The Voracious Reader
by Pat Black
Genre: Drama
Swearwords: A few strong ones.
Description: Jackie Spangles, D Wing's longest-serving resident, wants to try a bit of Shakespeare. Gerry the Screw, prison librarian, wants to know why...
_____________________________________________________________________
“You got any of that, eh, Shakespeare, boss?”
This was Jackie Spangles speaking. I had to laugh.
“Which Shakespeare do you mean, Jackie?”
He didn’t get the joke, or see the funny side. D wing can do that to you, I suppose. “The plays, man. The stage, actors and that.”
There are few surprises left in here. But Jackie Spangles asking me if I had any Shakespeare was one of them. I’ve seen it all; dirty protests, young boys topping themselves, the giving and receiving of hidings, governor’s offices being stormed, mock marriages between long-standing boyfriends and even glowing reviews in the press after inspections. There’s even a wee riot once every six or seven years, when the country club members in D wing decide to pool their brain cells.
It’s a shame when that happens, as the rest of the crowd in Skelburnie do like a quiet life.
Jackie had a smoker’s face, folded at all the corners with military precision, the kind of face that often lurks behind a swinging fist. The rest of him was a study in stolidity; a short, pugnacious man with eyes the colour of dishwater. He’d once been stocky, but in the two years since his wife died without him on the outside his weight had dropped considerably, prompting speculation that he might be due for the early release that no-one wants.
“Jackie, what’s got into you, mate?” I said, taking back James Clavell’s Shogun for the trolley. “The bard?”
“Aye, so what? I want to stretch myself a bit.”
I shrugged. “I don’t have any Shakespeare on me at the minute, Jackie. But I’ll see if I can pull out a copy of Hamlet or something from the library. What do you say?”
“Aye, fair enough, boss. How about that Tom Clancy one, there, in the meantime?”
“This one?” I indicated Patriot Games. Movie tie-in; a younger, if slightly constipated looking Harrison Ford glaring out from the front cover.
“Naw, the bigger one,” Jackie said, pointing out The Sum of All Fears.
I gave it over with a shrug. Jackie wasn’t a bad old soul. One of the real old-timers you get in D wing. He was notorious for having shot a policeman during a bank robbery back in the dawn of time, his mutton-chopped mugshot familiar to tabloid readers in the days before colour photographs. Some of the captions would have had you believe he was a monster, and I guess he must have been, at some point.
He then topped up his card by stabbing a warder with a screwdriver a few months after Skelburnie first pressed him to its bosom; as such, you could say he wasn’t in any great hurry to get out of the Big Hoose.
The years and the routine had softened him, though; now he could pass for that old man you might see hunched over a half-and-a-half-pint in the pub at lunchtime, as morose as his whippet.
“You thinking of starting a drama group, Jackie? An actor’s circle?”
“Could be. Whit’s it tae you?”
I shouldn’t take this from our residents, of course. The laws are different in here. But I guess Jackie’s one of my favourites, and I’ve always been daft on animals. Whatever else he’s earned within Skelburnie’s walls, I guess he’s entitled to a wee moan now and again.
On my way back along the cells, I got my usual serenade from Alky Tam, a hapless wife killer blessed with a quite beautiful baritone voice, strong enough to rattle the bars of his cage. It would have fluttered fans at the faces of fair ladies in any opera house in the world - which only went to show, as he abused me day after day, that the lord truly works in mysterious ways.
Tragically for me, he was also a poet.
“Gerry The Ghost... Eats toast the most... He’s thin as a post...”
A chorus of boos, his usual reward for such efforts, sounded from the galleries.
***************************
Some of Skelburnie’s guests aren’t too bad. They may be animals, but after a while some of them get the moist brown-eyed appearance of a dippy spaniel, even down to the ear infections. You get to know them, chat to them in passing. You can’t resist taking a liking to a few of them, even though you’d warn your children off attempting to pat them in the street.
It helps that I’m not one of the tyrannosaur screws that stalk the grounds, admittedly; I draw the country clubbers’ ridicule, but rarely their wrath. Looking like a rake with a uniform hanging off it does confer benefits.
