Staying Alive Read online

  ‘Tell who? Tell what?’

  ‘Anybody, anyfin.’ They were both looking at me, very concerned.

  ‘No I won’t tell anybody anything.’

  They still didn’t look sure.

  ‘Honestly, I won’t tell anybody.’

  ‘Go on, tell ’im, Arty,’ said Dad.

  Arthur shook his head. ‘You do it.’

  ‘I’d like one of you to tell me something.’

  Dad spoke. ‘When Arty was small, ’bout ten or eleven, he could read. They ’ad a new teacher, a woman. She was young and, you know, had tits and everythin’.’

  ‘Aha, so Arthur kind of liked her.’

  ‘Well yeah.’ There was a silence.

  I looked at Arthur. ‘What happened?’

  ‘She give us a new differen’ readin’ book,’ said Arthur.

  This was slow. There was a lot of emotion involved. What was surprising was that both Dad and Arthur were showing it.

  ‘And then what happened?’

  Tears started to roll down Arthur’s cheeks. This giant of a man, this man who many were just plain terrified of, just sat there, head bent forward, hands clasped in front of him and tears running down his face. His nose had a drip on the end that grew and threatened to drop off but determinedly clung there.

  ‘Dad, stand by the door and don’t let anybody in. Better still, wedge it with a chair.’ Dad just looked at me as if he didn’t understand. Then he saw the tears and moved fast. I moved my chair in front of Arthur so our knees were a couple of inches apart. ‘Okay, Arthur, I’m going to help you. You must look at me.’

  He raised his emotion-torn face.

  ‘Look me in the eyes.’

  Arthur raised his head and looked at me. His eyes were large and watery and the tears ran down his cheeks. He looked totally forlorn.

  ‘I’m going to get you to tell me some things. They may seem a little strange but there you go. I’m a little strange.’ I’d kept my voice light and I smiled. Arthur tried to smile. ‘Okay, tell me something that happened a week ago.’

  Arthur looked at me as if I were nuts. He wiped his face with the heel of each hand pushing up over his cheeks and he sniffed, lifting his head a little with each sniff like a twitch. ‘What sorta fing?’

  ‘Anything. Just something that happened.’

  He told me about an incident at the servery. His hands moved to his right as he spoke.

  ‘Did you notice where that memory came from?’

  He looked blankly at me.

  ‘Point to where last week is.’

  He looked at me as if I were daft.

  ‘Just do it.’ A simple clear command.

  He nervously pointed to his right.

  ‘That’s great, Arthur. So the past comes from over there.’ I pointed. ‘So when you get out of here in the future where will it be?’

  He nodded and pointed to his left. I could read the confusion.

  ‘That’s good. So, you have like a road in front of you from the past to the future. When you were born is over there and your next birthday is over there.’ I pointed to his right and then to his left. I could see he was pleased and a little more confident. I handed him my handkerchief and he wiped his face. He smiled. A less than confident smile but at least a smile. I stayed quiet. He was thinking. He looked at me and nodded. I had his confidence.

  ‘Shut your eyes.’

  He obeyed. I took him step by step back into the past. Sometimes he froze and sometimes he was frightened but I’d gained his trust and he answered my questions and gave me information that was clarity for him. We got into the school classroom.

  ‘I’ve the book open.’

  This was the crunch. This was make or break. I controlled my fear. Hang on in there, Jake, have courage you can do this.

  ‘Can you read the words on the page?’

  ‘Yes.’

  Relief flooded through me.

  ‘So read them.’

  ‘I can’t.’

  Christ, we’ve hit the problem.

  ‘Tell me why not.’ My voice was encouraging despite my fear.

  ‘I might make a mistake.’

  He’s said it – great. ‘So what?’ He had to make his decision and I couldn’t help him.

  ‘The other kids will laugh at me. So I’m scared and I can’t speak and the other kids will laugh and say things. And Miss will tell them to be quiet. So I don’t read and the other kids laugh and say things and Miss tells them to be quiet.’

  ‘How do you feel?’

  ‘I’m angry an’ I’m all ’ot and I wanna pee.’

  ‘Why are you angry and hot?’

