You’re all sweaty, Alfreth, Miss Patterson informs me.
Sorry, Miss. Think I’ve caught a cold from Jarvis. My next door.
All sympathy, of course, she ignores what I say and instructs me to boot up the machines at the end of the room that teach driving test theory. We’re expecting a couple of bookings in half an hour and the PCs have been experiencing some technical problems.
I couldn’t give a fuck about driving test theory. I’m just waiting for the pass to arrive back at the Library so I can take it to Room 2, passing 1 on the way. Though I’m not sure if Roller is smart enough to give me my answer. My pessimism is unfounded. After the I.T. class has finished ordering mags, renewing books and browsing atlases, I stroll slowly along the corridor—even more slowly as I approach the window to Room 1. Roller sees me coming and very quickly he uses his mouse to click onto another file that he has obviously prepared behind Gov John’s back. He highlights the miniscule font on the screen and clicks it up to size 48—massive—so I can read it from outside. He has twisted the monitor slightly towards me, and it’s a good job I’m a swift reader, man, because he’s typed more than I expected.
It was like time stopped man—I went DEAD—and there was someone else in my head, I could feel him there but I could not get him out—he tells me he can make my time go faster, he’s got a way, and he shows me he can control people’s minds, some people, and he makes me fuck Meaney up bad, and I don’t want to, yoot done nothing, you know what’s up Alfreth, man I’m scared, then he makes them screws kiss us, he’s evil.
Move on, Alfreth! the screw calls from his desk.
Yes, sir.
My teeth are chattering; my skin is raw. But I am happy.
Four.
Visits! We all look forward to Visits! Unless your visitor has specifically indicated that today’s the day, you don’t have any idea of who you’re going to meet in the Visits Room, near B. I’m praying with my beads when Screw Oates tells me. Pull on the denim. Make a good impression yat. Could be Mumsy. But it’s unlikely. She always phones first to arrange a visit. (Leave a message for me to use my credit to call back.) So it’s one of my boys! Yay! No. It’s my babymamma Julie, and our daughter Patrice. It’s like a Christmas visit; it’s like a birthday. Oh fuck, I realize…
Happy Birthday, darling, I say to Patrice.
I haven’t shaved; I haven’t even deodorised properly. It’s my little girl’s special day and it’s slipped my mind. What sort of father am I?
You could have brought a card, Billy, says Julie.
And you might have noticed that I don’t have a free range, I answer sarcastically, of the ordinary person’s shopping facilities.
Fine. You made one on the computer last year.
Not allowed anymore, I lie, innit.
Well, why not?
Some yoot send out coded escape messages.
This part is true. The problem was discovered when someone came to comprehend that at the age of nineteen it’s unlikely that one boy can have seventeen daughters.
Patrice is taking turns between gurgling and sulking. The Visits Room is packed—because it’s the weekend. More people have time to exercise their guilty consciences at the weekend. Julie has returned from the tuck shop with the most chocolate that I’m allowed to receive: five bars. I have never once mentioned that I hate the stuff.
I need a favour, I tell her. I need some books sent in.
Julie frowns. You work in a Library, Billy; just order them, she says.
They won’t let me have ’em.
Then they’ll never get past Reception.
Just listen. Are you listening?
Julie huffs. I’m not a fucking gangster, Billy. Don’t do that line with me.
Ignoring her, I add: The people in Reception are dicks. Don’t know what the fuck they’re doing. Call it a distance learning gig. Call it anything you want. I’m asking you for a favour, not a kidney. It’s just a couple of books.
I turn to the nearest screw. Don’t know his name.
Gov! Permission to kiss my girlfriend, sir.
Granted.
Hadn’t you better ask permission from me, too? Julie asks as I lean across the table.
Our lips meet and open wide; I use my tongue to push into Julie’s mouth the wish-list I have written, inside the saliva-proof prophylactic of a folded-over piece of paracetamol casing. As usual, Julie hides it on the left side of her mouth, near the back, where a molar is compacted and there’s a bit of space.
You could say something like: that was nice, Julie. I miss you, Julie. I’m kissing you because I want to, Julie, as well as I have to. Anything would do. I’m easily pleased, Billy.
Sorry. I’m distracted.
So I see. And by the way, how exactly am I supposed to pay for these books? They’s expensive, you know, Julie wises me.
I know, I know. Am I chatting shit with you, woman? Getting vex now.
Speak English, Billy, Julie says wearily. She picks up Patrice and gently settles our little girl onto her lap; the girl squirms. That movement makes me winsome.
I calm down. Take the money out of my account, I tell Julie slowly—releasing a clot of invisible steam through my teeth.
Can’t innit, I’m told. She averts her eyes.
Why not? Why not, Julie?
All gone, Julie answers.
Excuse me? I can eventually say.
Once upon a time, boys and girls, I was doused in petrol. The assailant ignited matches, one after the other, until I agreed that he had permission to take my wallet. Just take it! I screamed as the next match got closer. You feel chilled to the bone. It’s how I feel at this precise moment.
Julie. I left eighty-five-fucking-grand in my current account, I say. What are you chatting me, it’s all gone? Before I get angry. Angrier.
I’ve been meaning to tell you, Billy.
Tell me now.
It was Bailey. She sounds relieved to be made to tell the tale. To make it past tense. She won’t look at me—she looks at the top of Patrice’s head—but there is light in her voice; there is light on her brow. He stole your card details. This she says almost proudly. Said he’d invest it wisely.
I can’t help myself. Eighty-five grand’s worth of details! I scream.
I stand up; the chair behind me is bolted to the floor and won’t move. Suddenly the thought of requiring Ostrich to further my ambitions seems dumb: I have all the inspiration that I need right here. The violent motion of spanking Julie across the face makes me fall to the side. I have lost my balance. Wanting to hit her again, I am instead hit. And not once. Without knowing what I’m doing, I have moved a step closer to Dott.
Five.
It’s a few days earlier that I stumble upon the idea of the books. I am chatting breeze with Carewith—he of the rationed intelligence—because breeze is all you can talk with the brere. Most of the time you can’t even chat shit with the brother: chatting shit at least contains a nugget of sense or wisdom on occasion. But Carewith’s engine has long since run out of petroclass="underline" too much skunk, on road, too many cocktails of medicinal alcohol and cider. So we’re chatting breeze: worthless air. Something about weekend breakfasts. When Carewith moves his lip and suddenly releases, not breeze, not shit, but reality. All of a sudden man chats me point blank: it hits me between the eyes.
I was having a chat with that screw from the Cookery Class, he says.