Honour by Elif Shafak

musician. So they say. He has been to see me only twice in twelve years. Esma still visits from time to time, though not lately. She comes to tell me how much she misses, pities and hates me, in that order. Not Yunus. He has cut and run, like he always did. Even Esma’s sharpest words don’t hurt as much as my little brother’s absence. I would like him to forgive me. If he could find it in his heart, that is. Not because I expect him to love me. That’s a pipe dream. I want him to forgive me for his own good. Anger is toxic – gives you cancer. People like me are used to it, but Yunus deserves better.
    ‘Who is that man?’ asks Trippy, pointing at the wall.
    ‘He was a great magician. The best.’
    ‘Really?’
    ‘Yup, some of his tricks are still a mystery.’
    ‘Could he make people disappear?’
    ‘He could make bloody elephants disappear.’
    ‘Wow, that’s trippy!’
    We spend the afternoon talking about Houdini, our heads filled with stories, and, in Trippy’s case, with dope. I like to have my spliff every now and then. But that’s about it. No pills, no smack. Never tried it, never will. I’m not going down that road. When I remind Trippy he has to quit, he puts his thumb in his mouth and makes a sucking noise: ‘I’m not a baby.’
    ‘Shut your gob!’
    He grins like a naughty boy, the dope-head. But he doesn’t push it. He knows he’s the only one who can talk to me like that and he knows my limits.
    Shortly after the evening roll call Martin appears with a short, stocky guard we’ve never seen before. The man has a dimple in his chin and hair so black I wonder if he dyes it.
    ‘Officer Andrew McLaughlin has started today. We’re visiting a few cells.’
    Martin is going to retire soon and he wants to make sure we’ll respect this young man who’s here to replace him. There is an awkward silence, like we are all embarrassed and don’t know what to say. Suddenly Martin’s eyes land on the poster behind me.
    ‘Whose idea was that?’ he murmurs and without waiting for an answer he turns to me. ‘Yours, wasn’t it?’
    Martin is a lousy actor. He has already seen this poster. If he hadn’t approved, I’d never have got it. But now he acts as if he’s seeing it for the first time. Just to show the new boy he might be retirement age but he still doesn’t miss a trick. He says that all these years he’s watched men put up all sorts of pictures on their walls – of their wives and family, religious icons, film stars, football players, cricket players, Playboy bunnies – but Houdini, that takes the biscuit.
    ‘Maybe you’re losing your mind,’ Martin says with a chuckle.
    ‘Maybe,’ I say.
    Officer McLaughlin approaches and sniffs the air around me, like a hunting dog on a trail. ‘Or maybe he’s planning to escape. Houdini was an escapologist.’
    Where did that come from? The vein on my forehead throbs mildly. ‘Why would I do that?’
    ‘Yeah,’ Martin asks, his eyes suddenly harder. ‘Why would he do that?’
    Then he turns to the new screw and explains. ‘Alex has been here since ’78. He has only two more years to go.’
    ‘One year and ten months,’ I correct him.
    ‘Yeah,’ Martin says and nods as if that sums up everything.
    In Martin’s face, as usual, there are two feelings competing
 –
revulsion and respect. The former was there from day one and has never disappeared
 –
contempt for a man who committed the worst crime imaginable and screwed up the one life God gave him. The respect came much later, and most unexpectedly. We have a history together, Martin and I.
    But Officer McLaughlin’s face tells a different story. ‘I think I know your case,’ he says flatly. ‘I remember reading about it and saying to myself how could anyone do that to his own mother.’
    I realize we are the same age. Not only that. We are the same material. We might have frequented the same streets as teenagers, kissed the same girls. The strangest feeling seizes