Ball of Confusion Read online

  Colin’s small head stares up at the massive body, descended upon him, astride him, and notices, as Frank was masturbating moments earlier, his penis remains fully erect, and protrudes, distorting the cotton material at the front of his underpants.

  Seemingly unperturbed by his volatile situation, Colin comments dryly, “Watch it with that, Fwank… you’ll have my eye out!”

  Laughter bellows around the room for a moment… but stops instantly, as the violent response starts: Frank pummels Colin’s unguarded face repeatedly with his fists.

  George rolls over, onto his other side and looks away; pulls his pillow over his head, closes his eyes… and hopes Colin’s okay.

  •

  Early next morning, sunlight streams in through cracks around the blackout screens. The boys slumber and snores are interrupted by never-anything-but-nauseating Staff Warden Wilson, who purposefully bangs his way into the dormitory and takes great pleasure in pressing the light switches; bringing flickering fluorescence to their world.

  He greets the awakening inmates with predictable worn-out words, “Good Morning, scum… hands off cocks, hands on socks!” His regular greeting is met, as always, by despondent groans as they stir.

  Wilson, being a true believer and exemplifier of the bullshit-baffles-brains theory, then reminds them of their tasks before breakfast, “Block jobs… are waiting… for you, and after yesterday’s disgrace, I want them shined-up and squared-away swiftly. Do you hear me, scum?” He doesn’t wait for a reply; Wilson’s got breakfast to eat, while his precious block jobs are being cleaned, and slams the door as he leaves.

  As George picks sleep from his eyes, he looks across the bed space. On top bunk Frank is still drowsing. The bully’s arm dangles over the edge, with the back of his hand facing directly towards George. Focusing closely he sees red blemishes on Frank’s knuckles, and last night’s events come flooding back.

  Colin faces away from George, who springs from his bed and scampers around to see how he looks… Colin is wide awake. His left eye is open, but the closed right eye has swollen, in colours ranging from black to blue, right across his eye. He has a puffed-up cut lip and his face is smattered with dried blood from a burst nostril. His face is a mess. George crouches at his side, asking with concern, “You okay, Col?”

  He replies with a brief, painful nod of his head; just as Frank drops down clumsily from top bunk, landing at the side of George.

  “That gobshite got what he deserved,” states Frank unreservedly.

  George stands and faces Frank; but due to the vast size difference his eye line looks directly into Frank’s nipples, and so cranes his neck to look up, making direct eye contact with the bully.

  “You want something?” Frank asks menacingly.

  George tries to weigh up in his mind, how successful the outcome would be if he launched an attack on Frank now. And though his head tells him no chance, his memorised mother’s words contradict his mind, as they flood back: the dragon will be powerful, bigger, stronger… but keep your head and heart strong… and you will win.

  Frank stoops his massive intimidating face right into George’s, and questions, “I said… do you want something, dense boy?”

  Looking up from his bunk, Colin sees George’s fists clenching. He springs from his bunk, squeezes between them, and replies for George, “He doesn’t want anything, Frank.”

  Frank sneers at George, for a moment, then turns, and with a walk dripping with attitude disappears into the washrooms. But once inside, the bully boy’s loud arrogant taunt echoes back, “You can have some if you want some!”

  •

  An hour later, when Staff Warden Wilson returns, full of full English, every inmate is prepared, in his designated place; stood to attention beside their bunks, awaiting inspection. All block jobs are completed. The red-lead polished dormitory floor shimmers like a serene pond… Wilson walks on water; his black bulled-up boots seg into the room. He wears an air of inspection, and white cotton gloves.

  He follows his well-trodden SOP (standard operational procedure) and side-steps along the room, facing man to man, checking locker to locker, head to toe, top to bottom; then at every third or fourth locker, Wilson reaches up and softly drags a finger across the top, hoping for signs of dust on his pristine bleached glove, which he also drags periodically beneath the frames of the bunks.

  After checking Arthur’s locker, Wilson moves in, close up behind his ear, and deliberately twitches Arthur’s ear by exaggerating his breath, emphasising the H, whispering, “HHHaircut!”

  “Yes, Staff,” replies Arthur, flinching uncomfortably.

