Laroche was given four years and nine months and seemed unmoved by the sentence. “This is me home, ’ere,” he gestured around him, taking in the bed, the cell, the view of the hospital wing. “’S where I live. ’S where me mates are; got me little ickle job in the library. Board and lodging, no rent to pay. Who needs the outside? All that trouble? All them rellies? Nah.” He resumed filling a carrier bag with his belongings. “Right,” he said. “Got the kanga to give me five. Sit down.”
Michael sat abruptly on the chair that was thrust at him.
“Don’t move and this won’t hurt,” said Laroche from behind him.
“What–?”
There was a rustle of plastic bag then a click and a buzzing sound that Michael realized too late was an electric razor.
“Don’t move.”
“What the–?” The first featherings of hair sifted down onto the floor. “Get off me, you maniac!”
“I’m doin’ it for yer own good.”
“You’re a madman. What are you doing?”
Hair, like feathers from a pillow fight, drifted downwards.
“Who’s going to watch your back, now I’m crossing to the other side?”
Michael twisted his head round to look at him. “What?”
“I’ve only got five minutes. Don’t move.” The razor skimmed the contours of Michael’s skull. “You’re gonna have to watch your own back, because I won’t be there.”
“Have you been watching my back?”
“What do you think, ya murdering Rosbif ponce? You’re bloody lucky Joubert only caught you a glancing blow with a wrench. Could’ve been much worse. Now turn round and look at me.” Laroche surveyed him critically then zipped a strip of hair from above his ear. “That’ll do. ’S toughened you up a bit.”
Gingerly, Michael felt the scalp around his scar. “Were you really? Looking out for me?”
“Yer about to find out.”
“Why would you do that?”
“Why would you teach me to read?”
He opened his mouth to say something about owing him one – two – for the phone calls, but then stopped.
“There’s your answer, mate.”
As they heard the key turn in the lock and the kanga stuck his head round the door and beckoned him into the corridor, Laroche slung the razor into the carrier bag, then picked up his copy of The Monstrumologist. “S’long, dude.” He punched Michael on the knuckles. “Will you look at us now – me the bookworm, you the crim.”
Michael ran his hand across his scalp, seeking out the soft abrasions. “S’long… Lilian, and – thanks!” he said, torpedoed by a feeling of aloneness as the door slammed shut. He listened to the sound of receding footsteps, that desolate childhood sound, and a faint oink oink filtered back to him on the stale prison air.