What's my name

What’s My Name                        chapter 1                   

Taken from the original
Short story
Written at C.H.H.M.P 83                                                                                                      c: The Dogbreathes



There’s a saying that goes ‘Nothing can punish a man more then his own mind’, this is a story about such a man.

Our subject stumbled down a road barefooted and dirty, his unshaved face framed by long greasy hair flecked with streaks of grey.

It was a wet Wednesday afternoon and the other people on the street either crossed the road when they saw him coming or stared with raised eyebrows as he mumbled past. He wiped his nose with a grey piece of cloth held between dirty fingers and cursed the cold wind loudly. He was looking for something although was not sure what exactly.
‘It’s here somewhere.’ He said frantically. ‘In this street, I’m sure it is!’

The man’s eyes darted from one point to another looking for familiar landmarks, things he could orientate himself by, only to forget what he was looking for in the first place.

‘This looks like something.’ He said loudly in front of a group of people waiting for a bus. Some pretended to not notice, others looked awkward and some giggled nervously at his very public performance.
‘That’s the Wimpy Bar where we…’ he sniffed. ‘That’s the bus stop that we, that we….’ His voice trailed off as his thoughts collided with his concentration.

Raising both arms above his head the man shouted as loud as he could at the rain.
‘Where, in God’s name are you?’ He screamed. This was followed by a small dance whereby the man’s frustrations publicly exhibited themselves in a series of involuntary movements; much to the distress of his bus stop audience.

He was getting quite a large audience by the time a passing police car pulled up to offer assistance. The two officers seated in the front of the vehicle observed for a moment before donning their official hats. Once suitably and officially attired they exited the car and stepped towards the man.

‘Now, now Sir.’ The elder of the two officers said approaching the man. ‘Calm down please and be on your way.’

The younger officer positioned himself behind the strange man and took a mental note of his appearance. The man became aware slowly of the two uniformed men and he cautiously looked over his shoulder towards the younger officer.

‘On your way please.’ The elder said again, using his hands to indicated the direction in which the man should go. The man’s eyes widened and he gritted his teeth before pulling his face into a contorted mask.
‘Is it down there then?’ he asked looking briefly in the direction that the officer had indicated.

‘He’s a nutter…’ the younger officer said towards his elder colleague. ‘I doubt if he even knows what you’re saying to him.’
The sergeant sighed loudly and tried again. ‘Come on now, move along.’

He raised his hands as if he were about to direct traffic and the sudden movement frightened the stranger momentarily. He stepped back away from the elder officer straight into his younger colleague.
‘Get a grip mate!’ the officer cried as the man stepped on his foot. He pushed the man away forcefully and sucked air through clenched teeth.
‘Bloody loony.’ He spat.

‘I’m going to ask you one more time Sir.’ The elder officer stated. ‘Get on your way or we may be forced to arrest you.’

‘Leave him alone, you cunt!’ someone at the bus stop shouted. Both officers looked in the direction of the insult but saw only old women and children waiting for the elusive bus looking back at them.

‘Get him in the motor.’ The elder officer sighed taking the man’s right arm while the younger took him by the left. Together they led, pushed, urged on and manhandled the stranger to their vehicle and opened the rear door to force him into the back seat.
‘Are you taking me home?’ the man asked gently as the door was slammed in his face.
‘That’s right mate…’ the younger officer sniffed climbing into the front passenger seat. ‘…We’re taking you to a home.’

A short ride later he was seated in the custody suite of the local police station being observed by several uniformed officers who were seated behind the suite’s desk. The sergeant stood at the desk talking to a burly officer in a white shirt.

‘Where the fuck did you dig him up?’ the burly officer asked tweaking his nose in disgust towards the man. ‘Bring it over here.’

The sergeant stepped towards the man and tugged him over to the desk while the burly officer tapped details into a computer fitted to it.
‘Right sunshine.’ The officer said firmly. ‘Name and date of birth?’

Both officers looked at the man and waited for a response. He in turn looked at them with a quizzical expression.
‘Can he speak English?’ the burly officer asked the Sergeant who just shrugged in return. ‘Can you speak English?’ he said towards the man in a slow and pronounced fashion.

‘Why?’ the man replied mimicking the officers pronunciation. ‘Do you want me to teach you?’
‘Is your mate taking the piss out of me?’ the officer said towards the sergeant without expecting a response.

He bit his lower lip and screwed his face up before leaning forwards and demanding. ‘What is your name?’
‘What?’ the man replied.
‘Yes,’ the officer shouted. ‘What is it?
‘What?’ the man replied.
‘Your name?’
‘What’s my name?’

