“What kind of a fucked idea was this?” Laroche swung round to face Michael. “Your kind of a fucked idea, that’s what it was. Gimme some help, will yer? You said do literacy. Fuck! Nobody mentions tests when you sign up. Nobody mentions written tests. Fuck!”
“Well, if you want to work in the library…”
Three steps and turn. Three steps and turn. Laroche was pacing up and down the tiny space available to them. “I don’t want to work in the library. Changed me mind. Don’t want to do no tests neither. You have no idea what you’ve got me into. Write something about yourself. Sod that! I’m down the hobbit shop with you.”
“It’s only a paragraph.”
“You write it for me then.” He stopped his pacing. “Ackshly, that’s not a bad idea.”
“I can’t come into the room with you. Exam conditions.”
“You write it out an’ I’ll copy it on me arm. Job done. Sorted.”
“It’s life writing. It should be easy. It’s writing about what you know.”
“I don’t have a life. Hadn’t you noticed?” Laroche stopped his pacing as what he had said caught up with him. “I don’t know nuffin’, besides.”
“Write about what happened to you before you came in here.”
“What? And get sent down for longer oink oink?”
“Write about your childhood. Your best birthday. The first CD you bought. Keep it simple.”
Laroche stood in the room with his hands hanging by his side. He looked like a cartoon sketch of a man: a few lines drawn and a bit of shading. “Thass wotch you think they’re looking for, eh? Them examiners. My first record was a breaking and entering when I was eleven. Criminal, not vinyl. My best birthday? Ooh, let me see. It’d probably be me ninth, when me uncle had a fiddle with me as a change from me step dad. That was a cracker.”
Michael felt a small collapse inside himself – the ebb of optimism, of anything positive.
“Will that do the job?”
“I – I had no idea. I’m sorry.”
“Nobody has any idea. Nobody has a fucking clue.” He sniffed and cuffed his bent arm over his face.
Michael hesitated, then took a step towards him.
“Don’t you fucking dare.”
“I was only going to–”
“Well, don’t. Save yourself the bother.” Laroche gave himself a quick shake. A shudder. “Oi Rosbif! Yer gotta man up!” He came sparring towards him, jabbing him in the ribs and the shoulder. “Thass wotch yer gotta do. Don’t let the buggers grind you down.”
He landed another blow, then another, until in a fit of crazy sadness the two of them started shadow boxing, swiping and ducking and dancing, until they heard the turning of a key and one of the kangas slammed the cell door open wide.
“Which of you is going to Education?”
~~~
Laroche came back from his exam whistling.
“Took yer advice, Rosbif. For me life writing question I wrote about the first CD I ever nicked.” He whistled a few more notes, executing a sideways shuffle, with a bit of beat boxing to finish off. “The first CD wot I ever nicked was Now That’s What I Call Music 53. I wrote about the standout track The Ketchup Song. What it meant to me oink oink.” He flung himself down in his chair, “Reading and comprehension tomorrow,” he said lugubriously.
“Why didn’t you write about – what you told me?”
“Yesterday’s news.”
“But if the authorities knew, it might make a difference – mitigating circumstances. When it comes to your trial.”
Laroche gave him a scornful look. “You’re such a noob, Rosbif.”
“It might help.”
“You and your wossname circumstances. Half the crims in France would be out on the street instead of inside if that counted. We’ve all got our – you know, wotch you said. Ask anyone in ’ere if their ol’ man, or their neighbour, or whoever, didn’t try their luck. When they stop doing it, you know you’re one of the big boys. Moving quickly onwards…” he said, “Woss the first CD you ever… bought?”