Ball of Confusion Read online

  Although he was never officially categorised a young offender, his relentless abscondment guided the authorities into making their decision that George was impossible to monitor within the system’s normal structure. So he was sent to a semi-secure detention centre, on the assumption that the boy would at least have a roof over his head, food to eat, an introduction to education… and they could contain him.

  Once George became accustomed to life in DC, he quite enjoyed it. From living practically wild for his first thirteen years, continually scavenging for food and shelter, and never attending school, this newfound semi-regimented reliable structure to life suited him. He quickly learned that, as long as he did “what he was told”, “when he was told”, he would be rewarded with a roof, bed, warmth, food, education, and something he’d never experienced before… camaraderie.

  Now sixteen years old, his body, confidence and personality have grown a little, though he’s quiet amongst his much louder peers. George has grown to enjoy the company of others, especially listening to their banter; though he always avoids centre stage and prefers to observe from afar. He can now read and write to the level of an eight-year-old, which is a massive improvement, but compared to the other lads academically he’s miles behind (hence the occasional taunts of dense boy).

  And compared to the other lads, George is small and slight of stature, as is his good friend Colin. But though Colin is small, his smart cockney mouth is large. He lacks in height, not cockiness; especially today, as both boys shuffle along a busy corridor blending in with the other cropped-haired blue-boiler-suited teenagers, who are all behaving rather laddishly en route to lessons. The main reason for this frivolity is a tirade of tongue-in-cheek abuse being flung vivaciously by Colin, towards colossal bullyboy, Frank.

  The word, “Twat!” ejaculates from Colin’s mouth.

  Frank’s reputation is a fearsome one; he’s earned his stripes. Many a boy has received a good kicking from Frank; often for no reason. ABH never seemed grievous enough for Frank; so following a string of GBH convictions (the ones he got caught for) he thoroughly deserved an extended prison sentence; but being too young for adult prison, DC was the most severe custodial punishment he could get. He shows no remorse for the innocents he’s scarred outside, and diligently continues his work inside. Frank is excellent at bullying, and gets off on the kudos it brings. He scowls back at Colin, and growls, “You what?”

  “I said, you’re a twat,” confirms Colin. “You snotted that greenie into my bog! I know it was you!”

  Part of the disciplinary structure within DC involves cleaning; lots of it. Keeping their own bed-space and locker tidy is each individual’s responsibility; but in addition to this the boys are also split into groups, and a block job is allocated to each group. Block jobs consist of, amongst others, buffering the dormitory and corridor floors, a litter sweep of the outside area (the cushiest task), the ablutions (sinks and showers); but the worst task by far is undoubtedly the bogs (toilet block).

  Colin is so pissed off this morning because his block job, toilets, has just been sabotaged. Earlier, his team had reversed themselves out of the bogs while cleaning carefully, ensuring the toilets and floor were spruced-up spick-and-span; but then afterwards, someone had deliberately sneaked in and left a strategically placed long slimy stream of green mucus spittle where it would clearly be seen on inspection.

  It was seen, in its entirety, by Staff Warden Wilson, who spotted it slimed artistically onto a porcelain toilet pan. Consequently Colin has just taken the heat from Staff Warden Wilson: who just loves to discipline!

  Following Colin’s accusation, Frank’s face gives himself away. He’s not smiling… but looks satisfied enough to be guilty as charged. He doesn’t care anyway, he enjoyed doing it and admits, “Yeah okay… I did it! What you gonna do about it?”

  Colin fumes in frustration; but thinking on his feet remembers some other dirt he has on Frank; embarrassing knowledge that will hurt him. He takes off the gloves and with his ruining retort hits Frank right below the belt, “I’ll tell you what I’ll do about it… Fwank!”

  “My name’s not Fwank!” He swallows hard, knowing exactly what’s coming next.

  Colin fires like a machine gun, “Well it fucking should be, Fwank… I can’t sleep at night for your fucking wanking… I mean, don’t get me wrong, we all like a cheeky little pull now and again granted, but you’re at it all the time! You’re fucking ridiculous, Fwank!”

