The Treatment and the Cure by Peter Kocan Page A

looks terrible, all scratched and dirty and half fainting with weariness. He can’t stand up properly, and two big screws drag him inside by his arms. They drag him down the corridor past the office and along the verandah to the cells. They’re being very rough. You try to see Ray Hoad’s face as he’s dragged past. He looks worn out and there are cuts on his face, but he doesn’t look beaten, just terribly tired. You feel proud of him for making such a good run.
    He’s kept locked in a cell for several weeks and nobody’s allowed to see him. The screws take his meals down on trays and the meals are very small. You can imagine how hungry he must be. He’s not allowed any blankets at night, just a single canvas covering and a sort of plank to sleep on. After six weeks he’s brought out into the grille for a few hours each day. He’s thin and starved and very pale from so long in the cell. The screws tell us we mustn’t try to talk to him in the grille. Anyone caught talking to him will be locked up themselves. We manage to talk to him out of the sides of our mouths when the screws aren’t looking.
    “How ya goin’ mate?”
    “Fuckin’ hungry,” Ray Hoad says.
    “Have the screws been biffin’ ya?”
    “They haven’t got the fuckin’ guts. They just starve a bloke.”
    “Yeah, the cunts,” you agree.
    “Listen,” Ray Hoad whispers, “can ya get me somethin’ to eat? A bit of bread or somethin’?”
    That’s awkward. It’s putting you right on the spot. If the screws see you giving Ray Hoad food they’ll probably lock you up. You don’t want to take the risk, except that you’ll feel like a weak cunt if you don’t. You think how Ray Hoad wasn’t afraid to take on the screws and the whole police force too, and all he’s asking you to do is slip a crust through the wire.
    “I’ll try, mate,” you whisper back.
    You go back later with two slices of bread you’ve saved from lunch and you saunter along beside the wire of the grille. You stand side-on against the wire and swivel your eyes around to see where the screws are. Then you try to finger the two pieces of bread from your pocket through the wire and into Ray Hoad’s hand. The bread is crumpled from your pocket and bits of it break off against the wire and fall on the ground.
    “Shit, mate, don’t waste it!” Ray Hoad whispers.
    You get most of it through into his hand that he’s holding down at his side, but the other pieces are still on the ground.
    “Screw comin’,” Ray Hoad warns you.
    The screw called Smiler is walking slowly towards you. He’s probably coming to warn you away from the grille. He’s fifteen yards away. If you just saunter off now, as if you haven’t noticed him, he might be satisfied and stop. He’s far enough away that maybe he won’t notice the bread on the ground if he stops where he is, but if he comes right up to the grille he’ll see it for sure, and if you try to pick the bread up quickly he’ll get suspicious of your sudden movement. So you start moving away from the grille very innocently, leaving the bread lying there. It works. Smiler stops and strolls back the other way. You watch from the corner of your eye, then saunter back to the grille and bend down as if you’re tying your shoelace, then pick up the bits of bread and shove them quickly through to Ray. You scatter the last few crumbs with your feet. Your heart’s thumping.
    “Thanks, mate,” Ray Hoad says. He’s eating the bread by pretending to be wiping his nose with his hand.
    You and Ray are pleased at how you managed it so well.
    After Ray’s been in the grille for a couple of weeks the screws start to relax the rule about talking to him. He’s able to tell us about the escape.
    “I almost didn’t get over the wall. The pole was only light alloy and it was bendin’ under me weight. I just got a finger grip on the top of the wall before it buckled. I was hangin’ there, trying to lift meself, and thinkin’ the screws