The Rip by Robert Drewe

Author:Robert Drewe
Language: eng
Format: epub
ISBN: 9781742284798
Publisher: Penguin Group Australia
Published: 2009-06-19T04:00:00+00:00

The prison officers had staged a sudden dawn raid, turning over all the cells in search of a missing spoon and a vegetable peeler, and by mid-afternoon B-wing was still strewn with odd socks, girlie pin-ups, toothbrushes, magazines, squashed ping-pong balls, torn family photographs, smashed keepsakes and ripped-apart pillows. In retaliation for their trashed belongings (the kitchen utensils had not been found), three prisoners had broken a warder’s nose and glasses, flooded the bathroom and smashed the table-tennis table, and were now being dealt with.

The tense atmosphere lingered into the afternoon, as if all the early-morning shouting and swearing, the thudding feet and banging of clubs, the lockdown and destruction, had upped the prison’s blood-pressure levels. When the cells were eventually opened for ‘free time’, the Thursday writing students were still edgy, rolling their shoulders and flexing their muscles as they entered the education room.

The drummers were also back in action. Their skills had made little progress and Angeline winced at the noise as she sat down and faced the class. Sitting beside her in Oswald’s old seat, Dyson surreptitiously admired her as always, tried to secretly inhale her aroma as usual, and appreciate the buoyant femininity of her presence. Today, however, her arms were crossed around her rigid body, her complexion looked grey, her eyes were bloodshot. At the other end of the table sat Klaus and Jason, leaning back in their chairs, their arms folded.

‘Today I want to talk about ignoring the negative voice in your head,’ she said. ‘This is important for beginning writers. And not only for writers.’

Klaus ostentatiously opened The Koran and Science, extracted a leather bookmark and began to read aloud. Jason was smiling and tapping his blue fingers on the table. The other students turned their gaze on Angeline, their body language still reflecting umbrage at the morning’s cell raids, at authority in any guise, even the minimal clout represented by a member of the education staff.

‘You’re not reading that today, Klaus,’ Angeline said.

‘Ahmed. My correct name is now Ahmed,’ said Klaus. ‘Everyone here can witness that this woman is discriminating against my choice of literature, God’s only literature. Her presence is not suitable here. An official complaint will be lodged.’

There was silence. Angeline looked dumbstruck, then she blinked several times as if struggling to remember correct protocol and to remind herself that in the economic system of this vast, tight-fisted metropolis she was a black female poet. Klaus/Ahmed began reading again. Jason clapped his tattooed hands. Expressions varying from frowns to smirks played across the faces of the class. Next door a novice drummer began attacking the cymbals.

Pablo Dyson stood then, wearily but determinedly, as if several difficult personal decisions had been resolved even as a single anxiety – more cohesive but also much weightier – had simultaneously been created. ‘One warning only, mate,’ he said. ‘Get out or I’ll shove the book up your arse.’

There was a moment of stunned indecision, then Klaus/ Ahmed and Jason scraped back their chairs and left.

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