Complement
by Andrew McCallum Crawford
Genre: Drama
Swearwords: One strong one only.
Description: When authority leaves one (and the soup) cold.
_____________________________________________________________________
Johnson ladled soup into the bowl and placed it on the flat part of the paddle, which was balanced on the lip of the hatch. Morris took the weight of the shaft and pushed the food carefully into the cell.
Smith, the prisoner, lifted the bowl.
‘Stop!’ said Morris. ‘You touched the paddle!’
‘What’s the problem?’ said Johnson. He didn’t like confrontations, especially loud ones. Apart from that, it was his first day on the job.
‘It’s a rule,’ said Morris. ‘He’s not supposed to touch it.’
Johnson checked the roster. ‘Let’s see. Cell B12. Smith, George David. He’s like me,’ he said. ‘He’s just arrived. Maybe he didn’t know.’
‘There’s a list taped above the hatch, for Christ’s sake,’ said Morris.
‘Still...’
‘Heh, Smith!’ Morris shouted. ‘Read rule 15 off that sheet on the back of the door!’
Johnson heard shuffling noises, then Smith’s voice. ‘ “Inmates shall not touch the serving paddle when it is introduced through the hatch at meal times” .’
‘See,’ said Morris. ‘He’s read it.’
‘Aye,’ said Johnson, ‘but...’
‘Are you denying he’s read it? Smith! Read rule 1!’
‘ “On entering the cell, inmates shall read the Rules of Conduct which are affixed to the cell door” .’
‘You can’t plead ignorance,’ smiled Morris, almost to himself. ‘It’s the weakest of defences. The Governor hates it when...’
Smith’s face appeared at the hatch. ‘Can I eat my soup?’ he said. ‘It’s getting cold.’
‘Don’t be cheeky,’ said Morris.
Smith’s face disappeared. A moment’s silence. ‘There’s nothing written here about folk being cheeky,’ he said.
‘See, he’s read all the rules,’ said Morris.
‘Aye, but has he really read them?’ said Johnson.
‘Wh...?!!’ said Morris. ‘Whose side are you on?’
‘I reckon he just glanced through them for the word “cheeky”,’ said Johnson. ‘That’s not the same as reading them.’
‘Excellent point.’ Smith’s voice.
‘That’s enough, Smith!’ Morris shouted. ‘I know what you’re doing. Fucking typical. You fancy yourself as a legal expert, a lawyer. Well, you’re going to need one.’
The sound of slurping.
‘Smith!’ Morris shouted. ‘Did you touch this paddle?’
Johnson leaned down and peered into the cell. ‘Careful, Smith,’ he said. ‘I didn’t see anything.’
Smith was sitting on his bunk, the bowl on his knees, his spoon poised. ‘Aye,’ he said. ‘I touched it. It was wobbly.’
‘There you go,’ said Morris. ‘Straight from the horse’s mouth. A Confession.’
‘The Governor won’t allow “it was wobbly” in mitigation?’ Johnson sighed.
‘Eh?’ said Morris.
‘Nothing,’ said Johnson.
‘You’ll witness the report?’ said Morris. He rested a hand on the side of the trolley. He looked old. Old and hopeful.
‘Do I have a choice?’ said Johnson.
‘Not really,’ said Morris.
They moved a few yards down the corridor. Steam was no longer rising from the urn. Smith rattled something against his door. ‘Heh!’ he shouted. ‘What about a round of bread here!’ But the warders were already busy at the next cell, Johnson ladling soup into the bowl while Morris balanced the paddle just-so on the lip of the hatch.
Swearwords: One strong one only.
Description: When authority leaves one (and the soup) cold.
_____________________________________________________________________
Johnson ladled soup into the bowl and placed it on the flat part of the paddle, which was balanced on the lip of the hatch. Morris took the weight of the shaft and pushed the food carefully into the cell.
Smith, the prisoner, lifted the bowl.
‘Stop!’ said Morris. ‘You touched the paddle!’