  ‘Because they’re laughin’ at me and Miss can see them laughin’ and Miss thinks I can’t read and … and … and I can.’ His last three words came out with determination. He knew.

  ‘How do you know what Miss is thinking?’

  ‘Well, cos…’ He stopped. He was thinking. ‘I don’ know what she’s finkin’.’ His back straightened. This insight was a revelation to him, I could hear it in his voice.

  ‘That’s right, Arty. You didn’t really know what she was thinking.’ I stopped. He was nodding. ‘You’re back in the classroom and the other kids are laughing. Tell me about it.’

  ‘I wanta punch them and I wet meself and, and…’

  ‘Hang in there, Arty. So what have you learned?’

  ‘I got angry because they were laughin at me’ and I didn’t need to be angry cos, you know, Miss didn’t fink I couldn’t read, well she might ’ave … an well…’

  ‘What have you learned about your reading?’ I needed to reinforce his earlier statement.

  Arthur was quiet for a long time, perhaps a minute. ‘I can read.’

  I wanted to shout, ‘Yes!’ I was emotional and I had to think and control.

  ‘That’s right, Arty. You can read. You know you can read and I know you can read, Dad knows you can read and I bet Miss knew you could read.’ I let him think for a moment or so. ‘What have you learned about the way you feel, and about Miss?’

  Arthur was still quiet. He sat there, his eyes closed, thinking.

  ‘I wanted Miss to like me and when I couldn’t read out loud I fought she woulden like me and … and … and’ – he started gabbling, the words just tumbling out – ‘well it didn’t mat’er if I made a mistake and I didden need to be frigh’end. I can read now and I won’t wet myself now.’

  ‘Yes, Arty, you can read. What about wanting to punch them?’

  Again, he was silent for a long time. ‘It don’t matter.’

  ‘What doesn’t matter?’

  ‘Them laughing.’

  ‘Good. Now I’m going to bring you back to now and on the way back we’ll do some more things. Is that okay?’

  ‘Yes, Captain.’

  I brought him back to now. I waited; time went on. It seemed like a long time. Suddenly he said. ‘I’m over the classroom.’

  ‘Now, come down slowly, very gently into the classroom. Tell me when you’re sitting in your chair.’

  I waited and a couple of minutes ticked by.

  ‘I’m here now.’

  ‘Okay, in a minute I’ll ask you to open your eyes and when you do I’ll be here and Dad will be here. Tomorrow I’ll ask you to read out loud to the class and you’ll be able to do it. Is that okay?’

  ‘Yes, Captain.’

  I waited. His breathing slowed. ‘Okay, open your eyes.’ Arthur opened his eyes and looked at me. He smiled.

  ‘How do you feel?’

  He blew out with bulging cheeks. ‘Fucking great.’

  ‘Good. Wipe your face and when you’re ready you and Dad best get to where you should be.’

  They left the room; I was exhausted, totally drained. I followed them and they went into the toilets. They always went into the toilets as Dad had a weak bladder and didn’t want any accidents. I hadn’t done any timeline therapy since I was at university but I thought it worked okay. I knew we would find out tomorrow. It wa
s one thing to be okay about reading out loud today, but he had a night to think about it and it might be different tomorrow.

  That night I lay looking at the darkness, unable to get to sleep. Daft really that one small thing in a childhood can do so much damage. The next morning was the crunch and I went to the classroom tense. Arthur and Dad came in with the other members of the group. I looked at Dad and he nodded. Relief flooded through me.

  I settled the class then said, ‘Shall we do some reading out loud?’

  There was a silence; I could feel the tension. This always happened when it came to reading out loud. You could sometimes actually feel the fear.

  ‘Okay, perhaps not.’ I was chickening out. Perhaps Arthur couldn’t do it.

  ‘No,’ said Dad. ‘Let’s try.’

  The rest of the class just looked at Dad. They all knew that he was terrified of reading out loud. Then Arthur stood up. I was trembling but I hid it by sitting on my hands. This was just stupid. I knew it was stupid but I was proud of Arthur, proud that Arthur was going to try.

  ‘Go on then, Arty. We’re all ears.’

