15

The Group Decision

It was an inspired idea. I know that sounds smug but I don’t care, it was inspired, the duet was the best idea I’d had in God knows how long.

Albie and Dougie’s voices combined very well. Dougie’s solid, tuneful bass provided a good anchorage in the harmonies, while Albie’s voice…well it just kept getting better and better. Over the next few days, his confidence continued to grow.

I managed to borrow a battered upright piano from the staff recreation room and a pianist, Norton, from ‘C’ Block. The others tell me he used to play for a Shirley Bassey tribute drag act. He doesn’t seem to want to talk about it. In fact, he barely talks at all. If the dueting continues to go well I might try to convince Albie he should do a solo.

There are no doubts in my mind that their duet will be a showstopper. The only question is which song to choose. For their own amusement, they keep breaking into Everly Brothers numbers. Their rendition of “Let It Be Me” is outstanding, but Dougie makes it crystal clear that he is not singing any love-songs with another man, onstage, in front of people he will subsequently have to face at meal-times.

“They’ll take the piss, I’ll lose it, it’ll end in fractures.” He informs me. “Then they’ll chuck me in the box and you could end up with a nutter for a room-mate.”

I can see Gerald sniggering with his eyes.

“Any suggestions for a song for Albie and Dougie?” I ask the group.

Gerald suggests “Goldfinger”, but only to wind up Norton.

“Du-ets. Think duets.”

The suggestions start to come thick and fast.

“‘You’ve Lost That Loving Feeling’.”

“‘I Know Him So Well’.”

“‘No True Love Waits’.”

“‘Close To You’.”

“Dougie would prefer something non-romantic,” I remind them.

“‘Ebony and Ivory’,” exclaims Pulse.

Dougie scowls. “Not singing wet stuff about racial harmony. Also, I can’t stand McCartney, he held John Lennon back.”

“‘It’s In His Kiss’?” offers Mohammad, but then he spots Dougie’s expression. “OK, sorry, no, forgot.”

Norton mutters something that I don’t quite catch.

“Sorry, Norton, what?”

“‘Bridge Over Troubled Water’,” he monotones.

“That’s not a bad idea. Boys?”

Dougie is pulling a face. “I’m not a muso, but isn’t that fucking difficult?”

“Albie will take the top line.”

“Yeh, I know but—”

“Albie, you up for that?”

“Erm…yeh, think so.”

“It’d make a great finale.”

Dougie is still grimacing.

“Tell you what, have a go with Norton, see how you get on. We can always find something else if you’re not happy.”

I quickly clear out, taking the others to a side-room where we can go through their ideas for the show. To my surprise, Pulse wants to do an excerpt from Shakespeare.

“Weren’t expecting that, eh, man?” he laughs. “Now there’s a bit of that lib-er-al discomfort going on.”

“No, it’s great, really great, what bit where you thinking of?”

“Macbeth.”

“How much of Macbeth?”

“Just the bit where they’ve told him that his bitch-wife is dead and he says that life is a story told by an idiot. ‘Tomorrow and tomorrow and tomorrow’.”

“Why did you choose that?”

“Because it’ll sound great in a Jamaican accent.”

He’s right of course. But I’m still curious.

“It must be more than that.”

“I like the way he tells us everything is pointless. We’re born, we have our troubles, we die. He nails it.”

“OK…um…it’s not that long a speech, do you want to do something else? Something more modern maybe, or something you write for yourself?”

“I’ll think about it.”

Simo tells me, eventually, that he’s expanding his dance idea.

“How long’s it going to be?” I ask.

His reply is a jerky fusillade of stops and starts, but from what I can gather it involves a polar bear. I decide to wait and see what he comes up with. Mohammad announces that he is writing some poetry that he intends to perform. And then I turn to Gerald, who is looking very pleased with himself. He has already written one piece that he’d like to do, in fact, he’s prepared to read it to us now. It turns out to be a twenty-minute dramatic monologue about an embezzler who is judged by his intellectual inferiors. I ask Gerald if he’s thinking of editing it down. He looks at me as if I am a curiosity in a museum.

“Edit it down?”

“Yes…just shorten it a bit.”

“No, I don’t think so, every word is perfect.”

* * *

A few days later, with the show slowly beginning to take shape, I find myself back in the governor’s office. He seems genuinely thrilled that Albie has found his voice. He congratulates me repeatedly and tries to force-feed me biscuits.

“Had to buy them with my own money. Go on, they’re buttery.”

“No, I’m fine, honestly.”

