepped the mark there.
I'm pushing because I believe in you . . . Can you tell me what is happening now?' He asks, ‘What's going on?' As if I was hidden from you, Simon thinks, under a blanket or something!
I'm blubbing, aren't I? Everyone does it now and then, some more than others . . . though this is a different sort to the ordinary, it's not that kind of lonely, worn-out misery that's an almost physical kind of thing. And there's no frustration or anger in it at all. It's something else.

Barry fiddles with his cigarette lighter, opens his packet of Marlboro with the other hand, discovers that it's empty.

‘Please, Simon, talk to me,' he says. But what can you say about it all, any of it? It's so complicated and joined up to itself, he'd just mess around and make things worse, plus the letters are illegal anyway . . . So he doesn't try; he shrugs and asks about the coffee and they have that and then Barry eventually changes tack and says he's going to leave the service in October, for health reasons, and will be handing over Simon's file to his successor. Congratulations! Simon tells him. They shake, and that's the end of another that.

At odd times the crying keeps coming back. Two days in a row, he looks bad enough to get off work, then he realises that only makes it worse. For Christ's sake, he tells himself, it was only some old cow I'd never even met! Yet all the same, it's like falling backwards into a black pit, and you've got to climb out or you'll be there for ever. Think positive! he tells himself. You're not the only one, he's reminding himself minutes later, because the fact is there's been another suicide, the fourth this year. Simon, collecting with his barrow and shovel, saw them load the dead man into a van on a stretcher, all wrapped up in sheets like something from Tutankamen's tomb. They drove him out; the gates closed behind Leon, the Rasta who was outside Tev's cell that night. There was a bright blue sky and a bit of a breeze tugging the blossom off the invisible chestnut trees outside, blowing it up and over the walls. The smell of diesel lingered, then vanished.

Not my style, he reminds himself. I'm still here, right?
Desperation won't get the better of me. Use it. Ride it like a horse. Think. Find an angle . . . For example, let's say it wasn't a complete waste: I did get somewhere. She liked Joseph; I made him, I was
in
him, somewhere, wasn't I? And I understood her, up to a point. I started to like her. I definitely liked getting the letters. I want more. So – he lectures himself – don't repeat the mistakes that got you to here! Learn! Change!
Don't be proud. Do different, better . . . Cheaper would be good too.

By the entrance to B wing, he puts the barrow down, piles in the shovel and gloves, then strips off his shirt and leans against the wall, feeling the fierce summer sun on his skin. See?
he tells himself, his eyes closed, his head flooded with red light.
See?

9

So: the prisoner number and prison address must be clearly at the top, the envelope is to be unsealed when handed in for post; it will be searched, looked over, and, possibly, read. The replies will be opened and likewise dealt with . . . All of which, in Simon's opinion, sucks, but, then again, think it through: what are they looking for? Witness nobbling, escape plans, drug deals, directions to hidden cash, threats . . . and besides, is it proven that anyone in the censor's office can actually
read
?

In answer to your ad, I'm slim verging on thin but not scrawny, quite supple from practising yoga, aikido and keeping generally fit. Some tattooing, but no broken nose or facial scars, my ears are flat against the side of my head, etc. I look younger than I am (29) and always have done. Clean shaven, five eleven, thick blond hair that curls a bit if I let it grow, clear eyes, tidy eyebrows, firm jaw. One odd detail is that my left eye is brown and my right is blue-grey. I enjoy reading, fitness, and most sports to some degree. I don't smoke, have no personal bad habits to speak of. However, as you will have noticed from the address above, I am one of Her Majesty's guests (not that she visits much), currently serving life. Fair enough if this puts you off. If not, I would appreciate the opportunity . . .

Sod the censor if he decides he wants to read through this sort of thing (and sod Teverson, asking if he wants something posted, then, when he doesn't, suggesting an eighth of blow.
I'm not interested, End of Story! Ask me one more time, and I'll stick you up).

So the letter goes out, legit, written in Dead Normal, to six different box numbers at once. Eleven days pass. Then his name is on the letter list stuck to the landing office window: four replies. Moira, Josephine, Shelley, Tasmin. He could keep them all but he's doing this by the book. Moira is very religious, so she's out, likewise Josephine: overweight, depressed and shy is not very inviting. Shelley is a single mum, twenty-four, two boys, likes running, mistrusts men . . . so
why?
Interesting. It's between her and Tasmin, seventeen, at college in London, who put her ad in as a joke, then forgot about it, but actually likes the sound of him and isn't afraid of what she calls
the heavy stuff
:

I used to be really, really into clothes, clubs all that, but not any more. It's not meaningful. I like poetry. Everyone says I seem older than I am, maybe because of being an only child and always spending time with adults. Mum and Dad work in the media. There was always a nanny or an au-pair. But from when I was five I'd come down to their parties, so I've met famous people and I have travelled a lot but maybe all that gets in the way of understanding Life, which is what I need to do more than anything. So please, write again. I think you are very brave, Simon, to reach out like this. I appreciate your honesty. What is it like in there? What do you do all day? Is there something I can send you? Why are you there? What do you want? Are you guilty, or innocent? Please, tell me everything.

