12

The Workshop

To be honest, I was looking for the first opportunity I could find to bin the drama group. Thank you and goodnight. All I needed was a pretext. A lack of numbers would do. Most of the prisoners were blue-collar, under-educated, they were unlikely to sign up. Anything less than five people and I would tell the governor that the workshop was not worthwhile and hope that he would get out of my face. Besides, could I run any kind of workshop in my mental state? You need to be able to think straight, look like you know what you’re doing; talk. Talk sense. It was a stupid idea. Stupid. Stoo-pid.

So when I push open the door to the Games Room, I am half-expecting it to be empty.

Shit.

There must be at least ten of the bastards. All looking at me, all with different expressions; some friendly, some challenging, some empty. It feels like a moment from one of those dreams; the ones where you’re due on stage and you don’t even know what the play is, or where you’re sitting your driving test stark naked, but nobody seems to be commenting on it.

“Hi,” I croak.

How the hell do I begin? Keep it simple.

“My name’s Kevin.”

“We know,” says a voice.

“Yes, of course…sorry.”

I scan the faces. They are all familiar, to a greater or lesser degree, but I can only put names to a couple of them. So, as an opener, I ask each of them to say their name; but I am only buying myself thinking time. Once they have finished giving their names I realise, in the ensuing silence, that I have not retained a single word.

“Alrighty, I’ll be honest. This has been sprung on me a bit…so I haven’t really had time to prep anything…Let’s find out what you each…erm…want to get out of this experience.”

I head for the one face that’s smiling.

“Dougie…what do you hope to get out of this?”

“I thought it’d be a laugh,” he says. “But I could be wrong.”

There’s a ripple of dry laughter, which I join in with. Scanning the faces, there don’t seem to be any receptive ones, so I don’t know who to involve next. The Jamaican guy (did he say his name was Pulse?) seems to be looking straight through me and out the other side, like I’m an X-ray.

In fact, most of them are looking at me like that. The bald bloke with the missing eyebrow (what’s that about?) is picking at his teeth. The tall Irishman (Kieron?) is drumming his fingers on his knee. I can hear myself flannelling and padding and faffing and I feel embarrassed. I should be able to improvise something better than this. What is wrong with me? I used to have a talent for spouting empty bullshit, but that’s gone now. Now I can’t even manage to be a convincing fake.

I’m not sure what that leaves.

One by one, I go round the group, trying to find some possible starting points for a discussion, but nobody seems up for that. They can probably sense that my heart’s not really in it. You get out what you put in, that’s what Mum always said.

Suddenly, out of the blue, a hand pops into the air; it’s the one who looks like an insurance salesman.

“Yes? Sorry, it’s, um…”

“Gerald.”

“Sorry, Gerald, yes…you’ve got a question?”

“Yes, will we be looking at set texts? Or are we going to prance around pretending to be butterflies?”

Right. So, Gerald is different.

“Well, Gerald, I, um…I think the sessions can be whatever you all want them to be. Drama is a…well, it can cover pretty much everything really. Basically, it’s just stories, y’know, and we all have stories and, y’know, stories can take so many forms, y’know, um, plays, films, novels…”

“Alibis,” adds the Irishman.

A few of them laugh, partly out of deference. The Irishman scares people, even Dougie.

“Stories,” I repeat, sounding lame. “That’s all it’s about. Stories.”

I wait to see if anyone wants to add anything, but there is only silence and a bit of shuffling.

It is then that I notice a man who is trying not to be seen. He is standing in the corner of the room, flattened against the wall, as if attempting to merge into the masonry. He is painfully thin, and his features are striking; tufty, white hair, white eyelashes, very pale skin. It is hard not to stare.

“Excuse me,” I begin. “Sorry…um, in the corner there…I’m not sure if I caught your name.”

He looks up, startled. His hand flicks something away from his cheek. What is he doing? There’s nothing there.

“I…I…” He clears his throat (although he’s forcing it, it doesn’t sound like it needs clearing). “I…erm…I didn’t give you my name.”

“Oh, I see…right…well, can you tell me it? Mind you, I’m not promising I’ll remember. My head’s all over the place today, as you’ve probably noticed.”

My attempts to place him at his ease are failing. He looks like he could bolt at any second.

“My name is Paul,” he says softly, “…but everyone calls me Albie.”

