Harlequin Rex (24 page)

And,
having
been
incarcerated
for
dealing,
he
was
surprised
to
find
shit
quite
readily
available
within
the
prison,
but
you
didn’t
talk
about
that
to
anyone
on
the
outside
either.

David
had
no
pet
cockroach,
or
window
bar
that
worked
as
a
sundial.
He
began
a
correspondence
course
of
business
and
financial
skills.
After
years
of
the
humanities
he’d
ended
in
prison,
so
he
settled
for
practical
subjects,
but
didn’t
stick
to
them,
despite
coming
across
ideas
that
would
have
improved
his
success
in
the
cannabis
business.
He
became
more
interested
in
programmes
run
inside,
which
meant,
in
effect,
by
Mike
Wiremu,
a
recreational
officer
and
counsellor.

‘We
haven’t
got
many
graduates
here,
’
Wiremu
told
him.
‘Most
of
the
guys
were
dick
happy,
or
into
booze
and
shit
during
their
formative
years,
you
might
say.’
Wiremu’s
square
bulk
filled
one
end
of
the
small
office;
opposite
was
the
door
and
a
chair
on
which
David
sat.
One
longer
wall
had
a
particle-board
desk
with
file
boxes
and
above
it
a
large
year
planner.
The
other
had
a
slightly
recessed
window
with
a
view
of
the
boiler
house
obscured
by
slashes
of
birdshit
and
the
hachuring
of
a
security
grille.
Four
colours
had
been
initially
used
on
the
planner
but,
as
the
year
had
progressed,
so
the
writing
dwindled
and
the
colour
fell
away.
‘I
could
use
you
if
you
like,’
said
Wiremu.
He
had
no
file
in
front
of
him:
he
seemed
uninterested
in
David’s
crime,
or
sentence.
It
was
as
if
he
were
asking
a
fellow
bridge
player
to
serve
on
the
grading
committee,
or
a
working
bee
to
enlarge
the
bar.
One
of
the
cardboard
file
boxes
was
labelled
in
felt
pen
as
—
‘Fitness
and
Hygiene
Yak
Sheets’.
‘There’s
 
no
money
in
it,
of
course,
but
it
passes
the
time,
gives
you
some
minor
privileges
and
looks
good
on
the
old
parole
report,
eh.’
Wiremu,
like
many
of
his
race,
was
egalitarian
by
disposition.
Superintendent
Somerville,
Pye
the
wife
beater,
the
pigman
who
came
on
Tuesdays
and
Fridays,
all
received
the
same
soft-voiced,
slightly
self-deprecating
attention.
‘As
a
matter
of
fact,
I
never
finished
a
degree
myself,
but
then
I
married
early.’
His
face
was
large
and
flat,
with
a
mouth
that
went
right
across
it
and
out
of
sight
around
the
corners.

The
boiler-house
wall
was
used
by
kitchen
staff
for
improvised
fives.
David
could
see
two
of
them
playing
with
a
yellow
tennis
ball
in
their
break.
They
were
free
men,
but
their
slouching,
leaping
uncouthness
was
exactly
that
of
the
prisoners
they
served.
Maybe
they’d
been
on
the
chow
line
too
long,
and
something
had
snaked
back
to
them.
Maybe
it
was
the
place
itself
that
determined
attitudes,
rather
than
being
criminals,
or
free
men,
within
it.

‘You
could
work
out
some
personal
programmes
for
younger
guys,’
suggested
Wiremu.
‘That
way
we
could
match
them
up
with
volunteers
that
come
willing
to
help.
Okay,
most
of
them
will
tell
you
to
get
knotted,
but
that’s
the
normal
odds
here.
You
know
that
pale
guy
without
teeth
who’s
come
into
your
wing?
He
can’t
even
spell
his
name.’

‘What
is
his
name?’

‘Poniatowski,’
said
Wiremu,
the
expanse
of
his
brown
face
just
the
same.
That’s
when
David
began
to
like
him.
That’s
when
he
decided
to
develop
programmes
with
him.