Both officers looked at each other and shook their heads slowly. The sergeant stepped back and sighed loudly. He looked at the man from the top of his head to the bottom of his filthy trouser legs and thought for a moment.

His eyes rested upon the two black feet that stuck out from under them upon which the man shuffled.
‘Blackfoot!’ the sergeant replied slapping his hand down on the desktop making the man jump; startled.
‘That’s his name, Blackfoot. First name Rodney’

‘At last.’ The officer behind the desk sighed typing the name into his system. ‘He don’t look like a Rodney.’
‘Okay…’ The sergeant replied. ‘How about Jimmy, no, ere, James.’

‘Right, if you say so, James’ the officer typed. ‘Date of birth?’
‘Let’s say…’ the sergeant replied. ‘Let’s say the first of the first nineteen sixty.’
‘Sounds good to me.’ The officer replied as he typed the numbers in. ‘Okay, Mr Blackfoot, could you empty your pockets onto the desk please?’

Blackfoot just looked at the man blankly and a confused expression crossed his face.
‘Are you talking to me?’ he asked softly.
‘No!’ the officer spat. ‘I’m talking to myself.’

‘I do that.’ Blackfoot said before biting his lip anxiously.
‘Confusing, isn’t it?’

‘For crying out loud.’ The officer sighed. ‘What in his pockets?’

The sergeant pulled on a pair of rubber gloves and dipped hesitantly into Blackfoot’s pockets.
‘One snotty piece of rag.’ The sergeant said withdrawing a grey piece of cloth and placing it on the desk. The officer made a note of this.

‘One large safety pin.’ This was also placed onto the desk.  ‘A bus ticket dated 6.6.04 and one small stone, brown in colour.’
‘Anything else?’ the officer asked.
‘No!’ the sergeant replied. The officer looked at Blackfoot and shook his head.

‘Have you got any identification?’ he asked as if he was speaking to a child.
‘Why?’ Blackfoot replied. ‘Have you got a parcel for me?’
‘Jesus.’ The officer sighed with an air of desperation. ‘Is there anything in his back pocket?’

The sergeant furtively dipped into the pocket and pulled a face before withdrawing a small crumpled photograph of a young blond haired girl.
‘Only this.’ He said placing it on the desktop.

Blackfoot reached out for the photograph and the officer snatched it quickly.
‘Not so fast mister.’ He said bluntly. ‘You can have your property when you leave.’

‘But…’ Blackfoot whined trying to take the photograph back from the burly officer. ‘You don’t understand.’
‘You got it in one, there mate.’ The officer said opening a clear plastic bag and placing the stone, rag and photograph inside. ‘Later.’ he sighed, sealing the bag. ‘You can have it later.’

‘No, you don’t understand.’ Blackfoot screamed like a wounded animal reaching his bony fingers out for the clear plastic bag.

‘We got a right case here.’ He said to the sergeant. ‘Put him in number three please.’
‘Right you are.’ The sergeant replied taking Blackfoot by the arm and leading him away from the desk and custody suite into a side hall that was lined with thick steel doors.

One of the doors was numbered ‘3’ in antiseptic blue paint. The sergeant opened the door and pushed the still screaming Blackfoot into the cell before slamming the door behind him.

The sound of the heavy door reverberated around the white antiseptic room and bounced off the whitewashed walls. Blackfoot looked around himself and saw the room was bare except for a long bench fitted into a far wall and this had a blue plastic mattress placed sloppily on top.

The far end of the bench had a round hold cut into it from which the thick smell of old urine arose like a thick mist. It was hot and stuffy and the bright white light that beamed in from a fluorescent vent above his head made Blackfoot’s eyes hurt.

The light was humming softly but as the seconds became minutes and as the minutes became hours that buzzing seemed to get louder and louder until it was making his ears hurt.
‘Help!’ he shouted. ‘I don’t think I should be here!’

The next morning Blackfoot was asked to sign a lot of forms that were neither read or explained to him. He placed a simple X at the foot of each page as instructed mainly because he was glad to be away from the glairing white light and that incessant noise.

His fingerprints and photograph were taken and then he was placed in a side room in another part of the building. Here he waited for someone to allow him to go or help him put his thoughts in order. Unfortunately neither happened.