Do different. Don't be proud
, Simon reminds himself, as he makes his way to the blessedly cool chapel, where all God's new wall lights are shining behind their plaster shades, and Cutler is in his full gear. He's a stickler, whereas the local vicar, David Marchmont, wears jeans and doesn't seem to care whether you believe or not. The elderly women who come to help Cutler are always very kind. They wear beige jumpers and a scarf round the neck and smell of lavender and talcum powder; they
keep a box of HobNob biscuits in a cupboard in the dressing room, in exchange for one or two of which Simon is always willing to sweep God's already spotless parquet floor, or get things down from the higher shelves.

‘Would you like some orange squash too?' they ask. In other circumstances they'd put a
Dear
on the end, but not here. Same as no one touches you, in case you think it's an invitation, or in case you haven't been touched in that many years that it blows your mind. It suits Simon just fine.

‘All of the truth, always?' he asks the Reverend Cutler, leaning on his brush. ‘Is that what you are saying the old man up there wants? Is that what you, personally, do?'

‘That's what He wants,' Cutler says, conveniently, Simon thinks, not answering the second part.

‘What counts?' he asks: what about not picking up the phone so as to avoid speaking to someone? Withholding facts to avoid trouble, or so as to get things your way? What about telling the truth if it hurts or upsets someone? What is the truth anyhow – are the bare bones enough, or have you got to go the whole way to make it count? Our conscience is there to guide us, Cutler says.
What about a just war, Simon asks – they've discussed just wars on a previous occasion. Suppose you've been taken prisoner and are asked by the enemy to give information which would hurt the just cause? Something very basic, requiring just a yes or no answer:
Do you lot have much ammunition left?
No torture need be involved. There's a pause, during which he looks Cutler up and down and notices he has a shaving cut on the edge of his jaw and a stain, ketchup or some sort of sauce, on his cassock.

‘You have plenty of philosophy,' Cutler says, ‘but it's not what you need.' The biscuit Simon bites into, using one hand to catch the crumbs, tastes unexpectedly delicious.

‘What about the example, though?'

‘I would remain silent,' Cutler says. There is silence, as if he is proving the point. They look at each other, know that if they were both on the wing they'd be going for each other by now.
Simon forces a laugh back. This week's lady, Dorothy, clears her throat.

‘You have to be honest to someone or something, Simon,' she says in a watery, whispery voice. ‘It can't be in the abstract.
Be honest to God and you won't go far wrong.' She is sitting down to polish the cross, looking at him to see if her words have got through, and smiling, smiling – smiling, maybe, he thinks, so as to show how good it feels once you've handed over your brain.

He smiles quickly back, then asks Cutler, ‘Can I give you a more specific example?'

‘Welfare is probably the best place for that,' Cutler says.
‘Dorothy and I have work to do.'

H is for honesty. You have to be prepared to try new things:

I am here because I killed my girlfriend. I did it but pleaded not guilty on legal advice. Like any such story, it is a long one. I will leave it at that for now.

As for what I am looking for, I don't have any family. Of course there's plenty of people around, this is not a private place, but they are like me or worse or else they are in charge of me. So I am really interested to make contact with people whose lives are not like mine. Especially women, because I have problems relating to them. Well, if you have need of a friend, or just information about how the other half lives, I am happy to do what I can. I envy you being at college. In the past I have studied for a variety of exams, from O levels to RSA typing, which I know is unusual for a man. I peaked at 60 w.p.m., but since then have not had access to a machine. I do have a radio. It has to run on batteries since there's no power supply in cells. I take daily exercise unless there is a staffing crisis. Every other week I get to a martial arts class. I also practise yoga exercises and breathing.

The reply comes quickly, almost too quickly. She must be answering as soon as she gets his, writing back the very same night.

Dearest Simon

Total openness is what I believe in, and anyway, I hope it won't put you off if I say that what I want is something deep: to find my other half and feel complete, like Plato says. If it does put you off, then it wasn't right to begin with. I have had a few of the other sort of purely physical relationship but I want something different now. I did use to do drugs at parties but a friend died, actually it was in all the papers, now I'm steering clear of that scene and only into natural highs. I believe there are always reasons for anything. We are all human beings. Also I believe that a person rebuilt from the ruins must be stronger than one that's never had much to deal with. There is good and bad mixed in everyone and in everything that happens. Do you know the Tarot? Even the hangman's card is a good one because an end is a beginning too. So please, tell me what happened. Everything. How else can I get to know you?

Does he want to be
known
? The letter, on softly flecked pale pink paper sits in its matching envelope, in the shoe box. At the same time it fills up the whole of his head. It's not long before he replies:

My probation officer who has just retired also wanted me to tell him everything. I never felt he would know what to do with it if I did. I believe it is more important to go forwards than to look back, particularly on dreadful things. Telling you everything would be difficult to do, for many reasons. It would take a very long time, pages and pages. Also, Tasmin, you cannot know quite what you're in for and you might regret asking. So – why not tell me some more about
you!

That's just two reasons, not
many
. She might notice, or she might not. As for him: he can always not reply, and she can't come knocking on the door. So, it's just before 7 a.m. and he's sitting here, half-lotus, wrists on knees, hands upturned. The letter is addressed and stamped, first class. There's a nice soft slice of light beginning to come down through his window, and a feeling of possibility: he doesn't know what'll happen next, but it won't be that bad and it could even somehow be tending towards good . . . it's a feeling, almost, of luck.