In a new short story, Carlo Géblerresponds to Article 26 of the Universal Declaration of Human Rights, as part of a continuing series in association with Amnesty International to mark the 60th anniversary of the declaration
I'M THE cleaning orderly and I was buffing the floor when they first brought him onto the wing. This was early December. He'd flat feet, long lank hair, a goatee, buckteeth, a paunch and thick glasses. Kiddy fiddler, I thought. Had to be. You can tell. You're not meant to but you can, believe me. His name was Christopher Jenkins.
He opted for permanent lock up. Sensible. No agro. Nobody saw him for weeks. I don't think he even got the Christmas dinner. The screws forgot to bring it to him. Not that anybody cared. He was a root. Why should he be fed?
Then the holidays ended. What a relief. Holidays just meant more time locked in our cells. Early January, normal regime resumed and the first Thursday afternoon of the New Year I slipped into the dining hall. The place was full of prisoners waiting to be called to the workshops or education or visits. He was standing by himself clutching a file of paper and a couple of Biros. Clearly going to education, same as me. Oh no, I thought. In my class? I hoped not. I don't like roots. It's what they've done, obviously. And it's what they attract - idiots who want to make a reputation and clobber them, which sends the prison mad, which brings the peelers in, and then everyone ends up having a bad time.
So as I waited I said, "Please God, not my creative writing class." But did He listen? No! When I got into the classroom, he was in the corner.
"Hello, Chalky." This was Beefy. Armed robber. Doing eight. I sat beside him. He wasn't in my block so I only saw him in class. "Good Christmas?"
"It's jail."
"And I thought it was a dream."
The door opened. The thirteen in the class fell quiet as she came in. Wearing a skirt that swished. And perfume. And earrings that dangled. Our teacher. A woman. With a woman's voice and nice hands. And nail varnish.
"Good break?"
"Yes, Anne," thirteen men replied eagerly. The class was fine and dandy but really we came for her.
"And who are you?" she said to him in the corner who hadn't spoken.
Christopher Jenkins opened his mouth but the only noise that came out was his tongue slapping inside.
"Ch . . . Chr . . . Chri . . ."
Oh no, I thought, a root with a stammer in my favourite class. "His name's Christopher Jenkins."
"Thank you, Chalky."
"Root lover," came the quiet words Anne didn't hear. The speaker was Alan, on my left. Drug dealer. Doing six. Unpopular. His measures were always under. Before Christmas some lads, annoyed they never got quite what they paid for, gave him a tanking in the yard. Obviously it hadn't done him any good. He was still as obnoxious as ever. Root lover? Me. "Alan," I wanted to shout, "I'm doing eight. Actual and grievous bodily harm. On a peeler. When he tried to arrest me, I hit him in the face with a brick. Any more lip out of you and you'll get the same."
Anne read us a bit of Laurie Lee's Cider with Rosie. Then we all had to describe a childhood memory. Then we all read our pieces aloud except Christopher Jenkins. Anne read his. It was about his dad pinning a mouse down with a plastic tube and the mouse running up the inside and jumping into his face. He damned near swallowed it and we all damned near died laughing. Except for Alan that is. He just scowled. Jealous boots, I thought.
Midday, Anne gave us our homework — five hundred words on a parent. Class dismissed.
Back in the block I got my tea from the dining hall. Battered fish. Mushy peas. An ice-lolly. As I walked back along the wing I passed Christopher Jenkins's cell and I couldn't help looking in. He was sitting on his bed picking at his fish.
He saw me looking in and nodded cautiously. I nodded back just as carefully.
"Brilliant story today," I said.
His tongue started inside his mouth. Finally, after a lot of trouble he said, "Thank you," beaming as he spoke. I was probably the first person who'd addressed him nicely since he'd arrived. The next day he borrowed my Sellotape and he returned it the day after with an Aero from the tuck shop. A nodding acquaintance followed. We had the odd game of cards. We walked to education together. Then came a day when I heard myself asking - what was he in for? Naïve and trusting and lonely, he stuttered it out.