  After walking his walk, it appears, unusually, that the dormitory is officially “shipshape and Bristol fashion”, or, tickety-boo, Wilson-fashion.

  He moves on to inspect the block jobs. The boys watch as he disappears through the washroom door…

  But after only a few seconds, though he can’t be seen, he’s clearly heard hollering, “WHO THE FUCK’S ON ABLUTIONS?”

  All boys look at Frank, who swallows hard.

  “GET IN HERE!”

  Frank scurries through the washroom door.

  The lads listen intently… Wilson screeches, “WHAT’S THAT?”

  A long pregnant pause follows… Out in the dormitory the lads wait… straining their ears… with baited breath…

  Inside the washroom, Wilson points his long white cotton finger, into a sparkling white sink; where inside, a squashy shit has been curled-out onto the porcelain… like a whippy chocolate mousse.

  Irate red-faced Wilson squeaks, “WHAT THE FUCK’S THAT?”

  After another awkward silence, Frank mumbles, “It’s a turd!”

  “I KNOW IT’S A FUCKING TURD! WHAT’S IT DOING IN MY FUCKING SINK?”

  Outside in the dormitory, every boy is creased-up; bent over, laughing their socks off… while Frank suffers the warden’s wrath.

  •

  Today’s Life Skills lesson doesn’t begin as Mr David planned.

  As the boys shuffle in to sit at their desks, the teacher’s eyes pan across the class and land on Colin’s face. He moves across to the boy, places his palms flat on the wooden desk, leans over to inspect his injuries, and after a moment’s silence asks, “What happened, Colin?”

  Colin carefully contemplates his words, then replies, “It was like you taught us yesterday, sir… my first impression saw good… I didn’t see the evil.”

  Mr David repeats, “What happened? Who did this?”

  Colin bows his head, looks into his lap, and refuses to comment. The teacher knows how these things work; in DC, a simple unwritten code of conduct exists between detainees: keep schtum; consequently teachers and wardens seldom glean cast-iron evidence from a victim, for fear of reprisal.

  But in this particular case, Mr David saw the altercation between Colin and Frank yesterday, and can guess what’s happened. Struggling to contain his anger, he begins patrolling through the desks, casting enquiring glances at each and every boy, in the hope that an expression, twitch or nod may help confirm what happened. But his patrol delivers nothing. Not even eye contact; each boy looks down as he approaches.

  Back in front of class he looks over them in silence, and takes off his round spectacles, wiping them clean on his cardigan, while carefully considering his next words. After applying his glasses, speaking slowly and deliberately, he begins, “The main purpose of my Life Skills class… is to build awareness of human nature. That is, understanding the way people think, and ultimately, the way we act towards other people… Everything that we think, or do… begins with a thought pattern, in our minds. Thought patterns form our opinions, and subsequently dictate how we treat situations and people.”

  He begins a slow second patrol of the silent frozen class, and stops, directly in front of Frank, places his palms flat on the desk and asks calmly, “Frank… do you know what happened to Colin?”

  Frank looks down, and says nothing. Mr David notices the blemishes on his knuckles,
and continues, “I think I can ascertain what’s happened… I witnessed your little tête-à-tête with Colin yesterday. The subject, I understand, was your frequent use of… masturbation… Colin’s thought pattern on this subject resulted in him humiliating you in front of the lads; consequently, your thought pattern was… TO BEAT THE SHIT OUT OF HIM!”

  He’d hoped to prompt a response, but Frank doesn’t flinch, staring down, keeping schtum; so Mr David stands, and continues patrolling, while commenting, “Although I’m sorry to see Colin looking like this… it does coincide nicely with the theme of our lesson… We’ve established that we don’t always know what other people are like… what they think, or what they’re capable of. But we can now take this a step further, and ask ourselves… do we really know what we’re capable of? We… ourselves, us… what are we capable of? Do we know our own limits? Do we even have limits? How far will we go, to achieve… what we want?”

  His patrol ends with him standing, once again, directly in front of Frank, flat palms placed firmly on his desk; he stoops over and continues, “I would imagine, Frank… that you feel justified in dishing out your punishment… to Colin.”

