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Authors: Catherine Chanter
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know, that’s all.’
He reaches up to reconnect the wire.
‘I’d better get washed and dressed then,’ I say.
He steps down, turns his back to the camera and makes a thumbs up sign. ‘Good idea,’ he mouths and leaves.
It occurs to me that I smell, but there’s no one here to tell me. Anyway, for some reason, this boy soldier seems to have risked something for this unwashed woman and his warning energises me to take control. I wrestle my mind into logic: I do not want to be medicated or hospitalised because I need to be here and I need to be able to think; I need to stay here, because here is the only place I am ever likely to find out what happened; there are things which were never found here which mattered – like the jumper, the rose, the truth.
Only when I have found the truth will my sentence be over.
I must therefore take control.
Having won the debate with myself, I plan an assault, concentrating on Anon, because being devoid of personality he seems the weakest of the three. The guards have requisitioned Mark’s study and he is in there on his own, feet on the table, dealing a hand of Patience and when I stand in the doorway, he swings his boots to the ground, knocking the cards onto the floor. I never did like heavy-set men.
‘Is there a problem?’
Bending down, I pick up the run of spades and lay them out on the table. ‘Eight, nine, ten, Jack, King, Ace. You’re missing the Queen.’
‘I never get it to work out,’ he says, shuffling the cards back into one pack. ‘I usually end up cheating on myself.’
He sounds faintly American, but I am sure it’s just that he thinks the role he has been given is an American soldier sort of part.
‘Sunday today, isn’t it?’ I ask.
‘Sure is.’
‘I’ve been thinking I’d like to go to church.’
Silence. All three of them have been well schooled in being non-committal; maybe that’s module one in the policy, practice and psychology of internment.
‘You know,’ I persist, ‘to take communion. I think that must be one of my human rights, the right to worship, don’t you?’
Anon pulls out a cigarette, seems to remember my house rules and puts it away again. ‘You can ask, I guess. I’ll get a request sheet sent over.’
‘And I’d like to visit the woods. I assume that’s not a problem?’
‘Depends on which wood and what you plan on doing there.’ Anon takes his jacket off the back of the chair.
‘Wellwood,’ I offer helpfully, ‘the wood at the bottom of First Field.’
The blank look doesn’t fool me. They have a map of The Well which Three spread out in front of me on my second day, wanting to ensure that I was clear about where I was and was not allowed to go. They know what has happened where in the history of this land.
Anon looks at his watch, looks at me, looks out of the window.
‘One minute,’ he says and leaves the house via the back door. I can hear him, calling over to Three, saying he needs a word. Three has some authority over the other two, although as yet I don’t quite understand the rankings. Anon calls him Sarge, but whether that’s part of the script he’s written for himself or a real reflection of Three’s status, who knows. She wants to go to that pond, Anon is saying and Three is replying, but they are walking away like a pantomime duo, little and large, and it seems from the words I can catch that they do not agree: arse-licker, grave, fucking, shithole, old, then rather oddly, boo to a goose. That makes me smile.
Later, Boy lollops over to the house with some papers in his hand – marching was never going to be his thing. ‘You’re going to need to fill out these,’ he says, ‘the pond is beyond the current agreed limit.’
‘Do I put both requests on the one form? The fields and the priest?’
‘You seriously want to see a priest? I was surprised. I wondered if it was some sort of joke on Adrian’s part.’
‘No joke and yes, I do.’
‘That’s what he said. So, I
He reaches up to reconnect the wire.
‘I’d better get washed and dressed then,’ I say.
He steps down, turns his back to the camera and makes a thumbs up sign. ‘Good idea,’ he mouths and leaves.
It occurs to me that I smell, but there’s no one here to tell me. Anyway, for some reason, this boy soldier seems to have risked something for this unwashed woman and his warning energises me to take control. I wrestle my mind into logic: I do not want to be medicated or hospitalised because I need to be here and I need to be able to think; I need to stay here, because here is the only place I am ever likely to find out what happened; there are things which were never found here which mattered – like the jumper, the rose, the truth.
Only when I have found the truth will my sentence be over.
I must therefore take control.
Having won the debate with myself, I plan an assault, concentrating on Anon, because being devoid of personality he seems the weakest of the three. The guards have requisitioned Mark’s study and he is in there on his own, feet on the table, dealing a hand of Patience and when I stand in the doorway, he swings his boots to the ground, knocking the cards onto the floor. I never did like heavy-set men.
‘Is there a problem?’
Bending down, I pick up the run of spades and lay them out on the table. ‘Eight, nine, ten, Jack, King, Ace. You’re missing the Queen.’
‘I never get it to work out,’ he says, shuffling the cards back into one pack. ‘I usually end up cheating on myself.’
He sounds faintly American, but I am sure it’s just that he thinks the role he has been given is an American soldier sort of part.
‘Sunday today, isn’t it?’ I ask.
‘Sure is.’
‘I’ve been thinking I’d like to go to church.’
Silence. All three of them have been well schooled in being non-committal; maybe that’s module one in the policy, practice and psychology of internment.
‘You know,’ I persist, ‘to take communion. I think that must be one of my human rights, the right to worship, don’t you?’
Anon pulls out a cigarette, seems to remember my house rules and puts it away again. ‘You can ask, I guess. I’ll get a request sheet sent over.’
‘And I’d like to visit the woods. I assume that’s not a problem?’
‘Depends on which wood and what you plan on doing there.’ Anon takes his jacket off the back of the chair.
‘Wellwood,’ I offer helpfully, ‘the wood at the bottom of First Field.’
The blank look doesn’t fool me. They have a map of The Well which Three spread out in front of me on my second day, wanting to ensure that I was clear about where I was and was not allowed to go. They know what has happened where in the history of this land.
Anon looks at his watch, looks at me, looks out of the window.
‘One minute,’ he says and leaves the house via the back door. I can hear him, calling over to Three, saying he needs a word. Three has some authority over the other two, although as yet I don’t quite understand the rankings. Anon calls him Sarge, but whether that’s part of the script he’s written for himself or a real reflection of Three’s status, who knows. She wants to go to that pond, Anon is saying and Three is replying, but they are walking away like a pantomime duo, little and large, and it seems from the words I can catch that they do not agree: arse-licker, grave, fucking, shithole, old, then rather oddly, boo to a goose. That makes me smile.
Later, Boy lollops over to the house with some papers in his hand – marching was never going to be his thing. ‘You’re going to need to fill out these,’ he says, ‘the pond is beyond the current agreed limit.’
‘Do I put both requests on the one form? The fields and the priest?’
‘You seriously want to see a priest? I was surprised. I wondered if it was some sort of joke on Adrian’s part.’
‘No joke and yes, I do.’
‘That’s what he said. So, I
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