A little laugh at that. The sound of Mr Windsor making himself comfortable in the open doorway.
‘We’ll have to see what we can do about that,’ he says; his manner that of somebody with a pint in his hand and one elbow on the bar. ‘Maybe bring in a big feather bed, eh? A couple of sheepskin rugs. Perhaps a chandelier.’
‘That would be a tad incongruous, but certainly appreciated.’
‘Aye,’ says Windsor, as if he knows. ‘Incongruous as fuck.’
Silence for a moment. Then Mr Windsor clears his throat: his standard amuse-bouche before serving up a meal of bad news.
Cox’s mind sprints through the possibilities. Trips, painfully, upon the least palatable of likelihoods. The course. The writer. The reason for the whole damn game.
‘No room at the inn, this time, Cox,’ he says, sounding genuinely sorry to deliver the tidings. ‘No VPs allowed. Too much of a risk. To you. To the tutor. It’s a no-go.’
Silence, from the floor. He digests it. Refuses to allow any hint of dissatisfaction show in his posture. ‘I did say that I was willing to attend upon my recognizance.’
‘Yeah, she said something about that. I don’t think she knew what it meant.’
‘That I would be accountable for my own welfare, sir.’
‘Yeah, but y’know. This is prison. And you’re a VP. And they sort of, well, hate you …’
Cox opens his eyes. Sits up without bending his knees: a vampire rising from a casket. He angles his head, and smiles at the young man; his keys hanging from the chain at his waist, utility belt cutting him below his lumpy gut.
‘I don’t think they hate me, Mr Windsor. I believe they hate the part of themselves which finds its likeness in an image painted by my detractors. They do not know me, as it were. They know only of my crimes. And of those crimes, I remain entirely innocent.’
Mr Windsor gives a shrug: an infuriating gesture. Cox’s grand plan is a series of tiny, incremental half-steps and thus far, every one has gone the way he has desired. He cannot be refused a place on the Creative Writing course. Everything that comes next is dependent upon him securing a berth in a classroom with Rufus Orton, the mid-list novelist tasked with helping borderline illiterates learn how to weave literary gold.
He lays back down, lest his face betray the sudden fleeting twitch of desperation that clenches inside him. He puts his arms back out to his sides. Breathes.
‘What’s the theory, then?’ asks Windsor. Behind his glasses, his brown eyes give the room a quick sweep. Sees nothing to concern him.
It’s a single occupancy cell, like most of the rooms on the Vulnerable Prisoner wing. Cox is the only inmate to keep his accommodation immaculate. There is the air of a monk’s cell to the small square of pale blue brickwork. His bed is neat enough to pass a military inspection – the sheets pulled tight enough to bounce and catch a coin. His paperwork and court documents are kept in black, lever-arch folders on the little wooden table by the windows. The wood gleams, polished as if it were a walnut credenza. On it sits a small wooden radio and an individual coffee maker. These items are his luxuries. He is permitted a television, but declines the privilege. He has entertainment enough in the books that take up the entirety of the inside of his wardrobe, stacked so neatly that they need to be levered out with a toothbrush. His few clothes are laid out neatly at the foot of his bed. He does not disturb them when he climbs beneath the covers. He is a small man. Five foot four. He’s lost an inch or two since turning fifty. Can feel gravity pulling him down. He fancies he’ll be dwarf-like by the time they let him out. Can see himself, wizened and grey. Wonders, idly, if he will still be fit enough to do what he enjoys. Whether there will be any possibility of securing work as a department store elf at Christmas. He fancies not. He’ll be on the Sex Offenders Register until the day he dies.
‘The theory, Mr Windsor?’
‘How does it work?’ he asks, more slowly, as if Cox were simple.
Cox rises again, reluctant to appear rude. He keeps his face inscrutable. It takes little effort. He has features that are hard to read, and even harder to remember. He has a gift for anonymity. He has cultivated a truly homogenous, unremarkable appearance. Anybody asked to describe him would struggle to offer up any more than the fact he is short, with greying brown hair. The rest of his face may as well be a blank piece of paper.
‘We lose an inch in height every day, Mr Windsor. That’s gravity, pulling us down. Compressing us. Pulling us home. If you lay down it acts the same upon your skeleton. Drags you back into the shape you are meant to be.’
Mr Windsor sucks his lower lip, interested. ‘Read that in a book, did you?’
Cox permits himself a smile. He is always polite with the wardens, even when they wrong him. His skill, his gift, is in appearing harmless until it is too late to react to the danger. ‘I did, as it happens. You’ll be amazed at the knowledge you can pick up in books. They may catch on.’
‘Don’t read much myself,’ says Mr Windsor, as if such an admission were not shameful. ‘Couple of thrillers on holiday. Can’t concentrate though. Sends me to sleep.’
‘I’d be glad to lend you something to start you off,’ says Cox, companionably. ‘Reading is one of the true pleasures. The prison library is tolerably stocked, if it does cater a little too brazenly for those interested in what I would term as the “lowest common denominator”. But Miss Morrow, the librarian, is very good at finding the more difficult to locate titles. Educational textbooks.