  Frank finally lifts his head, slowly, to make eye contact with the teacher. Scowling back contemptuously, he mumbles practically incoherently, “You’re out of order.”

  Delighted to get a response, Mr David continues his prosecution, “I’m out of order? You, the detention centre bully have the audacity to say I’m out of order?” He shakes his head. “You really are a piece of work, Frank… Congratulations!” Frank looks confused at the compliment; the teacher explains, “You truly are, consistently…” pronouncing his next words in a drawled American accent, “a bad mother fucker!”

  The normally placid teacher’s anger grows, “You must be so proud, battering a boy half your size; but where will it end… your repeated acts of violence? How bad, a bad mother fucker do you really want to be? Do you plan to be ‘a little bit bad’ Mondays and Wednesdays, then extremely bad at the weekend… or a real nasty bastard every day of the week?”

  Frank bangs his fist on the desk, repeating, “You’re out of order.”

  The teacher rants, “Violence has become a habit for you, hasn’t it? But where will it end?” He moves around, to Frank’s side, leans close to his ear, and with tremoring rage asks, “When bullying is not enough… what then? How bad do you want to be? What next? Old ladies handbags? Raping women? Buggering little children!”

  Franks springs from his chair and shoves him, hard, yelling, “YOU’RE OUT OF ORDER!”

  Mr David regains balance, standing toe to toe with Frank; trying hard to regain composure. He bites his lip, backs off and moves over by the blackboard, then forces himself to sound calmer as he replies, “No, Frank… it’s you who’s out of order! You’re like a lot of boys who pass through this place. You lost your parents and your home… you raised yourself… You were never trained correctly… You’re a wild dog… I understand that, no one was there to guide you; so you lost your way in life, and now you’re angry… angry with life.” The teacher taps his own temple with a finger, “But it’s festering inside your head. You think the whole world is against you… but it’s not!” He points to himself, “I know, I’m old, I’ve seen it all, I’m a font of knowledge and I know that in this world… you get back what you put in, we reap what we sow. Life is what we make it, and how we interact with other human beings, whether they’re weak, strong, black, white, rich, poor, clever or not! To interact with people… you must understand the power… of the fourth R… respect!” He spells it out, “R E S P E C T… Like the song, and unfortunately Frank, unless you learn to respect something more than just yourself… your life will spiral one-way TO HELL! NOW SIT DOWN!”

  Frank slumps into his chair, amongst a dumbstruck class. Mr David looks visibly shaken. Without another word he moves towards the door, squeaking on the soles of his Jesus sandals. He opens the door, pauses, looks back to the class, as if to say something, pauses once more, and then leaves, slamming the door closed behind him.

  •

  When you want to be on your own in DC… the only real place of sanctuary, is inside a toilet cubicle; precisely where George is now, one hour before lights-out. He sits thinking; elbows on his knees, chin resting on clasped hands, with clenched right fist inserted naturally into the palm of his left, pondering over what he’s seen and learned during the last few days. George may not be the sharpest knife in the drawer academically, but to his credit he’s a deep, conscientious and logical thinker, with oodles of common sense.

  Meanwhile, in the washroom next door, Colin stands at a sink staring into the mirror. Exploring inside his mouth with his tongue, he flinches, as it touches a wound on his inner lip. He applies toothpaste to the brush, and very carefully cleans his teeth. Moving closer to the mirror he examines his face. It’s a mess. Finished brushing, he spits minty slush from his mouth, stoops his head and with cupped hands splashes cold water onto his face.

  Finished washing, he turns off the tap and stands, to see Frank’s face glaring into the mirror, from behind him.

  He tries to flee, but Frank restrains him, and forces his head forward, squashing Colin’s face against the mirror.

  “You’re having it now, Chirpalot!” snarls Frank.

  Colin replies nervously, “Err… easy, Frank.”

  “Your problem… is your fucking mouth.” The bully winds himself up, “You’re a gobshite!”

  Colin can’t face another beating, “I know I am… sorry, Frank.”

  “You told Mr fucking David that I hit you!”

  “I didn’t!” Colin pleads.

