In the depths of night, in his cell, Valentine stares up at the moon through the grille on his window. The moon is like a half-chewed biscuit lying on a rug. The sky’s bruise bleeding into the walls. He can almost see what direction the roller was travelling in, some spray-painter’s daydream, like a paddock of wheat leaning with the wind, a scarf of cloud stretching from horizon to horizon. No daydreams. Just paint on concrete.
Sometimes he traces a pattern he can just make out with a finger, the ripples of sand on a river bottom, a vein in a bolt of cloth, but as soon as he blinks the pattern disappears. Sometimes he’d like to know how much time he has actually spent staring at walls. If you added it all up. Ten years? Long after the meaning of the stains has disappeared. The stains of whoever was here before. The condensation of his breath running down the door. This room. A concrete box, filling up to the brim like a vat of oil, spilling over, an ocean of it… Oh that ocean… Perhaps he is merely the projection of a dream on the wall of a cave. A slot. A cell. He is a dream made forfeit. In a hole. In a man shaped hole. A hole the exact shape of a man. A window, dark or sometimes grey. A bird once in a while, when he has crumbs to share. When the light fades through its grey spectrum to the colour of old bone there is a light switch. A light switch implies an act of volition. A choice. You push the ocean down, squash it down, and get on with the day, which is the next day, which is the same day, which is every day.
A bone-grey sky with him flying through it on a broomstick. He’s like a grey gull in a grey sky flying about, free at last. Falling, falling until – here – he lands flat on his back with a thump in his cot, eyes closed, rehearsing for the undertaker. Here, he thinks, measure my trouser cuffs. Give me a distinguished look my mother can remember. Douse me in lighter fluid and away we go.
* * *
Elsewhere under that new sky the sun goes through its motions. The stars shut up shop. In turn replaced by clouds bearing their delivery of rain. Inside the temperature is the temperature of a room. A man opens a laptop. To define him further – a white man, wearing a blue uniform, an officer. Ed. He sits at a table, a plain, nondescript table. There is a bench with a kettle; a small bar-fridge and other paraphernalia along one wall. The office otherwise is spare and plain. The man, the officer, works lackadaisically, tapping a key on the computer now and then. He scrolls through a long file. He scratches his groin with the impunity of the unseen. Stopping to read, he snorts. Eventually he sighs in exasperation. He shuts the screen.
“Wouldn’t know a fish from a fountain pen,” he scoffs. “Seven-pound line… ”
What on earth is he talking about? He shoves the laptop from him across the desk. Its little rubber feet prevent it from sliding too far. He checks his watch. He pulls the phone on the desk towards him. He dials.
“Hello, Education, is Miss Pacey there? No? Oh well, I’ll just have to try elsewhere. No, no, thank you… ”
He exaggerates the politeness of the word you. He doesn’t mean it. It’s a joke. A running gag. He hangs up. He studies his nails. Scratches himself again. Takes out a handkerchief and blows his nose, stuffs the rag back into his pocket. The two-way radio at his side squeals a burst of static. He turns the sound down. He picks up the phone again.
“Hello, Psychology; is Miss Molloy there? No? Oh well, I’ll just have to try elsewhere. No, no, thank you.”
He hangs up. He’s invisible to the outside world. The door opens and Miss Pacey – Louise – enters. She looks flustered and, not to put too fine a point on it, bedraggled. She wears a large colourful jumper like a Harlequin butterfly. It is the one bright spot of colour in the room.
She says, “It’s raining again.”
“Hmph,” Ed grunts. He’s a good grunter.
Louise throws her bag down on the bench.
She says, “I trod in a puddle. My shoes are wrecked.”
“You’re late,” Ed says.
“Had to drop the kids off. Then petrol. Bobby’s sick. I almost didn’t come in. Apologies, by the way. How many have we got?”
Ed opens the laptop and peruses it.
“Just one.”
“One! I came all this way to get my shoes ruined for one classo?”
“Don’t you have other things to do?” asks Ed. He’s certainly got other things to do, which strikes him as a good reason to take as long as he can to get around to doing them.
Louise says, “Yes. Taking my boy to the doctor for one.”
“I mean on company time,” Ed says. “Coz I sure do. And as soon as I can knock this on the head, then I can get on with my more pressing duties.”
“Would that be Fisherman’s Almanac, Ed? Or Boobs and Trucks?”
Louise knows his sore point and digs her finger in.
Ed says, “I’m afraid you’ve mistaken me for someone else, Miss Pacey. Officer Lockley is my name. You can call me Officer Lockley.”
“Hardee-har. Very funny. My feet are squelching.”
Louise finds a chair. She sits and takes off her shoes, which are indeed wrecked. She tips one up but no water comes from it. That would be too obvious. Her stockings are also ruined.
“Do you have a towel?”
“Yes. Just under my beach umbrella.”
Ed finds a roll of paper towel in a cupboard beneath the bench and passes it to her. Louise peels and strips off a piece and dries her feet. She then mops her shoes with it. Ed watches this display with some undisguised eroticism.
