Bright Burning Things(30)

I hope you and Lara (I cover her name in little devil’s horns, which makes me surprisingly giddy) are happy and healthy. Again, I extend my apologies to Lara (won’t say sorry, no way) and I look forward to hearing from you v v v v v v v soon, you motherfucking, lame-ass, twittlefuck, shithead asshole so-and-so. So there.

Your murderous daughter,

Sonya.


One round of anger therapy out of the way; why does no one suggest writing uncensored vile shit to people; why is the focus always on being contained and serene – when what led most people here in the first place is a pent-up ravening rage? Anger is considered a ‘defect of character’ and some of these guys who are sitting on decades of unexpressed legitimate stuff then beat themselves up for feeling it. I know the whole place is sitting on a silent scream – I also know I wouldn’t want to witness it.

I make a list: my father (check), Lara (YES), my dead mother who left me way too young, those bitches in school, especially Dana DC, Mr O’Grady with the ruler, that stupid doctor, my fair-weather agent, Howard the abandoner, Roberto the seducer, the user… I resolve to vent until it’s all gone. It’s fun playing the victim – I used to be so good at it; only problem is that now instead of being applauded for it, I’m told to ‘get off your pity pot’. Father would approve of that one.

Whatever happens, I must affect a polite, detached, almost disinterested tone in the real letter I’m to send. Any sniff of emotion and he’ll clam up. I try again.

Dear Dad,

I write the same words as before, without the hyperbole and florid cursing, and sign off: Your loving daughter, Sonya.

Before I can change my mind, I go to the shop, buy a stamp and leave the letter in the basket, which is almost empty, for that day’s post. Quite a few of these guys never learned to read or write, which I found inconceivable the first time I heard someone admit it in the meetings. Then a flurry of sharing disclosed the same thing: the failures of the family, the system, society at large. Maybe I should offer to write their letters for them. Just as I’m tussling with this alien seed of altruism, Jimmy claps me on the back so hard I nearly fall.

‘Coffee? Ten minutes before the meeting. Still time.’

‘Tea’d be great. Black.’

I sit at a table by one of the windows looking out over the measly vegetable patch with its withered carrots, brown beets and yellowing, shrivelled lettuce. No wonder I’m half-starved in here.

He comes back with two hot-cross sticky buns.

‘You alright now? You scared the crap out of me the other day.’

‘Low blood sugar thingy.’

‘Well, then.’ He pushes the plate in front of me.

I can’t be bothered telling him that it’s all the sweet stuff I’ve been eating that made my sugar levels spike and then plummet. I had to work that one out for myself. I nibble a corner of the stale bun.

‘I’m outta here on Friday.’

My chest tightens. How am I going to stick this place without him here? I’m scared of what’s coming next, so I speak before he can: ‘Congratulations, Jimmy. You’re a real example to us all.’

‘Will you mind my kitties for me?’

Oh, Sweet Jesus (another of my newly appropriated aphorisms). How could I trust myself?

‘Your boy will love to visit them, when he comes.’

My vision blurs; I rub my knuckles in my eyes.

‘Don’t know if he’ll be allowed to come.’

‘You want me to pay the motherfuckers a visit?’

I allow the scenario to play out: Lara cowering behind my father at the door in the face of Jimmy, Big J, all five foot eight of him, biceps bulging, Celtic tats on display, etched in beautiful calligraphy on his forearm. I told you it would come to this; I told you that daughter of yours would bring trouble down on our heads. Lara’s positively whimpering. How satisfying.

Jimmy smiles wryly at me as if he shares my fantasy.

‘Back to those kittens. I don’t trust anyone else with them. And anyway, with my track record I’ll be back in here before you’ll even know I’ve gone.’

I wonder if maybe this is it for Jimmy. He’s respected, pretty much runs the joint, and as long as he’s here he’s not in prison.

‘Why don’t you train to be a counsellor, Jimmy? You’d be brilliant.’

This compliment seems to hurt him in some way. He takes a huge bite out of his bun, holds it in his mouth without chewing, stares at something across the room.

‘Will you come see me, see us, on visiting day?’

He wipes his sleeve across his rheumy eyes and pulls himself to his full height. He swallows, with difficulty.

‘Let’s see what’s first. Me relapsing, or visiting day.’ He walks away, shoulders in a straight line, almost level with his ears.





18


The numbing routine continues – they really don’t believe in unstructured time in here, which, I suppose, is the point – AA, rosary, meditation, desserts-for-dinner, chicken-coop cleaning, egg collecting, group therapy, Linda’s snores, full-on insomnia, ferocious headaches, woodwork, over and over, and people, people, people. Day thirty-eight, and it’s time for my first individual counselling session. What’s the point? What’s the point of any of it if I can’t see Tommy, talk to him? Has anyone ever died from the sheer force of missing someone? I might; I really might evaporate from longing.