  “How’d he know then? That fucking know-it-all! Giving it the blah, blah fucking blah about respect, he’s a twat! He don’t understand! I had to hurt you. If I let you rip-the-piss without doing nothing, who’s gonna respect me?” He squashes Colin’s face harder into the mirror. “And then… after all that… you shat in my sink!”

  “It wasn’t me,” Colin pleads. “It wasn’t my shit!”

  Frank’s mind is made up already. In one continuous motion he yanks Colin’s head back then smashes it down, face first, directly onto the sink’s edge, and lets him go… taking a step back to admire his work.

  Stunned… Colin turns, staggering side to side; with his broken jaw yawning open. Blood drips and broken teeth fall from his shattered mouth, which he catches in cupped open hands.

  “I haven’t finished yet,” Frank sneers, winding up his forearm.

  “You’re finished now, Frank…” An unexpected deep slow voice from behind surprises the bully, who swivels around to see George, who points a finger at himself, nods his head and admits, rather nervously, “It was me… I shit… in your sink!”

  With clenched fists, and forearm locked-and-loaded, Frank advances towards him, looking down at George sneering, “I knew you wanted some!” Defaulting naturally into fight-mode Frank instinctively unleashes a furious right hook downwards towards the smaller boy’s face.

  But George anticipates the strike, and by coiling his body and jinking to the side ducks the punch easily; then springs himself upwards, like an offensive snake, launching a counter attack of his own.

  Frank’s fully extended air-shot leaves his left side wide open, completely unprotected, and as momentum carries his heavy body downwards, Frank’s face meets the upward thrust of George’s right fist; but it all happens so quickly that Frank’s eyes don’t focus on the toothbrush handle protruding spear-like from George’s knuckles.

  His perfect punch skewers the toothbrush handle deep into Frank’s eyeball.

  George retreats, and watches… as Frank remains standing; completely still for a moment, dazed and confused; with the toothbrush’s bristled end protruding, and a fine spray of blood spurting from his eye. In slow motion, the bully drops to his knees, and falls flat on his face. For several seconds his body twitches, and then stops.

  “What have you done?” Colin mumbles, through a devas
tated mouth.

  A fine fountain of pressurised blood continues to spray from Frank’s eye. Some lands on the stark white canvas of George’s standard-issue plimsolls. He stoops, touches the blood with his fingertip, stands, faces the mirror, and slowly paints a bloody red cross of Saint George onto his forehead… then answers Colin calmly, “I killed the dragon!”

  •

  George’s escape from Detention Centre was straightforward. Once the wardens discovered Colin staggering deliriously along the corridor, clutching a shattered mouth, they immediately searched for the culprit. On finding Frank’s dead body, all hell let loose as frantic wardens and medical staff ran to and fro. It was assumed by all that Frank and Colin had fought, so initially no other perpetrators were sought.

  George took advantage of the mayhem. He first recovered the one item of any significance to him, his storybook, before quietly descending into the darker corners and labyrinth of corridors winding through the maze-like building.

  Surprisingly, he found it fairly simple to reach the outside yard; where George watched, concealed by night, as his friend Colin was helped into the back of an ambulance; followed closely by a stretcher holding Frank’s body, covered with a blood-stained white cotton sheet.

  The ambulance engine ignited, its siren began to wail, the security barrier lifted; this was George’s cue, and he used the slow moving vehicle as cover, stooping and jogging alongside as it left, shielding him from the guard’s window on the opposite side.

  Once outside, he slinked in shadows beneath the walls; while everyone else focused on a noisy flashing ambulance.

  •

  The following night, George has managed again, under his own steam, to find his way back to the area of his birth; stealing a sweatshirt and jogging trousers along the way from an unguarded washing line.

  In the three years he’s been away, nothing much seems to have changed; the McDonalds restaurant still seems popular. George stands outside the window, as he used to, watching happy people eating happy meals etcetera, and, as it used to, his stomach rumbles repeatedly, after his long expedition across London. Seeing the restaurant reminds George of that one and only time he’d entered the establishment, and that explosive taste: mixed ketchup and sugar. His taste buds tingle. He also recalls being asked to leave, and how polite they were about it.