Curley's Daughter

He carefully stacked the plastic trays in front of him and placed them back in the window. The crockery left a dull echo as it clunked together onto the hard metal ledge. Standing back from the door he waited, staring at the rectangular sliding window in anticipation. Wordlessly, the man on the other side took the plates and abruptly slammed the shutter closed once more. He listened to the footsteps retreat away from the large metal door, distant voices echoed in the corridors, though no audible words made their way through the bars to his ears. He put his ear to the wall but it was a good few minutes until he heard the telltale tapping of boots on linoleum approach his door.

“Step back”

He did so obligingly. The guard opened the shutter, slid through a tray onto the ledge and then pressed his handlebar moustache into the gap behind, spitting as he spoke.

“‘Ave your cake and eat it, Lennie. It’ll be the last thing you ever do, you fucking monster”

He had his head down, staring at the floor, drawing circles with the toe of his rubber shoe as the guard continued the verbal onslaught. He could hear the other prisoners jeering, the sound escaping through the open shutter. He never understood why everyone here hated him so much. He kept himself to himself, he was always polite just like his Mama had taught him and he never, ever used such disgusting language. Shuffling up to the door, he pressed his head towards the bars as the guard finally stopped and walked away.

“My name isn’t Lennie, you know. It’s Thomas.”

If the guard heard him, he didn’t show it. He took the tray and turned around, taking it over to the edge of his bunk. He carefully sat down and placed the tray on his lap. He’d been told he was allowed one last special meal before he left, and that like on Christmas, he could ask for whatever he wanted. He’d thought over a few days. It was an important decision, after all.

He’d never really understood the point of a starter; little food to follow big food. But he went with it anyway, the guard taking his order certainly wasn’t happy to be in his cell at all so he ordered quickly. He chose a small plate of garlic bread sticks, his favourite snack dripping in garlic butter. He knew his breath would smell after but who doesn’t love garlic bread. Maybe that’s why the guard was pulling faces.

For his main, he chose a full roast dinner, like the ones his Mama used to make every Sunday before he had to live here. He knew he was being greedy but they really did say he could have whatever he wanted. He could hear his Mama’s voice in his head now; “Oh Tommy, a meal’s gotta make sense! Garlic bread and a roast dinner! Your tummy will be turning!”

His dessert was sitting on his lap, staring back up at him with deep milk chocolate eyes. He’d asked for fudge cake. Not just any fudge cake, fudge cake from the Blue Boar Inn, a local diner that he’d frequented since childhood. Never had he desired anything so much, and there it was, pristinely sliced, presented on a cold grey prison tray. He had so many memories of this cake, mostly good, but when he’d asked for it, the guard had audibly gasped and turned a funny shade of grey. Didn’t everyone order chocolate cake for pudding? He took a small spoonful, careful to savour every last crumb.

It had been his birthday, the last time he’d tasted this rich fudge icing. There were balloons on the green behind the Inn, tables lined with plastic covers, party bags and streamers, a stereo playing all the classic birthday songs. There were lots of people, parents and children, there to celebrate. He sat on the swing and basked in the sunlight on the warm June afternoon, thankful that so many people had surprised him with all of his favourite things, without even his Mama knowing. He’d never really had any friends, or a party before.

He absently took another spoonful of cake, lost in the daydream; it was almost gone. He thought back to the sunshine, the warmth on his back, the wind on his face, rustling his hair and beard, both of which needed a trim. He remembered the girl, short, bouncy with vibrant red coiled hair and a mole on her left cheek. She was wearing dungarees and had been the centre of attention the entire time, even though it was his birthday. She marched over to him on the swing and took the empty seat next to him.

“How are you liking my party?”

She beamed up at him, a front tooth missing in her grin.

“Your party? It’s my birthday.”

Laughing him off, she continued, as though he was joking.

“It’s my birthday, I’m 8 today. That’s my Mummy there, cutting my cake, you can have some if you want.”

She pointed over to an older red-haired lady, the spitting image of her daughter, curls billowing past her shoulders, swaying in the breeze as she began to slice his cake into small, child-sized portions. He stared at her for a moment. Maybe his Mama had organised a joint party with this girl he’d never seen before? No. She was stealing his party!

“It can’t be your party. It’s my party. It’s my birthday and my party and my cake”

She looked back at him, the beaming grin beginning to falter, slowly replaced by a look of consternation and fear. He picked up on it immediately, the air had shifted. She stepped off the swing slowly and subconsciously, he did the same. As he walked closer, he noticed the mole on her cheek wasn’t a mole at all. A brown smudge of his cake smeared across her face, taunting him as he moved closer. She turned towards Curley, her mother, and opened her mouth, eyes wide in panic as he edged even closer. He knew she was going to do something bad, bad enough he had to stop her from doing it.

