Four

Back on his bunk he pulled out the deck of cards that the warden had given him and tried to work out some of the things he’d seen in the dining hall, but of course it was impossible. Eventually, though, I might learn some of those miracles! he told himself. I’m going to have years to practice. My time in prison could turn me into a first-class magician. Maybe I’ll come out of here with a career change!

Then came James’ voice, tight and dry:

“Cards are tools of the devil.”

“Oh please, James, this is harmless, I promise!”

“You don’t know that fellow Myler. You don’t know the sort of man he is. The only way he can move himself to do something is because he believes in nothing. He can’t teach you anything worth knowing.”

“What’s wrong with a little entertainment? It’s just a game, that’s all,” said Mr Nice Guy. “Listen, cards can help us pass the time. We could have some laughs together.”

But James would hear nothing of games. Oh, he’d had plenty of experience with gambling, he knew the temptations of flirting with Lady Chance, whether it was Poker or Two-Handed Pitch or Knuckleball or Red Dog—these were ongoing dangers! Even solitaire was a willful distraction of the spirit …

Mr Nice Guy was silent for a moment, his ears detecting a wishful note. Years of experience in the Personal Service field had made him sensitive to the gamut of needy tones and by his reckoning, James’ level of misery corresponded precisely to his degree of want (the famous pain and desire synchronicity, which a specialist like Mr Nice Guy knew too well, as both a primal psychic gluepot and an underestimated macroeconomic force). In James’ case it registered, oh, about 7.4 on the Desperation Scale.

“James, if you want to play with my cards,” he said, “you’re certainly welcome. Hey, I’ll give them to you.”

“NO!” he screeched, so that Mr Nice Guy jerked up, bumped his head again. “I don’t want to play with your cards!” This he repeated several times and resumed pacing as Mr Nice Guy reeled and rubbed, and upped his estimate to 8.2.

“Oh yes, you are here to test me,” repeated James, “But I won’t I won’t, I won’t, …”

“I’m sorry, James,” he said, gathering up the cards, “I’m putting them away right now, I promise.”

Yet this made little difference, for after the cards were back in their carton he didn’t know where to put the carton. In the cell it was impossible to hide anything except in the most obvious places, and for the rest of that afternoon and evening, James zeroed in obsessively on the subject. “Fifty-two cards, enough for a fresh ticket to Hell every week of the year. One way, my friend! Four suits, one for each season. Clubs, hearts, spades, diamonds—graven images all. Oh you’re sucked in, it’ll be hard to crawl back up!” And so forth. How Mr Nice Guy longed for a window, so he could pitch them out! When at last it was time to go to sleep, Mr Nice Guy was grateful for the silence, though as he thought back on his first day in the penitentiary, a tight fist of fear formed in his chest.

This had been only one day.

His head throbbed in the dim half-light that passed for night in this place. He wanted rest but there was no rest here. Time stretched before him. Oh, the waste, the waste! Knowing made it all the worse. So much of his life lost—before it even happened! That was the perversion. Nothingness, planned. Maybe I’ll go crazy. With both hands he reached for the rough ceiling above his bunk, pressed hard on the grit of concrete, forcing at it from where he lay. He felt entombed.

Struggling for breath, he clapped his hands over his eyes and tried to calm himself by imagining how the sky looked at this moment. The sky, the sky—

Black … wonderfully rich and black. Yes, that was better. A shifting surface, raining sheets and sheets of night. He breathed deeply, more evenly, squinching his eyes tighter. Suddenly he saw a web of constellations wheeling. Dark plates and pinheads of distant fire. All this was conjured up from within: that was the only direction to look now. Time clenched and seized up into a ball, suspended too, trapped in his person. How big I am! With longing he thought of Barbara and felt another room added to his capaciousness, love there was place for—how much more space there was still! I am immense, he thought. I contain worlds.

He opened his eyes.

The cell came back to him in a wave.

He heard James move restlessly. The deck of cards beneath his pillow, Mr Nice Guy closed his eyes again and pushed, pushed on the ceiling as James rolled over again, muttering.