Take my nickname, for example: Gerry The Ghost. It could be worse. Sure, there are riffs and runs that can be taken with that, plenty of room for improv. Spooky, the Wraith, the Haunted, Gaunty McGaunt-Gaunt, Scarecrow Baggypants, Edgar Allen Ho’, Dances With Pipecleaners and Dying Bastard Prick Grim Reaper Screw of Death are among the many tangents the more experienced orator could take as I trundle past with my wee trolley.
I bear it all with a smile, and not a little dignity.
As I got back to the library that day, I suffered a rare attack of conscience for being so smug with Jackie Spangles. I know I shouldn’t really mock these poor bastards; it’s just that I don’t quite feel the reformer’s zeal in trying to educate them, or showing them better ways to behave. Getting punched or showered with piss tends to reduce the kindness in you.
When you’re a screw, anything unusual immediately sparks distrust. So, prisoner number 402573 asking to read Shakespeare had to count as unusual.
But Jackie had never given me the slightest bit of bother, and although he’d taken a while to get through Shogun (not that anyone ever polished that beast off in short order) he had obviously enjoyed it. So, I dug out an edition of The Tragedies and got it along to him on the next turn.
“That do you, Jackie? Got some of the big ones in there. Hamlet, Macbeth, Othello. Romeo and Juliet.”
He looked disappointed. Without his wallies in, his whole lower face seemed to hang loose like a telephone cable in high summer. “I was hoping for the lot, like.”
“The complete works? Maybe see how you get on with the tragedies first, eh?”
“Mph. S’pose. Do you have the whole lot, like? Everything he ever wrote?”
I nodded. “I’ve seen it hiding in there somewhere. But it’ll take you a while. Not many folk have ever read the complete works, I reckon.”
“Well. Bring it up next time, boss, eh?”
“Can do. How you getting on with the Clancy?”
“Eh, not bad, boss, not bad. Bit scary, that nuclear business. But it’s not as good as that one with the IRA in it.”
I nodded. “Well. Don’t hang onto it too long, eh Jackie?”
“Sure, boss. By the way, is Romeo and Juliet a tragedy, right enough?”
“Yep. It’s not got a happy ending, Jackie.”
Back I went. “Ghastly Gerry... Very Scary... His missus is... A Hairy Mary...” bellowed Alky Tam.
***************************
Dan, my supervisor, later dispelled all notions of culture and aspirational reading among Skelburnie’s population.
“He’s at it. Guaranteed. Fuckin’ Shakespeare? Jackie Spangles? Right you are.”
“I’m sure he’s on the level... he’s fairly going through the books, these days.”
“Is he, now? What’s he doing with them?”
“Hey, I read books. Lots of people read books. It’s habit-forming. Maybe he’s just got the bug.”
Dan spluttered laughter. I got on alright with him, but like all line managers the world over he had something of the prick lurking within.
“The bug? The only bugs biting him are the ones parachuting off his bedsheets. I want to know what he’s up to.”
“Reading, Dan,” I said. “Reading. What else could he be up to?”
***************************
But as I handed Jackie the library’s crumbling, red-spined Complete Works of Shakespeare – so heavy I felt my balance tip as I cradled it in one hand – I felt bound to spring a little pop test.
“Read any of the tragedies yet?”
“What? Eh, aye, of course I have.”
“Which one? I bet you went for Hamlet, first.”
“Course I did. Cracking play, that. A belter, boss.”
“Those witches, eh? What are they like?”
He snorted. “Witches? There’s nae fuckin’ witches in Hamlet. That’s Macbeth. There’s a ghost, though. I thought a skinny dying bastart like your good self would recognise a fellow phantom.”
I laughed. “Fair enough, Jackie. I do like to see people taking in a bit o’ culture.”
“Trying to catch me out, were you? Smart arse.” He laughed, thoroughly pleased with himself.
“How’s about handing back the Tragedies, then?”
“Eh? But, it’s still stamped out.”
“I know, Jackie. But you’ve got the Complete Works now. Somebody else can have the Tragedies.”
“Who the fuck’s going to want to read Shakespeare’s Tragedies in the jail?”
“Oh, I dunno, Jackie, search me. Who in their right mind would want to read that kind of stuff in here, eh? Oh, that’s right... you.”
He swallowed. “Well... I just like the book.”
“What, the edition itself?”
“Aye. That’s what I said,” he said, testily.
