Tough, Tough Toys for Tough, Tough Boys (27 page)
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Authors: Will Self
Danny sat staring at Cal Devenish. So this was the man who was going to decide his fate? This lanky, bearded thing in a black suit, who so resembled a white equivalent of . . . the Fates. They were back. They lingered in the corners of the room. They hissed and cackled, updating Danny's doom on this of all days. Danny was paralysed. He looked at the Governor, willing him to look up and see this model prisoner, this aspirant writer so worthy of transfer. The Governor remained staring abstractedly at a broken lampshade which dangled above his head.
Cal Devenish got up to make his speech. He voiced some platitudinous – but for all that heartfelt – observations on the liberating, empowering capabilities of writing, especially for those who're in jail. Cal was going to analyse the three shortlisted stories in considerable detail, but the nonce revelations had put him off his stride. He confined himself to mentioning the strong points of all three, before concluding limply that ‘Little Pussy’ exhibited all the hallmarks of a compelling moral ironist. Cal had no hesitation therefore in awarding the Wolfenden Prize for Prison Writing to . . . Philip Greenslade.
Cal Devenish almost gagged when Philip Greenslade was within a few paces of him – the rot of the man's corrupt soul was that strong-smelling. Cal felt even sicker when he had to shake Greenslade's hand – it felt like the clamp of a laboratory retort stand, only thinly upholstered with flesh.
‘Thank you so very much.’ Greenslade's tone was wheedling, despite there being nothing to wheedle. ‘I can't tell you how much I value your judgement . . .’ He gripped Cal's hand a little tighter, and Cal thought he might scream. ‘I so look forward to having a proper discussion with you about literature when all of this is over.’
Cal realised that he'd given the prize to the wrong man – there hadn't been a particle of ironic distance in ‘Little Pussy’: the author
was
a psychopath.
The Governor turned to his deputy who was sitting beside him. ‘Is that the Greenslade who's always petitioning for a transfer to a cat. C? The sickening nonce who did that murder?’
‘Yes, Governor, that's the man.’
‘Well, since he's won this bloody prize, let's use it as an excuse to get shot of the tedious bugger. Prepare the papers for his transfer when we get back to the office.’
Danny was very nearly in tears – he simply couldn't believe it. How could this twat Devenish have chosen Greenslade's story over his own, it made no sense at all. The only way Danny could prevent himself from crying out was by staring straight ahead and gripping the back of the chair in front of him as tightly as he could.
Gerry Mahoney tried to bank down Danny's distress. ‘I've no idea what got into Cal Devenish,’ he said. ‘I know him slightly and I've always respected his literary judgement. Mind you, if it's any consolation I've heard it rumoured that he has a bit of a drug problem. Perhaps that's what queered it – he couldn't cope with the realism in your story . . .’
But Danny wasn't in the mood for a post-mortem. He got up and began to shoulder his way to the front of the room. His cell was preferable to this shit hole full of screws. At the door, in his haste to get out, he collided with a tall suit, which turned to reveal that it was owned by the Governor. ‘Sorry, sir,’ Danny muttered.
‘That's all right – ah! It's O'Toole, isn't it?’
‘Yes, sir.’
‘Well, well done, O'Toole, it seems you took my advice on committing yourself to a useful course of study. Mr Mahoney tells me you have a genuine talent – see that you cultivate it.’
‘I will, sir.’ The Governor turned to depart, but once he'd gone a couple of paces he turned back to face Danny.
‘And O'Toole.’
‘Yes, sir?’
‘Better luck next year.’