“Worrying about your figure?”

“Not on prison food.”

“We do the best we can for the money.”

He reaches across the desk and picks up a letter.

“I got a follow-up today from Going Forward Productions”

I shift in my seat, not this again, I’ve said no.

“I just wondered if you might have reconsidered at all,” he floats.

“There’s nothing to reconsider. I’m not prepared to be filmed.”

“Ah, right, so it’s still all about you then.”

That’s not getting a response. I know what he’s up to. He leans forward, elbows on the desk.

“What about the others? You’ve got prisoners who are going to recite Shakespeare, read out poems they’ve written, original work, you’ve got a virtual mute to sing…these men are making commitments, going out on a limb…backing themselves…don’t you feel it’d be good if the world saw that…saw that you don’t just give up on people…”

“They’d turn it into a freak show. They’ll just treat us as commodities, I know these people, they commodify everything.”

“I’m sure we can guard against the freak-show risk in the contract. Insist on final approval, that kind of thing.”

I go quiet again, he’s working me, I know he is.

“Honestly, Kevin, I don’t know why you’re so reticent about letting this achievement be recorded. The Parole Board would chalk it up, I’m sure a programme like this could reflect very well on you.”

He’s beaming benevolently at me now, like he’s some kind of friendly priest, Spencer Tracy maybe.

“It could reflect very well on you too,” I counter.

“Yes, all right, you got me, I’d do well out of it too, this place would do well, everybody wins. So, is there really a problem?”

I reiterate that I’m not interested.

“Don’t you feel you should at least put it to the group? Don’t you owe them that?”

“I don’t ‘owe’ them, or you, or anyone.”

And with that, I rise to make a dignified exit, pausing only to take a biscuit. As I head down the stairs, I experience an old, familiar wave of anger against TV types who are too egotistical and infantile to listen.

The ambush came out of nowhere.

Our sessions had been continuing to go well and I had managed to persuade the group that we should do a number from Guys and Dolls – “Sit Down You’re Rocking the Boat”, which we were going to sing ensemble. The show was beginning to take on a more balanced look, with a mixture of old favourites and experimental material. The most enthusiastic participant by far was Dougie, so I am really not at all prepared when he storms into rehearsals in an extremely aggressive mood.

“I want a fucking word,” he begins. “Sit down.” He pushes me down into a chair and leans a long way into my personal space, virtually nose to nose.

“Now then, Kev, is there anything you’d like to share with the group?”

I am genuinely bewildered, which comes across as bad acting and incenses Dougie even more.

“Any fucking thing at all?” he shouts “Cast your mind back.”

I’m still at a loss as to how I could have upset him so much.

“You had a letter from some TV people.”

How had he heard about that?

“They wanted to make a TV programme about us.”

I spend a couple of moments composing myself, controlling my tone and carefully choosing my words.

“Well…with respect, Dougie, the programme would have been about me.”

“Oh ’cos we’re not interesting enough to make programmes about, is that it?”

“No, no, what I’m saying is they…you know what they’re like, they’re celebrity-obsessed, it would end up being…y’know…‘Lenny’ behind bars. They couldn’t give a toss about any drama group.”

“So why the secrecy?”

“It wasn’t secrecy, the—”

“Why didn’t you share it with the group?”

“It was addressed to me, so—”

“But it concerned the group”

“Yes, but—”

“So why not share it with the group?”

“Because it didn’t seem relevant to—”

“So now we’re irrelevant?”

“No, you— look, I’m sorry if you feel I didn’t involve you but I know what these people are like – they’re leeches. And the ones who aren’t leeches are vultures.”

“Man, thank God you were here to protect us,” Pulse gets closer too, “protect us from that menagerie.”

“The letter was addressed to me.”

“Stop fucking saying that.”

Dougie takes a deep breath, the way the anger management people told him to. “The thing is, Kevin, you could have relayed the gist of the letter, advised us as to your judgement and that, and then let us take a vote on it.”

“Oh, are we a socialist collective now? How jolly.”

“Shut your face-hole, Gerald.”

I try to take control.

“Listen, the last thing the people in this group need is TV cameras pointing at them.” I give a subtle nod in Albie’s direction, to try and make Dougie understand. Simo bursts into life. I think he’s trying to say that the TV cameras wouldn’t bother him. Albie is staring at his old friend, the floor.

“Albie…” He doesn’t look up. “Albie, do you want someone filming you?”

Mohammad weighs in. “Well I don’t mind being filmed. If it gets my message across to more people.”