“Why Albie?” I ask. He hesitates.

“Short for albino,” says a gruff voice to my left.

“I’m not an albino,” he stutters, flicking at his cheek again. “I don’t have the eyes. I’m…I’m just extremely pale.”

He certainly is. Beneath the harsh strip-lighting, he looks like he has been dipped in bleach. Why hadn’t I noticed him around? I know I’ve not been taking much in, but even so, he is hard not to notice – which must be agony for him.

“Are you new here?” I ask.

He glances away. “No…I’ve just been a bit poorly.”

“So, which would you rather? Albie or Paul?”

He stares at the floor for a few moments.

“Albie is fine…no one’s called me Paul for years.”

“OK then, Albie…what would you like to get out of these sessions?”

He keeps staring at the floor.

“…Albie?”

There is a faint snigger from the bald man with the eyebrow.

“Albie? What brings you here?”

“The governor told me to come,” he replies, still looking down. “Said it would help.”

“Help what?”

Out of the corner of my eye, I catch sight of Dougie rolling his eyes.

“My confidence.” Albie looks up, with just a hint of a flinch. “I’m due for release. In a couple of months…he says I need to work on my confidence.”

Christ, I’m a therapist now, am I? Albie stands there, blinking, and I reach for a smile.

“Okeydokey.” (‘Okeydokey’? When have I ever said ‘Okeydokey’?) “Well, um…today was only ever going to be about…y’know…thinking about what our expectations might be, so…in that sense…”

The fat warder (George? Geoff?) appears at the door and taps his watch. Thank you, God. I declare the session over and head for the door.

“When’s the next session?” asks the Jamaican.

“It says ‘daily’ on the poster” says the warder.

Jesus, does it? I didn’t see that. Daily? That’s fucking ridiculous.

“I…um…I think that could be a mistake.”

“That’s what it says on the poster,” repeats the warder. Is he grinning? “Says it down in the corner.”

The tall Irishman rises wearily from his chair. “Well I don’t give a flying fuck when the next session is,” he says. “That was shite.”

A few voices mutter their agreement.

I feel my spirits lift. It looks like there may be no one at tomorrow’s session. As everyone shuffles towards the door, I turn to the fat warder.

“Is there any chance of a quick chat with the governor?” I ask, trying to sound as casual as possible. But he just chuckles and walks away.

I went to the second session desperately hoping that the room would only contain empty chairs. But no, there they were, sitting, waiting. The good news was that the numbers had dwindled to six. The tall Irishman was gone and so was Mono-Eyebrow. Just six left. Almost the point where I could justify shutting the group down.

“All right, um…so, the chosen few, eh? Um, now I know you all told me yesterday, so, if you can bear it, can we just quickly run through the names again? Erm, Dougie, I know, and Albie…Albie, why don’t you pull your chair more into the middle of the room?” Hesitantly, he scrapes his chair forwards. “OK, perhaps, um…perhaps you could go first.”

I nod at the Jamaican, who smiles and says, “My name is Pulse.”

“That’s an unusual name.”

“I gave it myself.”

“What’s…what’s its significance?”

He shakes his head in amusement.

“It ain’t got no ‘sig-nif-ic-ance’. It’s just a cool name.”

“Uh-huh…can I ask…what was your original name?”

“No.”

“OK, fine, yup, and you…sir?”

“Gerald.”

“Oh yeh, ’course, sorry.”

“I’m Simo,” says the young man sitting behind him.

“Is that short for Simon or something?”

He gives a dark, dirty laugh. “Simon? Oh yeh – like – there’s just millions of Simons in— what the f- Simon? Do I— nobody’s called Simon any— are you taking the— is he taking the pi— Simon? No it’s not short for anything, it’s like, fuck me – innit, like – Simon? What are you—”

He carries on like this for several minutes, with every sentence breaking into fragments and spinning through the air. To my relief, I am not the only one looking perplexed. Gradually, Simo becomes aware that he is bewildering people and dribbles self-consciously to a halt, before quietly muttering “My mum named me after a dolphin.”

Several faces turn to look at him.

“It’s a long story,” he shrugs.

The last member of the group, I realise, is a new face. Asian. Bearded. Don’t make assumptions, Kevin.

“You weren’t here yesterday.”

“Is that a problem?” he counters.