“Do you mind?” Louise says.
“Only a little.”
“Little is right.”
She scrunches up the damp paper towel and throws it towards the bin.
The door opens again and Jean, another woman, comes in. She’s slightly older than Louise, more conservatively dressed. You wouldn’t want to mess with her life experience.
“Don’t start without me,” she says. “My God, you people must get up early. I’ve only just finished my breakfast.”
“You call this early?” Ed asks. “I’m nearly ready for my siesta.”
“Toast,” says Jean, not listening. “Butter-side down. Never eat toast in the car.”
She brushes the imaginary crumbs from her sensible skirt.
“Hi, Jean,” says Louise.
“Hi, Lou-Lou. “I love that wet look. How’s Billy?”
“Bobby. I think he’s got the measles. It was a struggle to get away this morning.”
“Morning, Miss Jean,” Ed interrupts this jovial exchange.
“Good morning, Officer Lockley.”
“You may address me as Ed. Or Eddie. But not Edward.”
Louise rolls her eyes, putting her shoes back on. She grimaces.
“Sorry, Ed,” she says. “Can I use your phone?”
“It’s not my phone. Go your hardest. You have to dial zero to get out.”
Louise dials and speaks into the phone. Jean extracts some paperwork from her satchel. She and Ed busy themselves, trying not to eavesdrop on Lou’s conversation. It’s a moment when their three separate sets of thoughts are entirely distinct. They are bubbles.
“Hello, darling, it’s Mummy. …I’m at work. …How are you feeling? …Oh dear. We’ll curl up with Pablo and watch some telly. …Yes, I said it’s okay. …Oh, and lots of juice. …Yes, I will. After work. …Is Daddy there? Can I talk to him? … Bye. Love you.” The tone of her voice changes. “How is he? …Does he have a temperature? …What do you mean, you don’t know? Feel his forehead. …Have you been keeping his fluids up? …Well, water would be good for a start. …There’s juice in the fridge. … Jesus, Alan. …Just so long as he can keep it down. …Yes, see if they’ve got any appointments this afternoon. After five, preferably. …No, no, I can leave. I haven’t got much on. …All right. …I’ll ring you. …Bye.”
She hangs up.
“Who’s Pablo?” Jean asks.
“Pardon?”
“‘Curl up with Pablo.” I’d like to curl up with a Pablo.”
“Pablo’s his panda.”
“Ladies, ladies,” says Ed, like the host of a quiz show. “May we?”
“Sorry. How many have we today?” asks Jean.
Louise and Ed both speak together, “One.”
“One!”
“An important one,” says Ed, being serious for once. “Valentine. The Governor wants us to fast-track him.”
“I know him,” says Louise. “Got a long lagging. They knocked back a funeral application for him last month.”
“Who died?” Jean asks.
“His father.”
“Great… Well, the Governor wants him gone. The paperwork’s already done.”
“The Governor wants, the Governor wants,” Louise squawks. “What does he need us for if he wants it so bad? Can’t he just snap his fingers?”
“Policy and procedures.”
“To rubber stamp it. Is that right, Ed?” Louise says.
“Yes. To rubber stamp. All my life I’ve aspired to be a rubber stamp. Look at the bird shit on these shoulders.”
Meaning his epaulettes.
“Very nice bird shit, Ed,” says Louise.
“Yes sir, no sir. That’s twenty years sitting there. Look, we have a job to do. The sooner we’re through, the sooner I can start my weekend. And my care factor for this fellow and whether or not his father has died, is pretty close to zero.”
“So what’s this bloke like?” Jean asks.
“Pretty placid, wouldn’t you say, Ed? Education was administrating a correspondence course he was enrolled in.”
“You only see them when they’re on their best behaviour. Their true colours only come out in the units. He’s the one who whacked Fallajah.”
“With a can of tuna, wasn’t it?” says Louise. “In a sock?”
“Fractured his eye socket,” says Ed. “As I said, care factor zero.”
“I liked him,” says Louise.
“Like, in that context, isn’t a word I often hear around this place,” Ed says.
“But what’s his story?” Jean interjects. “In a nutshell.”
“Chopped his wife’s lover’s penis off with a pair of secateurs,” says Ed.
“As you do,” says Louise.
“I’m sure he didn’t mean it,” says Jean. It’s hard to tell if she’s kidding.
“Then he strangled his wife,” says Ed.
“Charming.”
“I don’t like the stranglers,” says Louise. “You can imagine the look they must get in their eyes.”
“He’s also been involved in some shenanigans,” says Ed. “Standovers. Contraband.”
“What do they want done with him?”
“You mean what do we want done with him,” says Louise, holding the party line.
“The Governor seems to have a fairly firm opinion,” says Ed.
“Which is what?”
“He’s overdue for a reduction in classo, so ship him out as a ‘B’ to medium security; probably Junee.”
“Well, I need to read the case file before I sign anything,” says Jean. “Even if it is a fait acompli.”