I read the signs and backed off. He didn’t even say goodbye, flicking open the massive gold-leaf Complete Works at page one before he even sat on his bunk.
“Gerry the Spook... Oh Gerry the Spook... He’ll stamp yer books...” yelled Alky Tam. His head part-protruded out of his cell, half of it smeared in shaving foam, as I passed. “...And I made ye look!”
He finished with a bow as the rest of the wing booed him.
***************************
Dan the supervisor was still sceptical. “He borrowed Shakespeare? Like, the full bhoona Shakespeare?”
“Yep. I even tested him a wee bit on the tragedies. Full marks.”
“Now I am amazed.”
“The questions were nothing heavy, mind. The sort of stuff you’d know for a pub quiz, without actually having read it. If you’d been able to go to a pub quiz in the past 30 years, I suppose.”
He sighed. “I still don’t like it.”
“Well, what can he do with some books apart from read them, Dan? Use them to dig a tunnel? Cut a ladder out of the pages?”
“You could wipe yer arse with it, I suppose.” A light blinked on behind his eyes. “Or... you could shag it.”
“Sorry, Dan, you’ll have to educate me here. How does one shag a book?”
“Well... use yer imagination... you know, open it up, lie it face down, so you’ve got a wee space...” He mimicked an inverse dove shape with his hands, and thrust his hips before it.
***************************
This image was still seared into my mind as I trundled back through the corridors. Jackie was keen as a kid at Christmas.
“What do you fancy this time, Jackie? Bit of War and Peace?”
His fluffy white ears pricked up. “Why? Have you got it?”
I teased Tolstoy’s monster out of the trolley. Going by the back leaf, it had only cost a quid for approximately half a tree.
Jackie’s face lit up. “Oh! That’s grand. That’s ideal.”
“Christ almighty, Jackie. In future, folk will be coming to you to borrow books, never mind me.”
“Och, you’ll get them back. I won’t rip you off.”
“I have to ask you, Jackie... Are you actually reading these? War And Peace? It took me an entire summer to read War And Peace.”
“You weren’t locked up in here all yer life, were you?” he snapped, snatching the tome out of my hand. “I like books, boss. I like to read. That’s no’ a crime as well, is it?”
“Of course not, Jackie. Enjoy the book, mate.”
My favourite performer piped up from the gallery: “Gerry the Spectre... Book inspector... He’ll Infect Yer... In the rectum...”
“That’s poor, Tam,” I said, over the cacophony of boos. “Poor effort, mate.”
***************************
Dan steepled his fingers over our morning tea.
“I’m going to call a cell inspection. I still think Jackie’s at it.”
“Oh, come on!” I spluttered. “There’s no need for that.”
He frowned. “Why do you say that?”
“Because I believe him, Dan. I think he is reading the books. He’s a lover of literature.”
“Bollocks,” Dan scoffed. “I’m phoning the governor.”
So, without further suspense or drama, an inspection was called and a couple of screwosaurus rexes lumbered up to Jackie’s cell, accompanied by Dan and I. I don’t know what I was thinking, going along with them. Maybe in the strange hierarchies of the prisoner it would be less of a disgrace for me if I went with them.
Perhaps he knew the game was up; his sad, washed-out eyes followed us all the way up the stairs.
Soon the gorillas were turning his stuff over. “What’s the score with the books, then?” Dan barked, as Jackie stood, resigned, outside the cell.
“I just like ‘em,” Jackie whispered. “I like having ‘em. That’s all.”
Inside, the two screws pawed through his meagre possessions, his clothes. One of them lifted a framed black and white photo of Jackie’s late wife. She was a sixties flower child, mini-skirted, bobby-socked, dark-haired and chubby cheeked, not unlike a young Cilla Black.
Jackie coughed loudly and fidgeted while this was going on, only relaxing when the photo was replaced.
“A book lover, eh?” One of the screws asked, winking. “Sure you’re not shaggin’ ‘em, Jackie?”
His partner stopped dead in the midst of turning out a white pair of terry towelling sports socks. “Eh? How could ye shag a book?”
“Well... you could open it out... you know, put it face down...”
Suddenly, something struck me. An absence of something. “Eh... Mind if I ask where the books actually are, Jackie?” I asked.
He shrugged, and blushed to his toes.
