Dead? What does he mean by dead?
What do you think I mean by dead? I can hear him say, in my head. Is he speaking? Am I listening? Or am I making the whole caper up? I don’t know any longer.
Can you see that the end is in sight, Billy-Boy? Dott whispers in my ear.
No, I tell him.
You came to see me on the ship.
No I didn’t.
Don’t be naïve, Billy. It’s too late for that.
I don’t remember.
You were sleeping among the amnesia trees, that’s why?
I was what?
My voice is too loud. My classmates turn to me; the Cookery Gov turns to me, asking in a bored tone, You got a problem there, son? and I shake my head, commenting that I have nothing of the kind. He leaves me alone. He has something of a rarity—an oddity even—in the shape of a near- silent class. He doesn’t want a bogey like me to spoil the magic. The ovens moan and mumble. I try my best to recall the ship. Knowing Dott must be speaking the truth, I try my best to recall the ship—my time on the ship. Welcome back, I am told. But it’s a dream, surely to God.
I will find you or you will find me, Dott whispers again, but when I twist my neck slightly to face him he has turned away. The words I’ve just heard—they are not words shared with or eavesdropped on by anyone else. Dott has spoken directly into my head. I will find you or you will find me: that’s what you said. And I have found you. Give me a sign. Concentrating as hard as I can, I stare at my page—at the single word I’ve managed to write—the word Ingredients—and I leave half a side of A4 and write the word Method, under which I will report on what I cooked and how, for my NVQ portfolio. The third heading—Results—as it turns out will never be written. I’m trying as hard as I can, Dott, I think, attempting to aim the thought to my side so that only the recipient will read the message, if that makes any sense at all. I reach for the box of tissues in front of me and mop my face; I am leaking vital fluids, vital salts. I need some fresh air.
Okay, Dott says under his breath.
Roper is chosen. The yoot stands up from the table, pen in hand. I hope Dott isn’t going to make him stab someone; that wouldn’t be fair—everyone is getting along famously these days and I feel like a chump even to admit it. No. With a haunted look on his face Roper does something else. In full view of everyone including the Cookery Gov, he staggers over to the walk-in storage cupboard, inside which is the chest freezer, the washing machine for our pinnies and towels and the fire alarm. We don’t see him do it, of course, but I hear the click of a cigarette lighter’s barrel turning.
The Cookery Gov asks, What you doing, son? Get out of there. And he follows the yoot inside.
Seconds later, if that, the fire alarm has been activated. Clamorous and sharp, the sound bounces through the ovens’ misty exhalations.
You’ve got some fucking explaining to do, son! shouts the Cookery Gov.
I stand up. We all stand up. There will have to be an evacuation of the entire building. But we are in a workshop and things aren’t so simple as walking away. It doesn’t matter if the fire has reached our toenails, the equipment will still need to be checked before we can taste freedom. Or comparative freedom anyway.
Tools away—now! the Cookery Gov shouts; and we are all bounce and action as we replace our ladles, spoons and chopping knives to the shadow boards on the wall, where they’ll be locked behind glass for easy inspection against the threat of theft. With most of us up to scratch with our washing-up anyway, this performance doesn’t last long. The Cookery Gov moves from oven to oven, almost gracefully, like a ballerina, secure in his position in a time of trouble, turning off the ovens in case we’re out of the Education Block for some time and the food burns.
Charlie One—Screw Vincent—she comes to the door and unlocks it; swings it open. Tools secure, sir? she asks the Cookery Gov.
Secure. It was Roper. It’s a false alarm.
We still have to get you out, sir, she tells him.
We file and bustle past, all nine of us bar poor old Roper, who looks solemn and dejected, confused and utterly drained. He looks like he’s pissed his pants—literally. There’s a dark stain at his crotch, which might be sweat (my own grey clothes are similarly stained), but is more likely to be the consequences of abject fear.
I’ll fucking have you, son! the Cookery Gov scolds the poor weak-minded little gibbon. See you before Number One Governor, any day soon. You’re off the course.
Down the stairs, wriggling like worms in salt with the learners from the other classrooms, and then, in the stairwell, joining the other landing’s human cargo and contributions to the melee. Through the holding area, with both sets of metal- barred doors open wide—a clutch of screws at either portal—and blissfully, thankfully, into the daylight chill. I walk with Dott. We will head back to our respective Wings. We have minutes.
You helped me escape from the ship, Dott says. I’ll always be grateful to you for that. I can help you escape from this prison.
No you can’t, Dott. I’ve done my history, bruv, a long time afore you got here. No cunt has ever escaped. Not even in the really old days, when it’s a women’s prison and they still hang people. No one gets out those gates.
Who said anything about gates? Stop being so literal.
Why? You got a trampoline in your cell, have you, Dott? Bounce me over the walls? You’re chatting shit, cuz! As usual.
For the first time in a while Dott appears rattled. I would have thought, he says, by now you’d stop this silly charade of blokeyness. Open your mind!
Why? So you can steal a couple of days away from me again?
A mere demonstration, Billy-Boy. But you saw it, didn’t you? You saw the desert.
In a dream—yes I did. It was a dream. But I decide to stop pretending, and galling as it is, I know once again Dott is not chatting shit. The desert is real. And I am real. And Kate went there, and Dott was there. I was there too.
A screw barks his orders: Move along, lads! Quick as you like!
We are strolling at the speed of old men on unimportant errands: stretching the time at hand as stringy as it will go.
Takes courage, but I say it: How did I help you off the ship?
You repaid my gift of life.
The rose? You grow me, you say.
Right. A drop of water, a second drop, a drop by day for God knows how many days. I was starving. Delirious. There on that second oasis—just grass.
What did you drink?
Nothing. A drop of water every second or third day, with your permission, but those were moments that tested my faith. Walk slower.
Impossible, I tell him; and I’m saying this word in response to both the claim and to the command that Dott’s made. No one survives without water.
I did. I thought I was gonna die out there, Billy; but I was determined. I caught a scavenger bird once—it came for me in the night, probably thinking I was dead. I wrung its neck and that alone made me strong. Just the killing of it. Should’ve taken that as a sign, shouldn’t I? Kindness was never going to work for me, Billy. I killed the bird and I ate it over days; maybe a month. I had no way of tracking time while I was waiting for you to grow. I licked the feathers clean for you, Billy—to stay alive. To wish you alive, too. It was faith.