“It’s thick,” says Ed.
“I’m a fast reader.”
“I need a coffee,” says Lou. “I’m going to catch pneumonia.”
Ed shoves the thick file towards Jean. She sits at the desk, adjusts her glasses, and starts flicking through it.
“How long do you need?” he asks.
“How long’s a piece of string?”
“Would you like a cup of coffee?” asks Louise.
“I’m on the peppermint tea, actually,” says Ed. “My wife put me on to it. Cleans out the toxins. Which means, come the weekend, I’m allowed to put a few more back in.”
Louise goes to the sideboard and tests the kettle for water. She fills it, plugs it in, turns it on, starts rummaging through the cupboards. Ed goes to the window and stands looking out through some blinds into the prison yard. Jean reads, turning the pages of the file occasionally.
“Going fishing this weekend,” says Ed. “Trout. Touch wood. Lake Lyell. You like fishing, Louise?”
“As a noun, not a verb,” says Louise.
“Is that a no?”
“I like fish. Grilled and fried.”
“I probably won’t catch anything,” says Ed. “Just good to get away once in a while. No women; sleep rough. Four days off, thank you very much. Plenty of toxins.”
Jean’s not listening. Louise finds some tea in a cupboard and Ed mimes casting a fly in Jean’s direction. The kettle boils. Louise hands Ed his mug.
“Peppermint tea,” she says.
“Did this come out of the blue box?”
“Yes.”
“Bugger. Mine’s in the green box. That’s Officer Bilson’s. She always gets shirty when people pinch her tea.”
“I won’t tell her if you won’t.”
“Unbelievable how petty some people get about their tea,” he says. “Don’t touch her milk, for God’s sake.”
“It’s not even her milk. It’s Government milk,” says Louise.
“Oh, God,” says Jean.
“What?”
“He put the penis in a cup.”
“I wondered when you’d get to that bit,” says Ed.
“The judge’s comments say after he cut it off he put it in a cup… I don’t know why I do this job.”
Ed and Louise look at their own cups and slide them back onto the desk. They both turn to look out the window at the compound while Jean continues reading. The clock ticks. How long can silence last between three people in a room?
“Hey, this bloke’s an E-classo,” Jean pipes up.
Not long it would seem.
“No, he’s an A-2, but he’s due for a B. That’s why we’re shipping him out.”
“Well it says here he’s an E. He’s escaped from somewhere sometime.”
Ed leans over Jean’s shoulder and looks at the file.
“That’s interesting,” he says.
“He’s been trying to get in touch with his kids. Looks like they don’t want a bar of him.”
“Any child protection?”
“Have you even read this?” Jean asks.
“I’ve perused it to the limits of my professional ability.”
“So that’s a no.”
“I knew one of you would read it.”
“It says he abandoned them immediately after the offence. There’s one of his letters here.” Jean reads from the file. “Dear Katie, here is my picture of a little rabbit. Do you have a rabbit? Love, Daddy.”
“Oh, how sweet,” says Ed.
“She’s seventeen,” Jean says. “He can’t let her grow up.”
“Why’s that in his file?” Louise asks. “That’s too personal.”
“We read everything around here,” Ed says. “Listen to every phone call. You wouldn’t believe how some of these creeps talk to their wives when they think no one can hear. It’s like the last bit of power they’ve got, and boy do they swing it.”
“Let’s not generalise, Ed, we’re only talking about one creep.”
“You might be.”
“He’s married,” says Jean, still reading.
“Widowed, you mean?”
“No, he got married again. In gaol. Some girl from Bankstown.”
“Why would anyone want to marry one of these blokes?” Louise asks.
“There’s a wall in Visits,” Ed tells them, “where the barbecue used to be. More children conceived up against it than in the Westmead fertility clinic.”
“Oh please,” says Jean “Can we just get him down here and have a chat? It’s all very well reading about him, but I’d like to see him face to face. Make it look like he’s a part of the decision.”
“If you must. I can’t stand talking to these gronks myself. I think we could manage them all very nicely if we didn’t have to listen to their bullshit.”
“Like sick people in hospitals, right, Ed?” Jeans asks. “Just shovel the food over the wall.”
“Much as I’d like that, I don’t think the coroner would approve. Like keeping a Medium-security inmate in a Maximum-security jail. All a waste of money. If the taxpayer was honest with himself, he’d see that a bullet in the head would save everyone a whole lot of pain and money.”
“That’s the sort of redneck crap people spew when they say, ‘Not on my watch. Turn back the boats! Blow ‘em outa the water!’ What about giving them a sausage? What about giving them a glass of beer? What about rehabilitation?”
“Please don’t go all Bolshie on me, Louise,” Ed says.
“Don’t you believe in rehabilitation?” Jean asks.
“With normal people, maybe. But half these fuckers have been here before, and half will come back again.”