  ‘I’ll read page twen’y-one. It ain’t a hard page so I should be all right.’

  ‘Well done, Arty. Page twenty-one of Book 1 it is.’

  He started, ‘Little John.’ He stalled and started again. ‘Little John ran into the park. He liked the park. He liked best kicking a ball in the park. Little John had a red ball. Little John kicked the ball and it went into the pond.’ He looked at me and smiled. No, he didn’t smile; he grinned. A beautiful big grin spread across his battered face and I just had to grin as well.

  ‘That was great, Arty. I think that you need to move up a book with some longer words. A clap for Arty.’

  The class were clapping and I was relieved. Arthur could read and he would now be able to help me with the others, particularly Dad. We pushed on and some volunteers struggled through pages they’d practised. More of the class read that day and performed better than they’d ever done before. It was breakthrough day. They now knew they could do it if Arthur could do it, but they didn’t know Arthur’s secret.

  That week had been tough. My class was driving me now. I’d been working at pushing them and pulling them and now they were driving me. The challenge was terrific. It was in many ways a good week and I was exhausted. The downside was Ratty. He was in a parallel class and him and his mates tried to provoke me at every opportunity and because I didn’t retaliate I was in danger of losing credibility with the wider population and even some of my group.

  Ratty was a skinny, rat-faced little idiot with a shaved head that had symbols tattooed on it. He swaggered and was thoroughly disliked. No, more than that, he was held in contempt and he seemed to revel in it. He probably only weighed nine and a half stone and it seemed he’d stabbed Jase from behind. I just couldn’t believe a soldier as experienced and as physically powerful as Jase could have been stabbed by this contemptible little shit even if it was from behind.

  As I left the classroom on Friday, at the end of what had been a tough week, the rat-faced, poisonous gremlin was in the passageway with his four friends. I was exhausted. The tension and emotion from the work with my class and the additional session with those that had dyslexia had drained me and seeing Ratty didn’t help.

  ‘Hay, capin’, sir.’ He made an exaggerated salute and his mates laughed. ‘Was you a tough solger? We ’ad a tough solger in ’ere; ’ad a medal an everyfink. ’E weren’t that tough, though. Ended up dead, diden’e.’

  I had to act.

  ‘He were a sergean’ like yer big, black-arsed fren’.’

  We were in the passageway from the training centre. I was tired, emotionally drained and the provocation made me angry. I was usually very slow to anger but he’d now, at last, pressed my buttons. He then set off swaggering and pretending to march. He was in front of me. He was crudely singing some obscene military ditty. I was outnumbered.

  I could hear two fellow prisoners were behind me. I realised they were Dad and Arthur. Arthur walked past me followed by Dad and past Ratty. He faced the four, raised his arms and just pointed down the corridor. The four disappeared at a rate of knots followed at a steady walk by Arty and Dad.

  Ratty just grinned at me and started to march, swinging his arms and singing. ‘Fuck ’em all! Fuck ’em all! The long and the short and the tall; fuck all the sergeants and W.O. ones, fuck all the corporals and their bastard sons.’

  Opportunities like this were rare. I took my silver paper and wrapped the transmitter on my wrist then came up quietly behind Ratty. I placed my left hand on the top left side of his head, my right palm under his chin and my fingers closing his nose so he couldn’t breathe. His hands scrabbled for my wrists, he rose on his toes, stretching upwards in search of air and straightening his spine – lift, push and twist, all in one smooth movement. This was the second time I’d done it for real. The last time had been in combat in Iraq. I felt his neck break and I dropped him, stepped around his twitching body and kept walking. My head was screaming, don’t hurry. Nonchalant. That’s the way, Jake. Don’t look round. I was trembling and fighting for control of my breathing. I emerged from the passageway and it was then that I realised I would be on one of the CCTV cameras in the central area.

  I walked to the spiral stairway that went up to the first landing. This was my normal pattern. I took off the silver paper and slipped it in my back pocket. Old-man Peters was at the bottom of the stairs. He was always there and I always spoke to him.

  I took a big breath. ‘How’s it going, Petey?’