He stopped and looked down at the empty tray, plastic spoon in hand as he anxiously scraped the remains of the fudge off the plate, repeatedly scratching the tray in the same spot. The scratching brought him crashing back to reality, his rapid breathing and the ever encroaching white walls pulling him away from his memories. He didn’t really like remembering the rest of that party anyway. Hopefully next year will be better.

He shuffled over to the ledge once more and placed the empty tray and his cutlery underneath the shutter before retreating to his cot, turning towards the wall and curling up under the sheet. He shuffled uncomfortably through the night, it never quite covered all of him. He was always too big for everything; either his shoulders were cold, or his feet. Maybe tomorrow he’d ask for a larger sheet in the new place wherever it was they said he was going.

~

The morning came too quickly. He didn’t even have time to have a proper dream before the guards were banging on his door again. He looked up at the small gap in the wall. The tiniest window, view to the outside. It was nice to occasionally have some light trickle through the gaps, giving him some small indication of the time. But it wasn’t light yet. The door to his cell creaked open and in stepped a familiar face; a tall, lanky man, whose hands were too big for his body. He came over and sat on the bunk next to him, placing a gigantic hand on his shoulder. He didn’t like Clown-Hands very much.

“I’m sorry, my friend, we lost the last appeal”

He had no idea what this meant and he certainly wasn’t his friend, but nodded solemnly all the same. Periodically, Clown-Hands had visited him, concocting plan after plan to get him ‘out of this place’. He didn’t mind it so much here, but Clown-Hands always laughed at that and carried on. He’d had so many ideas but each were stranger than the last so he wasn’t surprised by today’s verdict. Last week he’d told him;

“Now Thomas, this is how we’ll get you out of here. We’ve got to tell them you’re slow, okay? You don’t mind me saying that, do you? You’re...challenged. No jury would ever allow this to happen to a slow guy”

This was a step too far. He knew he wasn’t the fastest runner, but to call him slow? He could outrun most of the men in this place given half a chance, not remotely even a challenge. But this reaction just made Clown-Hands laugh again; he’d written down his answer and skipped out of the cell. His sad face today told a different story, neither of them knew what to say. It was the guard that put an end to the awkward silence.

“It’s time.”

Clown-Hands disappeared as quickly as he’d come and was replaced by the same burly guard that kept calling him Lennie. He didn’t like this guy either. Wrapping his hands in cuffs, the guard led him out of his cell and down the corridor, fluorescent lights leading the way. He’d walked this corridor a hundred times. At the end was the gate and to the right was the recreation area. But as they approached the familiar crossroads, the guard took the left instead, leading them down more dimly lit corridors, the fluorescent lights taking on a more yellow, flickering hue the further they went. Eventually, they stopped outside a large wooden door. It was heavy and dark. There was something sad about it, like the door knew and didn’t want you to open it. But shoved open it was and he was led to a shiny metal table in the middle of a pristine white room.

He shuffled to make himself comfortable, perching on the edge of the table, his legs anxiously swinging as the guards attached various wires and cables to him. He’d been in many different rooms recently, but this one was scary and he was relieved to look up and see, behind a thick piece of glass, his Mama, sitting alone on the right hand side of the room. Clinking the heavy cuffs on his wrists, he smuggled a wave to her, beaming in the knowledge that she’d finally come to see him. She’d been crying and had her head buried in a tissue; she didn’t look up.

Confused, he looked at the audience in front of him, many faces he’d never seen, but one stood out, just as it had done once before. Sitting on the front row of the left side of the room was Curley, the same lady with glorious ringlets of auburn hair. She too had been crying, but she was stoic and stone faced now, looking straight through him. Curley’s daughter wasn’t there.

The guard scratched his arm with another wire and told him to relax before stepping away and reading some words on a page he didn’t understand. He heard his name several times but was so preoccupied with trying to catch the eye of his mother that he didn’t hear them the first time they asked. The guard nudged him and asked again.

“Do you have any last things to say, Thomas? Now that everyone’s here, before...”

There was a heavy silence that followed, an expectation that he would say something important. He looked to his Mama in the crowd for approval, he knew she’d want him to be polite, so he readjusted himself on the cold, hard table before he spoke. He turned and nodded to the guards in the room, Curley and his Mama.

“Thank you for the chocolate cake, it was absolutely delicious.”