“I always find it weird that we can sit here in judgment like this,” Louise says. “With the power to fuck up their lives. No, you can’t go to your father’s funeral. No, you can’t see your children. No wonder they get out more damaged than when they came in. It’s too much authority for one person.”
“That’s why we’re a committee. That’s why I, your case manager and fearless leader, am here.”
“It’s deeply, deeply weird,” says Lou. “That’s all I can say.”
“It’s their own fault. They brought it on themselves.”
“The kids didn’t,” says Jean.
“I suppose that’s true, but if they’ve got idiots like these for fathers, then they’re better off without them.”
“Again, let’s not lump them all in the same basket.”
“Lou’s right. We shouldn’t generalise.”
“They’re all wearing green. That’s enough for me.”
“And they’ve all been judged,” says Jean. “By a judge no less. For us to go on judging them is a waste of energy.”
“God help me, you’re both crim lovers,” says Ed. “If it was up to me, I wouldn’t even give them a chair.”
“So what do you do if you see one out in the community, after they’ve been released?” Jean asks.
“I tell ‘em to fuck off, and pretty soon they learn to leave me alone.”
Jean turns to Louise.
“What about you?”
“That’s only happened once.”
“What did you do?”
“I said hello.”
* * *
The hands of the clock twirl. Tock, tock, tock. This is how time passes. No fancy symbolism. It just passes. There is a knock at the door. Ed rises to open it. The prisoner, Valentine, stands there in his prison greens. If this was a movie, there might be a heavy chord of music to introduce the antagonist. But it’s not. He just walks into the room. A man enters a room.
“Mr Valentine,” says Ed.
“Hello David,” says Louise.
“Miss.”
Ed takes a metal detecting wand and passes it over David’s chest and legs. David turns and lifts each foot. It’s a ritual they’ve been through many times. The wand makes no noise
“Take a seat,” says Jean.
“I’d rather stand, Miss.”
“Sit down,” says Ed.
Valentine sits. Ed returns to his own seat. He casually puts the loose objects on the table – the stapler, the hole-punch – into the desk drawer.
“I guess you know why you’re here?”
“Classo.”
“Correct,” continues Ed. “You’re due for a B, which means you’ve got five years to go, parole pending. How long have you been here?”
“Sixteen years.”
“I guess you know the ropes pretty well.”
“I don’t know what you mean.”
“How things operate.”
“I know if I need a pencil, I can ask Miss Louise here.”
“Don’t call me ‘Miss’, David. Lou is fine.”
“You’re comfortable here?” says Ed.
“Well I can’t eat the sort of cheese I like or drink the sort of wine I was accustomed to, but I make do. I think ‘institutionalised’ is the word.”
“Well we don’t want you getting too comfortable.”
“Why not? This is my home.”
“You never know, the time might fly… There’s been some intel that you’ve been standing over people for their buyups.”
“That’s not true.”
“Well, who are we to believe? The Intelligence or you?’
“I don’t care what you believe.”
“I’ve seen some footage of you giving Fallajah a good going over.”
“That was self-defence.’
“It didn’t look like self-defence.”
“Look, you don’t know how things are.”
‘Well, David,” says Jean, “this is your chance to explain how things are.”
“Fallajah’s been making threats against me for months. Saying he’s going to kill me, making these sort of agro gestures.” Valentine draws his thumb across his throat. It’s a very visceral gesture.
“Why didn’t you complain?” asks Lou.
“Who would listen? He’s the one standing over people for their buyups. I didn’t want to keep looking over my shoulder, so I got in first.”
“A pre-emptive strike,” says Ed.
“I took some initiative. Now he’ll leave me alone. It’s how you interpret it, Mr Lockley. Not how you look at it.”
“Tell us about your case plan,” says Jean.
“What about it?”
“Do you know where you’re going to live when you get out?”
“That’s too far down the track to worry about.”
“But you’ve thought about it.”
“Of course I’ve thought about it. What else have I got to do?”
“I understand you got married recently,” says Louise.
“Yes. Ten months ago.”
“Well wouldn’t it be appropriate for you to live with your wife?”
“I’m worried about that.”
“Why?”
“We’ve never lived together before. It’s a whole new ball game.”
“Tell us how you celebrated your marriage,” says Ed. “Was it up against the wall in visits?”
Valentine stares at him. “That’s private.”
“As private as CCTV footage goes.”
“Thank you, Mr Lockley,” says Louise, “What rehabilitative programs have you done, David?”
“I’ve done everything the department has asked me to do.”
“Such as?”
“I’ve done Anger Management. I’ve done the Violence Prevention Program. Twice. I’ve done substance abuse programs, Relapse Prevention, Quit Smoking, even though I don’t smoke. First Aid, several times. Physical Fitness, Hepatitis Awareness, HIV Awareness, Best Bet, Gamblers Anonymous, Hey Dad, Equips Aggression. I was doing Art until they took it away. Do you want me to go on?”
“Do you have a drug problem? There’s no mention of that here.”
“No, Miss, I don’t have a drug problem.”
