SWNOVELS The Flatshare: Part 2 – Chapter 14
Arms out wide, legs akimbo. A stern-looking prison guard frisks me very enthusiastically. Suspect I fit her profile of person who may bring drugs or weapons into visiting hall. Imagine her flicking through her mental checklist. Gender: Male. Race: Indeterminate, but a bit browner than would be preferable. Age: Young enough not to know better. Appearance: Scruffy.
Try to smile in a non-threatening, good-citizen sort of way. Probably comes across as cocky, on reflection. Begin to feel slightly queasy, the reality of this place seeping in despite the efforts I have made to pointedly ignore rolls of barbed wire on top of thick steel fences, windowless buildings, aggressive signs about consequences of smuggling drugs into prisons. Despite having done this at least once a month since November.
The walk from security to the visiting hall is perhaps the worst part. It involves a maze of concrete and barbed wire, and all the way you are ferried by different prison guards, taking their key chains from their hips for gates and doors that need locking behind you before you can even take a step towards the next one. It’s a beautiful spring day; the sky is just visible above the wires, tauntingly blue.
Visiting hall is better. Kids toddle between tables, or get lifted overhead, squealing, by muscly dads. Prisoners wear bright-coloured bibs to differentiate them from the rest of us. Men in high-viz orange inch closer to visiting girlfriends than they’re strictly allowed to be, fingers wound tight. There’s more emotion here than at an airport arrivals lounge. Love Actually was missing a trick.
Sit at assigned table. Wait. When they bring Richie in, my stomach does a peculiar lurch, like it’s trying to turn inside out. He looks tired and unwashed, cheeks hollow, head hastily shaved. He’s in his only pair of jeans – won’t have wanted me to see him in the prison-issue joggers – but they’re too loose around the waist now. Hate it, hate it, hate it.
I get up and smile, stretching my arms out for a hug. Wait for him to come to me; can’t leave allocated area. Prison guards line the walls, watching closely, expressionless.
Richie, slapping me on the back: All right, brother, you’re looking good!
Me: You too.
Richie: Liar. I look like shit warmed up. Water’s been knocked out after some scene on E Wing – no idea when it’ll come back on, but until then, I wouldn’t recommend trying to use the toilets.
Me: Noted. How’re you doing?
Richie: Peachy. Have you heard anything from Sal?
Thought I could avoid that topic for at least one minute.
Me: Yeah. He’s sorry about those papers holding up the appeal, Richie. He’s working on it.
Richie’s face closes up.
Richie: I can’t keep waiting, Lee.
Me: You want me to try and find someone new, I’ll do it.
Glum silence. Richie knows as well as I do that this’ll probably slow things down even further.
Richie: Did he get the footage from the Aldi camera?
Did he even request the footage from the Aldi camera is the question. Am starting to doubt it, even though he told me he did. Rub back of neck, look down at shoes, wish harder than ever that Richie and I were anywhere but here.
Me: Not yet.
Richie: That’s the key, man, I’m telling you. That camera in Aldi will show them. They’ll see it’s not me.
Wish this was true. How high-res is this footage, though? How likely is it that it’ll be clear enough to counteract the witness identification?
We talk about the appeal case for almost the full hour. Just can’t get him off the topic. Forensics, overlooked evidence, always the CCTV. Hope, hope, hope.
Leave with shaking knees, take a cab to the station. Need sugar. Have some tiffin Tiffy made in bag; eat about three thousand calories of it as the train rolls through the countryside, flat field after flat field, taking me away from my brother and back to the place where everyone’s forgotten him.
*
Find bin-bag of scarves in centre of bedroom when I get home, with Tiffy’s note pasted on its side.
Mr Prior makes two-hundred-pound scarves? Doesn’t even take him very long! Ahhh. Think of all the times I turned down his offer of new scarf, hat, glove, or tea cosy. Could have been a billionaire by now.
*
On bedroom door:
Hi Tiffy,
THANK YOU for telling me about the scarves. Yes, need the money. Will sell – can you recommend where/how?