“And what is your ‘message’?” scoffs Gerald. “Don’t be a wanker.”

Mohammad pushes him in the chest and a scuffle breaks out, until Dougie plucks the two of them apart.

“All right, ladies, let’s remain civilised. I say we take a vote on it.”

“What’s the point? I’ve said no.”

“Oh, Emperor Kevin’s said no”

“Well—”

“He outranks us.”

“I—”

“I’m not sure I want to be part of something this undemocratic”, growls Dougie.

The others mutter their agreement. My mind drifts back to those first nights in the cell, when Dougie would grill me about what it’s like to be famous. That’s what all this is about. He wants to be on TV. So does Mohammad and Simo and Gerald. They all fancy the attention. But Albie is different. He hates it if one person is looking at him, never mind a million.

“Paul, this is important, would you be happy to have TV cameras come in and film you…film you for millions of people to see.”

Oh no, disaster. He’s looking towards Dougie for guidance.

“…only you can answer this”, I ask.

“Are you saying it’d be too much for him?” asks Dougie.

“I—”

“Another one underestimating you, don’t listen to him, Pauly, you’d be fine.”

‘Paul-y?’ What the fuck is that? Now Dougie has a meaty arm around his new friend’s shoulder. “Let’s put it to a vote.”

“I haven’t agreed to a vote yet.”

“Let’s vote on whether to have a vote. All those in favour.” Five arms get raised.

“Carried. And now who wants to do the TV programme, as long as it’s uplifting and not sensationalist shit?” The same five arms are raised. Albie looks to Dougie for reassurance. Dougie gives him a piratical smile. Slowly, Albie raises a skeletal arm.

“Six – nil. The Emperor stands alone.”

“How did you get to hear about the letter, Dougie?” I ask.

“I can’t betray my sources.”

“If I duck out, you watch, there’ll be no TV show. They won’t come.”

Dougie gives a wolfish smile. “Well then stop being a selfish prick and don’t duck out.”

I protest that I’m not being a selfish prick, but this is greeted by laughter, so I storm out. I seem to be doing a lot of that all of a sudden.

I spent the next few hours pondering one of the great philosophical questions. Am I a selfish prick? History would suggest I am. But then isn’t the human race just billions of selfish pricks? Or is that just the view of a selfish prick?

To be honest, the rebellion had happened so suddenly that I found it hard to take in. The whole project seemed to disintegrate in a couple of minutes. I had felt I had been achieving something and now that feeling was gone. I was bereft.

But slowly, reluctantly, I began to see what the others were seeing. Perhaps I was being egocentric. My assumption that a documentary would be an excuse for the cameras to ghoulishly stare at me was probably way out of date. I had been in prison for a while now. The character of Lenny had long since died in a mysterious fire, off-screen, in Afghanistan. How interesting did I imagine I was any more? Soon, I would just be a nostalgic footnote. Maybe there’d been some honesty behind the bullshit of that letter. Maybe they were looking to make a serious documentary. And if they were, why shouldn’t the others get their chance to step into the spotlight and tell their stories? Maybe I’d let my suspicion and arrogance shape my actions. Dougie had a point. Why did I have to be so secretive? I could have told them about it. But I’ve always felt I know best, always, in all my dealings. In my mind, I’ve always outranked people.

In the end, the decision made itself, it coalesced into a pleasing shape. I would let it go, trust the process, trust in others. I would ask for an appointment to see the governor – an appointment for the whole group.

A few days later I am sitting in Malcolm’s office waiting for the others.

“They’re always late,” I explain. “God knows why, it’s not like they have busy diaries.”

I decide to get the elephant out of the room.

“Did you tell Dougie about the TV company’s approach?”

Malcolm makes piercing eye-contact.

“No. I did not.” He maintains the eye-contact. (Is this some kind of technique? Oh for God’s sake, I’m doing it again.) “But you know what this place is like for gossip, people are in and out of this office all the time, and various members of my staff would have seen the letter to me…and the follow-up, so…I’ve no plans to launch an enquiry.”

I’m not sure if I believe him, but I decide that it no longer matters. The others are filing in now, Albie sits about as far away from Malcolm’s desk as is possible. Malcolm doesn’t sit behind his desk, he perches on the edge of it, like one of those teachers who likes you to call them by their first name.

“All right, team, now, as you know, Kevin has some…qualms, um…reservations, understandable reservations, given how the media have treated him…that if we let these cameras in to film the drama group, then the whole thing could turn into a bit of a circus and he – and you – and all of us…could end up getting…um…”

“Royally fucked,” says Dougie.