“Then why did you do the substance abuse program?”
“Because they wanted me to. So they can’t come back at me and say I’ve made no effort to ‘rehabilitate’ myself. Strange as it may sound it’s something to do. There’s one bloke in there who typed the entire dictionary into the computer.”
“Are you rehabilitated?” asks Ed.
“Do you mean would I it again if the stars were aligned? Probably. But the stars are never aligned. You can’t impose goodness and atonement; you can’t impose it with all this shit.”
“Spare us the philosophy.”
“Weren’t you studying law there for a while?” asks Louise.
“I had to give it away.”
“How come?”
“You need access to the internet, which I’m not allowed to have.”
“Surely they can send you hard copies of the readings.”
“You’d think so, but nothing’s simple here. The first few they sent were thrown in the bin.”
“How far did you get?” Louise asks.
“I did three years. I’m still reading the books.”
“You realise you’ll never be able to practise,” says Ed.
The fact ‘good blokes in blue’ would give their eye and teeth for the opportunity to study something with the same funding and scholarships really gets Ed’s goat.
“That’s not why I did it.”
“Why did you?”
“I wanted to understand what happened to me.”
“Wouldn’t a psychiatric book have been more useful?”
“That was almost funny,” says Valentine.
“I suppose you think, with all your legal knowledge, that you know more than us?”
“That wouldn’t be hard.”
Ed looks up. “I’m the first to admit the little I know,” he says. “I only know how to make a hundred thousand dollars a year, but I know how to do as little as possible to earn it. How much do you earn, Mr Valentine? Working in… Where does he work?”
“Bumpers,” says Jean, glancing at the file.
“Yes. Bumpers. Fixing bumper bars. That must be rewarding.”
“About thirty dollars a week,” says Valentine.
“And how much do you pay for a can of tuna?”
“About six dollars.”
“I pay four, sometimes less in my supermarket.”
“Please,” says Jean. “We’re getting off track.”
“Well, Mr Valentine, as a B-classo you understand you can’t stay in Maximum-security. How do you feel about a change of scenery?”
“Depends where.”
“Why?”
“Why does it depend?”
“Yes.”
“I’d like to move to a metropolitan gaol. My Mum’s getting on a bit, and it would be easier for her to visit.”
“You’d like that, would you? You should have thought of that before you cut off the bloke’s cock.”
“Mr Lockley,” says Louise. “Be nice.”
“I can see the headlines: The cock in the cup.”
“Ed!” says Jean.
“I’m thinking Junee,” Ed says.
“That’s too far. That’s the exact opposite of what would be good. Look, I’ve been trying to get in contact with my kids.”
“Where are they?”
“Melbourne. Living with my wife’s mother.”
“Current wife or ex-wife?”
“The deceased one.”
“I guess she’s not your best friend. Your mother-in-law.”
“Isn’t it departmental policy to encourage family ties?”
“Where possible.”
“Do they answer your mail?” asks Jean.
“No.”
“Don’t sound so surprised,” says Ed.
“That’s because the old bitch won’t let them. I’m sure she doesn’t pass on my letters. They’re only getting one side of the story.”
“I don’t want to dash your hopes, David,” says Jean, “but the Welfare people are saying your children aren’t interested in contact.”
“How do you know that?”
Jean taps the file.
“Can I see that?”
“If you apply for permission,” says Ed. “Takes a few weeks, though.”
“Well, what does it say?”
“It says you abandoned them.”
“That’s bullshit.”
“You left the house,” says Jean.
“They were asleep. I left to get help.”
“There was no one capable of looking after them,” Jean says. “Technically, that’s abandonment.”
“They were asleep,” Valentine repeats.
“Be that as it may, they have choices in this too,” Ed says. “And for the time being, they’re choosing not to see you.”
“She’s poisoned them against me. They’re only kids. They don’t know what they want.”
“They’re seventeen and nineteen and you’re still thinking of them as toddlers,” Louise says.
“Left the house to get help… ” Ed scoffs quietly.
“What about my mum?”
“Whether or not she can visit is not our problem,” says Ed.
“I’ve spent over a decade here. I’ve done everything the department has asked of me. Crossed every T. She’s got bad arthritis. This is about as far as she can manage.”
“This decision isn’t about punishing your mother,” says Jean.
“I love the way you sound like you mean it,” says Ed.
For a moment, a fly seizes everyone’s attention. It’s unclear how it got inside.
“Mr Lockley,” Valentine says, “I know I did the wrong thing–”
“Killing your wife? You’re being too hard on yourself.”
“You don’t know how often I’ve thought about that. But I wasn’t in my right mind. Sarah was fucking around for months.”
“Right,” says Louise. “So it’s her fault?”
“There’s nothing here about diminished responsibility,” Jean says.
“I thought I was going to lose my kids. It was my first offence. I pleaded guilty. I didn’t try to minimise. I didn’t exculpate myself.”
“It also says you appealed the conviction, and that the appeal was dismissed,” Jean says.