“No…no, no, not at all.”

“My name is Mohammad.”

“Has it always been Mohammad?” drawls Gerald.

“That’s none of your business.”

They immediately start arguing, talking over each other and, judging from the reactions of the others, this is not an unusual occurrence. My mental tiredness stops me from thinking clearly enough to intervene, so I stand there like a dazed tourist, which is sort of what I am. Dougie steps between the two of them with his shoulders squared.

“Alright, girls, don’t get menstrual.”

The argument stops and I mumble a few thank yous.

Albie is dabbing at that invisible something on his cheek again, but he controls the tic once he notices me looking at him.

“Have you done any prep this time?” enquires Gerald. His voice contains a constant undertow of disdain.

“Sort of…I thought we’d start with some storytelling. We all know stories. We all have stories. So I thought, what might be an easy, but interesting, start is…um…if we just told stories from our own lives…y’know…funny or sad…or both, doesn’t matter. Who wants to start?”

Dougie looks as if he is about to volunteer, but then loses confidence. Simo looks appalled by the idea, as does Albie. Pulse has his eyes closed and Gerald is wearing a smile that is really a challenge.

“Alright then” I say, “I’ll start, just to get things rolling. Erm…why don’t I tell you the story of exactly how I ended up here – apologies to Dougie, he’s heard this all before – and some of you may know bits of it, probably inaccurate bits – so here it is, chapter and verse, from the horse’s mouth.”

For the next twenty minutes or so, I tell them my story, from meeting Jade, through the trial, Derek’s intervention, my acquittal, Derek baring his diseased soul on television, the second trial, and ending with my conviction and the Judge’s observations about my “manipulative cowardice”.

As I finish, Pulse is nodding sagely.

“Man, that is a story an’ no mistake.”

“Yeh, but what kind of story is it?”

Mohammad can’t contain himself.

“It’s a story about what happens when everybody tells lies all the time. The girl lied, this Derek-character lied, you lied, that’s ’cos everyone lies here, innit? That is the West for you. You’re obsessed with the wrong things. And you’re willing to lie and cheat for them and you forget that God sees everything.”

Gerald yawns, loudly and provocatively.

Then Simo bursts into life.

“That story is— your sto— it’s a fu— yeh, that’s just total fu— it’s— God, man, that’s— it’s a fucking tragedy, isn’t it…yeh…isn’t it?”

“Well that’s a very good question, Simo. Is my story a tragedy? What do we think? Albie, any thoughts?”

“I doubt it,” mutters Gerald.

“Albie? Anything you’d like to ask, or say?” Albie looks upwards and blinks, like a startled ghost.

“I think it’s very sad,” he says, quietly. “Why did that girl make that stuff up?…blame you like that? And now you’re inside…that’s sad.”

“So, group,” I spread my hands to try to get their focus, “is it a tragedy? What do we think?”

“There’s nothing tragic about it,” Gerald sniffs. “You brought it all on yourself. You allowed yourself to be at the mercy of other people. You failed to control events because your fear got the better of you. So no, not a tragedy. There’s an element of farce, possibly.”

For a moment, Gerald and I lock eyes. He is extremely bright and he knows it.

“Dougie thinks there’s an element of comedy in it, don’t you, Dougie?” I prompt.

“Well…sort of…in a sick-joke sort of way.”

“It’s interesting though, isn’t it? One story. And everybody’s got a different take on it.”

I get up off my chair and start walking around the room. For the first time in I don’t know how long, I get the vague sensation that maybe I know what I’m doing. They seem to be listening. Or are they just there killing time?

“Ambiguity. What your different views of my story add up to is called ‘ambiguity’. And you’ll find it at the heart of every great story.”

“Course, we only heard your version of events.” Gerald snipes. “How do we know that was the truth?”

“You are absolutely right, Gerald.” (Don’t overuse his name, he’ll feel patronised.) “You only heard my version. You can’t be sure that is the truth. And that is another layer of ambiguity.”

“I believe you,” says Albie, almost inaudibly.

“Yeh, why would you lie?” nods Pulse.

“OK, well, that’s enough of my story, who wants to tell the next one?”

Dougie is instantly on his feet.

“It can be about anything at all?” he asks.

“As long as it’s from personal experience.”

