The Low Road by Chris Womersley

cut out for things in here, you know?
    Lee takes a drag on his cigarette. It’s like inhaling an entire desert. There is a shout of jubilation from the basketballers and another desultory round of abuse from Simmo and Greene. Lee sort of nods, as if he’s digesting the importance of what Morris has been saying, and stares past the shimmering fences to the wall beyond. A guard comes out of his post and strolls along the walkway. His belt buckle glints in the sunlight but otherwise he’s an insubstantial shape, the antenna of his rifle jutting from his back.
    It’s Lee, right? Morris says.
    Yeah.
    Morris.
    And Morris sticks out his hand so Lee is forced to turn to face him. Morris’s grip is solid, meaningful.
    How’d you end up in here, Lee?
    Oh, they drove me in a van, you know . . .
    Morris laughs loudly and other prisoners turn to look at them. Nah mate. What did you do ? To get slotted?
    Lee flushes with embarrassment and hitches his baggy overalls to buy some time. The overalls material is still thick and stiff; it’s like wearing a tent. He knows Morris is waiting for his response, can feel him staring at the side of his face. All crims lie about themselves, it’s part of the whole game. They make their crimes more spectacular for other crims and tone them down for the general population. But here, where status is everything, the lies take on a mythic quality. If Lee believed everyone, all pickpockets would be fearsome muggers, all thieves armed robbers and every two-bit junkie the Mr. Big of the entire class-A drug world. Crime, like any pursuit, thrives and falters on ambition.
    Although, Morris goes on as he rolls another cigarette, we’re all innocent here, aren’t we?
    Lee chuckles and hoists his overalls again. Sweat trickles down his ribs. He knows the truth won’t do and wishes the whistle would sound for them to return to the block. His crimes are of carelessness as much as anything. Small-time stunts: burgs and stolen cars, vandalism, the sort of thing any bored kid gets up to in a country town.
    But he has a story for himself, prepared well in advance. Breaking and entering, he says at last in what he hopes is a nonchalant tone. Aggravated assault. Went into a place in the middle of the day and a woman was home. He sucks the last from his cigarette and grinds it underfoot.
    Morris waves a fly from his face. Damn. That’s a bit rough. Nice boy like you. Who would have thought.
    The low whistle sounds and the men in the yard begin moving like cattle towards the gate that leads back to the main block. Relieved, Lee turns to join them, but Morris leans in close, shoulder to shoulder, not quite preventing him from leaving but almost. Lee can detect the sweet barber-shop smell of hair oil or shaving cream. Cheap prison soap.
    Morris smirks before grabbing at his own crotch, rolling his eyes and growling in a parody of pleasure. Did you give her a little something? You know, give the bitch a little something to remember you by? Hey, Lee. You know what I mean, right? I always give them a little something. Got to take what you can get, right?
    Lee stops and looks at Morris. He needs to pull this off. By now they are standing so close he is aware of the heat of Morris’s thick body. Course, he says at last. What you think I’m fucking doing here?
    Morris doesn’t move, maintains contact. He jams a stubby forefinger into one ear and waggles it back and forth a few times. Smile gone now, he inspects Lee before removing the finger and wiping whatever he’s gathered there on his singlet. He nods, ever so slowly, as if he’s been told something unlikely. Right, he says. I see.
    Lee senses the other prisoners watching them and scuffs at the dirt with the toe of one shoe. Morris still waits, even though most of the other prisoners have been checked off and have filed out of the exercise yard. Lee doesn’t want to walk inside with him but Morris just stands