“That’s because my legal team dumped me. I had to represent myself.”
“Why’d they dump you?” asks Ed.
“You should have all the details.” Valentine indicates the file on the table.
Louise asks, “David what sort of work did you do on the outside?”
“I was a landscape gardener. I had my own business.”
“A landscape gardener studying law,” says Ed. “I love it. Now I understand the secateurs.”
“On another matter,” says Jean. “It says here that you’re actually an E-classo. That you have a history of escaping custody.”
“That was in Queensland. I was seventeen.”
“Tell us about that,” Jean says.
“A policeman tried to arrest me. He grabbed my elbow and I yanked it out of his grip.”
“That’s it?”
“Why would a policeman want to arrest you?" asks Ed.
“Because I caught an undersized fish.”
“What sort of a fish?” asks Ed.”
“A barramundi.”
“Nice.”
“And you’ve been tagged as an escapee ever since?” says Louise.
“That’s all it takes,” says Ed. “Jumping out of a police van when they’ve left the door unlocked. That’ll do.”
“You’ve already made up your minds,” Valentine says.
“An ancient E-classo doesn’t change things, Mr Valentine,” Jean says. “We’re going to recommend a change of placement to Junee with a security rating downgraded from an A-2 to a B.”
“I’m not going to Junee. I’d rather stay here.”
“It’s only a recommendation. The review council could well overturn it.”
“It’s a good thing, David,” says Louise. “You’re moving through the system.”
“Like a turd.”
“The end’s in sight,” says Jean. “Two years as a B and then you’re eligible for a C-classo. Day release; weekend release. Time to start thinking about what you’re going to do when you get out.”
“Fuck that.”
“Now, now,” says Ed the conciliator.
“Look, I’ve bent over backwards to satisfy the department’s criterion and now you want to stiff me to Junee?”
“The Governor wants you on the bus after the Fallajah incident. And I repeat, it’s only a recommendation.”
“Then why the fuck are you sitting here playing God? Sounding like you give a shit. Let the Governor make the decision. Let me talk to him.”
“The decision’s been made. All you have to do is sign here.”
Ed slides the paperwork across the desk for Valentine to sign.
“So we are just a rubber stamp,” says Jean.
“Here’s a pen,” says Ed.
“No,” says Valentine.
“Sign here.”
Tap, tap, tap.
The fly keeps buzzing.
“I want to talk to the Governor.”
“He’s a busy man.”
“You can send me where you like, but I ain’t signing.”
There is a pause. An impasse.
“I love these Mexican stand-offs,” says Ed.
“Mr Lockley,” says Jean. “I think we need to discuss this in private.”
“Very well. Mr Valentine, if you wouldn’t mind stepping outside for a moment.”
“While you discuss me behind my back?”
“That’s it.”
Valentine stands, as does Ed, who ushers him to the door. Valentine stands there.
“It’s not locked,” Ed says. He opens the door for Valentine, calls down the corridor to another officer. “Mr Singhat, can you just hold him there for a minute, we haven’t finished yet.”
Ed closes the door. They all look at each other.
“Well?”
“He’s hard work,” says Louise.
“Such a needy fellow,” says Ed.
Jean says, “I don’t think he’s being completely straight with us.”
“Were you serious, Ed? About earning a hundred thousand?” Louise asks.
“I’m on overtime, Lou. Time-and-a-half. Darren rang in sick and they called me in. Tomorrow I’ll ring in sick and it’ll be his turn.”
“No wonder the country’s going down the toilet.”
“Spirit of enterprise.”
“People,” says Jean. “What about this E-classo thing?”
“It was a long time ago,” Louise says. “He was a juvenile.”
“And the kids?”
“Sounds like they’ve made up their minds,” says Ed.
“The mother?”
“When he’s due for a C, then he can apply to come back to a metropolitan gaol,” says Ed.
“It’s not forever,” says Louise.
“And the Governor has already signed the paperwork,” says Jean.
“It sounds like we’re agreed,” says Ed.
“Fuck yeah!” says Jean. “Let’s get rid of him.”
“Happy day,” says Ed.
He returns to the door and opens it. He calls down the corridor.
“Thank you Mr Singhat.”
Mr Singhat waves in response. Overacting. Valentine returns. Ed ushers him back to his chair.
“Mr Valentine, our decision stands. We’re going to recommend you as a B to Junee.”
“I’m not going to Junee.”
“We’re also recommending that you participate in the Violence Prevention Program when you get there.”
“I’ve done that twice.”
“Well it won’t hurt to do it again. It’ll look good on paper. Meet all the departmental KPI’s. Also that you abide by centre routine. No more tuna sucker-punches.”
“I have association issues at Junee.”
“There’s nothing about that in your file,” says Jean.
“My wife won’t be able to visit.”
“I thought the issue was your mother?” says Louise.
“First my old man dies and you say I can’t go to his funeral. Now you say I can’t see my kids–”
“No,” clarifies Jean. “They don’t want to see you.”
