Ballarat?’ I asked.
‘No, we are going to MAP—the Melbourne Assessment Prison,’ he said. ‘Just down the road in Spencer Street. Darren breached his probation and is in custody; I believe that he has quite a lot of time left to serve.’
‘Why should he talk to you?’ I asked. ‘You’re the reason he’s back in jail.’
‘Actually, if you think about it, he’s the reason that he’s back in jail,’ said Daniel. ‘If he’d done as he was asked, got a job and stayed out of trouble, he wouldn’t be there. He is back in jail because he had to go out and seduce some more followers. And mistreat them.’
‘Yes, I agree, but I don’t put Darren down as one of history’s clear thinkers,’ I responded, getting up and finding some socks. Because my socks are always attempting to wriggle off to find a more sock-centred existence, I used to have trouble matching them. Now I just buy a lot of black socks, and it doesn’t matter if the pairs stay true to each other. Undies and trousers and shoes, shirt and jacket. Right. Corinna was ready to face the world.
‘Sister Mary will meet us there,’ said Daniel. ‘I rang her. Are you sure you want to come?’
‘Yes,’ I said, not sure.
Daniel carefully took his small Swiss army knife off his key ring and laid it on the table. ‘Have you got a pocket knife? Leave it at home,’ he advised.
I removed my pocket knife from my backpack. I use it for opening bottles. From the number of attachments I could also build a small house and remove stones from horses’ hooves.
‘And off we go,’ he said.
Because it was Sunday and trams were few and far between, we walked down Flinders Street, past the Gothic bulk of the station, which went on far longer than one thought, past the Banana Vaults and the new walkways along the river, then across to the remade end of the city. It used to be agreeably broken down. Now even the wharfies’ pubs have gone upmarket, sporting new paint and a small supermarket next to the tattoo parlour.
‘I hardly know the city these days,’ I sighed as we struggled up past Spencer Street station with its fleet of country buses, lost tourists, people hauling wheeled suitcases up over kerbs and drivers reading newspapers.
And there was the Melbourne Assessment Prison. It was made of red brick, still unfaded and raw, and tastefully surrounded by aluminium barrels on high fences looped with razor wire. Very hospitable.
But there, deep in conversation with a scruffy woman festooned with children, was Sister Mary, one of the world’s Forces for Good. She saw us, said, ‘God bless you,’ to the woman with such deep conviction that even the brats were impressed, wiped one child’s nose and turned to greet us.
‘Corinna! Daniel! How nice to see you. Thank you for coming. Visiting the prisoners and captives is one of the corporeal works of mercy, and God is well aware of what you do. Come along,’ she said, and we followed her small, plump, determined back into the prison.
I had never been into a prison before, though I had seen this one every time I had taken Spencer Street beyond the confines of the city. It was ugly without and I found that it was ugly within, though not in the deep-pit-with-scorpions— Chateau D’If—aha-Lord-Monte-Christo-you’ll-never-escape way of, for instance, the Old Melbourne Jail. In that dank bluestone building I had had my very first and only attack of claustrophobia and had to demand to be let out before we got to the high point of the tour: the gallows on which Ned Kelly had personally expired.
This was a sort of bureaucratic ugliness, a bought-cheap by the contractor ugliness. To be imprisoned here would be like being stranded for life in the waiting room of a not very successful dentist. The walls were painted cream, there were security guards everywhere, all talking to one another, and the place smelt of—I tried to analyse it with a nose badly damaged by years of heated steam—yes, male urine,
‘No, we are going to MAP—the Melbourne Assessment Prison,’ he said. ‘Just down the road in Spencer Street. Darren breached his probation and is in custody; I believe that he has quite a lot of time left to serve.’
‘Why should he talk to you?’ I asked. ‘You’re the reason he’s back in jail.’
‘Actually, if you think about it, he’s the reason that he’s back in jail,’ said Daniel. ‘If he’d done as he was asked, got a job and stayed out of trouble, he wouldn’t be there. He is back in jail because he had to go out and seduce some more followers. And mistreat them.’
‘Yes, I agree, but I don’t put Darren down as one of history’s clear thinkers,’ I responded, getting up and finding some socks. Because my socks are always attempting to wriggle off to find a more sock-centred existence, I used to have trouble matching them. Now I just buy a lot of black socks, and it doesn’t matter if the pairs stay true to each other. Undies and trousers and shoes, shirt and jacket. Right. Corinna was ready to face the world.
‘Sister Mary will meet us there,’ said Daniel. ‘I rang her. Are you sure you want to come?’
‘Yes,’ I said, not sure.
Daniel carefully took his small Swiss army knife off his key ring and laid it on the table. ‘Have you got a pocket knife? Leave it at home,’ he advised.
I removed my pocket knife from my backpack. I use it for opening bottles. From the number of attachments I could also build a small house and remove stones from horses’ hooves.
‘And off we go,’ he said.
Because it was Sunday and trams were few and far between, we walked down Flinders Street, past the Gothic bulk of the station, which went on far longer than one thought, past the Banana Vaults and the new walkways along the river, then across to the remade end of the city. It used to be agreeably broken down. Now even the wharfies’ pubs have gone upmarket, sporting new paint and a small supermarket next to the tattoo parlour.
‘I hardly know the city these days,’ I sighed as we struggled up past Spencer Street station with its fleet of country buses, lost tourists, people hauling wheeled suitcases up over kerbs and drivers reading newspapers.
And there was the Melbourne Assessment Prison. It was made of red brick, still unfaded and raw, and tastefully surrounded by aluminium barrels on high fences looped with razor wire. Very hospitable.
But there, deep in conversation with a scruffy woman festooned with children, was Sister Mary, one of the world’s Forces for Good. She saw us, said, ‘God bless you,’ to the woman with such deep conviction that even the brats were impressed, wiped one child’s nose and turned to greet us.
‘Corinna! Daniel! How nice to see you. Thank you for coming. Visiting the prisoners and captives is one of the corporeal works of mercy, and God is well aware of what you do. Come along,’ she said, and we followed her small, plump, determined back into the prison.
I had never been into a prison before, though I had seen this one every time I had taken Spencer Street beyond the confines of the city. It was ugly without and I found that it was ugly within, though not in the deep-pit-with-scorpions— Chateau D’If—aha-Lord-Monte-Christo-you’ll-never-escape way of, for instance, the Old Melbourne Jail. In that dank bluestone building I had had my very first and only attack of claustrophobia and had to demand to be let out before we got to the high point of the tour: the gallows on which Ned Kelly had personally expired.
This was a sort of bureaucratic ugliness, a bought-cheap by the contractor ugliness. To be imprisoned here would be like being stranded for life in the waiting room of a not very successful dentist. The walls were painted cream, there were security guards everywhere, all talking to one another, and the place smelt of—I tried to analyse it with a nose badly damaged by years of heated steam—yes, male urine,
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