The Enemy of the Good (43 page)

‘May I ask what you did?’

‘What?’ Shlomo asked sharply.

‘Your job? Before you came here.’

‘Oh, I see. I was a
shochet
, a ritual slaughterer. No doubt you think that’s barbaric.’

‘I’ll admit I’m a typical Englishman when it comes to a love of animals.’

‘Yes, of course. The English speak of butchery as if it means violence or clumsiness. You just have to read the crime reports. “He butchered her,” in great big letters. To a Jew that would mean he killed her with the utmost
delicacy
, with a blade that was razor sharp and brought instant death.’

‘It’s a fine distinction.’

‘It’s far more than that. It shows respect both to the animal and to God. Torah says: “Be holy people to me and don’t eat
treif
.”’

‘What?’

‘Anything that’s not kosher. I’m proud of the part I’ve played in upholding that commandment.’

Shlomo climbed off his bunk and used the lavatory, which Clement might have taken as a diversionary tactic had not the sounds emerging from behind the curtain betrayed a genuine need. He was keen to resume the
conversation
but Shlomo, as determined to protect himself from forbidden thoughts as from forbidden foods, rebuffed his attempts both for the rest of the evening and over subsequent weeks.

October passed into November, and the chill in the cell intensified. With Shlomo remaining aloof, although the frequency of his prayers showed him to be in regular contact with God, Clement sought to make sense of his many inconsistencies: from his aversion to taking a shower, which seemed
particularly
perverse given Shoana’s account of Zvi’s daily attendance at the mikvah, to the lack of any letters or visits from members of his tight-knit
community
. The suspicions about the nature of his crime, which had been aroused on learning that the pig course he attended each day stood for the Price of Instant Gratification, were confirmed when, one Association, Ron handed him a newspaper report of his trial for abusing his ten-year-old son.

Clement read it with growing revulsion, feeling as if the words were
crawling
over his skin. He crumpled the paper into a ball and flung it into a corner; then, still alert to its noxious effect, he picked it up, tore it into strips and flushed them down the lavatory, where they stuck to the bottom of the bowl. Although the offence remained the same whether it were his own son or somebody else’s, the betrayal of trust was far worse. Two contrasting images flashed through Clement’s mind. The first was of his father patiently teaching Mark and himself to fish one summer at Beckley. The second was of Shlomo, hefty, saturnine Shlomo, bearing down on a quaking ten-year-old boy… He rushed to the basin, sure that he was about to vomit, but all that emerged was a string of phlegm. He returned to his bunk and, lying very still, tried to summon up some sympathy for Shlomo’s plight: that of a learned man laid low, less by something within himself than by the exigencies of his culture; a man of powerful sexual needs who, forbidden to make love to his wife during the extended period of her menstruation, turned instead to his son, a boy who, in a very real sense, belonged to him, who was as much his flesh as his own penis and, arguably, not subject to as strong a taboo.

After all, the Torah, in which his faith was absolute, commanded a man with a stubborn and a rebellious son to take him to the elders of the city to be stoned to death: a passage from Deuteronomy which even the most
literal-minded
chose to gloss over. Like an abusive priest he had not only relied on fear to buy silence but believed he was acting on the authority invested in him by God.

Clement’s abhorrence of paedophilia – he struggled to substitute sin for sinner – had been coloured by Newsom’s account of his stepfather, who had married his mother in order to gain access to him. Even so, he refused to subscribe to a tabloid agenda. He could not dispel the suspicion that
paedophiles
were paying the price for the newfound acceptance of gay men. The language used by the judge who had sentenced Oscar Wilde was little
different
from that of a
Daily Mail
editorial on ‘the evils of internet grooming’. While he knew full well that the one was consensual and the other coercive, he was less sure that the general public, let alone their moral guardians, had drawn such a clear distinction. They needed an outlet for their outrage, which, as ever, was compounded by guilt. The demonisation of paedophiles was an admission, however tacit, of the way that society at large was abusing children, with many parents, either from lack of time and energy or from simple
disinclination
, dumping them in front of television and computer screens, where they were exposed to unsuitable material or, worse, targeted by unscrupulous men.