  The other lads smile and snigger, but discretely; watching Frank being wound up, none wish to divert his inevitable wrath to themselves.

  “Fucking leave it!” spits Frank, who may explode at any moment.

  But Colin won’t leave it. “Fucking leave it?” he nods towards Frank’s groin, “I wish you’d fucking leave it… you’re going to wear the thing out! I wouldn’t mind, but when you’re on top bunk… thrashing the head off it… the whole bed shakes for the duration of your fucking wank! I’m there, on bottom bunk, trying to sleep, having to live through every pull of your fucking wank! It’s not on!” He outstretches his arms, playing to the crowd, pleading, “All I’m asking for… is a little consideration… Please! Fwank!”

  Suppressed giggles are silenced, as Frank manoeuvres his muscular frame across the corridor. He’s wound right up now, ready to rock, and uses his bulk to squash Colin against the wall, grabs the much smaller boy around the scruff of his neck and threatens, “Once more and I’ll waste ya!”

  But Colin won’t yield, “You think coz you’re massive and dead hard that you can do what you want. But you can’t, you’re not on… You can’t keep wanking above my head, night after night and get away with it! It’s outrageous!”

  Frank winds his arm back, preparing to release the fury, growling “Your fucking mouth’s outrageous!”

  Anticipating a fight, movement and noise in the corridor intensifies, as others rush eagerly to watch; but their brief excitement is dampened by an adult’s well-spoken voice, “Err… let Colin go please, Frank.”

  Care worker and class teacher Mr David stands in a classroom doorway. His years of experience read the sensitive situation, and its fragility. He knows both boys’ nature, and prompts, “Thank you, Frank.”

  Begrudgingly, Frank eases his fist down, releases Colin, and steps half a pace back.

  But Colin won’t let things lie; he keeps rolling the dice, whispering at Frank (loud enough for others to hear) “Wanker!”

  Frank’s head steams like a boiling kettle, that can’t explode yet. Nodding at Colin, with genuine intent he mumbles, “I’ll see you later.”

  Fight neutralised, disappointed boys disperse in different directions, while George’s group file into Mr David’s class, who follows the last boy through the door and closes it behind him. An encapsulated A4 sign safety pinned to the door reads: Life Skills – Mr David.

  Mr David is a well-educated well-balanced gentle quintessential old Englishman, who has committed his latter life to put something back into society; it’s his passion. He’s previously seen and led life to the full. He burned many candles, at both ends, until they melted. He’s got the badge in life experience, wears the tee-shirt and can tell the tales; but now his life has bigger fish to fry: “Nipping violence in the bud” – is his bag. It’s a tough thankless job, but someone has to do it… someone who cares.

  Mr David cares.

  Inside the classroom boisterous behaviour abounds, while Mr David shuffles files on his desk in preparation for class to start. A hand-folded paper aeroplane, and various other projectiles fly across the classroom as the teacher closes the blinds.

  “Lights please, Arthur,” instructs Mr David. Arthur hits a switch plunging the room into semi-darkness. This immediately prompts various comedic comments and sounds from the class: one boy hoots like an owl, another caws like a crow, while Colin breaks out into one of his famed impersonations; manically laughing like Doctor Evil from the movie Austin Powers. George chuckles, he enjoys Colin’s humour.
r />   “Quiet please, Doctor Evil!” instructs the teacher. As the class settles, Mr David flicks a switch powering the overhead projector; but stooping across the projectors uplighter, illuminates his own face, and well aware of the spooky image his face portrays, gives his own rendition of the laugh.

  Not many find it funny though. It’s not as good as Colin’s impression, plus it’s not cool to laugh at a teacher’s jokes. Unphased, Mr David clears his throat and begins the lesson. “Right, boys… the subject of today’s Life Skills lesson is… First Impressions!”