++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++

C: David W Kirby a.k.a The Dogbreaths



Death waits
c:  2010

Death waits near
rusted nails sharp
dry those tears
they’re cold as stone

Death waits for all
feel that heart beat
move on now
Don’t be scared

In cold draughts
you’ll meet that face
her embrace is taught
we all die alone


A pendent of coral
shameful and fright
nearer my guilt
I’ll tread tonight

Veiled she pouts
death ordered soul
She tugs at my cuff
Waits by my hole

Her fingers grab
your safest place
Death waits tonight
see her cold face

Her name is quiet
she poses no toll
Death call out and
welcome you home

Fingers reaching
give up the fear
death comes a marching
her footfalls are near

Death is a gushing
she may ready know
Life’s a blue sneer
An empty goal

Death comes tonight
brass fittings and all
Foolish she peddles
Rotten she call

Love those fingers
bony and slime
kiss her barbed lips
one last time

Her name is oblivion
Her blood is called shame
those fingers stab
At my life again..



C:2010 September


Memories of Teenage Suicide



Laying here in my bloody bath
a steaming blade held near
Watching claret from the heart
a timid smile behind my fear
The cuts I fostered deeply flow
throbbing to my heart beat
Dip the severed vein below
see the ruddy claret sweet
                                                  an angel calls me to go
Come, she says;  the question posed
I’m but a faded fool of woe
laying in this bath-time, froze
Come, she whispers in my ear
fly the coil faster still
But time’s slow, shifting sands
make death a bitter pill
Again the steel severs sown
flesh rips and young lips groan
To join the realm of the dead
Pass again through warm flesh
To tip the cherished blade home
to love a life at once unknown.
and watch the spurt across the floor
up the wall and on the door.
Until the time for regret
remove me to a safer place
Where broken hearts can forget
to ponder more with less hast.

D.W.K 2010
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What’s My Name?                                            2


At 9.30 he was led, bleary eyed and confused through a maze of tunnels and into an adjoining courthouse. There he was placed in another locked room, which was bare except for a graffiti stained wall and a hatch in the door. After a few minutes a face appeared at the hatch.

‘Mr Blackfoot?’ the man said cheerily. ‘I’m a duty solicitor, would you like to discuss your case?’

Blackfoot looked down at his cold feet and then stepped towards the hatch.
‘Have you got my shoes?’ he asked simply.
‘Your shoes?’ The solicitor scratched his head and looked down at the forms he was holding. ‘I wonder if you would like to discuss your case?’

Blackfoot looked down at his feet again and shook his head.
‘Are you sure you haven’t got my shoes?’
‘Is that a yes or no?’ the solicitor asked with a raised eyebrow. Blackfoot rubbed his chin and thought about this for a moment.

‘I suppose you mean no?’ he replied looking at his feet again.
‘As you wish.’ The solicitor said shrugging his shoulders. He turned to go.
‘Are you getting my shoes?’ Blackfoot called towards the man.
‘Yes.’ He replied disappearing down the hall. ‘I’m getting your shoes.

After an immeasurable time which could have been an hour or two or even three a rattle of keys announced the opening of the door.
‘Blackfoot?’ the police officer said peering into the cell. ‘Your turn.’

He was led through a maze of corridors and secure doors and eventually emerged in the dock of a brightly lit courtroom. Sitting where indicated he looked about him at the strangers who filled the space and recognised no one.

High above him he could see the face of a magistrate who looked tired and bored. A clerk in a wig stood and whispered in the magistrate’s ear before sitting again and looking directly at Blackfoot.

The clerk’s glaring eyes made the man in the dock feel very uncomfortable, together with the glare from the magistrate and everyone else in the room staring towards him, Blackfoot shrank into his chair and tried to make himself as small as possible. He sank down low that only his eyes peered over the top of the dock.

‘Are you James Blackfoot?’ the magistrate shouted towards the two beady eyes that peered towards him over the rail at the front of the dock.
‘Am I?’ Blackfoot answered nervously. ‘Yes, I think so.’

The magistrate huffed and puffed before taking more advice from the cleric in the wig.
‘The prisoner will stand.’ The cleric announced after a few moments.

Blackfoot looked around and saw the police officer that had brought him from the cells looking in his direction.
‘Stand up, man!’ he said impatiently.

Blackfoot did as he was told and looked at the magistrate who lifted his gabble and banged it loudly upon his desk.
‘Remanded in custody for medical reports. Take him down.’ He said firmly.

The police officer immediately took Blackfoot’s arm and led him back down the steps at the back of the dock, through secure doors and gates, down the winding passages and eventually to the cell he had been taken from earlier.

‘What’s going on?’ he asked as the door was slammed behind him.
‘You’re going on a trip mate.’ The officer shouted as his footfalls echoed in the passage beyond the door.
‘To the loony bin.’

