Page 18 of Caged In

Ah, nope. That still sounds weird.

“Meet us out in the yard when you’re done,” Zidie bellows over his shoulder as he turns away.

Hesitatingat the door with a plaque reading‘Counsellors Office’, Izz’s motionless.His anxiety is spiking, and his palms are clammy with sweat.

Come on Izz,pull yourself together. It can’t be that bad. What’s your problem?

He steelshis shoulders, suckingin a deep breath, and rapshis knuckles on the office door.

“Come in,” a muffled voice driftsout from behind the wooden panels.

Izz does as instructed. Pushing the door wide. Shuffling in. Clicking it shut behind him.

The office is small. White walls—as if he expects another colour in this bland prison. Tall cabinets stacked with books, a whole range inLawand many more inPsychology.

A large oak desk, with tree-trunk sized legs, housing an old style-computer, keyboard, mouse, a little cup of pens and notepads. A soft armchair in front of it for guests.

The man perched in the officechair behind the desk is exactly as he envisions a counsellor to be. Neatly cropped hair, smooth-rimmed glasses, tailored suit, and professional smile plastered in place. Smelling of tea tree oil and freshly cut grass.

“Take a seat.” The counsellor murmurs, flicking a manicuredhand at the armchair.

Izz settlesin, nervously wiping his hands on his prison pants. He feels like he’s being judged and scrutinised at the same time.

When did it get so hot in here?

“What can I do for you, inmate . . . A-18910,” the counsellor speaks while squinting at Izz’s uniform to read the prison number. “Let me just bring up your file.”

The man swings his wheeled chair to the side, to tap at the ancient computer’s keyboard, clicking and scrolling around on the screen.

“Jasper is fine,” Izz tells the counsellor, his eyes darting around the room looking for something to occupy himself with while he waits. He can’t see the computer’s screen so he can’t snoop on whatever the counsellor is searching in—other inmates’ Criminal Records?

“Okay. Sure thing,” the counsellor mutters, still focusing on his tapping and mouse clicking. “I swear this dinosaur computer is so slow I could manually find, and collect the files, from the filing room, a heck of a lot faster. And it’s located on the other side of the prison.”

Izz isn’t sure what to say to the complaint.‘Alright’. ‘That’s annoying’. ‘I feel sorry for you—’

That last one definitely isn’t it. Sure the man has a slow computer. So what. At least he gets to leave this place each day, and doesn’t have to sleep in a tiny cell with a hundred other men snoring all night long.

“Finally,” the counsellor exclaims. “Here we are. Jasper Marcelo, nineteen—oh, turning twenty in a few weeks, congrats.” The counsellor reads from his computer screen. “Arrested for . . . Theft. Five-year prison sentence, three with good behaviour—It’ll pass quicker than you think. No other arrests, first time in. All in all, not too bad.” Steepling his fingers,the man closely examines Izz from his position across the desk. “Compared to the majority of other inmates I deal with, you’re an easy one. So what can I do for you?”

Easy one?

What, like he’s a new pigeon in a cage with other birds who’ve shown acts of aggressive behaviour—compared to his pliant nature?

One day he might end up among the watch list. If that dragon tattooed creep slithers his way back to Izz’s cell. He will not roll over and take it, no matter if his record states he’s non-threatening—or non-aggressive—or however they describe inmates who don’t have murderous tendencies.

Exhaling his irritation, he addresses the counsellor as politely as he can muster, “I was informed I have to see you about a prison job?”

“Oh. Yes. By whom?”

“Ah . . .” Is that really important? “A friend,” Izz hedges. He’s not sure where the counsellor is going with this line of questioning? Or why it’s important who told him?

“Friend? Already.” The counsellor leans forward, placing his elbows on the desk to rest his chin in his steepledhands.

Already . . . ?

The counsellor has a weird wayof wording things, like he’s belittling and inspectingIzz at the same time. Is it that hard to imagine Izz making friends the first day in prison? Is this an uncommon thing or something? Or is this counsellor full of accusations and scrutiny?

“He’s more a friend of my cellmate, I’ve only just met him, so . . . yeah.” Izz rubs the nape of his neck awkwardly, unsure why he feels the desire to explain—the counsellor’s hard eyes boring into him might be part of the reason.

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