Staying Alive Read online

  ‘Unfortunately, no. That’s why I wanted to talk to you.’

  He put his head on one side. The grey stubble on his chin caught the light and his thin grey hair slipped untidily across his head. He then straightened up and his sharp eyes bored into me. ‘What do you want to know?’ His voice was now more accommodating. Not friendly, but the hostility had diminished.

  ‘Anything that you can tell me.’

  ‘Um, generally, it’s considered a reading disorder. Pupils with it can’t read so they’re disruptive in school and that leads to exclusion and that leads to criminal activity and that leads to prison. Tell me about the ones you think may be affected.’

  ‘Well, there’s –’

  ‘Whoa, not their names!’

  ‘Sorry. They all seem very bright – actually, one of them isn’t. The two that seem bright have good verbal skills and have good social skills. They participate well in discussions and one of them is very good at thinking laterally and solving problems. He can also see the big picture.’

  ‘What do you mean by that?’

  ‘Now that’s difficult. No, he seems to be able to move past the detail and put it in a broader context and he sometimes thinks into the future.’

  ‘That’s fairly common with dyslexics. Apparently it’s to do with using the right-hand side of the brain.’

  ‘Why can’t they read?’

  ‘Now that’s a very good question. There are three schools of thought: some think the pupils are just unintelligent or lazy, some think the condition doesn’t really exist and some think it’s a disorder, the bits of the brain just not linked up properly. There’s a new theory that it’s about the way the eyes move but I don’t really know much about that.’

  ‘Your view?’

  ‘You don’t hold back do you?’ He gave a thin smile. I was winning him over. ‘Mostly it’s a disorder but some pupils, very few, are just unintelligent, you may have one of those, and many are just lazy, but the disorder definitely exists.’

  ‘So what do I do?’

  ‘I wish I knew the answer to that one. Look, let me give you some background and then some ideas but what you do with your ones is up to you.’ I nodded and he matched me. ‘Dyslexia is all about the person’s difficulties in processing word sounds. They can say “but”, but they can’t remember the sound to tie it to any symbols. This may be caused by inefficiencies in language-processing areas in the left hemisphere of the brain. That means it can’t be fixed. The person is born that way and will stay that way. Mind you, as you’ve found out, dyslexics are usually above average intelligence. Many dyslexic people learn to read, but have continuing difficulties with spelling. There are of course people whose difficulties with reading aren’t caused by dyslexia like most of your class.’

  ‘So what do I do?’

  ‘There’s no easy answer to that question. We suggested that all the prisoners should be tested and a team brought in to help but, well, people in prison aren’t considered important and getting people to a level where then can function as non-criminals in society isn’t even on the agenda if it costs real money.’ The cynicism dripped from his voice.

  ‘So you’ve no advice for me.’

  ‘Jake, I’ll give you some advice. Use a wooden alphabet to teach the names and sequence of letters. Get them to use their spatial ability and feel the letters with their hands as a translation process. They can feel the letter and move it round, hear the sound and see the symbol. Use pictures and memory hooks for sounds. Do what I hear you’re doing now; that’s make it real and fun. And when you’ve got them started get them to help each other. Sometimes you will have to go slowly because of the confusion between spelling and pronunciation.’

  ‘Such as?’

  ‘Lets take, um, “read” spelt r-e-a-d and r-e-e-d. But r-e-a-d can be said as red and red is a colour so it’s not surprising that reading in English is difficult and spelling is even more difficult.’

  The next day I talked to the class and asked Johno, Liz and Spider to explain what it was like for them. Liz was prepared to talk about it.

  ‘Well what ’appens is, the letters move and jumble up and my ’ead fuckin’ ’urts. Then sometimes I can see the words and I fink they’re gonna stay fixed and they just melt away like they’re not on the page and then they come back. But it’s different in different rooms.’

  ‘Different in different rooms?’

  ‘Yeah, well, in here it doesn’t happen much but in the library or when we were in room 5 it was worse.’