Exhausted by the strain of reserving judgement, Clement left the cell one evening for Association. Standing in line at the pay phone behind a
bullion-robber
whose appearance on
Crimewatch
had made him a local celebrity, he found himself invited to join a poker game. ‘Thanks but no thanks,’ he said, aware that his emotions were too transparent even for bridge.

‘Suit yourself,’ said a man who was rumoured to have used his daughter as a stake.

Clement waited his turn, squirming as he listened to the robber’s marital endearments. Perplexed by his wish to broadcast them to the entire landing, he decided that it was a deliberate attempt to assert his normality, an impulse he recognised in himself. The revelation of Shlomo’s crime had plunged him into despair. He had almost half his sentence still to serve and was no longer sure that he could endure it. He was desperate to talk to Mike, and no sooner had the man put down the phone than he rushed to grab it. The sound of the familiar voice reassured him although, conscious of the crowd of
eavesdroppers
, he could only hint at his pain.

After talking to Mike, he felt less inclined than ever to chat to his fellow prisoners, so he sat flipping idly through a boat-building magazine as if in a doctor’s waiting room. He looked up to see Dusty, who had returned to the Unit in a neck-brace after a violent clash with Ron on the Anger Management Course.

‘So it was nothing serious?’ he asked.

‘Don’t you believe it! If you had open-heart surgery here, they’d have you back in your pad the next day. All the doc asked was was I allergic to anything. “Yes,” I said, “fists”.’ Dusty giggled, then grimaced at the pain. ‘Here,’ he said, ‘a sweet for a sweetie.’ As Clement held out his hand to accept, he pictured Dusty offering the bag to a child.

‘Better not. Bad for my teeth.’

‘Pity.’ He placed one in his mouth and sucked lubriciously. ‘Any time you change your mind, just knock on my door.’

Seething with resentment that, through no fault of his own, he had been snatched away from the
ODC
s on his former wing and thrown into this snake pit, Clement asked for a transfer. Although he was confident that he faced no threat either from Stick, whose psychosis had been fuelled by the drugs, or from anyone else, the governor remained obdurate, informing him five days before Christmas that his request had been turned down.

‘But I reiterate my hope that you’ll go back to the painting.’

‘I appreciate that, sir,’ Clement replied, ‘but it’s quite impossible without my original model. To start again with somebody else wouldn’t just pose practical problems, it would undermine everything I’m trying to say. I’d be upholding the distinction both between the penitent and impenitent thieves and between them and Christ.’

‘Yes, yes,’ the governor said irritably, ‘let’s not get bogged down in
metaphysics
. In view of your refusal – somewhat precious to my mind – to accept a substitute, I’ve canvassed the officers and drug counsellors, all of whom have spoken of Dawson’s progress. On their recommendation, I’m prepared to let you resume work with him.’

Clement wondered whether, having refused the transfer, the governor felt the need to make a concession or whether his change of heart were a direct result of the pressure that Mike had promised to bring to bear. He smiled at the thought of the governor’s office submerged in sacks of protest letters.

‘I knew you’d be pleased,’ the governor said, catching him unawares.

‘And Stick… Dawson, has he agreed to come back?’ Clement asked, finding to his surprise that he was almost as anxious to be reconciled with his model as to return to his painting.

‘So I’m given to understand. No doubt pecuniary considerations have played their part. My one stipulation is that there should be an officer in the room with you at all times.’

Clement had not anticipated that the first of these would be Willis, who appeared to have volunteered in a bid to cause them all, himself included, maximum discomfort. After a jibe about Clement’s being more at home ‘on the rule’, he sat beneath the window, leaving Clement to face Stick, who was standing by the wall.

‘You’ve grown your hair,’ he said.

‘Not really. It grew itself. I see you got a scar.’

‘Yes, it’s faded, but I don’t expect it’ll ever completely disappear.’

‘It was me as did that to you!’

‘My boyfriend thinks it’s fetching. After all, lines are supposed to give a face character.’

Stick chuckled. ‘Half the time I can’t make out what you’re saying. But I know it’s clever. Honest!’

‘You’re very kind.’