“And now, fuck me dead, you’re saying I can’t see my mother?”
“We’re not saying that.”
“Well, that’ll be the result.”
Valentine jumps up, agitated.
“Sit down,” Ed orders.
“Has your father died?”
“That’s not relevant,” says Louise.
“Sit down.” Ed’s voice is stern.
Valentine resumes his seat. Ed rises. He moves around the desk and stands over him like a storm cloud, menacing.
“Now sign.”
“I ain’t going to Junee.”
“Listen, as much as I’d like to pound your head into the floor, there’s fucking ladies present, so fucking well sign the fucking form.”
“Thank you, Mr Lockley, we don’t need to see this,” Jean says.
“I’ll never see her again.”
“So sad, too bad. We’re not a booking agency.”
‘Fuck you Lockley, you dog.”
Ed grabs Valentine by the scruff of the neck. In the struggle Valentine produces a shiv he has hidden in his pocket and stabs Ed in the side of the chest. He falls to the floor, surprised, blood seeping through his shirt. There’s surprisingly little of it. Louise and Jean jump to their feet and press the duress buttons on their belts.
“Don’t move,” Valentine yells.
The action is swift and slow at the same time. Valentine waves the knife, which is made from a sharpened plastic toothbrush. Jean makes a move towards the door, but Valentine cuts her off. He leaps on her and stabs her twice in the arm. He’s in a whirlwind. She screams and falls to the floor. Louise is frozen. Valentine cuts the keys from the lanyard on Ed’s belt. When Ed tries to resist, Valentine thumps him twice in the head. He points the knife at Louise and quickly locks the door, leaving the keys in the lock, winding the lanyard about the handle, effectively blocking it. Jean nurses her bleeding arm. Louise goes to see if Ed’s okay. The pool of blood is getting larger
“Don’t fucking touch him! Come here.”
Valentine grabs Louise and holds the knife against her throat. He turns her towards the door. The handle rattles. The keys jingle in the lock. Noise of much activity from outside. A muffled voice.
“Is everyone all right in there?”
“If you open the door, I’ll kill her! Tell ‘em, tell ‘em!”
“He’s got a knife.”
The doorhandle stops rattling.
“Mr Lockley? Are you all right?” says the voice.
Valentine shakes Louise.
“He’s bleeding,” she says.
“I need to see if everyone’s all right,” the voice comes again.
“Fuck off or I’ll stab ‘em,” Valentine says, shoving Louise to the floor. As quickly as he can, he drags the table across the room and wedges it against the door. He tips the metal filing cabinet across the top of it. Then he unplugs the small bar fridge and hoists that on top of the pile, the chairs as well.
“That won’t keep ‘em out,” Ed manages to wheeze.
“Shut the fuck up!” Valentine strides over and gives Ed a savage kick. His foot comes away with blood on it.
“Leave him,” pleads Jean.
Valentine waves the knife in her face, which shuts her up. She remembers the protocol, which is to do exactly as she’s told.
Valentine turns to Louise. “Take off your jumper.”
“What?”
“You heard me. Take off your fucking jumper.”
“You want me to undress?”
“Just give me your fucking jumper!”
Louise peels off her large, multi-coloured jumper. Valentine snatches it. He quickly strips off his green prison pullover and throws it to Louise.
“Put that on.”
Valentine puts on Louise’s jumper while she reluctantly pulls on his greens. Strangely she resembles Valentine, and he, strangely, looks like her. The door rattles again.
“He needs to get to a hospital,” says Jean.
“Needs, needs,” sneers Valentine. “Such a needy fellow.”
“He needs a doctor.”
“Will you listen to yourself? Shut your mouth or I’ll have your fucking eye out!”
Everyone shuts their mouths.
“That’s better, calm, nice and peaceful. …Well, this sure makes a change from the everyday. Now I guess we wait.”
“For what?” asks Louise.
“The inevitable.”
Valentine paces back and forth, his eye on the door.
“My son’s sick,” says Louise.
Valentine ignores this. “Give me his radio,” he says.
Louise unclips Ed’s radio and hands it to Valentine. He fiddles with the buttons. A voice crackles from it.
“Lockley, respond please… Mr Valentine, can you hear me? I need to speak to Officer Lockley. We need to defuse–”
Valentine turns the radio off.
“Defuse my arse.”
“I can’t breathe,” wheezes Ed.
“That’s because you’ve got a fucking hole in your lung.”
Valentine turns on Louise, who cowers while Ed struggles for breath. Valentine keeps his eye on the door. He opens the desk drawer and finds the hole-punch. He weighs it in his hand, makes as if to hit Ed with it. Ed shields his face which makes Valentine laugh. He sets it aside, finds the case file, and flicks through it.
“You, Miss Louise. Make me a brew.”
“What?”
“Make me a cup of coffee.”
“You want a cup of coffee?”
“Just do what he says, Lou,” says Jean.
Louise gets up slowly. She goes to the bench and flicks on the kettle. She sorts through the boxes on the counter. Valentine reads his file, alert to every movement in the room.