“He’s at it – I knew it,” Dan said, smirking. “Right, let’s turn the bed o’er.”
The blanket was drawn aside with a conjuror’s flourish, and the thing was revealed. Strung out in a ragged vertical line beneath the bedclothes was a set of books, including Shakespeare’s Complete Works, the Tragedies, Tom Clancy’s The Sum Of All Fears and War And Peace by Uncle Leo. A few other works, including an omnibus edition of Enid Blyton’s Secret Seven series and good old Treasure Island helped make up this irregular totem from head-to-foot on the mattress.
It took us a while to see it, to get the picture. It was a crude S-pattern, with Shakespeare forming part of the lower loop, wedged tight against a wall.
That’s when I got it. I slept the same way, back home, crowded into the paintwork while my wife enjoyed the liberty of being able to slip in and out when she liked.
Thusly, one could spoon the bard. Shakespeare’s complete output would make a fine substitute for a good solid rump, and the Robert Louis Stevenson shoulders at the upper loop were well placed to put your arm around in the night. The whole thing would be a reassuring weight on the mattress beside you, an uncomplaining bulwark against loneliness.
No-one said anything, although one of the screws snickered. I just wanted to flee. I felt as if I’d walked in on a family member while they were changing; part horror, part shame.
“They must be a great comfort to you,” Dan said, smirking.
“I just read them. Honest, boss - I like books.” Jackie’s haunted gaze drew the hairs from my arms.
“It’s okay, Jackie,” I told him. “You hang onto them. It’s no problem. Plenty of reading in there, eh?”
He nodded. But I felt I’d crushed something within him, between us.
“Gerry the Ghost... May be the most... Biggest dickhead in the jail,” wailed Alky Tam, as we trooped back down the stairs.
And for once, no-one booed him.
Swearwords: A few strong ones.
Description: Jackie Spangles, D Wing's longest-serving resident, wants to try a bit of Shakespeare. Gerry the Screw, prison librarian, wants to know why...
_____________________________________________________________________
“You got any of that, eh, Shakespeare, boss?”
This was Jackie Spangles speaking. I had to laugh.
“Which Shakespeare do you mean, Jackie?”
He didn’t get the joke, or see the funny side. D wing can do that to you, I suppose. “The plays, man. The stage, actors and that.”
There are few surprises left in here. But Jackie Spangles asking me if I had any Shakespeare was one of them. I’ve seen it all; dirty protests, young boys topping themselves, the giving and receiving of hidings, governor’s offices being stormed, mock marriages between long-standing boyfriends and even glowing reviews in the press after inspections. There’s even a wee riot once every six or seven years, when the country club members in D wing decide to pool their brain cells.
It’s a shame when that happens, as the rest of the crowd in Skelburnie do like a quiet life.
Jackie had a smoker’s face, folded at all the corners with military precision, the kind of face that often lurks behind a swinging fist. The rest of him was a study in stolidity; a short, pugnacious man with eyes the colour of dishwater. He’d once been stocky, but in the two years since his wife died without him on the outside his weight had dropped considerably, prompting speculation that he might be due for the early release that no-one wants.
“Jackie, what’s got into you, mate?” I said, taking back James Clavell’s Shogun for the trolley. “The bard?”
“Aye, so what? I want to stretch myself a bit.”
I shrugged. “I don’t have any Shakespeare on me at the minute, Jackie. But I’ll see if I can pull out a copy of Hamlet or something from the library. What do you say?”
“Aye, fair enough, boss. How about that Tom Clancy one, there, in the meantime?”
“This one?” I indicated Patriot Games. Movie tie-in; a younger, if slightly constipated looking Harrison Ford glaring out from the front cover.
“Naw, the bigger one,” Jackie said, pointing out The Sum of All Fears.
I gave it over with a shrug. Jackie wasn’t a bad old soul. One of the real old-timers you get in D wing. He was notorious for having shot a policeman during a bank robbery back in the dawn of time, his mutton-chopped mugshot familiar to tabloid readers in the days before colour photographs. Some of the captions would have had you believe he was a monster, and I guess he must have been, at some point.
He then topped up his card by stabbing a warder with a screwdriver a few months after Skelburnie first pressed him to its bosom; as such, you could say he wasn’t in any great hurry to get out of the Big Hoose.