  I understood the problem. This room had natural light through the windows but the library and room 5 were on the other side of the corridor and had no external light, only fluorescent lights.

  The rest of the class just sat and looked at him. These were problems that were like science fiction to them. It was like science fiction to me but I now could guess at a cause.

  Dad said, ‘But, Liz, you’re great at drawing and can make things and if your eyes don’t work you couldn’t do that.’

  ‘I knows,’ said Liz. ‘I can draw fings people talk abart and I can splain pictures but writin’ is differen’.’

  So this was what Mr Cratcher was saying about the processing area in the brain linking the sounds and letter shapes.

  ‘What about you, Johno?’

  ‘I’m not that bad. I can read easy stuff but when I write it’s like Liz says, and I don’t know the letter to write and if I’m told the letter I sometimes can’t remember what it’s like and I sometimes remember and it comes out the wrong way round.’

  ‘What comes out the wrong way round?’

  ‘The letters.’

  ‘You mean a “b” looks like a “d”?’

  He just looked at me in pain. He just didn’t understand my description and I guessed he was feeling stupid. I could have kicked myself.

  ‘Okay, you lot, what we’re going to do is work together. We’re going to stick the letters from the alphabet books onto some hardboard and then we’re going to cut them out. When we have done that we can use them to make words.’ I’d an inkling of where I needed to go but how to get there was my next problem. At least there was now some understanding in the class that not being able to read wasn’t all about being thick. I also wondered how many of the problems some of my class had was to do with eyesight and whether there were any hearing problems. These weren’t the sorts of men that admit to failings such as these. So I decided to talk to the nurse and set up some testing for all of them.

  16

  There was a buzz that prisoners could join up for jogging on the moor. I put my name down and it came out in the draw. The system was simple. We had shorts, vests, socks and trainers and then a waistcoat with an identity beacon of some description sewn into it and the waistcoat was locked on. This meant that if any of us decided to abscond, that was the word the notice used, we would be easy to track. Not only that, we would be just outside the perimeter fence initially so that wasn’t much of an incentive to run off. We were in groups of twelve and it was noticeable that the twelve I was in were extensively strung out by halfway round the first lap and half had given up by the fifth lap.

  A skinny and apparently very fit prisoner jogged up beside me.

  ‘Jake, somebody wants to talk to you.’

  ‘Who?’

  ‘Bennie.’

  Bennie was a long-sentence, Cat A prisoner. He was in for a gangland killing but it was said that he’d killed at least eight times. Despite that, he was articulate, funny, easygoing and was one of the group that spent a lot of time with Peter Jackson. They played bridge and chess and seemed to follow intellectual pursuits. There were about eight of them; two or three were always with Peter Jackson and one of those was often Bennie. I’d often seen Bennie in the gym; he was fast and physically powerful. Not a heavyweight, like Harry, but clearly ‘useful’, that was the term used.

  ‘What about?’

  ‘No idea,’ said the jogger, who I hadn’t seen before.

  ‘When
?’

  ‘Association tomorrow. Walls have ears and no ears within range.’

  Association was a ritual really. The prisoners from two wings were in the yard for about an hour just walking around or sitting on the benches and the benches were scattered around and moved so there were no set positions. Some kicked a ball and some had basketballs and there were three basketball nets so the odd game arose.

  ‘You mean Sergeant?’

  ‘Bennie says anybody.’ The jogger speeded up and was soon way ahead of me.

  I later talked to Harry about the meeting.

  ‘Should be safe at association with just the two of you. Keep walking, make it slow and we’ll track you just in case,’ said Harry.

  The next afternoon at three we were on association. I was chatting with a couple of guys from my newly formed class with Sergeant and Boy Pritchard from D-Wing. Bennie wandered past and I wandered towards the direction he was heading.

  ‘What’s this about, Bennie?’

  ‘You shouldn’t be here.’

  ‘What do you mean?’

  ‘Peasmarsh.’

