42

Wacko sits at the edge of the pool table and focuses on the bin. He has one peanut left to throw and wants it to count. The last three he has missed. Left eye closed, he has the target in his sights, confident he’ll make the shot. Pulling back his arm he fires, missing by about four feet. Shite! As he tries to figure out how he could have missed, he notices Danny standing against the wall, watching him.

‘Alrigh’ Danny, don’t know how I missed that. Think it stuck to me finger last minute.’

Danny says nothing and Wacko’s too stoned to notice the dead expression in his eyes. ‘What’s up, man?’

‘My dad died.’

Wacko looks stunned – he wasn’t expecting that.

‘When?’

‘I don’t know. I just found out today.’

‘Ah, that’s terrible. Was he old?’

‘No.’

Danny needs some sort of comfort. There is nobody else he can talk to. Ever since the game of pool they have been friendly, getting stoned a few times together. It’s bleak, he knows, but as shit as he suspects Wacko will be at this kind of thing, he’s all he’s got.

‘He was only sixty-four.’

Wacko’s silent. He’s so baked that it makes the situation seem even heavier than it is and he just wants to get the fuck out of there. Danny picks up on this and realises he hasn’t a friend in the world – why should Wacko give a shit? He turns to walk away.

Wacko looks at Danny’s hung shoulders and before he can stop himself calls after him. ‘Hang on, man; let’s take a stroll.’

The two of them stand in the corner of the yard as Wacko rolls a joint very conspicuously. He dare not look up at Danny – he’s afraid he’ll be crying or something. His heart does go out to him, though. What a place to get that kind of news. He finishes skinning up, takes a few tokes, then hands it to Danny. ‘Here you go, buddy, this is good shit.’

Danny inhales long and deep, feels his lungs fill, before letting out a giant cloud of smoke. Again. Again. He keeps smoking until he feels nothing. Wacko lets him at it; he can smoke the whole thing if he wants. Danny starts coughing and Wacko pats his back. Tears start to roll down his face – at first from the cough but slowly they turn into actual tears and in no time he’s full-on hunched over, coughing and crying at the top of his voice.

Wacko doesn’t know where to look. He scans the yard to see who’s watching. No one he knows well. Thank fuck for that. ‘There, there, man. It’s alrigh’… just, you know …’

Danny catches his breath. ‘Sorry.’

‘Understandable, man,’ Wacko says, patting Danny’s back. ‘No worries.’

‘Fuck,’ Danny splutters, ‘what am I going to do?’ He looks at Wacko with pleading eyes, praying that somehow this man – this fucking waster of a man – could come up with something that will help. Something profound. Wacko looks like he wants to deliver as well, which gives Danny hope.

Finally, he speaks. ‘I don’t know, man.’

Brilliant.

Danny gathers himself – the effects of the drugs are strong. It’s that same crazy shit that Wacko always smokes. Blows your fucking head off. He says nothing more and walks away. He drifts into the main hall, down the stained red corridors of A block and into his cell. He is alone. No point pretending any different. No one can help him. Proper order too, he thinks. What good is he to anyone? His mind flickers, the walls move on him and he thinks that I’m sitting beside him.

I am.

‘I’m sorry,’ he says.

I know you are.

‘My dad’s dead.’

I know. I was with him when he died.

‘I killed you both.’ He looks around the room again. The walls are changing colour. ‘Who’s there!’ he screams, then looks at the ground, confused, as if he’s forgotten where he is for a second.

‘I’m sorry,’ he whispers again.

Can you see me?

‘I know you can hear me. Can you forgive me?’

No.

‘I wish you could forgive me.’

I do too.

‘If you can forgive me maybe everything will be alright.’

What do you mean?

‘But things will never be alright.’

Maybe they can be.

‘Can you forgive me?’

No. I don’t know. I don’t think so.

‘If you can forgive me maybe everything will be alright.’ Danny slumps down on his bed, the walls spinning all around him. Too fast for him to keep his eyes open. He closes them to stop the ache in his brain but the insides of his eyelids are spinning just as fast. He grabs his forehead and shouts, ‘Make it stop!’ Turning on his side, he grits his teeth and wishes that he could sleep to get away from the pain – even for a little while.

It’s okay, Danny, calm down.

His body moves to its back and he winces once more.

Calm down, Danny, it’s okay.

His breathing relaxes a bit, his eyes remaining closed. His hands move from his forehead to his chest as he calms. The pained expression is still on his face as he drifts off to sleep.

I stay beside him, wondering what the fuck just happened. After over a year of trying to wake up the bastard, have I for once helped him go to sleep? His mind is so scrambled I can’t tell if he heard me again or if he was just off his head.

Can I forgive him? Probably not. But still, as I look at this man I have hated for the past sixteen months, I wonder how I feel about him now.

Maybe he isn’t so bad after all.