Gentleman at work knits them. He’s basically giving them away to anyone/everyone who will take them (or else I’d feel bad taking the money . . .)
Leon
*
Hey,
Oh, definitely – you should sell these through Etsy or Preloved. They’ll have tons of customers who would love these scarves.
Umm. Odd question, but might this gentleman at your work be interested in crocheting for commission?
Tiffy x
*
No idea what that means. Btw, take your fave scarf – will put rest on interweb tonight.
Leon
*
Fallen on floor by bedroom door (quite hard to track down):
Morning,
As in, I’m working on a book called Crochet Your Way (I know – it’s one of my best titles, I have to say) and we need someone to make us four scarves and eight hats very, very fast so we can photograph them to include in the book. He’d have to follow my author’s brief (on colour and stitch etc). I can pay him, but not a lot. Can you give me his contact details? I’m really desperate and he’s obviously crazily talented.
Oh my God, I’m going to be wearing this scarf all the time (I don’t care if it’s technically spring time). I love it. Thank you!
Tiffy x
*
Back to bedroom door again:
Eh. Can’t see why this wouldn’t work, though might need to run it by Matron. Write me a letter and will give it to her, then to gentleman knitter if she gives the OK.
If you’re wearing that scarf all the time, can you dispose of the five hundred scarves currently occupying your side of wardrobe?
Other news: first scarf just sold for £235! Mad. It’s not even nice!
Leon
On kitchen breakfast bar, beside unsealed envelope:
Hey,
My side is the key part of that sentence, Leon. My side, and I want to fill it with scarves.
The letter is here – let me know if you think it needs changing at all. At some point we may need to do a bit of a tidy of our notes to one another, by the way. The flat is starting to look like a scene from A Beautiful Mind.
Tiffy x
*
I pass Tiffy’s letter to Matron, who gives me the all-clear to offer Mr Prior the opportunity to knit for Tiffy’s book. Or crochet. Am extremely unclear on the difference. No doubt Tiffy will write me a long note at some point with detailed explanation, unprompted. She loves a lengthy explanation. Why use one clause when you could use five? Strange, ridiculous, hilarious woman.
One night later and Mr Prior’s got two hats done already – they look hat-like and woolly, so I’m assuming all is as it should be.
Only downside to this arrangement is now Mr Prior is fascinated with Tiffy.
Mr Prior: So she’s a book editor.
Me: Yes.
Mr Prior: What an interesting profession.
A pause.
Mr Prior: And she lives with you?
Me: Mm.
Mr Prior: How interesting.
Look at him sideways while writing his notes. He blinks back at me, beady-eyed and innocent.
Mr Prior: I just didn’t imagine you’d like living with another person. You like your independence so much. Isn’t that why you didn’t want to move in with Kay?
Must stop talking to patients about personal life.
Me: It’s different. I don’t have to see Tiffy. We just leave each other notes, really.
Mr Prior nods thoughtfully.
Mr Prior: The art of letter writing. A profoundly . . . intimate thing, a letter, isn’t it?
I stare at him suspiciously. Not sure what he’s getting at here.
Me: It’s Post-its on the fridge, Mr Prior, not hand-delivered letters on scented paper.
Mr Prior: Oh, yes, I’m sure you’re right. Absolutely. Post-its. No art in that, I’m sure.
*
Next night, and even Holly has heard about Tiffy. Amazing how uninteresting news travels so fast between wards when significant proportion of people in building are bedbound.
Holly: Is she pretty?
Me: I don’t know, Holly. Does it matter?
Holly pauses. Thoughtful.
Holly: Is she nice?
Me, after a moment’s thought: Yes, she’s nice. Bit nosy and strange, but nice.
Holly: What does it mean, that she’s your ‘flatmate’?
Me: Flatmate means she shares my flat. We live there together.
Holly, eyes widened: Like boyfriend and girlfriend?
Me: No, no. She’s not my girlfriend. She’s a friend.
Holly: So you sleep in different rooms?