  A groan greets the announcement, as it does every announcement on every day. With a thick whiteboard marker pen Mr David writes the words First Impressions onto the flat glass plate of the projector; which projects the words onto the white screen pulled down across the blackboard behind him.

  “A brief reminder, boys,” he continues, “my Life Skills class is extra to the normal curriculum, and taught to hopefully prepare you for various life experiences that you will encounter in later life…” he pauses for breath, and to make sure everyone’s listening. “I realise many of you here have not had the most stable influences guiding your young lives… but that’s not your fault. So my lessons present supplementary subjects about people… and about life!” Another pause, he goes on, “Historically, it was deemed that the three Rs: Reading, Writing and Arithmetic, were enough to teach a child at school, as the fourth R would usually be taught at home. But that got lost somewhere… the fourth R… and I truly believe we need to find it again. Society needs to rediscover the power, of the fourth R… and lads… we will find it, here, in my class… We’ll digest, dissect and discuss topics to give you insight and understanding of some of life’s forgotten values… to use in your own daily lives when you leave this place.”

  He points at the words on screen, “But the fourth R comes later… today we’re discussing First Impressions… I want to illustrate how first impressions are not always what they seem… Take me for instance… you chaps look at me, and see a greying, dandruff-infested, goatee-bearded, spectacled, pot-bellied chap wearing Jesus sandals and socks… So your first impression is… what a geek!”

  A few slight chuckles and nodding heads greet his description; but no one yet seems particularly interested in what he’s saying. He continues, “But for all you know, I may have a crack dependency, pierced nipples, be hung like a baboon and be a sex god to all women!”

  Never shy, Colin disagrees, “Err, I don’t think so, sir!”

  Expecting this response, Mr David responds, “Ah… you don’t think so, but you don’t know so… do you? People are too quick to trust their first impressions; an impression that may not be right… When evaluating a person, a thing, or situation, try not to make knee-jerk decisions. Reserve judgment, take a second look, ask questions, reconsider the facts… and then make your conclusion.”

  Colin pipes in, “I still think you’re a geek, sir.”

  Mr David ignores the comment, places a transparent film slide onto the projector’s glass and instructs the class to, “Examine this word… I want you all to shout out the word you see projected onto the screen.”

  On screen, a word which appears to read GOOD is projected in large handwritten bold capital letters, scrawled in a rough-loose-graffiti style. Each capital letter is joined so that it blends into the next one.

  Most of the class immediately shout, “GOOD!”

  “Good?” questions Mr David.

  Then after a brief pause Arthur, a shy boy sat by the light switch, responds, “Evil.”

  All faces spin towards Arthur, wearing confused expressions.

  “Evil?” The teacher questions Arthur’s answer.

  For several moments he allows confusion to grow; deliberately nurturing it before explaining, “Yes, Arthur… the word can also read as… evil… Both answers are correct… The word reads as both good and evil.”

  “Eh?” question most of the class.

  He explains further, “The word has been cleverly handwritten as an optical illusion. Written so that the outside of the letters read good… but the inside of the word, if you focus your eyes correctly, reads evil!”

  “What?” Colin still can’t see it, but others in the class do, and start nodding their heads agreeing. George is baffled.

  Mr David helps the stragglers, tracing the word shape with his finger on the screen, so they can read the word evil, and continues, “This optical illusion is a fine example of… first impressions. You all looked at the word and immediately shouted out the first, most obvious thing that came into your head… Except Arthur… he took time to take a second look, reconsidered, and was then able to see past the obvious. He became aware… of what was hidden beneath… Now I’m not saying there’s always something hidden behind everything… but please try and take time to evaluate, before forming your opinions.”

  Mr David opens the blinds, “Well done, Arthur… lights please,” and continues. “To recap… First impressions can be deceptive… Reserve judgement… Take a second look. Take time to evaluate and remember… sometimes in life, people and things may not always be what they seem.”

  George absorbs the teacher’s words. He enjoyed the lesson, which prompts him to look down at his tattooed hands, and remember warmly those far-too-seldom stolen moments, when given advice on life from his mother. Instinctively, as always when remembering his ma, he clenches his right fist and places the red-tattooed cross firmly into the dragon.

