Handy did so reluctantly.
“There’s Geraldo,” continued Cuts, pointing at the large Hispanic man who hadn’t spoken at all since they’d been there and didn’t acknowledge anyone. “And the gent beside you is Will.”
Will was a massive white guy with a muscular build, who was covered from head to toe in tattoos. On his large left bicep Bunny noticed a My Little Pony, several Fraggles, and Barney the dinosaur. Will spoke in a voice so quiet that despite being right beside him, Bunny failed to hear what he said.
“That’s most of the landing. There are other guys, but some don’t come down for meals.”
Bunny nodded. “Did I see one in a wheelchair up there?”
“Yeah,” said Cuts. “Two of them, as a matter of fact. Stevie and DeMarcus.”
“Isn’t it cruel, putting them up on the sixth floor?”
“Nah,” said Cuts, shovelling a mouthful of beans into his mouth. “When they were lower down, a-holes kept stealing their chairs and using them for races around the landings.”
Bunny shook his head. “Well, at least they’ve got each other for company.”
“DeMarcus is Nation of Islam and Stevie is a White Power guy, so there’s not a whole lot of heart to hearts and swapping recipes.”
“Oh.”
The conversation died out as the group concentrated on their food. Bunny’s expectations had been low, so the meal had come as a pleasant-ish surprise. Some baked beans, a couple of sausages, a bowl of cereal, and some white stuff with a small scone in the middle of it. It was lukewarm at best, and all he had to eat it with was a plastic knife and fork.
He took a bite of the sausage. It wasn’t great. Then, he made the mistake of allowing his mind to wander for a second. He considered what might be in a sausage that only prisons would buy, and how high the standard of hygiene was in a prison kitchen. Bunny wasn’t anyone’s idea of a fussy eater, but suddenly he found his appetite wane.
“You not enjoying the culinary delights on our menu?” asked Cuts.
“I’m just getting my second wind.” Bunny lowered his voice to a whisper. “Handy doesn’t work in the kitchen, does he?”
“No.”
Bunny resumed poking at the food.
Jesus spoke in a noticeably more friendly tone than previously. “If you don’t want your biscuit, I’ll take it.”
Bunny brightened up immediately. “Oh, biscuits? We get biscuits? I love a biccie.” He looked up the table expectantly. Several of its other occupants returned his gaze, confused.
Cuts cleared his throat. “It’s on your tray.”
Bunny looked down and lifted up the tray to confirm he wasn’t missing anything. “What are you talking about?”
“It’s there,” said Stats. “Sitting in your gravy.”
Bunny looked down the table at him and then back at Cuts before rolling his eyes. “I think I preferred when it was just stats he was getting wrong.”
Cuts gave Bunny a confused look. “What is wrong with you? He’s right. Your biscuit is sitting there in your gravy.” He jabbed a finger in the direction of Bunny’s tray to emphasise his point.
“What?” said Bunny, getting annoyed now. “That’s not gravy. Gravy is brown. That’s … Well, I don’t know what that is, and I’m afraid to ask, but it’s not gravy.”
“Brown?” said Handy. “Are you out of your damn mind?”
“Ah,” said Bunny, looking around, trying to show a smile he wasn’t feeling. “I get it. Is this some ‘wind up the new fella’ type of deal? Yis are just trying to see how gullible I am.”
The rest of the table looked at one another and then turned expectantly to Cuts, who sighed. “Alright. Nope – I promise, we are not trying to mess with you. With God as my witness.”
“So witnessed,” said Jesus.
“Shut up,” said Cuts. “You’re not helping.”
Bunny could feel his whole body tense. As if several days of being treated like a criminal and an animal that just needed to be herded from place to place were about to come out in an inappropriate way.
“OK,” said Cuts slowly, in what Bunny already recognised as his calm voice for talking to crazy. “What do you think that thing is, sitting in the middle of that g— Of that white stuff, there?”
“’Tis a scone.”
“A scone?” repeated Cuts.
“Yeah. We could do with some jam and clotted cream for it, mind you. Don’t know what all that white crap is.”
His statement was met with a flurry of angry responses. Even Christmas growled “Christmas” in a threatening manner. Cuts raised a hand to calm the outrage.
“Alright. Everybody take a breath. What we have here is a failure to communicate. Some men you just can’t reach.”
“Cool Hand Luke,” said Bunny.
“Right,” said Cuts. “That you get.” He pointed at the tray. “If that is a scone—”
“Christmas!”
“Easy, Christmas. Relax,” said Cuts. “We’re just having a friendly chat here.” He looked back at Bunny. “OK, now – what do you think a biscuit is?”
“A biscuit?” said Bunny. “A biscuit is a biscuit. Jammie Dodger, custard cream, Bourbon. I could even go for a rich tea or a digestive. Christ, what I’d give for a gingernut.”
Cuts nodded and thought about this for a while. “OK,” he said finally, looking down at his tray. He nodded at it for a while before raising his head. “No offence, Cochise, but you might be the craziest son of a bitch here.”
At that point several people spoke at once. Bunny was all set to get into it when something he caught in the corner of his eye stopped him dead.
He looked over to be sure. Sitting three tables away was a face he recognised. He was taken aback as it was so out of context. Someone he never would have expected to see here in a million years. The man in question wore a broad smile, as if he couldn’t believe he had randomly chanced into seeing a dearly missed old friend.
They were not old friends.
The last time Bunny had seen