‘Don’t make me laugh! It’s cos of me that you’re in with them beasties.’

‘No one’s a beast, Stick. They’re men like you and I.’

‘I’m real sorry. I’ve prayed and prayed to say sorry, haven’t I, sir?’

‘I’m reading, lad,’ Willis said unconvincingly.

‘I’m such a worthless piece of shit.’

‘If you say that again, I won’t begin work on the painting.’

‘Did somebody mention
work
?’ Willis asked, looking up. ‘Surprise
surprise
! I thought I’d dozed off and woken up at a meeting of the Mothers’ Union.’

Refusing to be provoked, Clement studied the canvas while Stick kept
resolutely
to the far side of the easel. He had banished any scruples about posing as Christ, relishing the prospect of the triple portrait: ‘Like when you have your photo taken in a machine!’ He quickly grew bored with the delay. ‘Same as when you left it, is it?’

‘I’m afraid so. You may even have done me a favour by enabling me to get some distance.’

‘Do you want us to stand farther off?’

‘What? No, not a step. I should have known what to expect. Look at Titian.’

‘You what?’

‘One of the greatest painters of all time. The story goes that he was totally happy with a finished picture, only to look at it six months later and find, in his own phrase, that it might have been painted by his worst enemy.’

‘Who was that then?’

‘What?’ A glance at the eager face was enough to erase all suspicion of mockery. ‘Himself.’

After struggling to place Stick in his former pose, he tentatively set to work.

‘You aren’t seriously planning to paint him like that?’ Willis asked.

‘Is there a problem?’ Clement replied, puzzled.

‘Our Lord in prison uniform!’

‘That’s right, boss,’ Stick broke in. ‘It’s like saying being in the nick is like being crucified.’ Willis shook his head in disbelief.

‘Or even,’ Clement added gently, ‘that being in prison is still being with Christ.’

‘I warned the governor it would be blasphemous.’

‘I’m sure he appreciated your input, sir.’

‘Pardon?’

‘But there’s another way you can help. I’ve decided to include a fourth figure of the Centurion,’ he said disingenuously. ‘I’d like to model him on an officer.’

‘You use me or any other member of staff in any way, shape or form, laddie, and your picture will be firewood – and you’ll be toast!’

Clement had barely recovered his stride when he was forced to break off for Christmas. The holiday was particularly poignant in prison, where the cooked breakfast and the goody bag and the taped carols blasting out from the canteen felt more like parodies than gestures of goodwill. Faced with the muted festivities, Clement was glad to be sharing a cell with someone for whom it was just another Thursday. He went to chapel, ate his turkey twizzlers and watched seasonal specials on
TV
, but declined to put up even a handful of his stack of cards. While telling himself that it was a courtesy to Shlomo, he recognised that it was the best defence against despair. There was nothing more calculated to expose the pretence of normality than the newspaper chain across his neighbour’s door.

His first visit of the New Year was also his first from Shoana. In a recent letter, she had expressed the desire to see him along with concern about her reception. Having assured her of its warmth, he found himself shaking all the way to the hall and was grateful for the conciliatory presence of Carla, who greeted him at the table with her usual broad smile.

‘Great scar,’ she said, tracing it with her finger. ‘Super sexy.’

‘What do you think?’ he asked Shoana who stood up, making no move or comment. ‘Any advance on
sexy
?’

‘You look well,’ she said, kissing him rapidly. ‘I was afraid that… you know, the stress and the diet would damage your cells.’

‘Quite the reverse. I had a test at the end of November. Curiously, it seems that all my counts have gone up, while my viral load is still undetectable. Of course we can’t discount the idea that the authorities are trying to lure me into a state of dangerous complacency.’

‘Of course we can,’ Carla said. ‘You look better than I’ve seen you in years.’

‘How’s Zvi?’ he asked Shoana.

‘He’s well… wonderful. Frantically busy at work and in the community. He’s away this weekend with our youth group.’

‘He said to send you his best, didn’t he?’ Carla nudged her.

‘Yes, of course.’

‘My cell-mate’s one of your lot,’ he said, uncertain if he wanted to establish the link or punish the lie.