Looking Up: Like a Tattoo

The ups, downs, challenges and triumphs of a prison leaver’s journey

Adam fumed at Overcourt Probation Hostel’s medical hatch, right hand outstretched, nurse dabbing away ineffectually. ‘Sorry, love, you’ve left it too late to wash out that grease, dirt… whatever it is. Cut’s healed over it, like a tattoo. Least it’s not infected.’

Adam rubbed at the wound angrily. Days before, he’d cut his hand on a bike chain helping some random fella up from a bicycle crash, who’d turned out to be another Hostel Resident, a so-called asylum refugee, one of the type Adam had been vociferously campaigning to be kicked out of Britain. Bloody ironic. And now, marked for life after helping one of his actual enemies, compounding Adam’s sense of betraying his own country. He gritted his teeth, stomping to the Hostel’s dining room for another brew to calm his nerves. 

Handing out a pile of ‘BRITAIN FIRST!’ political campaign leaflets later that day would balance his karma. And then, he looked up, seeing Achmed, the man himself, smiling at him from the hall. ‘Oh God…’ Adam sighed, as Achmed shuffled over, nodding.

‘Hello… thank you again for helping me… so good of you…’ 

Adam pulled a face and sniffed. ‘Well… it’s the Christian thing to do, innit… like the Good Samaritan,’ he said, sarcastically.

Achmed closed his eyes, swaying slightly, beads of sweat dripping from the bandage taped to where he’d smashed his head on the pavement in the crash.

‘You alright, fella? Not been drinking, have you? Not allowed round here. You can barely stand up.’

‘Oh…no… I’m OK… just a super-bad headache…’ Achmed frowned, his black glasses at an odd angle, lens cracked.

Get another pair free off our NHS… mused Adam, nastily. ‘Well… must dash, got work to do.’ Adam rose, brushing past Achmed, who suddenly gripped his arm. ‘You are good man… good man… thank you…’

Adam winced, pulling away, uneasy. ‘Fraternising with the enemy…’ Little Paul called it, a seductively small betrayal of your own race. 

Little Paul… a fellow social media star, who, unlike Adam, had escaped a prison sentence for ‘Race Hate’ crimes on Twitter. Little Paul, waiting outside for another day of posting ‘BRITAIN FIRST!’ leaflets round town, prior to the upcoming local elections. Adam looked back at Achmed, watching him sit gingerly, head lolling, hands shaking on the table, like he was drunk.

Adam snorted with disdain, fist clenched, and left.

His curfew was at seven, with Adam arriving back early to avoid unwanted attention. The Hostel’s lobby was in shadow, a figure waiting, stony-faced, alone. Hostel Manager ‘Governor’ Owens took a step forward as Adam entered. ‘Oh God… I’ve been grassed up…’ whispered Adam, panicking, furiously contriving excuses for his whereabouts that day… ‘That bloody foreigner no doubt…’ he said to himself.

‘Mr Lennon? This way, please…’

Owens led Adam to his office. Adam, heart pounding, stomach sinking, expecting the police to be hiding behind the door, and a recall to Preston nick… s… s… He clenched his fist tightly, intending resistance, but the room was empty.

‘Listen, I’ve done nowt… curfew isn’t till…’

‘Please, sit down. I’m afraid I have some bad news. I understand you were a friend of Mr Dahir?’

‘Who?’

‘Achmed Dahir. You helped him after a bike crash the other day.’

‘Who said I was his friend?’

‘He did.’ Owens paused, puzzled.  ‘I’m afraid… there was an incident earlier today… he was found unconscious this morning in the dining hall. It seems he collapsed from an undiagnosed brain injury, the ambulance medic said. I’m afraid he died shortly after they arrived. We reviewed the CCTV, and we know you spoke to him…’

‘You… you what…’

‘I know it’s a shock. Ambulance medic thinks it was delayed concussion… brain haemorrhage… he’d refused hospital after his accident… I’m sorry.’

Adam’s legs turned to jelly, sitting heavily, gulping air, mouth dry. ‘He… he what?’

‘They did all they could, Mr. Lennon. The medics managed to revive him briefly… he just kept  saying you were a ‘good man’… I was present at the… you know, Achmed’s passing.’ Owens swallowed, looking down, still in shock himself. ‘There’ll be an enquiry, of course…’

Owens droned on, Adam oblivious to what he was saying. Dead. Dead. Dead.

No way.

‘Mr Lennon? Did you hear what I said?’

Adam rose, shaking, creeping to his room, Owens shuffling behind, muttering apologies.

Alone, Adam stared out into the garden, rubbing his injured hand. He felt as if he were falling, or drowning, or… something. He looked out across the lawn, the bench where Achmed had sat only the previous day.

No… didn’t seem real… A crushing guilt began to settle on Adam’s shoulders. He’d thought Achmed was drunk, when he was dying in front of him. Mocked him. Walked out on him.

Adam sat heavily on his bunk, a physical pain gripping his belly so badly he crouched over, as if punched.

If only he hadn’t left that morning… 

‘A good man’… Achmed’s last words rang in his ears, like a hollow bell.