++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++


Something to share


I have often heard people say
‘I didn’t ask to be born’

But I did.

Pre-birth
I can remember sitting
by a sparkling pool
surrounded by ghostly faces

A voice said

‘Are you ready?

I looked into the pool and saw
A road, a pavement
Shoes.

Feet trudging through the snow.

Are you ready?
the voice asked.

Then I was born….


I grew up thinking
this memory was
a hallucination
A fabrication
Mixed up, childish fantasy

Now I know the truth.

The voice I heard
was my mother speaking to me
in the womb.

The sparkling pool
was the birth canal
I was destined to travel through.

The faces and ghosts
were reflections
of my face in her womb.

The shoes were her shoes
The feet were her feet 
trudging through the snow
as she made her way home
with a baby on the way.

I thought I’d share that with you.







What’s My Name?                                            3

He sat on the bench and looked at his feet for a moment. Blackfoot saw the thick dirt between his toes and wondered what had happened to his socks and shoes, he was sure he had had them at some point.

Some time later the hatch in the door opened and a pair of eyes peered at him.
‘Psss!’ A voice whispered.

Blackfoot looked at the eyes and then looked behind him unsure what he was supposed to do in circumstances such as these.
‘Psss!’ the voice said again.
‘Are you talking to me?’ Blackfoot asked raising his eyebrows and pointing to his chest.

‘No!’ the voice replied coldly. ‘I’m talking to the fucking tooth fairy.’
‘He’s not here at the moment.’ Blackfoot replied wondering if fairies really did exist. ‘I’m the only one in here.’
‘Look mate!’ the voice said abruptly. ‘Do you want this grub or not?’

A plate of beans and sausages appeared at the hatch and Blackfoot realised that he was going to be fed at last and boy, was he hungry.
‘Yes please.’ He said rushing to the hatch and taking the plastic plate. ‘Thank you…’

The hatch slammed shut in his face. Blackfoot rushed back to the bench and greedily devoured the food before licking the plate clean. It was the best cold food he’d ever had, perhaps, after all he couldn’t remember ever eating anything previously.

A few more hours passed and he paced up the cell in one direction and then in the other and then in the reverse until the sound of keys in the lock told him the door was about to open.
‘Come on Mate.’ An officer said looking at him in disgust. ‘Time to go.’

He was led through a maze of corridors again until a small door led into a courtyard where a small white transit van stood. Another officer signed a pad attached to a clipboard and led Blackfoot onto the rear of the van and into a small cubicle which had a tinted window facing outward. After a few moments the van started up and rolled into motion.

Blackfoot looked through the tinted window as the van made its way through the afternoon traffic. Past familiar streets and places he though he recognised until eventually a large wall loomed in front of the van.

The van idled for a while beside the wall and then entered a huge gate, which automatically closed behind them. The van waited in a sterile area for a few moments before rolling forwards through another gate and stopped besides a low building. A sign hung above the door proclaiming the building as the ‘Reception’.

Footfalls approached and keys rattled as each cubicle was unlocked. Blackfoot’s door opened and he stepped out to find several other men alighting from their separate cubicles. They looked at him and smirked.

‘Right lads.’ The officer who had taken him into the van announced getting the assembled men’s attention. ‘Go in the reception and wait till your name is called.’

They filed in through the door under the sign as directed and found a room, which was fitted with chairs firmly attached to the floor.

‘Not you!’ the officer said taking Blackfoot by the arm. ‘One for the hospital.’ He shouted making all the others look around and snigger. A voice in the distance shouted back.
‘I should have guessed, bring the bugger through.’

Blackfoot was led passed the others and down a clean brightly lit corridor to a desk fitted into the wall at the far end. A prison officer looked over as they approached and turned up his nose before shuffling a pile of forms.

‘Has he got any spends?’ he said to the officer who held Blackfoot’s arm.
‘Shouldn’t think so.’ The officer replied. ‘Here’s his property.’

He handed over the plastic bag that contained Blackfoot’s grey hankie, small stone and photograph.
‘Sign this.’ The officer said pushing a pen and a form towards Blackfoot.

He looked at it for a moment and wondered what name he should use, the one they had given him or the one he had originally, if he could remember it.
‘Come on lad, we haven’t got all day.’

‘What shall I sign?’ Blackfoot asked softly.
‘The form lad…’ the officer sighed. ‘Sign the bloody form.’
‘Shall I put a cross for him?’ the other officer said looking at his friend. He lifted Blackfoot’s hand, placed the pen between his fingers and made him scrawl an X at the bottom of the page.