The years and the routine had softened him, though; now he could pass for that old man you might see hunched over a half-and-a-half-pint in the pub at lunchtime, as morose as his whippet.
“You thinking of starting a drama group, Jackie? An actor’s circle?”
“Could be. Whit’s it tae you?”
I shouldn’t take this from our residents, of course. The laws are different in here. But I guess Jackie’s one of my favourites, and I’ve always been daft on animals. Whatever else he’s earned within Skelburnie’s walls, I guess he’s entitled to a wee moan now and again.
On my way back along the cells, I got my usual serenade from Alky Tam, a hapless wife killer blessed with a quite beautiful baritone voice, strong enough to rattle the bars of his cage. It would have fluttered fans at the faces of fair ladies in any opera house in the world - which only went to show, as he abused me day after day, that the lord truly works in mysterious ways.
Tragically for me, he was also a poet.
“Gerry The Ghost... Eats toast the most... He’s thin as a post...”
A chorus of boos, his usual reward for such efforts, sounded from the galleries.
***************************
Some of Skelburnie’s guests aren’t too bad. They may be animals, but after a while some of them get the moist brown-eyed appearance of a dippy spaniel, even down to the ear infections. You get to know them, chat to them in passing. You can’t resist taking a liking to a few of them, even though you’d warn your children off attempting to pat them in the street.
It helps that I’m not one of the tyrannosaur screws that stalk the grounds, admittedly; I draw the country clubbers’ ridicule, but rarely their wrath. Looking like a rake with a uniform hanging off it does confer benefits.
Take my nickname, for example: Gerry The Ghost. It could be worse. Sure, there are riffs and runs that can be taken with that, plenty of room for improv. Spooky, the Wraith, the Haunted, Gaunty McGaunt-Gaunt, Scarecrow Baggypants, Edgar Allen Ho’, Dances With Pipecleaners and Dying Bastard Prick Grim Reaper Screw of Death are among the many tangents the more experienced orator could take as I trundle past with my wee trolley.
I bear it all with a smile, and not a little dignity.
As I got back to the library that day, I suffered a rare attack of conscience for being so smug with Jackie Spangles. I know I shouldn’t really mock these poor bastards; it’s just that I don’t quite feel the reformer’s zeal in trying to educate them, or showing them better ways to behave. Getting punched or showered with piss tends to reduce the kindness in you.
When you’re a screw, anything unusual immediately sparks distrust. So, prisoner number 402573 asking to read Shakespeare had to count as unusual.
But Jackie had never given me the slightest bit of bother, and although he’d taken a while to get through Shogun (not that anyone ever polished that beast off in short order) he had obviously enjoyed it. So, I dug out an edition of The Tragedies and got it along to him on the next turn.
“That do you, Jackie? Got some of the big ones in there. Hamlet, Macbeth, Othello. Romeo and Juliet.”
He looked disappointed. Without his wallies in, his whole lower face seemed to hang loose like a telephone cable in high summer. “I was hoping for the lot, like.”
“The complete works? Maybe see how you get on with the tragedies first, eh?”
“Mph. S’pose. Do you have the whole lot, like? Everything he ever wrote?”
I nodded. “I’ve seen it hiding in there somewhere. But it’ll take you a while. Not many folk have ever read the complete works, I reckon.”
“Well. Bring it up next time, boss, eh?”
“Can do. How you getting on with the Clancy?”
“Eh, not bad, boss, not bad. Bit scary, that nuclear business. But it’s not as good as that one with the IRA in it.”
I nodded. “Well. Don’t hang onto it too long, eh Jackie?”
“Sure, boss. By the way, is Romeo and Juliet a tragedy, right enough?”
“Yep. It’s not got a happy ending, Jackie.”
Back I went. “Ghastly Gerry... Very Scary... His missus is... A Hairy Mary...” bellowed Alky Tam.
***************************
Dan, my supervisor, later dispelled all notions of culture and aspirational reading among Skelburnie’s population.
“He’s at it. Guaranteed. Fuckin’ Shakespeare? Jackie Spangles? Right you are.”
“I’m sure he’s on the level... he’s fairly going through the books, these days.”
“Is he, now? What’s he doing with them?”
