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‘Surrealist,’ into a gin and tonic. Perhaps McQueen was a surrealist.
    â€˜So the turkey tasted all right,’ the governor said. ‘So what was the problem? The presentation? Did the waiter serve you from the wrong side?’
    Something resembling relaxed enjoyment surfaced in McQueen’s eyes and sank again, like a fish in a polluted pool. McQueen had liked the remark. The governor had a moving glimpse of what it might have been like to talk to McQueen outside the walls.
    â€˜Well?’
    â€˜You ate it, sur?’
    â€˜I’ve told you that.’
    â€˜Ye didn’t notice anything, sur?’
    â€˜I noticed it tasted very good. And so did the roast potatoes. And the other vegetable. What was it again? And the stuffing. And the cranberry sauce. We even gave you cranberry sauce!’
    â€˜And that’s all, sur?’
    â€˜What more did you want?’
    â€˜Naw, sur. I meant that’s all you noticed? The taste, like.’
    â€˜What else is there, man?’
    McQueen looked at the governor as if he had only just realised what a wag he was. He shook his head: I may look simple but you don’t catch me out as easily as that.
    â€˜McQueen! For heaven’s sake! If you don’t tell me now what was wrong with the turkey . . .’
    McQueen pursed his lips. His expression suggested he was being asked to tell a watch the time.
    â€˜It was round,’ he said.
    The governor stared at him. He was back watching that incomprehensible play.
    â€˜It was round?’ he asked with the involuntary tone of someone being admitted to a deep secret.
    â€˜The turkey was round, sur,’ McQueen confirmed.
    The governor recovered quickly.
    â€˜Of course, the turkey was round. I saw the bloody thing. The turkey was bloody round.’ The governor paused. He had used a swear-word. The governor never swore in front of the men. He looked sternly at McQueen as though trying to convince McQueen that he was the one who had sworn. ‘So what?’
    â€˜Turkeys aren’t round, sur.’
    â€˜I know turkeys aren’t round, McQueen. You don’t have to tell me that. That was part of a turkey. What you ate was part of a turkey.’
    â€˜Which part was that, sur?’
    â€˜What do you mean?’
    â€˜What part of a turkey’s round?’
    â€˜There’s no part of a turkey that’s round.’ The governor hesitated. ‘Or if there is, I wouldn’t know. That’s not the point. You ate turkey. You had turkey for your Christmas dinner. I’m telling you that. You ate turkey, McQueen.’
    McQueen looked at the floor stubbornly, unconvinced. A small dawn rose in the governor’s eyes. McQueen had been in for six years this time. Before that, he had been outside only for brief spells over a period of twelve years. Other inmates referred to McQueen’s time outside as taking his holidays. McQueen was simply out of touch with the ways of the world.
    â€˜McQueen,’ the governor said. ‘It was turkey roll.’
    â€˜What, sur?’
    â€˜What you ate. It was turkey roll.’
    McQueen considered the possibility.
    â€˜It’s a process, McQueen. A modern process. You take alot of turkeys and make them into a turkey roll. With machinery. You refine the turkeys.’
    â€˜How do ye do that, sur?’
    The governor looked away.
    â€˜You. Pass them through machinery.’
    â€˜What? Everything, sur?’
    â€˜How would I know, McQueen? I suppose you take the feathers off. Just accept the fact, man. Everybody else does. It was turkey roll.’
    â€˜It wasn’t turkey, sur.’
    â€˜McQueen. Turkey roll is turkey. Everybody accepts that. It’s what a lot of people eat.’
    â€˜Then they’re not eatin’ turkey, sur. Turkey roll, as ye call it, isn’t turkey. It may be like turkey. But it’s not turkey.’
    â€˜It is turkey! What else would it be?’
    McQueen was taking