  ‘I shouldn’t be in any prison. I didn’t kill the FBI guy.’

  ‘Aha, yes, you were supposed to go to Brixton.’

  ‘I did go there and then they sent me here. So what do you want to talk about?’

  ‘A dead major.’

  ‘There isn’t anything to talk about. A sergeant shot the major. The sergeant was found guilty, sent here and executed by somebody.’

  ‘You were part of the defence in the first trial, why?’

  ‘Because the killing was justifiable; the major was high on cocaine and wanted to take the platoon out of the defensive position. When he was told they didn’t have the weaponry to do that he threatened to shoot a sergeant. So the major was shot and killed by Jase Phillips.’

  ‘You know that’s shit, Jake.’

  ‘What’s shit? It’s what happened.’

  ‘He was a killer.’

  ‘Who was a killer? The major or Jase?’

  ‘The major.’

  ‘We were all killers; we were in the army.’

  ‘You’re deliberately not understanding, Jake.’

  ‘Then tell me.’

  ‘You really believe that Jase Phillips killed Major Carmichael to save the lives of some soldiers?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘And why do you think he was killed in here?’

  ‘Because The Family takes revenge.’

  ‘Supposing it was something else.’

  ‘Then tell me and I’ll know. On the other hand, don’t tell me, but either way if I find out who killed Jase, I’ll kill him. I don’t care why Jase was killed.’

  ‘How come you ended up in Peasmarsh?’

  ‘I requested it.’

  ‘From who?’

  ‘As part of the deal to get me repatriated I had to go into a high security prison. I was given a list of prisons and this was the newest. There was also the opportunity that if I came here I could find and kill whoever killed Jase.’

  ‘I don’t believe you.’

  ‘I really don’t care what you believe. I’m here and somebody has a marker on them and when I see it they’re dead.’

  ‘They?’

  ‘Well it may be more than one person and somebody may have told the killer or asked the killer to do it.’

  ‘You would kill the person who gave the order?’

  ‘Oh, yes, but he or she may not be in here, so when I get out I’ll kill the co-conspirator.’

  ‘So that person may decide to take you out.’

  ‘Bring it on, Bennie.’

  Bennie was thinking. He was a good interrogator but lacked experience. I now knew for certain Bennie was closely connected to the killing but didn’t do it. He probably knew who did and who gave the order, so it wasn’t random, and he may have known why it was done; it was something to do with Carmichael being a killer and Jase knew about that.

  ‘Can you tell me why Jase was killed?’

  ‘No, but I’ll tell you that Jase believed something that may or may not have been true. He thought it was true and that’s what got him killed.’

  So, I had a bit more information. It was definitely not about the battle situation; it was about something that Jase believed Carmichael had done. A something that, if it leaked out, meant Major Carmichael’s name would be blackened and perhaps The Family would be in disrepute. It was about a killing or was it more than one killing? I was only a little further on but I was further on. I’d also put myself at risk because I’d said I would kill the killer and whoever gave the order. I knew it wasn’t Mabry and if it was commanded in here I was very vulnerable.

  17

  Inmates around me were D-Wing; laughing, screeching, kicking balls, bouncing balls and flicking them at basketball nets but most intimidating, they were in groups, all knowing each other, and there was me, separated. I hadn’t recognised I’d been separated from my own group. Many around me were black and loud, like the loud black people that I was used to except this wasn’t my turf, protected by my B-Wing colleagues. Prison officers were noticeable by their absence. This was their turf, occupied by them like an invading force, and I could sense it with every step I took. For some, association was walking in a large circle and I could feel a hundred pairs of eyes watching me walk back across the large circle of walking prisoners towards where the majority of B-Wing prisoners were. Four large black men, with Afro haircuts and razor-marked tattoos on their faces, left the circle and stood in my path.

  ‘Are yous, Captain?’ said the one on the left.

  ‘I am.’

  ‘Yous a frien’ o Sergean’.’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘He raised his hand flat in the high-five indication and we slapped.

