Rhinoceros 14
When he was working, Alan had longed for the womb of his bed, just to lay there with the radio on and a coffee and the papers, the long luxury of nothingness between frantic and anxious activity. When he used to tell the pupils what he did at the weekends they thought he was the saddest case alive. “You may as well order your coffin now,” was one of Ryon’s more pithy comments.
But now, without the validation of work and routine, his flat felt like a prison. He paced the rooms like a tiger in a cage, and picked up papers and put them down unread. Pens lay encased in his hands unused. The radio talked to the air and dissipated itself into the background drone. Mugs of coffee turned cold and developed skins that disgusted him when he inadvertently picked them up to drink.
He was now strung out between meetings with Jen. They were his only markers. Presumably his work colleagues had been warned off by the Head, and Annie was being kept in the dark by Jen. That left him with a lot of time in a very small space. Of course the world outside was a comparatively big space, but he couldn’t decide which bit of it to occupy. He did try to go out for walks but they seemed to terminate quickly and finish up back at the flat within five minutes.
He even thought of ringing Annie, but he couldn’t muster the bonhomie to chat, and she would see through it anyway.
Such were his days of limbo. Time stretched as though bent by an invisible orb. The light surrounding him was stuck in a register of various shades of grey.
And then a letter arrived that aroused his suppressed curiosity. It was from Westwood Young Offenders Institute.
Re: Ryon Walker DoB: 22.03.96
Dear Mr Scope
I am writing this letter with the full knowledge of Ryon and his Social Worker, Diane Fishbourne.
As you may be aware, Ryon, a pupil you taught until recently, and who, I believe, you helped in many ways beyond the confines of your daily work, was sentenced to a specified period in this institution.
As a condition of his sentence he is only allowed a specific number or visits from certain categories of adult occupation. But he has asked on a number of occasions, with, I have to say some vehemence, to have the opportunity to spend some time with you.
In view of the wider positive role you have played in his life, and the assertion by Ryon that he feels you will be able to assist him in his rehabilitation, I have consented to this, and therefore request that you present yourself at the security office by the main gate on Woodley Road at 2.30pm on Tuesday 28th Feb.
Please telephone the secretary to confirm.
Yours sincerely
Frank D Todd
Alan stared at the letter for some time. Then he put it down, stood motionless for a while, then picked it up again. He read it twice more. Rehabilitation. That in itself provided food for thought. Alan tried to picture Ryon turning over a new leaf back at home, a few streets away from the Mitchelsons and every other temptation of life on the bread line. With the full knowledge of Ryon and Diane. What kind of discussions did that encompass? Alan went to his window in the hope of distraction. The world looked particularly grey and unhelpful so he put on his jacket, picked up his wallet and, remembering to lock the door, went down the stairs and across the car park. But as he reached his car he changed his mind, and he veered off to the main road. He walked uncertainly but onward, past the hairdressers and the empty, glass-fronted store which was a plumber’s merchant. At the corner he looked around and then hopped up the three steps into a newsagent.
“Lovely morning,” said the newsagent, his face a mass of rich, dark hair.
“I guess. Do you sell A to Zs?”
“What’s that?”
“Maps. I need a street map of Sheffield.”
“Yes, of course, of course. Look down there at the end.” He indicated vaguely along the racks of jumbled magazines.
He looked in the direction the man indicated, without much sense of hope as all he could see were comics, Dr Who Specials and a magazine on the history of the Spitfire. Alan didn’t want to patronise, but he felt there was no sense of order to the place, and was tempted to suggest a system for displaying wares by category.
“There, there,” the man insisted, suddenly. Alan felt hassled, but then he saw it, hidden mostly beneath a copy of Chat!
“You’d sell more if they were prominent,” Alan pointed out.
“What?”
“Hard to see,” and he pointed at the magazines.
“Yes, yes, it was always there.” Now the man seemed cross, too. This was going nowhere, so Alan reached for his wallet. “Two pounds fifty pence.” Alan wasn’t sure this was right, but he wanted to get out of the shop now as the clutter seemed to be closing in on him. And he’d left the flat to escape that feeling.
Back on the pavement he looked up Woodley Road. A man with a rucksack stopped by him and said, “Lost mate?”
Alan smiled. “No, thank you. I know exactly where I’m going now.”
