Out of earshot I say to Sarson: You okay straight, bruv?
Reluctantly he replies: Yeah, blood.
Tell me something. You been sleeping a lot, right?
More than usual, yeah. Why do you ask?
Can you remember any of your dreams?
His left eyebrow arches upwards. My dreams?
Yes. Can you remember any of them? Recently I mean.
He thinks about the poser for a couple of seconds and then answers. I’m in a kind of wasteland, he says. Just sand and bones. Weird pony shit.
I think I’m thinking it but in fact I’m saying it: It can smell the desert.
What?
I realise I’ve spoken aloud. Nothing.
Did you say the dog can smell the desert? he asks with incredulity.
Yeah I did. Aiming to make light of everything, I bust a chuckle. Maybe Ostrich did leave something in my drink, I add.
What are you two yobs whispering about? the screw calls over.
The pleasure of your company, sir, I call back.
Careful, mate. I’m not renowned for my good humour.
It shows, sir. Can we please have our piss tests?
When they’ve spun your cells.
And then the others will come in, is that right, sir?
Sarson is looking at the side of my head; he’s trying to suss me out. So is the screw, safely over there by the door with his pouch of keys.
What others?
The others Dott’s got to, is what I’m saying inside my mind. How many is that?
Rest of the Wing, sir, is what I actually say.
But I know it won’t be the rest of the Wing. Know the dog has already been up and down the landings—along the ones, the twos and threes—and sniffed out the candidates for the embarrass-a-thon we call a piss test. It can smell the desert.
That’s our business and not yours, son, says the screw.
Sir, my name is Alfreth. I’d be really grateful if you don’t call me son.
I’ll call you fucking Sally-Anne if I feel like it, he retorts.
I ignore the insult. And what’s your name, sir? I ask.
Officer Oxford.
He’s been wrongfooted by my courtesy.
When you’re ready, sir, only I’d like to enjoy my weekend if possible.
Why? Oxford grunts. Are you going somewhere nice?
Six.
What do I have to do around here to get beaten up properly? Those pansies hardly scratched me, Dott complains after we’ve been shown the practical.
This Tuesday it is baked chicken with courgettes, aubergine and tomato ragout. I’ve had it with fucking chicken, but as ever I’m delighted to be called across to the Cookery class. Even when your name’s on the list there’s no guarantee a class will run or, I don’t know, someone might set fire to a bed. Because the dish takes longer than we might have—because anything might happen: a fire alarm, a fight—the Cookery Gov has already heated all the ovens to one-ninety C. The classroom is excruciatingly hot—especially after the chill of the air between the Wing and the Education Block. As with last week, I have managed (with Chellow’s permission) to secure the oven and workspace next to Dott’s. I am eager to talk. Should I start an argument about football again, just to get the volume up? No. I can wait; I can bide my time. I season my chicken breast with salt and pepper and sear in the flavour in a frying pan smeared with olive oil. The smell is fantastic. The smell is gagging. My breakfast worms around in my stomach and gut; the food is alive inside me—a parasite. I transfer the chicken to a plate, add more oil, and toss in my trimmed and topped aubergines and a diced shallot. I can wait. I’ve waited this long. Sweat is on everyone’s brow, even Dott’s—in particular Dott’s: sweat running down his face and seeming to avoid the fresh bruises on his cheekbones, like strollers poodling around the shore of a lake. Or an oasis.
Why does man want to get beat? I ask him.
Dott says, Exercise.
I won’t let it go. Seriously, why? I press him.
Dott eyeballs me point blank. I’m serious, too. Exercise. Keep in shape. I made them do it, in case you’re wondering.
This comes as something of a surprise. As I’m stirring my mixture—the onions softening, losing their opaqueness—I say: Why do that? Immediately I believe I have the answer. Does it count towards your bad shit quota?
It certainly does, Billy, says Dott. I might have earned myself a few minutes, nothing more. It’s hard to say. They weren’t as vicious as I hoped.
That’s not what I heard.
Are you two old birds squawking again? asks the Cookery Gov, an amused but tired grin on his face. Why don’t you just propose to him, Alfreth?
Just chatting shit, sir, I reply.
You are that. Add your courgettes.
Yes, sir.
I wait until the Cookery Gov has lumbered away to supervise someone else.
So what is this? I ask Dott. Is this blind devotion? And if it ain’t, what is it? What do you expect me to do?
Dott’s response is simple but it doesn’t answer my question. I gave you life, he says. I grew you in the desert, against every odd there is.
If you say so, Dott, I tell him.
Don’t make fun, Billy. His tone is as dry as the air inside the room. Don’t forget, I saved you from the bee-stings as well.
Which you’ve since admitted was a mistake, but okay—if you say so.
What do you mean, if I say so? Don’t you believe me yet?
The confession is like chicken skin in my throat—a dog’s- tongue-sized length of the stuff, trying to choke me and stop me speaking.
But in the end I say it. I say, Yes, Dott, I believe you—because I don’t have any choice now. But why don’t I remember? I almost beg.
Why do you think? Dott teases. Because you were dead, Billy. Dead.
There is nothing I can say for what feels like a minute or two. My mouth tightly closed, I stir tinned tomatoes into my frying pan until everything is good and drenched. My pan resembles a full-scale nuclear meltdown. As we’ve been shown how to do, I tip the resultant mixture into a roasting pan, clearing a space for the chicken I’ve seared. I thrust the roasting pan into the oven, which roars the dirty heat of unwashed griddles into my face. Drips of perspiration roll between my lips.
Dead? The Hola Ettaluun are the tribes of the dead? Don’t make sense, I say to Dott, relieved now that other people are talking. Chellow is even humming a song under his breath: Release Me by Engelbert Humperdinck. Two other yoots chatting breeze about poom-poom.
Tell me about it, Dott answers with a snigger.
What do you want from me? I ask.
To help me get back there, is Dott’s answer.
Sure—sarcastically—I’ll lend you my passport.
You can go and I can follow.
I’m in the same prison as you, cunt!
You were dead then, he tells me. You can be dead again.
Is that a threat?
Quite the opposite. I’m offering you a gift, Billy-Boy.
Inside the space of a couple of minutes, the whole class has finished its preparation for the best meal of the week. The Cookery Gov instructs us to do our washing-up while we’re waiting for the meals to heat through. The hot tap has been disabled for a long time now, and so we clean the utensils and receptacles we don’t need any more today in water so cold it is like a nice dream compared to the room’s torridity. Conversations continue, but not between me and Dott. I have too much in my brain; once I’ve finished doing my pots I sit at the central table to write up a bit of my theory—my coursework I mean—while the ovens chug on like steam trains. Soon I’ve been joined by most of the group; no one, by this point, has much more to say. The temperature has dried out the shit we chat. As I write today’s date and underline the word Ingredients with the handle of a ladle, Chellow (being all but illiterate and reluctant to write anything) volunteers to do the sweeping up, and Meaney (a lazy arse) asks if he can swab the sinks.