  •

  Night time in the large dormitory, just before lights out, Staff Warden Wilson has already clocked-on for his nightshift (which lasts from bedtime ’til breakfast). The ex-military policeman is a hulk of a man whose bulk fills doorways. He just loves to command and reprimand, having enjoyed every minute of his twenty-two years’ military service, especially the reprimanding; but he was trained and paid to discipline men, not boys, and truly believes that all boys in DC are merely apprentice criminals. He despises the way they’re treated cordially, like normal teenagers during lessons.

  But now… at night time, they are his… This is his time.

  Wilson swaggers into the dormitory like a sergeant major on parade. He never made that highly respected rank, but says he did. The teenage inmates are already in their bunks, in rows, chattering, until he comes to a halt, stamping his foot, and orders, “Quiet!”

  His voice commands with an escalating pitch, like a screeching brake, which stops the chatting immediately; the lads know the score. Then, taking short steps through the silent dormitory, he makes his presence felt… haunting the room, like an evil spirit, at regulation slow-march. His heels have metal segs, which tip and tap to intimidate, while his head rocks forwards and backwards slowly, with intent, like a nodding dog on the back shelf of a car.

  After pacing both lengths, checking for cleanliness, and a chance to bollock, he stops at the door, stands still, rigid, and then with short-sharp shit-hot movements, swivels into an about-turn, faces the boys and exclaims snappily, “Block jobs!” Wilson secretly loves it when a block job is fouled. “This morning, gentlemen… was a disgrace… Phlegm! In my pan! Scum! That’s what you are, scum; every last one of you… especially that man that spat that! I disciplined the block job leader; he’s taken responsibility, as he should have! It was his responsibility to clean those toilets, and to keep them clean… But you lot can’t, because you’re useless, all of you, an unworthy untrustworthy shambles; a useless shower of shit… Scum, bred by scum… Scum breeds scum breeds scum, and each generation degenerates into what you are… Proper scum, which is why you’re here… and I promise each and every one of you that if anything like today’s episode ever happens again, I’ll have you all on extra duties for weeks, and I don’t care about those poncey teachers bleating on about second chances and rehabilitation; discipline’s what you need, and mark my words I’ll give it to that bastard who defaced my bog big-time when I find him.” He loads his lungs, “DO YOU UNDERSTAND?”

  A few feeble “Yes, Sta
ff” replies filter back. The warden says no more, and following another neat about-turn, switches off the fluorescent lights and swaggers from the room.

  The dormitory sits in semi-darkness. Moonlight chinks in through gaps in drawn-down blackout screens covering the barred windows. Two other light sources glow, from the washroom and toilet block doors, which are left on all night.

  On a bottom bunk, George reaches beneath his pillow, touches the George and Dragon storybook to check it’s safe, then rolls over onto his side looking across the dividing bed space towards his mate, Colin, on the adjacent bottom bunk. Colin’s body is tucked tightly into the sheets, just his head pokes out. A chink of moonlight highlights his irritated face, that glowers upwards at the underside of top bunk, which rocks and squeaks vigorously while fast frenetic rubbing sounds emanate from above. The repetitive movements vibrate right through the metal frame.

  Colin clears his throat… then makes a general proclamation to the dormitory. While speaking, he mimics the voice of Mr David, “Sometimes… in life… people and things may not always be what they seem…” Then in his own voice suggests, “Maybe an earthquake’s shaking this bed?”

  Laughter erupts throughout the dormitory; George guffaws loudly.

  But Frank doesn’t find it amusing… and as the laughter dies down he snarls, “Right, gobshite, I fucking warned you!” He rolls off top bunk, drops heavily to the floor, and dressed only in Y-fronts jumps directly on top of Colin, straddling him, leaving the smaller boy helpless with no means of escape; his body imprisoned within tucked-in sheets. Frank’s knees pin his shoulders to the mattress; he can’t move.