“Hey, I read books. Lots of people read books. It’s habit-forming. Maybe he’s just got the bug.”
Dan spluttered laughter. I got on alright with him, but like all line managers the world over he had something of the prick lurking within.
“The bug? The only bugs biting him are the ones parachuting off his bedsheets. I want to know what he’s up to.”
“Reading, Dan,” I said. “Reading. What else could he be up to?”
***************************
But as I handed Jackie the library’s crumbling, red-spined Complete Works of Shakespeare – so heavy I felt my balance tip as I cradled it in one hand – I felt bound to spring a little pop test.
“Read any of the tragedies yet?”
“What? Eh, aye, of course I have.”
“Which one? I bet you went for Hamlet, first.”
“Course I did. Cracking play, that. A belter, boss.”
“Those witches, eh? What are they like?”
He snorted. “Witches? There’s nae fuckin’ witches in Hamlet. That’s Macbeth. There’s a ghost, though. I thought a skinny dying bastart like your good self would recognise a fellow phantom.”
I laughed. “Fair enough, Jackie. I do like to see people taking in a bit o’ culture.”
“Trying to catch me out, were you? Smart arse.” He laughed, thoroughly pleased with himself.
“How’s about handing back the Tragedies, then?”
“Eh? But, it’s still stamped out.”
“I know, Jackie. But you’ve got the Complete Works now. Somebody else can have the Tragedies.”
“Who the fuck’s going to want to read Shakespeare’s Tragedies in the jail?”
“Oh, I dunno, Jackie, search me. Who in their right mind would want to read that kind of stuff in here, eh? Oh, that’s right... you.”
He swallowed. “Well... I just like the book.”
“What, the edition itself?”
“Aye. That’s what I said,” he said, testily.
I read the signs and backed off. He didn’t even say goodbye, flicking open the massive gold-leaf Complete Works at page one before he even sat on his bunk.
“Gerry the Spook... Oh Gerry the Spook... He’ll stamp yer books...” yelled Alky Tam. His head part-protruded out of his cell, half of it smeared in shaving foam, as I passed. “...And I made ye look!”
He finished with a bow as the rest of the wing booed him.
***************************
Dan the supervisor was still sceptical. “He borrowed Shakespeare? Like, the full bhoona Shakespeare?”
“Yep. I even tested him a wee bit on the tragedies. Full marks.”
“Now I am amazed.”
“The questions were nothing heavy, mind. The sort of stuff you’d know for a pub quiz, without actually having read it. If you’d been able to go to a pub quiz in the past 30 years, I suppose.”
He sighed. “I still don’t like it.”
“Well, what can he do with some books apart from read them, Dan? Use them to dig a tunnel? Cut a ladder out of the pages?”
“You could wipe yer arse with it, I suppose.” A light blinked on behind his eyes. “Or... you could shag it.”
“Sorry, Dan, you’ll have to educate me here. How does one shag a book?”
“Well... use yer imagination... you know, open it up, lie it face down, so you’ve got a wee space...” He mimicked an inverse dove shape with his hands, and thrust his hips before it.
***************************
This image was still seared into my mind as I trundled back through the corridors. Jackie was keen as a kid at Christmas.
“What do you fancy this time, Jackie? Bit of War and Peace?”
His fluffy white ears pricked up. “Why? Have you got it?”
I teased Tolstoy’s monster out of the trolley. Going by the back leaf, it had only cost a quid for approximately half a tree.
Jackie’s face lit up. “Oh! That’s grand. That’s ideal.”
“Christ almighty, Jackie. In future, folk will be coming to you to borrow books, never mind me.”
“Och, you’ll get them back. I won’t rip you off.”
“I have to ask you, Jackie... Are you actually reading these? War And Peace? It took me an entire summer to read War And Peace.”
“You weren’t locked up in here all yer life, were you?” he snapped, snatching the tome out of my hand. “I like books, boss. I like to read. That’s no’ a crime as well, is it?”
“Of course not, Jackie. Enjoy the book, mate.”
My favourite performer piped up from the gallery: “Gerry the Spectre... Book inspector... He’ll Infect Yer... In the rectum...”
“That’s poor, Tam,” I said, over the cacophony of boos. “Poor effort, mate.”
***************************
Dan steepled his fingers over our morning tea.