He was doing four, he said, for downloading child porn. Did it on the computer at work. Lost his job naturally. Lost his fiancé too. Yeah, I know. How did someone with his looks get a girl? But he did. Or had. Anyhow, she was gone. Ditto family, friends, home. When he got out he'd have to start life from scratch somewhere no one knew him. And he'd be on the register for sex offenders. By the time he'd finished, I felt a bit sorry for him.
In the spring Anne entered everyone's stories in a competition. It was summer when we got the answers. I got a merit and ten quid. Christopher Jenkins came first and won a hundred. Alan, who'd had high hopes for his piece, got nothing, nothing at all. He begged Anne to phone the competition people and check there hadn't been a mistake. He banged on and on about it.
"All right," said Anne finally. "I'll go and phone. I'll be five minutes. Don't do anything I wouldn't do." She walked out. The door closed behind.
"There's a root in the room," said Alan, suddenly, "and he's getting on my tits." The men on either side of Alan nodded.
"If he doesn't go now, he's going to get it." Here was the deal. Christopher Jenkins either left or else he'd get the traditional punishment because he'd refused an order - not here, it'd be done on the wing: boiling water mixed with sugar in a Nescafé jar, chucked in his face. The boiling sugar, because it would stick to the skin, would ensure the burn went deeper and the scarring was worse than if it was just boiling water on its own.
"There's 20 men back in the block will back me," continued Alan. "The root goes."
"Chris, I'd do what he says," said Reg. He was a Provo despite his un-Provo name, who'd been brought back after a domestic when he put his wife out the first storey window of their house. "I'd go."
I was saying nothing and now Reg, the only other person who talked to him, was telling him this. Christopher Jenkins knew he was out. He gathered his papers and rushed on his flat feet from the room.
"That's better," said Alan. "I can breath easier now."
The door opened. Anne came in.
"I just saw Christopher at the end of the landing talking to an officer," she said. "He said he wasn't feeling well. He wants to be taken back to his block."
"That's right," said Alan. "He's got cancer." A few laughed. "Root cancer." The laughter was louder. Even Reg and Beefy smiled. "It's fatal I hear. He won't be coming back."
"Won't he?"
"No, and good thing too," said Alan.
"I think I'll be the judge of that."
"We're twelve now, much better than thirteen."
"I didn't know you were superstitious."
"You do now," he said.
When class finished she asked me to stay and as soon as everyone was out she closed the door. She was wearing a silky dress and her hair had a marvelous sheen and we were alone. It should have been the moment of my year, possibly my sentence.
"Who pushed him out?"
"Who?"
"Christopher Jenkins."
I said nothing. Just looked at her.
"You talk to him. I know it wasn't you. Or Reg. So who did it?"
"This is a prison," I said.
"That doesn't mean you have to act like it's a prison."
"Oh yes you do. You know I can't say."
"No, I don't. Somebody put him out. I want to put him out. You will tell me who."
"And get a beating, or a scalding."
The door opened. "Chalky," said the officer, "escort's waiting."
"I expected better of you," she said.
"It's jail," I said, "don't expect better of anyone in jail. Expect worse."
"Don't worry," she said, "in future I will." She put me on report - failing to obey an order. I said nothing at the adjudication. The governor gave seven days in the punishment unit. When I got back on the wing I heard Christopher Jenkins had got a scalding anyway. I never went back to Anne's class. Now on Thursday afternoons I'm on gardens. It's good to be in the fresh air.
ARTICLE 26
1. Everyone has the right to education. Education
shall be free, at least in the elementary and fundamental stages.
Elementary education shall be compulsory. Technical and
professional education shall be made generally available and higher
education shall be equally accessible to all on the basis of merit.
2. Education shall be directed to the full development of the
human personality and to the strengthening of respect for human
rights and fundamental freedoms. It shall promote understanding,
tolerance and friendship among all nations, racial or religious
groups, and shall further the activities of the United Nations for
the maintenance of peace.
3. Parents have the right to choose the kind of education
that shall be given to their children.
[ www.amnesty.ie ]