path. And Iâm the convict he might have turned into had he not managed to duck at the last minute.
âFourteen years, eh? What a shame,â he says.
Martin coughs nervously. You donât remind a man of his crime in passing, like chatting about the weather. You do that only when push comes to shove. Usually no one reminds anyone of what went before. A man in gaol is a man incarcerated in the past anyway.
âAlex has turned a corner in the last few years,â Martin butts in, like a tourist guide. âHeâs gone through some dark times and is now coming back.â
Dear old Martin. Such optimism. Iâve been through hell, true. But he knows and Trippy knows and I know and my motherâs ghost knows that Iâm still there.
I had an awful reputation. I suppose I still do. I easily went for a rib. It was hard to predict what would piss me off. Even I couldnât tell most of the time. When I was off key I got violent. My left punch was as strong as a brick, so they say. Sometimes I just burst out. The only other cons who would get like this were the junkies. When they craved goods and there was no supply, they lost their rag. But Iâm no addict. And that makes me scarier, perhaps. This is my sober state of mind. I harmed myself. My head. Because I didnât like what was in there. I burned cigarettes inside my palms. They swelled, like puffy eyes. I slashed my legs. Lots of meat on a leg, the thighs, the knees, the ankles. Plenty of possibility. In Shrewsbury a razor is as precious as a ruby, but not as impossible to find.
âYou two will get to know each other,â says Martin.
âWell, Iâm sure we will,â says Officer McLaughlin.
Trippy is watching the tension build, uneasy. He knows whatâs happening. Heâs seen it before. Sometimes a screw takes against one of us and thatâs the end of the story. You get off to a bad start and it never gets any better.
The tourist guide makes another attempt at reconciliation. âAlex is a boxer. Heâs our athlete. He earned a medal when he was at school.â
It is a funny thing to say in my defence and needless to say no one laughs. I want to thank Martin for backing me, but if I move my eyes away from the young officer, even for a second, I will leave myself open.
He has to see Iâm no wimp. The last time I was one, it was over twenty years ago. I was a boy in a tree running away from circumcision. It didnât help. Since then Iâve never been weak. Iâve been wrong. Fucking wrong. But never weak. So I donât flinch, I donât blink, I keep staring into the eyes of this McLaughlin, who is staring into my eyes probably for the same bloody reasons.
Then they leave.
*
I wake up in the middle of the night with a start. At first I think my mother has visited me. But, hard as I try, I canât feel her presence. No rustle like a leaf falling, no soft glow like moonlight trapped. There is only Trippy, snoring, farting, grinding his teeth, fighting his demons.
I sit bolt upright on the bed and look around to find out what on earth could have woken me up. And then I see it. There on the floor is a paper. Somebody must have pushed it through the bars in the door. In the dimmest light penetrating from the corridor, I pick it up. Itâs a newspaper clipping. The
Daily Express
.
BOY KILLED HIS MOTHER FOR âHONOURâ, 2 DECEMBER 1978
A 16-year-old boy of Turkish/Kurdish origin stabbed his mother to death in Hackney in an act of honour killing. Iskender Toprak stabbed Pembe Toprak in front of the family home on Lavender Grove.
It is claimed that the 33-year-old mother of three had an extramarital affair. Neighbours said, though they remained married, Adem and Pembe Toprak no longer lived together. âBut when the father is absent like that the motherâs honour is guarded by the eldest son, which in this case was Iskender,â said an eyewitness. The police are now
âFourteen years, eh? What a shame,â he says.
Martin coughs nervously. You donât remind a man of his crime in passing, like chatting about the weather. You do that only when push comes to shove. Usually no one reminds anyone of what went before. A man in gaol is a man incarcerated in the past anyway.
âAlex has turned a corner in the last few years,â Martin butts in, like a tourist guide. âHeâs gone through some dark times and is now coming back.â
Dear old Martin. Such optimism. Iâve been through hell, true. But he knows and Trippy knows and I know and my motherâs ghost knows that Iâm still there.
I had an awful reputation. I suppose I still do. I easily went for a rib. It was hard to predict what would piss me off. Even I couldnât tell most of the time. When I was off key I got violent. My left punch was as strong as a brick, so they say. Sometimes I just burst out. The only other cons who would get like this were the junkies. When they craved goods and there was no supply, they lost their rag. But Iâm no addict. And that makes me scarier, perhaps. This is my sober state of mind. I harmed myself. My head. Because I didnât like what was in there. I burned cigarettes inside my palms. They swelled, like puffy eyes. I slashed my legs. Lots of meat on a leg, the thighs, the knees, the ankles. Plenty of possibility. In Shrewsbury a razor is as precious as a ruby, but not as impossible to find.
âYou two will get to know each other,â says Martin.
âWell, Iâm sure we will,â says Officer McLaughlin.
Trippy is watching the tension build, uneasy. He knows whatâs happening. Heâs seen it before. Sometimes a screw takes against one of us and thatâs the end of the story. You get off to a bad start and it never gets any better.
The tourist guide makes another attempt at reconciliation. âAlex is a boxer. Heâs our athlete. He earned a medal when he was at school.â
It is a funny thing to say in my defence and needless to say no one laughs. I want to thank Martin for backing me, but if I move my eyes away from the young officer, even for a second, I will leave myself open.
He has to see Iâm no wimp. The last time I was one, it was over twenty years ago. I was a boy in a tree running away from circumcision. It didnât help. Since then Iâve never been weak. Iâve been wrong. Fucking wrong. But never weak. So I donât flinch, I donât blink, I keep staring into the eyes of this McLaughlin, who is staring into my eyes probably for the same bloody reasons.
Then they leave.
*
I wake up in the middle of the night with a start. At first I think my mother has visited me. But, hard as I try, I canât feel her presence. No rustle like a leaf falling, no soft glow like moonlight trapped. There is only Trippy, snoring, farting, grinding his teeth, fighting his demons.
I sit bolt upright on the bed and look around to find out what on earth could have woken me up. And then I see it. There on the floor is a paper. Somebody must have pushed it through the bars in the door. In the dimmest light penetrating from the corridor, I pick it up. Itâs a newspaper clipping. The
Daily Express
.
BOY KILLED HIS MOTHER FOR âHONOURâ, 2 DECEMBER 1978
A 16-year-old boy of Turkish/Kurdish origin stabbed his mother to death in Hackney in an act of honour killing. Iskender Toprak stabbed Pembe Toprak in front of the family home on Lavender Grove.
It is claimed that the 33-year-old mother of three had an extramarital affair. Neighbours said, though they remained married, Adem and Pembe Toprak no longer lived together. âBut when the father is absent like that the motherâs honour is guarded by the eldest son, which in this case was Iskender,â said an eyewitness. The police are now
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