The officer handed him a strip of paper which had a number inscribed upon it.
‘This is your prison number.’ The officer said.  Remember it because you will be asked for it again; soon.’
Blackfoot looked at the strip of paper.

‘Right, go in there and get all that filthy kit off.’ The officer said from behind the desk.
‘What?’ Blackfoot replied looking in the direction the man pointed.
‘Give me strength.’ The officer shouted. ‘In there, lad, there’s a box, put your clothes in it.’

The officer looked around and saw a younger officer standing nearby.
‘Take this idiot in there for me lad, please.’

‘Come on sunshine.’ The officer said coming from behind the desk. Blackfoot followed him as the two others shook their heads.

The younger officer led him into a small room that was furnished with a table upon which sat a box.

‘Right.’ The officer said firmly. ‘Get those rags off and put them in the box.’
‘What?’ Blackfoot replied looking at the box and then back towards the officer.

‘Don’t get lippy mate.’ The officer said tapping the box. ‘If you wont we’ll hold you down and tear them off, now, gear in the box. IMMIDIATELY!’ He shouted tapping the box again.

Blackfoot began to undress and placed each item of clothing into the box as directed. When he was down to his shorts he looked at the officer.
‘And them too.’

He pulled his shorts off and stood their naked holding the shorts out to the officer.
‘I don’t want the bloody things, put them in the box.’ He shouted. ‘Right, down there and into a bath.’

Blackfoot ran in the direction indicated and found a bath half full of tepid water. He stepped into it and sat there for a moment wondering what he should do next.
‘Use the soap mate.’ The officer shouted. ‘Come on, wash yourself, we haven’t got all night.’

Blackfoot washed his feet and face and neck and armpits and finally splashed water across his hair. It felt good to have the dirt removed and he could have sat in the warm water for a long time had it not been for the younger officer appearing above him and tossing a razor into the bath water.
‘Get a shave mate.’ He said before walking off.

Blackfoot dragged the razor over his face looking at his reflection in the water. He recognised the face that looked back, recognised it from somewhere, it did seem familiar, he was sure of that. But it didn’t look the same. It was an older face, a craggy face that was tired and worn out.

‘Come on beautiful.’ The younger officer shouted. ‘Put this on and go down there for your kit.’
He threw a dressing gown at Blackfoot and pointed towards the other end of the corridor. ‘Come on, chop-chop!’

Blackfoot got out of the black bath water and pulled the dressing gown over his wet body before running in the direction he was told to go. At the end of the corridor was a hatch in the wall behind which a man stood holding a set of bed sheets, a neatly folded pair of jeans and a shirt, vest, underpants, socks and shoes.

He handed the pile to Blackfoot and then looked away.
‘Follow me.’ The officer shouted.

Blackfoot was led to an iron gate which the officer opened and locked behind them and then through a locked door which gave access to the courtyard. The door was also locked and then both men walked past two huge buildings which had many small windows positioned along it. People called out as he struggled to keep up with the officer.
‘Fucking nonce-case.’ The voices echoed.

They came to another building that was marked ‘Hospital’ and the officer unlocked the gate and the inner door and locked both after both men had entered. There was another officer dressed in a white coat over his prison uniform standing just inside. He looked down at a form on his desk and said without looking up.
‘Name and number?’

Blackfoot looked at the officer who had led him there who raised his eyebrows and shook his head.
‘Not me, you twat. Give the man your number.’

Blackfoot remembered the strip of paper he had been give before having a bath and tried to read it. He dropped his kit on the floor and held the strip in both hands.
‘L.7.2.3.6, Blackfoot.’ He said softly.

‘PICK YOUR KIT UP!’ the white-coated officer shouted. ‘Before you get put on a charge.’
He scribbled down the name and number as Blackfoot picked up the loose items of clothing, his bare bottom being pushed into the white-coated officer’s face as he reached for his socks.

‘Thank you Sir.’ The new officer said to the officer who had brought him over. This officer smirked and shook his head.
‘Good luck, rather you than me.’ He remarked before turning and leaving the two men.
‘Right, Blackfoot.’ The officer in the white coat said. ‘Follow me.’

He led down another corridor which stank of stale urine past sets of doors set into a wall until they came through another gate which was locked behind them.
‘One on, Mr Maxwell Sir!’ the officer shouted as he locked the gate.
‘Bring it up to the threes.’ A voice called back.