Paparua
Prison
was
progressive
enough
to
have
general
counselling
sessions.
For
some
inmates
it
was
a
directed
part
of
their
sentence,
and
a
few
others
came
out
of
boredom,
the
hope
of
disclosure,
or
to
score
parole
points.
Wiremu
did
the
organising,
and
a
psychologist
called
Garvan
ran
the
sessions.
He
was
known
inside
as
Mad
Max,
because
of
a
professional
calm
that
had
become
almost
total
unresponsiveness.

‘My old man came home for Christmases and
christenings,’
Houghton
said,
‘and
one
led
to
the
other.
All
of
us
kids
were
born
in
August
or
September.’
It
was
one
of
Mad
Max’s
sessions
—
on
fathers.
David
wouldn’t
have
come
had
he
known
the
topic
beforehand.
He
didn’t
want
to
talk
about
his
family
in
front
of
any
of
those
people;
didn’t
want
even
Wiremu
to
know
anything
about
his
father.
‘He
was
a
top
mechanic
on
one
of
the
Formula
One
teams,
’
went
on
Houghton,
who
was
in
for
burning
down
a
cough
syrup
factory
after
he
was
sacked.
‘No,
not
McLaren,
but
he
sent
back
birthday
stuff
from
all
over
the
world.
The
right
number
of
presents
for
the
number
of
September
kids,
but
he
never
tried
to
sort
them
out
by
age,
or
enclosed
any
cards.
I
can’t
remember
ever
having
a
talk
with
him
alone,
he
was
so
much
on
the
go.
Once
I
got
a
flat
ceramic
house
from
Holland
to
hang
on
the
wall
—
one
time
a
green
and
red
felt
bird
from
Mexico
with
a
button
for
an
arse.
I
was
fifteen
at
the
time.’

Mad
Max
nodded
consolingly
and
asked
Houghton
if
any
resentment
remained.

‘Resentment?’
Houghton
said,
quite
surprised.
‘I
just
wish
I’d
done
half
as
well.
There’s
a
photo
of
him
in
a
book
and
he’s
standing
behind
Niki
Lauda
and
Jody
Scheckter
at
Brands
Hatch.’
Houghton
relaxed
after
having
his
say,
by
giving
a
long,
quiet
fart
like
a
cat’s
purr.

Bagger
was
next;
in
for
a
long
career
of
stealing
meat
from
works’
coolstores
and
flogging
it
to
city
butchers.
‘Was
my
Dad
a
bloody
tartar,’
he
said
with
rueful
admiration.
‘Was
he
ever.
A
skinful
every
Friday
and
Saturday
night
and
then
he’d
go
looking
for
an
argument
in
the
pubs
and
take-
away
s
.
The
Liverpool
kiss
was
his
favourite.
He
had
so
many
teeth
marks
on
his
forehead
you’d
think
he
had
a
frontal
lobotomy,
but
he
never
hit
a
sheila,
not
even
mum.
I
seen
him
once
handbagged
in
the
face
by
Nancy
Kingham,
because
he
decked
her
hubby
at
the
Celtic
Rugby
Club.
The
catch
on
the
bag
drew
blood,
but
Dad
just
walked
away,
eh.’
Bagger
shook
his
head
and
cracked
his
knuckles
in
 
wonderment
at
the
mythology
he’d
created.
‘Every
bloody
thrashing
I
got
I
had
coming,
and
he
never
hit
a
woman.
Kept
fighting
even
in
the
home
he
ended
up
in.
Cleaned
up
one
of
the
male
aides
who
was
thirty
years
younger
and
kept
changing
channels
when
Dad
was
watching
footy.’
Bagger
obviously
hoped
for
such
belligerent
resilience
in
his
own
old
age.
‘He
died
only
last
year
in
Taihape,
and
I
got
special
leave
to
go
up
to
the
funeral.
He’d
no
hair
at
all
on
him
in
the
coffin,
but
most
of
the
scars
on
his
forehead
had
faded.
I
had
this
beaut
pork
meal
in
a
diner
out
from
Wellington
on
the
way
back.
The
screw
Forbes
took
me
in
and
he
told
this
waitress
that
I
was
the
underworld
King
of
Paparua.
She
kept
looking
at
me
over
the
coffee
machine.’