‘Golly, I do prattle on, don’t I? No wonder the critics say that I’m somewhat fond of myself. Perhaps if we stop for a moment and I can let you all have a turn – learn a little about you, so we can come up with some exercises that will be of particular use—’
‘I’ve got a question.’
Heads turn, noses wrinkle. It’s Cox. He puckers his lips, using forefinger and thumb to wipe the edges of his mouth. He angles his head, a bird hearing a worm.
‘Well, there’ll be plenty of opportunities, but sure, if something’s just occurred—’
‘Do you feel what your characters feel? I read that for a character to be authentic, to be believable, there must be some element of lived truth within them. Some part of the author. Each character, from the smallest cameo walk-on to the main series protagonist and antagonist, they are all elements of the author’s inner life. I ask, because I read your third book. I was drawn very much to the housemaster character. Mr Deacon, I believe. Weak. Vulnerable. Cruel. Perverted, in the eyes of some. Rent asunder by the conflicting urge to coddle the boys in his care and to bend them to his will; repelled by his own reflection apart from when he is involved in acts of brutality with a victim. It was, I confess, quite harrowing. Where, might I ask, would such a character come from. And do you feel the same affinity for the abuser, as the abused, in that passage. I ask, essentially, whether you wrote those scenes while curled in a foetal ball, or tumescent with unspent vigour.’
There is a pause as the rest of the class digests this. Orton gives a quiet laugh. Callan leans to the younger inmate to his left, and whispers, none-too subtly, ‘Tumescent means “hard-on”.’ Suggs, hearing this, gives a disgusted groan.
‘Miss. I can’t be sitting here listening to this – why’s he even here, why’s he fucking here …?’
The rest of the class joins in, turning on Cox and demanding to know why he’s being a prick. It’s almost as if they are embarrassed to be shown up: humiliated by any notion of association with such a vile specimen.
‘Sorry, mate,’ says Swift, a middle-aged accountant who broke his neighbour’s leg with a golf club when he made an inappropriate remark about his wife. ‘Just ignore him, he’ll slither off back to the VPs at lunch …’
‘It’s fine, it’s fine,’ says Orton, keeping it light. He gives Cox an appraising glance. Smiles, as if enjoying the sudden intellectual challenge. ‘Cox, was it?’
‘Yes, Rufus. And may I say, I thought the use of the phrase “plummy, tortured and toothless” was particularly unnecessary. Some of these critics are just out to make themselves look good.’
Orton sticks his tongue in his lower lip. Closes an eye. Nods. He understands, Annabeth can tell. This is the battle that will set the tone of what’s to come.
‘Well, Mr Cox.’
‘Griffin, please …’
‘Well, Mr Cox, I admire your question. I admire the frankness of it, and your own courage for asking it in such an environment. And I agree, yes, that every character should contain an element of the author, however vile that character may be. Characters need to be multi-dimensional. They need to have a believable psychology. I believe that most everyday people can conceive of truly terrible deeds and perhaps even the reasons behind them. That truth feeds into the character and informs their actions. The skill to being a functioning member of society is in not giving in to such impulses.’
Annabeth wonders if she should jump in. Wonders why he can’t see the trap he’s walking into, so wide-eyed and innocent he should be wearing a red cape.
‘A little harsh, Rufus, wouldn’t you say? You’re essentially saying everybody has the same base impulses but only the weak-willed give in to them. Brave words, in a room full of convicts.’
The eyes turn on Rufus. He swallows. Flashes a smile. Looks to Annabeth for help. She begins to stand.
‘The last thing I am doing is passing judgement on anybody in this room. I’ve made it my business not to enquire about the past misdeeds of anybody here …’
‘You’ll have heard of me,’ boasts Hawkes, an energetic young car thief from Warrington. ‘Stole a fucking baby, didn’t I? Nicked a Cavalier from a petrol station forecourt and didn’t know there was a nipper in the back ’til I was forty miles away!’
Laughs all round, as if this could have happened to anybody. Suggs doesn’t join in.
‘You’ll know Cox,’ he says, his voice cutting through the hubbub. ‘Kiddy fiddler. They reckon he’s done loads of them. Be a cold day in hell before they let him out. Coppers are back every few months trying to get him to admit to this and that. Dirty bastard. Somebody should fucking shank him.’
‘That’ll do, Suggsy …’
Cox puts up his hands in surrender. Sits back. Licks his lips. He’s enjoyed himself.
Rufus breathes out. Annabeth tries to catch his eye, to check he’s OK, to see if any of the past few minutes has rattled him. If it has, it doesn’t show.
‘So, before we have our little break, I’m going to tell you what we’ll be up to. Just to get a sense of who we all are, the different energies we’re all bringing, I want you to complete a simple writing assignment. Just write about a safe space, OK. Somewhere that, in your mind, you would associate with comfort. I understand that your present accommodation means the task could be considered a little cruel, but I’m presuming that you spend a lot of time thinking your way out of these walls. Creative writing starts with creative thinking. So, let’s take a few moments just to chat, run a few ideas around with your chums here, and then we’ll start writing, yes? You all have pens, paper …