“Yes…that’s…pretty much what he’s worried about. And I’m concerned too. But I also think there are so many possible positives to be gained, so this is an opportunity for us to air the whole topic. So, the floor is yours. Who’d like to start, any questions?”

Mohammad’s arm shoots up. He is wearing his pouty, belligerent face.

“Would we be censored?”

“Well that would depend, I suppose, on the kind of thing you say.”

“What if I foretell a global caliphate? Is that OK?”

Malcolm looks unsure.

“Erm…well obviously there are laws about—”

“Laws made by man.”

“Yes but—”

Gerald intervenes, “I think the legal situation is that you would be allowed to ‘foretell’ a global caliphate, but you wouldn’t be allowed to advocate moving towards that caliphate by overthrowing the state and/or killing people.”

“Thank you, Gerald. Maybe we shouldn’t get bogged down on this, any other questions?”

“Would we get paid?” asks Mohammad.

“I’ve no idea,” Malcolm replies, “that’s something that I suppose would get thrashed out in the contract…if we get that far.”

Dougie proposes that we stop pussying around and that I should shit or get off the pot.

Malcolm holds his hands up – palms outwards like the Pope – to signify calm.

“Kevin, what are your main concerns?”

“Well two really. One, that there’ll be a…um…a focus…a mawkish focus on me and my past – at the expense of the group. And two – and I think this is a very real risk – that once the cameras are here they’ll go on a fishing mission, looking for salacious material…and three, how do we stop them distorting things? Once they get into the edit they can make us look however they want. They can make us all look stupid.”

I can see the wheels turning inside Dougie and Gerald’s heads. They clearly don’t relish the prospect of not having control.

“Also, will they handle the material sensitively? For instance, take Paul…” Albie straightens up slightly at the sound of his name. “…he’s not great with strangers. Will they treat him seriously? Or will they just treat him as a funny turn, a quirky character?”

I feel a little insensitive talking about Albie this way with him in the room, but I want to spell out the risks. “TV likes to laugh at people. And it doesn’t hang around to pick up the pieces.”

Malcolm furrows his brow.

“True, very true, Kevin. On the other hand, it can be inspiring and uplifting. Look at that series they did about that school in Yorkshire. Here’s an idea,” Malcolm stands up, energised, “why don’t we get these fellas in and give them the once over, eh? See what we make of them. And if we’re minded to proceed, we can lay down some parameters.”

Simo doesn’t know what parameters are.

“Boundaries. We can tell them that certain things are off-limits. But we’ll do it face-to-face. And if we don’t like the look of them, fine. On the other hand, if they seem straight enough…well, it’d be a shame for TV audiences not to hear Albie sing, wouldn’t it?”

Albie grins sheepishly. Mohammad starts performing one of his poems for Malcolm, but Malcolm’s PA sticks her head round the door to remind him he’s late for something. She’s a very good PA.

We googled “Going Forward Productions” and found that most of their documentaries had titles that ended in exclamation marks. But, when we watched the actual programmes, they weren’t that bad. Even the one about annoyingly passive, ludicrously obese people (Fat and Furious!) managed to maintain a reasonably sympathetic tone. So it was agreed that we should proceed with a meeting.

The execs came to see us, Julian and Michelle. The whole group attended, with Malcolm acting as chairman. Julian was affable and articulate, while Michelle said very little, probably because most of the group (apart from me) kept staring at her legs. They were trying desperately hard not to, but somehow that just made the whole situation feel even more embarrassing. I wanted to explain to her that they didn’t mean to be intimidating, but I couldn’t work out how that explanation would start.

Julian laid out, in broad terms, how they pictured the documentary, which was – guess what – people going on a journey. He saw it as an uplifting piece of television. I itemised my concerns and eventually, after about forty minutes of discussion, Malcolm came up with five conditions which they would have to accept as part of the contract:

1) There would be no detailed reference to the sequence of events that led to my being in prison;

2) I would do no solo pieces to camera;

3) I would be on screen for no more than ten per cent of the programme;

4) They could only film rehearsals when it had been agreed beforehand;

5) We would have final approval on the edited programme.

The fact that they conceded so easily on the last point did make me wonder if they were serious programme-makers, but we had got what I wanted and Malcolm felt any “qualms” had been addressed, so we all shook hands and they said they’d be back to start filming in two weeks.

When they came back, Michelle was wearing a trouser suit.