Cages David Mark (mobi reader txt) 📖

‘I’m sorry I left you during the break,’ she says, sensing the moment is right to make the apology for what must be the tenth time. ‘I knew you’d be OK with Karen, and they’d all warmed to you, so I made a judgement …’

He waves his fork, carelessly, chewing politely through a piece of gristly meat. ‘I said before, I didn’t notice you’d gone. Honestly, we’re bonding. I’m not expecting to get Valentine’s cards, but I can see them listening, and wanting to learn.’

She nods, gratefully. Moves her meat and veg around the chips as if playing culinary Tetris. Tries not to think about what caused her to flee the classroom as if scalded. It’s a futile effort. Griffin Cox is at the very centre of her mind. How could he possibly know? That’s what she kept demanding of herself as she sat in the toilet cubicle and tried to control her breathing; to wash the blood from the walls of her mind. Could it be coincidence? An innocent doodle on a scrap of paper? A snow globe. Easy enough to draw. A peaceful, pleasing shape. Perhaps she had seen a poorly executed balloon and her own subconscious had turned it into something symbolic. She would so love to believe that. And yet Cox had put himself in harm’s way to get himself on the course. Could she be the reason for his uncharacteristic enthusiasm for spending time with the general prison population? She scuttled back to the classroom without answers, determined to neither meet his gaze or acknowledge him again before the session was over. She has been successful, so far, though she feels a cold, creeping anger towards the man who has ruined her enjoyment of a day she has looked forward to so very much. They’re halfway through the lunch session, and she has Rufus all to herself. She could be picking at the stitches of his fascinating mind; grilling him for insider tips and hidden truths. Instead she seems distant. Aloof, even. He keeps asking if she’s OK. She likes being asked the question, truth be told. Close as she is to Ethan, her welfare is rarely enquired about.

‘What’s the story with that chap, anyway?’ asks Rufus, neatly putting his knife and fork together and turning around to nod a thank you to the armed robber operating the till. The tattooed inmate gives a big gap-toothed grin in return, and throws up a thumbs-up. Rufus is smiling as he asks the question. He doesn’t name Cox, but Annabeth knows to whom he refers.

‘He shouldn’t be here,’ she says, shaking her head. ‘I said no – I told you, didn’t I? Then one of the officers he has a good relationship with laid it on thick. Called in a favour, and in a place like this, favours are important. So I said yes, and I don’t think there’s much I can do to go back on it. Let’s be honest, he didn’t do anything that would lead to a report. He’s not going to get an adjudication for asking a question about the writing process, even if it was a bit off-colour. He’s a game-player, I can see that. Loves winding everybody up then sitting back to watch what happens next. He’s bored, I think. A big brain can wither in a place like this. Maybe that’s why he wanted to come on the course – just to throw some petrol on the ashes of the other inmates.’

‘Oh that’s good,’ says Rufus, enthusiastically. To her amazement, he pulls a slip of paper from his back pocket and a blue pen from somewhere under his jumper, and scribbles down her words. ‘“Throw some petrol on the ashes”,’ he mutters, then nods, satisfied. ‘Lovely turn of phrase. Can I tempt you to write something this afternoon? I would love to hear the lyrics and timbre of your subconscious. I can tell from your emails, you have a gift: an ear for language. I promise, the only feedback will be positive …’

She scrunches up her nose, an embarrassed pre-teen. ‘Don’t be silly, I’m a reader. I love books and writers are like my rock stars but I wouldn’t know where to start …’

‘Rock stars?’ he asks, wiping his mouth with a napkin. ‘Not quite. It’s a very solitary passion. You don’t get big triumphant moments. It’s mostly just you and the voices in your head. But if you’ve got a story in you, you should tell it.’

‘No, like I say, I wouldn’t know where to start …’

He looks at her as if she has said something ridiculous, and slightly sweet. ‘Yeah, if only you knew a half decent writer and had time to sit through a creative writing course …’

She rolls her eyes. ‘All right, smart-arse.’

He grins back, all twinkles and charm. ‘Go on, tell me something. Anything. Something about yourself we can use as a springboard into your narrative. Annabeth, for example. Not a name I know. Were your parents looking for something unusual? Hippies seeking something less out-there than Zebulon? Is it a portmanteau of two other names? Come on, intrigue me.’

Annabeth breaths in. She’d like to close her eyes. Would like to open them again and find herself alone. She knows now what a bad idea this all was. Of course he would ask questions. Of course a student of people would need to dissect her inner world. She can’t work out which of her lies to tell him. Amazes herself when she hears herself telling the truth.

‘You couldn’t accuse my parents of being hippies,’ she says, looking past him. ‘Last thing they’d want would be to be thought of as alternative. Proper upstanding middle-Englanders, my mum and dad. Volvo, golf clubs, neat lawn, two weeks in the South of France each summer. Home brew in the garage for Dad and a potting shed at the end of the garden for Mum.’

She glances at him, and