‘What’s the problem?’ said Johnson. He didn’t like confrontations, especially loud ones. Apart from that, it was his first day on the job.
‘It’s a rule,’ said Morris. ‘He’s not supposed to touch it.’
Johnson checked the roster. ‘Let’s see. Cell B12. Smith, George David. He’s like me,’ he said. ‘He’s just arrived. Maybe he didn’t know.’
‘There’s a list taped above the hatch, for Christ’s sake,’ said Morris.
‘Still...’
‘Heh, Smith!’ Morris shouted. ‘Read rule 15 off that sheet on the back of the door!’
Johnson heard shuffling noises, then Smith’s voice. ‘ “Inmates shall not touch the serving paddle when it is introduced through the hatch at meal times” .’
‘See,’ said Morris. ‘He’s read it.’
‘Aye,’ said Johnson, ‘but...’
‘Are you denying he’s read it? Smith! Read rule 1!’
‘ “On entering the cell, inmates shall read the Rules of Conduct which are affixed to the cell door” .’
‘You can’t plead ignorance,’ smiled Morris, almost to himself. ‘It’s the weakest of defences. The Governor hates it when...’
Smith’s face appeared at the hatch. ‘Can I eat my soup?’ he said. ‘It’s getting cold.’
‘Don’t be cheeky,’ said Morris.
Smith’s face disappeared. A moment’s silence. ‘There’s nothing written here about folk being cheeky,’ he said.
‘See, he’s read all the rules,’ said Morris.
‘Aye, but has he really read them?’ said Johnson.
‘Wh...?!!’ said Morris. ‘Whose side are you on?’
‘I reckon he just glanced through them for the word “cheeky”,’ said Johnson. ‘That’s not the same as reading them.’
‘Excellent point.’ Smith’s voice.
‘That’s enough, Smith!’ Morris shouted. ‘I know what you’re doing. Fucking typical. You fancy yourself as a legal expert, a lawyer. Well, you’re going to need one.’
The sound of slurping.
‘Smith!’ Morris shouted. ‘Did you touch this paddle?’
Johnson leaned down and peered into the cell. ‘Careful, Smith,’ he said. ‘I didn’t see anything.’
Smith was sitting on his bunk, the bowl on his knees, his spoon poised. ‘Aye,’ he said. ‘I touched it. It was wobbly.’
‘There you go,’ said Morris. ‘Straight from the horse’s mouth. A Confession.’
‘The Governor won’t allow “it was wobbly” in mitigation?’ Johnson sighed.
‘Eh?’ said Morris.
‘Nothing,’ said Johnson.
‘You’ll witness the report?’ said Morris. He rested a hand on the side of the trolley. He looked old. Old and hopeful.
‘Do I have a choice?’ said Johnson.
‘Not really,’ said Morris.
They moved a few yards down the corridor. Steam was no longer rising from the urn. Smith rattled something against his door. ‘Heh!’ he shouted. ‘What about a round of bread here!’ But the warders were already busy at the next cell, Johnson ladling soup into the bowl while Morris balanced the paddle just-so on the lip of the hatch.
About the Author
Andrew McCallum Crawford grew up in Grangemouth, an industrial town in East Central Scotland. He studied Science and Philosophy at the University of Edinburgh and went on to take a teaching qualification at Jordanhill College, Glasgow. His poetry and short fiction have appeared in Lines Review, The Athens News, Junk Junction, Ink Sweat and Tears, McStorytellers, Weaponizer, New Linear Perspectives, Spilling Ink Review, Drey 2 (Red Squirrel Press), The Legendary, the Midwest Literary Magazine and the The. His first novel, Drive!, was published in 2010. His first collection of short fiction, The Next Stop Is Croy and other stories, was released in October 2011. His latest collection, A Man's Hands, will be released soon. He lives in Greece.
Andrew's blog is called Wee Fictions.
Andrew's blog is called Wee Fictions.