“What about the others?” Louise asks.
“Fuck the others. Don’t you get anything? This is a hostage situation. You do what I say. I said only to make me a cup of tea. Not them. Do you want me to thump it into your thick fucking skull?”
“Please… ”
The door handle rattles again. The kettle boils. Louise makes the tea. The fly hovers over the pool of blood.
“You know what’ll happen if you come in here.”
The voice from outside says calmly, “I need to see that everyone’s okay.”
“Fuck off.”
“We have a negotiator here.”
“I want to speak to the Governor. Otherwise, you’ve got three dead people in here.”
“The Governor is not in the centre at the moment. Is there anything else we can get you?”
Valentine turns away from the door in disgust and storms over to Louise. She screams.
“Where’s my coffee?”
She holds the mug out, terrified. Valentine takes it. He sips.
“Fuck that’s hot! What is this?”
“Peppermint tea.”
“Are you fucking useless? I said coffee. Isn’t there any milk, for Christ’s sake?”
“It’s in the fridge,” she indicates the bar fridge on top of the barricade.
The voice comes again from outside. “I need to speak to Officer Lockley.”
Valentine shouts, “No!”
“I need to see that he’s all right.”
“Fuck!”
Valentine puts his mug down. He picks up the steaming kettle and pours the contents over Ed. Ed screams and writhes on the floor. The door handle continues rattling.
“Did you hear that? Now fuck off or he’ll get the rest.”
Ed lies prostrate. Jean tries to help him.
“Don’t fucking help him! Sit over there.”
Jean goes to the far side of the room, nursing her arm.
“All in a day’s work, eh, Eddie?” says Valentine.
Valentine finds Louise’s handbag on the bench. He goes through its contents, tossing everything onto the floor – keys, lipstick, tampons, credit cards. He finds an apple and takes a bite.
“Now that’s a good apple. Do you know how long it’s been since I had an apple as good as this?”
“I need to go home,” Louise says. “My son is sick.”
“I don’t give a fuck about your son.”
Valentine drags Louise over to Ed, who looks like he’s losing consciousness.
“Take his shoelaces out.”
‘Why?” she asks.
“Just do as I say.” He turns to Jean. “You too. Laces.” Louise unties Ed’s shoelaces and removes them from his boots.“Now put your hands together.”
Valentine drags Jean over to the barricade erected against the door. He ties her wrists to the leg of the table.
“If they burst in, you’ll be first.”
“And you’ll be second.”
“Shut up.”
“You think they can’t hear? You think you can bluff your way out of this?”
Again Valentine turns on Jean, brandishing the knife.
“We need a doctor. I need a doctor,” Louise screams, loud enough for this to carry to the squad listening outside the door.
“Stop talking to them. I want to speak to my kids.”
“You can,” says Louise. “There’s an outside line just there.”
Valentine goes to the phone, which has spilled to the floor. He holds the receiver to his ear, dials quickly, then slams it down.
“Can’t remember the number.”
“You have to dial zero first,” says Louise.
Valentine dials again. The phone purrs.
‘Hi Mum, it’s me. …I’m… I’m… Well, I’m still here. …No, no, nothing’s happened. …Well, yes, I mean a lot has happened, but nothing you should worry about. …No, I didn’t get it, the mail here is shithouse. …How are the kids? Have you spoken to them? …Yeah? That’s good. …Thanks? …At the moment? I can’t really go into that. …I got leave to make a special call. … No, no, don’t worry. What are you doing for dinner? …Chops sound nice. …No, don’t come and visit until everything settles down, it’s too far. Wait till Summer. …No, it’s got nothing to do with you, I just don’t like you seeing me in here. …Yeah, head-miles all right. Anyway, I just wanted to say how sorry I am about Dad… ” The door handle rattles wildly. “Mum, I gotta– Mum? Fuck! They’ve cut the line.”
Valentine shakes his head. He doesn’t know what to do. The others all lie on the floor, bleeding, terrified, avoiding his eye.
“You’ll never get out of here,” Ed rasps.
“At least I won’t be going to Junee. They’ll probably keep me here now. We need each other, Eddie. Otherwise it’s all a front.”
The door handle starts rattling again. There are thumps at the window and all along the walls. The noises get louder, increasing in tempo, as if they’re lifting the roof off and coming through the ceiling. A dog barks wildly. The keys fall from the lock and the door slams open, the barricade crashing down on Jean. A tear gas canister rolls inside, smoking furiously. Louise screams and makes a dash towards the door. Valentine raises the shiv. The overhead lights flicker and smoke continues to fill the air, shrinking the confines of the room, filling it up with blackness.
Mark O’Flynn has published two collections of short fiction, White Light (Spineless Wonders), and Dental Tourism (Puncher & Wattmann). His novel The Last Days of Ava Langdon was short listed for the Miles Franklin Award and won the Voss Literary Prize. His poetry and stories have been widely published.