The officer led Blackfoot up an iron staircase until they came to a landing and then up another to a separate landing, there another officer waited also wearing a white coat.
‘Blackfoot, Mr Maxwell, Sir’ the first officer shouted. ‘L7236’

‘This way.’ The officer said leading them to an open door situated halfway down the landing.

‘In you go, mate.’ Officer Maxwell said as they stopped by the door.

Blackfoot stepped in through the door and found himself inside another cell. This time instead of a bench there was a bed and a table with a chair, both were made from corrugated cardboard.

‘Are you suicidal?’ Maxwell asked. Blackfoot looked at him timidly and shook his head.
‘Depressed?’ Maxwell asked glumly.
‘Well.’ Blackfoot replied rubbing his chin. ‘I’ve had better days.’

‘We’re going to get on like a house on fire.’ Maxwell replied shaking his head, he began to back out of the cell and place a key in the lock.
‘See that?’ he said nodding towards a button placed in the wall by the door.’

‘Yes.’ Blackfoot replied.
‘That’s for emergencies only.’
‘Oh.’
‘By emergencies…’ Maxwell continued. ‘I mean NEVER, you got that?’

The door slammed closed and Blackfoot found himself alone again. He heard the sound of foot falls moving along the landing away from him and he sat on the bed, relieved that he could, at last sleep, he needed to sleep.


++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++




What’s My Name?                                          4

Blackfoot had a strange dream, he was in a clean, anti-septic hospital. There were bright lights and nurses walking around in crisp uniforms. A woman sat on his right and smiled a small, reassuring smile that made him feel sad.

‘Do you think she suffered?’ she asked softly as a tear rolled down her soft cheek.

Blackfoot noticed between his fingers a photograph of a small girl, she was smiling towards the camera and her eyes seemed to light up the world as they gazed out of the flimsy piece of film.
‘I’m so sorry…’ he replied as tears welled up in his eyes.

Blackfoot woke up crying. He rubbed the tears from his red lids and looked about the room. It was freezing and he saw his breath condensate into thick clouds as he exhaled.

He sat up and looked towards the open hatch in the door, it was daylight now and the overhead lights outside on the landing were off. The sound of banging echoed down the hall and into the room. He thought he heard a sound.

Blackfoot listened again, more intently. Yes, he thought, there it was again. It sounded like air being let out of a tire, a slow hissing sound that came into the room from the direction of the hatch.
‘Pssssst!’

Blackfoot threw his legs over the side of the bed and wrapped a blanket around his shivering body before stepping cautiously towards the hatch. He peered through and looked across the hall towards the door opposite.
‘Psssst!’ the sound echoed again across the hall, softly catching the breeze, towards him.

Looking towards the opposite hatch he saw a small, bony face appear. The face was far too white to be healthy and the hair was long and flecked with grey greasiness. The eyes wide and manic flashed towards him as a bony hand held up a rolled cigarette.
‘Got a light?’ the man asked.

‘I’m sorry.’ Blackfoot replied blinking the sleep from his eyes. ‘I don’t smoke.’
‘Damn it, Janet!’ the bony-faced man exclaimed curling his thin lips into a twisted frown.

The hatch emptied for a moment and the sound of things being opened and closed, lifted and put down, dragged out and placed back echoed out of the opposite cell towards him. Then, just as suddenly as it had disappeared, the face returned.

‘How long are you doing?’ the red-eyed man asked rubbing a nicotine stained finger under his unshaven top lip. Blackfoot thought for a moment and tried to remember.
‘Three weeks…’ he replied without certainty. ‘Three weeks, I think.’

‘Reports eh?’ the red eyes flashed back at him. ‘Three weeks mean they want reports.’
‘oh?’ Blackfoot replied.

‘I’m doing two and a half.’ The man sniffed. He smiled and exposed a set of yellow teeth some of which appeared to be missing.

‘What, weeks?’ Blackfoot asked.

‘No.’ the old man laughed. It was more of a howl then a laugh, a howl that echoed down the hall and repeated again as the echo returned several times before fading into oblivion.
‘Weeks?’ he laughed again. ‘I wish mate.’

He pushed his face through the hatch and blinked towards his new friend before whispering cautiously.
‘Years mate, two and a half years.’
‘Oh.’ Blackfoot replied.

‘What’s your name?’ the man asked taking his head back into his room so that only his eyes could be seen through the hatch in the door again.
‘What’s my name?’
‘That’s it son.’ The old man persisted. ‘You must have one.’



‘Blackfoot, I think.’
‘Right.’ The man nodded. ‘Well, I guess if you think your name’s Blackfoot I may as well think it’s Blackfoot too, eh?’