“I’m going to call a cell inspection. I still think Jackie’s at it.”
“Oh, come on!” I spluttered. “There’s no need for that.”
He frowned. “Why do you say that?”
“Because I believe him, Dan. I think he is reading the books. He’s a lover of literature.”
“Bollocks,” Dan scoffed. “I’m phoning the governor.”
So, without further suspense or drama, an inspection was called and a couple of screwosaurus rexes lumbered up to Jackie’s cell, accompanied by Dan and I. I don’t know what I was thinking, going along with them. Maybe in the strange hierarchies of the prisoner it would be less of a disgrace for me if I went with them.
Perhaps he knew the game was up; his sad, washed-out eyes followed us all the way up the stairs.
Soon the gorillas were turning his stuff over. “What’s the score with the books, then?” Dan barked, as Jackie stood, resigned, outside the cell.
“I just like ‘em,” Jackie whispered. “I like having ‘em. That’s all.”
Inside, the two screws pawed through his meagre possessions, his clothes. One of them lifted a framed black and white photo of Jackie’s late wife. She was a sixties flower child, mini-skirted, bobby-socked, dark-haired and chubby cheeked, not unlike a young Cilla Black.
Jackie coughed loudly and fidgeted while this was going on, only relaxing when the photo was replaced.
“A book lover, eh?” One of the screws asked, winking. “Sure you’re not shaggin’ ‘em, Jackie?”
His partner stopped dead in the midst of turning out a white pair of terry towelling sports socks. “Eh? How could ye shag a book?”
“Well... you could open it out... you know, put it face down...”
Suddenly, something struck me. An absence of something. “Eh... Mind if I ask where the books actually are, Jackie?” I asked.
He shrugged, and blushed to his toes.
“He’s at it – I knew it,” Dan said, smirking. “Right, let’s turn the bed o’er.”
The blanket was drawn aside with a conjuror’s flourish, and the thing was revealed. Strung out in a ragged vertical line beneath the bedclothes was a set of books, including Shakespeare’s Complete Works, the Tragedies, Tom Clancy’s The Sum Of All Fears and War And Peace by Uncle Leo. A few other works, including an omnibus edition of Enid Blyton’s Secret Seven series and good old Treasure Island helped make up this irregular totem from head-to-foot on the mattress.
It took us a while to see it, to get the picture. It was a crude S-pattern, with Shakespeare forming part of the lower loop, wedged tight against a wall.
That’s when I got it. I slept the same way, back home, crowded into the paintwork while my wife enjoyed the liberty of being able to slip in and out when she liked.
Thusly, one could spoon the bard. Shakespeare’s complete output would make a fine substitute for a good solid rump, and the Robert Louis Stevenson shoulders at the upper loop were well placed to put your arm around in the night. The whole thing would be a reassuring weight on the mattress beside you, an uncomplaining bulwark against loneliness.
No-one said anything, although one of the screws snickered. I just wanted to flee. I felt as if I’d walked in on a family member while they were changing; part horror, part shame.
“They must be a great comfort to you,” Dan said, smirking.
“I just read them. Honest, boss - I like books.” Jackie’s haunted gaze drew the hairs from my arms.
“It’s okay, Jackie,” I told him. “You hang onto them. It’s no problem. Plenty of reading in there, eh?”
He nodded. But I felt I’d crushed something within him, between us.
“Gerry the Ghost... May be the most... Biggest dickhead in the jail,” wailed Alky Tam, as we trooped back down the stairs.
And for once, no-one booed him.
About the Author
Pat Black is a thirtysomething writer, journalist and bletherer, born and raised in Glasgow. He says he has made that difficult transition from aspiring novelist to failed novelist, although he has had a couple of short stories published. He’s the author of Snarl, a completed novel about a monster that tries to mount the Houses of Parliament. Holyrood emerges unscathed, for now.
If you enjoy Pat’s short stories, you’ll find a whole compendium of them – three dozen, in fact – in his Kindle collection, Suckerpunch, which can be downloaded at these links on Amazon.co.uk and Amazon.com.
If you enjoy Pat’s short stories, you’ll find a whole compendium of them – three dozen, in fact – in his Kindle collection, Suckerpunch, which can be downloaded at these links on Amazon.co.uk and Amazon.com.