  ‘Everyting criss, man,’ he said.

  ‘Right on, man,’ I responded. I just hoped it was at least somewhere in the right direction. We started to walk together and suddenly we were faced with a group of eight men. They were white and burly with tattooed arms and necks and shaven heads. The word ‘Hate’ appeared on most of them. The ones I recognised were from B-Wing but mostly they were D-Wing. There were two in front and four in a line behind them blocking my route through to the B-Wing group. Behind the four were another two facing B-Wingers.

  A man joined them and walked to the front. ‘You’re dead, Captain,’ he said. It was Tug Wilson.

  ‘Oh goody, I love new experiences.’

  Tug Wilson was surprised by my response but covered it quickly. Two of the Afro-Caribbeans stepped in front of me, facing the now gang of nine, and two were behind me; the odds weren’t great and the observing prisoners near us moved back.

  ‘Tell you what; let’s make it a fair fight: each of you in turn just against me.’

  ‘Yes, let’s make it a fair fight: we just kill you lot.’ Wilson held up his hand containing a closed knife and nine knives flicked open. They must have been mad; they were in prison and if I were attacked and killed they would spend the rest of their lives there, but why kill me? So I asked.

  ‘Why kill me?’

  ‘Cos you’re a copper and a grass.’

  One of the two at the back spoke. ‘Trouble, Tug.’

  I looked past the group blocking our route to B-Wing at a small advancing group. There was Sergeant, Arthur, Big Fred, Maniac, Robbo, Johno, Liz and Spider. They weren’t all fighters but the numbers made the difference – stalemate.

  Suddenly, there was turmoil from the main building to our right: the sound of feet coming at us at the double and prisoners trying to get out of the way. Six, no seven, prison officers in helmets and riot gear with shields and batons were coming towards us, two lines of three with one in the lead. Prisoners parted, our opposing forces just melted away and I was left with the four happy Afro-Caribbeans with happy, smiling, tattooed faces. The prison officers stopped. Senior Officer James, who had been in the lead, walked forwards.

  ‘What goes on here then, Jake?�
�

  ‘Nothing. Just associating with some new friends, ma’am.’

  ‘Oh you were, were you?’

  The four Afro-Caribbeans laughed with big friendly grins. There was a pathway through the D-Wingers in the yard and we kept walking until we reached the B-Wing group. It was only then that I realised it was raining. Tension does that; it blocks out irrelevancies. Sergeant certainly had respect here and for the first time the separations in the prison were tangible to me. I went into the prison building, climbed the stairs and walked along the corridor to our cell. Another day done and the picture was a little clearer.

  I was walking towards the dining room when I saw Senior Officer James so I went over to her.

  ‘How did you know, ma’am?’

  ‘Know what, Jake?’

  ‘That I was likely to be attacked and I would also be protected.’

  ‘What makes you think we knew?’

  ‘You were in riot gear and that takes time to get into, so you must have been prepared.’

  She smiled. ‘We do have sources of information and sometimes those are surprising.’

  ‘Thank you, Senior Officer James.’

  18

  The bell told us that it was time we were doing something else. My class left except for Dad and Arthur. Arthur was built like Arnold Schwarzenegger with the addition of fists like boulders and battle scars on his face and body. He was a Category A prisoner, having killed three men in a brawl with three punches. Unfortunately, one of them was a policeman in uniform. I looked at the two men.

  ‘Yes?’

  ‘Arty, yer know, needs yer ’elp, Capin.’

  Now, do I reply to Dad, who has made the statement, or to Arthur? Dad was looking at me with an urgent, pleading look that was so unlikely from a man such as Dad: a competent man, an experienced man, a man in his seventies who would be fazed by very little apart from his failing physical abilities.

  ‘How can I help, Arthur?’

  He looked at the ground, clearly embarrassed.

  ‘Arthur, come and sit here, tell me what it’s about and then I’ll say whether I can help or not.’

  ‘You won’t tell, will you?’ said Dad.