Blackfoot thought about this for a moment and then nodded.
‘What’s your name?’ he asked softly after a short pause.
‘I think it’s Tooly.’
‘Really?’ Blackfoot asked.

‘No!’ the man replied before disappearing for a moment. After a few bangs and knocks echoed around the room and sprang from the hatch his beady red eyes appeared again.
‘They call me Smiler.’
‘Oh.’ Blackfoot replied a little confused.

‘My real name is Mr Tooley,’ the man continued. ‘But the screws call me the Smiler, or Smiley, because I smile a lot; see….’ He pulled his mouth into a long, thin, grotesque crescent.
‘Oh.’

‘Like this...’ Smiler continued.  He lifted his chin and pulling his mouth further into a contorted grimace before flashing a row of missing, cracked and yellow teeth.

There followed a few moments of intense gurning preceding a few moments of manic laughter that rattled around the room and down the hall.
‘Funny or what?’ Smiler asked with a smile.

‘Yes.’ Blackfoot replied glumly. ‘Very funny.’
‘Guess what?’ Smiler asked after a moment. His eyes widened and twinkled as if her was about to impart a valuable piece of information.

‘What?’ Blackfoot asked turning his ear towards the door so that he could hear better. Smiler put a stained index finger to his temple and tapped slowly.
‘They’re all crazy in here.’ He hen burst into another spasm of laughter.
‘I see…’

At that moment a loud scream rang out. A blood-curdling yell of terror that echoed around the bare walls like the sound of tortured animals. This was followed by a series of loud, reverberating thumps that echoed down the corridor.
‘Mr Smiler?’ Blackfoot asked. ‘What is that sound?’

Smiler’s face appeared at his hatch and his eyes darted to the left and then to the right before blinking several times.
‘That’s….’ he whispered. ‘That’s Lighthouse. He’s in the next cell along there.’

A bony hand reached out through the hatch and indicated to the left. ‘He always starts about this time and goes on all day. You get used to it in the end. Ban, bang, bang. All the time.’
‘What’s he banging for?’ Blackfoot asked.

‘What for?’ Smiler replied scratching his thinning hair. ‘Do I look like a psychiatrist?’
‘Oh.’
Just then another scream rang out and both men looked as best they could towards the direction from which it came.
‘Maybe he wants more largactal?’ Smiler smiled. ‘Or maybe he wants to be in the strips, eh?’

Blackfoot thought about this and not knowing what largactal or The Strips were shrugged.
‘Why don’t they, then?’

This comment made Smiler laugh out loud, his face disappeared from the hatch and a loud hoot and tooting echoed out from the other side, this was accompanied by a series of loud thumps coming from the direction of Lighthouse’s cell and the whole corridor seemed alive with sound.

Just as the thumping stopped Smiler appeared at the hatch again.
‘They can’t put him in The Strips…’ he giggled.
‘Why?’
‘He’s in there already.’ Smiler bellowed a loud belly laugh that made his face red and the veins on his forehead swell.

‘There is one way to shut the bastard up.’

‘Oh?’ Blackfoot replied feeling like the answer would be as pointless as the question. ‘What is that, then?’
‘Whistle.’ Smiler replied. ‘You know, whistle a little ditty, he likes that.’

‘Whistle?’
‘The Blue Danube, do you know how that goes?’
‘I think so…’ Blackfoot replied.

With that Smiler placed his lips together and started to blow, a shrill sound echoed out down the corridor and Blackfoot recognised the tune. La, La, la la la, La La, La La.
‘Ah, The Blue Danube.’ Blackfoot sighed.
‘Come on, join in.’

Both men whistled the tune and as they did so the wilting sound carried down the hall. It filtered in through the hatch in Lighthouse’s cell. The banging teetered and faultered and then subsided leaving only the sound of whistling in the air.

‘See…’ Smiler whispered. ‘He likes that.’
‘How does it work?’
‘Simple.’ Smiler replied. ‘When you whistle the poor bastard starts dancing, you can’t bang when you are dancing can you?’
‘I suppose not.’ Both men burst into laughter.

The sound of boots on rubber tiles started to echo through the corridor and as the sound got louder both me looked at each other. They left their respective hatches and returned to their beds. Mr Thorpe appeared at Blackfoot’s door.
‘Come here, Son.’ He said abruptly.

Blackfoot stepped towards him and looked into the stern gaze feeling slightly apprehensive. Thorpe’s hand appeared at the hatch and in the fat fingers was a small plastic cup filled with a clear liquid.
‘Drink this.’ He said forcefully.