He launches into what begins as a picaresque story about his Sunday league football team getting stranded in Frankfurt, but then it slowly turns into a disgusting tale about a prostitute who sets fire to a client.

Dougie sits down to shocked silence.

“Not a lot of ambiguity there,” says Gerald.

The night after the second workshop I am laying on my bunk trying to usher in sleep.

I think about rivers, my newest escape strategy. I try to summon up memories of rivers that I have experienced; try to recapture the peace of being on water, with the landscape slowly unfurling itself around me.

And I am drifting slowly up the Tweed, with the old arched bridge at Berwick receding behind me, and white swans escorting me in smooth flotillas, when the spell is broken.

Dougie’s voice.

“You’re very quiet.”

“I was on a river.”

“Nice. What do you make of your workshop group then?”

“Erm…dunno…don’t really know them yet, what do you make of them?”

Dougie gives out a knowing chuckle. “What, honestly?”

“Yes.”

“Well…” he pauses, as if he’s deliberating – but he isn’t.

“Personally…in my opinion…I can’t see you achieving anything with that bunch of cunts.”

“I’m not out to achieve anything.”

“Well that’s just as well, isn’t it.”

There’s a thump as he jumps down on to the floor. “Mind you, I’m not sure I believe you. Have you seen my headphones?”

“No, sorry. Why don’t you believe me?”

“’Cos I think you’re just enough of an arrogant fucker to believe that you can ed-u-cate them. Y’know, like My Fair Lady – only with ignorant cunts for Audrey Hepburn.”

I am amused, and intrigued, by Dougie’s analysis. Can he be right? Have I made them my project?

Dougie is fishing beneath my bunk, muttering dark oaths about his missing headphones.

“That’s the trouble with this place…full of thieves.”

I laugh, but then Dougie’s head bobs up and the frown tells me that no irony was intended.

“It’s not funny, Kevin. They have no respect for other people’s personal property.”

“Didn’t you rob a bank once?”

“That’s different, that’s a bank.” His head disappears beneath my bunk again. “And it was more than once.”

“I’m not aiming to educate anyone. Those workshops, at best, are just a way of…I dunno, filling time…keeping the madness at bay.”

Dougie is burrowing into his locker now.

“Oh, right. Ah, found the bastards! My memory, eh? It’s this place, turns your brain into mush. That’s why I’m going to your sessions, to give my brain a work-out.”

“Right, well, that’s as good a reason as any, I suppose.”

“I am trying to save my brain.”

“Right.”

“But some brains are beyond saving.”

He is giving me a mischievous grin. I know what’s coming.

“You’re about to slag people off, aren’t you?”

“All I’m saying is that Pulse has probably smoked his brain away and Mohammad’s is awash with Islamic sewage. You’re talking about two broken brains, and that’s not racist, that’s fact. And as for Simo…and Albie…dear oh dear.”

I feel a flush of defensiveness.

“Listen, my expectations are…realistic, OK? I will consider it a major achievement if I can get Simo to finish a sentence and get Albie to…not jump at his own shadow…but, to be honest, I don’t expect either of those things to happen.”

Dougie clambers back up on to his bunk, gripping the headphones in his teeth. The springs bounce and squeak above me.

“Here, Kevin…how old do you reckon that Albie is?”

That’s a difficult question. He feels like he’s about fifteen, but physically he’s – well, the paleness means that he lacks definition.

“Twenty-five?”

“Thirty-four,” replies Dougie, with slow relish.

“You’re joking.”

“He’s thirty-four.”

“But…he’s just a kid…isn’t he?”

“Mentally, yeh…but he’s thirty-four.”

“Christ.”

“He’s spent seventeen years inside, apparently. Half his life.”

“Did he murder someone?”

“No, no, not one long stretch, lots of little ones, in different prisons.”

“Where did you get all this?”

“The old jungle telegraph…plus, I asked him.”

“Oh…right.”

“He didn’t want to chat, but I just hung in there. Winkled it out of him. It’s a gift.”

Thirty-four? That’s a real surprise.

Oh well. That shows how much I know.

My thoughts drift back to the Tweed; to the lapping of the water as it nudges my boat. The soft whisper of the breeze. Next thing I know, I can hear feet clattering on walkways. I glance at my watch. It’s seven fifteen. I have slept, uninterrupted, for nearly nine hours.