  ‘Fine, Captain Jake, just fine.’ He smiled and nodded. He didn’t know what day of the week it was and wouldn’t remember if you told him. Odd thing was, I was one of the names he remembered and for some arrogant reason I was proud of that.

  ‘Good, good. Don’t let the bastards grind you down, Petey.’

  He nodded in that sage way he had, although everybody knew he was suffering from dementia. Why he was in here I just didn’t understand. He was a Category B prisoner, well over seventy with dementia and physically frail. He should have been in a home with medical care.

  I climbed the spiral stairway heading for my cell. At the first twist I looked down. Arthur and Dad, were watching my ascent. I nodded to them. Debt paid but tomorrow would tell, and by tomorrow everyone would know I killed Ratty. The tracking computer, if switched onto me, would have seen me disappear and then later reappear but they’d have no evidence. I’d killed close up and personal before but avoided deliberately killing in a close encounter. I’d never killed in cold anger before and, strangely, I was now calm about it. No, I was exhilarated that I’d killed Jase’s killer. Step one. Now I would go up the hierarchy.

  That night I felt like shit. I was tired, listless and decided to get an early night. There was no joy in killing, how can there be? I was ashamed of myself but at the same time the reasons to do it crowded in on me. I pulled my skinny blanket over me to shut out the light. Harry was quiet; he let me be how I was. I knew Harry understood. In the next cell Tommy Richards was playing his CDs. The music drifted through the open cell doors. It was Bette Midler singing Wind Beneath My Wings. I could remember Sam singing it. I remember thinking that was how I felt about her, the wind beneath my wings, so I could fly higher than an eagle. Not now. Without her I couldn’t even struggle along the ground. I was crying. I just wanted to be with my Sam. I needed her to tell me it was all right. I needed her to smile at me across the table and then put some crap on the TV that I didn’t want to watch so that I could be close to her on the settee. I heard Harry leave and close the door. I buried my face in the pillow.

  19

  The police arrived and there was a roster of people they wanted to see. I was right at the top of the list. I wasn’t surprised really. The whole prison was filled with a rumour that I’d done it and the rumour was fairly accurate: he’d annoyed me so I just twisted his head and broke his neck. I was in the segregation unit in a solitary co
nfinement cell and Harry had had a word with Dad and Arthur, telling them to keep it shut. I just hoped that it had done the trick.

  Nine o’clock on the dot I was in an interview room. On one side of the table were two men and over to one side of the room was a chair for Senior Officer James.

  One of the police officers spoke. ‘Sit down there, Robinson.’ It was a discourteous order. He had a northern accent, a round, sweaty, red face and he was overweight. He looked scruffy. His jacket was creased, his shirt was grubby and his tie hung loosely around his neck.

  I stood at ease and ignored him.

  ‘Sit down, Robinson,’ he commanded. This man did not recognise that he had absolutely no authority over me.

  I turned to Senior Officer James. ‘Is this, um, this person speaking to me, ma’am?’

  ‘I’m afraid he is, Jake.’

  ‘Will you ask him to address me civilly and correctly then please, ma’am? Or I will leave.’

  ‘Look, you, sit down.’ His tone was aggressive. I didn’t move.

  Senior Officer James spoke to the policemen. ‘Detective Inspector, if you address this prisoner as Mr Robinson, Captain Robinson or Jake Robinson or just Jake he may comply with your request. You could of course use prisoner and his number. Oh, and it may help to say please, like you would with any other innocent person or witness at your police station.’ The last sentence was said slowly and precisely, emphasising the words ‘innocent person or witness’.

  The policeman was boiling. His colour had gone up at least two shades. ‘Mr Robinson, I’d be eternally grateful if you’d sit in that chair.’ His voice had a tone of sarcasm. He indicated the chair opposite him.

  ‘This one?’ I asked, pointing at the only chair not occupied. I was actually concerned that this less-than-fit police officer would have a heart attack considering the reaction my simple question had on him. I’d heard the phrase ‘through gritted teeth’; this was the first time I’d actually observed it.

  ‘Yes, that one, Mr Robinson.’ He paused. ‘Please,’ he ground out.

  In the psychological battle, I was already way ahead on points.

  ‘What can you tell us about the death of Raymond Tidy?’