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Destroy my hole

It’s warm in here, warm and safe
A silver moon shines through my pane
Dull voices in my head
Loud screams emerge from my bed

We were happy here, my dark friend and I
Sharing a damp cellar, shadow brown
I cry when you’ve gone
use my body as your crown

A fool soon realises
Mistakes can happen in the night
With timid smiles and reprises
Oh, silvered moon shining bright

Alone with desperation
No one hears this loneliness
Cold hands upon my chest
The grave, come now at my behest

Let’s celebrate these awful scars
A thousand cuts and troubled thoughts
Earth to earth and love to live
Is this all my life has wrought?

A happy boy when he was young
Before he cried and died alone
So free to be a some one
Dieing to be back home

Now the clock is silent
My dark friend has left and gone
A blade glitter in the twilight
The end of this….song.



What’s My Name?                                    5

Blackfoot took the cup and drank the contents. The bitter chemical taste burned his throat as it slipped into his stomach.
‘It will help you relax, son.’ Thorpe said taking the plastic cup and heading back down the corridor.

Blackfoot sat back on his bed and felt the chemical swill around his blood and eventually reach his brain. He lay back and closed his eyes; sensing something. Soon a veil of dreams descended and he became a witness to his own thoughts as they played out like a silent, black and white movie in his mind.

Visions of driving a car flickered on the back of his eyelids, a small girl undoing her safety belt, a crash. CRASH!

He opened his eyes as the sound of crashing reverberated around the room. Lighthouse was smashing his door with a metallic object and the sound was defining.

CRASH, CRASH, CRASH

Blackfoot stood unsteadily and walked to the hatch in his door. He placed his head through it and looked down the corridor to the door that the sound was coming from. It moved with the sound of every thumping smash.
‘Lighthouse?’ he shouted. ‘Mr Lighthouse, please shut up.’

CRASH, CRASH, CRASH

‘Please!’ He shouted. ‘Shut up, please shut up.’
He turned and picked up his cardboard chair and began to smash it against the door mimicking the crashing sound coming from down the corridor. The sound wasn’t as loud but it was deep and forceful.

‘SHUT THE FUCK UP!’ Blackfoot screamed as the paper chair splintered into a thousand ripped and jagged pieces. Just then the sound of clip-clop, clip-clop rang out as boots made their way towards his cell.

Maxwell’s face appeared at the hatch. He looked in, firstly at Blackfoot and then at the splintered remains of the cardboard chair.


Maxwell sucked in a deep sigh and shook his head.
‘Mr Thorpe, Sir?’ He shouted down the hall.
‘Yes, Mr Maxwell, Sir?’ came the faint reply.
‘You had better come and help me. Blackfoot’s had a smash up.’

The sound of further foot falls echoed out as a second pair of boots clip-clopped. Down the hall then towards the hatch and suddenly Thorpe’s red face appeared at the hatch.
‘Let’s get the bastard out, Mr Maxwell.’ Thorpe said firmly.

Maxwell’s face appeared at the hatch.
‘Are you going to come quietly or what?’ he asked as the sound of keys rattled in the door lock.
‘Come where?’ Blackfoot asked.

The words were throttled in his throat as both men entered the cell and grabbed him violently. Maxwell forced him down, into a tight headlock, and Thorpe twisted his arms into tight locks.
‘Stop struggling you bastard.’ Thorpe shouted pushing Blackfoot’s arms up into a painful twisted position.

They dragged and kicked him out of the cell and down the corridor to another steel door, the smell of dried urine filled his nostrils as Blackfoot was pushed into the cell and across the floor.

It was a bare room without windows or a hatch in the door, just a small spy hole set in the centre.
‘Get those filthy clothes off, you bastard.’ Maxwell shouted, red faced, saliva dribbling from the corner of his mouth.

Blackfoot was only wearing a vest and underpants and he looked down at these.
‘That’s right, clever dick.’ Thorpe shouted. ‘Get them off.’

Blackfoot did as he was told and pulled the vest over his head and the pants over his feet. He lay them at the boots of the two officers. Maxwell kicked the two items out of the cell and both men backed out in the same direction. The thick steel door slammed closed.

‘Teach him to have a smash up. Thorpe said as both sets of boots clip-clopped down the corridor.

It was quiet in this cell being a distance away from the others and although it was empty of furnishings and lit only by a small red bulb, fitted into a recess in the ceiling, the cell was warm. Blackfoot curled up against a wall and rested his head upon his knees.

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