This Is How by M. J. Hyland

Author:M. J. Hyland [Hyland, M. J.]
Language: eng
Format: epub
Tags: Contemporary
ISBN: 9780802170620
Publisher: Black Cat
Published: 2009-01-01T05:00:00+00:00

A siren rings, three long, high-pitched squeals.

Johnson opens the cell door.

‘Get out,’ he says.

Stevenson gets straight up, goes out to the corridor.

‘Time for tea,’ he says.

I haven’t eaten since breakfast, but I’m not hungry. I only want to sleep.

‘I don’t want any food,’ I say.

‘You can suck on air for all we care,’ says Johnson, ‘but you have to go to chow.’

I go out and line up behind about twenty other men.

A lot of them have shaved heads and tattooed arms. I hold my shoulders back, stand tall as I can and brace myself for what’s coming.

Some of the men turn to look at me, but they say nothing.

All of them have their shirt sleeves rolled up and most of them are big and built. I’m about the skinniest guy in the line.

I roll my sleeves up.

We go through two sets of gates and, at the second gate, a prisoner turns round.

‘Hey, new boy!’ he shouts. ‘Did your nut over a clock!'

I clamp my teeth, square my jaw, give a nod I hope looks tough and follow the line through two more sets of gates and then wait outside the mess hall while the men from the blocks above cross the bridges and come down on the spiral metal staircases.

The mess hall door opens.

Stevenson touches my elbow as we go in and, now that we’re standing close, I see he’s a good two inches shorter than me.

‘Keep your trap shut in here,’ he says.

We line up with the others and collect our plastic bowls.

He touches my elbow again. ‘Stop looking round like you’re at Butlins. You’ve got to lay low, Oxtoby.’

A row of prisoners wearing white aprons spoon the stew out of metal vats, but there’s no steam coming off.

I’m given a half-ladle, with potatoes, three slices of bread, a lump of margarine, and an orange.

I follow Stevenson and we sit side by side at a table at the back of the hall, facing into the middle of the room.

‘If you look up there, you can see a bit of sky,’ he says.

He points up at two barred windows. His hand doesn’t shake so much now and he’s got a different attitude, already sick of the earlier routine, or he’s sussed me and decided I’m not a threat.

‘At least there’s some light in here,’ I say.

There’s a crack in my voice and he’s heard it.

‘The first day inside is the worst,’ he says. ‘But you’ve got to eat.’

He watches me while I try to cut through a bit of meat with the plastic fork, then points to a man sitting at the next table.

‘He’s new like you. An alky. Drugged to the eyeballs on Largactil.’

This man is waving his hands in front of his face and he’s kicking at something under the table.

‘He’s probably got the DTs,’ says Stevenson. ‘Snakes and spiders.’

I look down at my plastic bowl. The dark marks round the rim have been made with cigarette burns.

I can’t eat.

‘Do you want my food?’ I say.

‘No. Eat it. Looks like crap, but you’ll be glad you did.

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