Burn Patterns by Ron Elliott

was empty but not yet cleaned. It smelled of male sweat and crisps. A birthday card lay on one of the tables.
    The door was unlocked, Rodney shown in. He was in prison greens, about thirty, and soft around the face with dark curly hair.
    â€˜I’ve been sent to Special Wing.’
    â€˜Hello Rodney.’
    â€˜Some big bloke came up in the yard. I’m gonna get bashed.’ He remained standing. ‘I’m no paedophile and they got me in with the rock spiders. I’m a marked man in here.’
    â€˜It’s to keep you safe.’
    â€˜You gotta get me out.’
    â€˜Not in my power.’
    He sat down in the chair opposite Iris. He said, ‘Lisa has dropped the charges.’
    â€˜She didn’t charge you.’
    â€˜Kimberly. Kimberly was mistaken.’
    â€˜I thought we were working on that, mate. I thought we were taking responsibility.’
    â€˜But if she doesn’t give evidence …’
    â€˜It would hurt her, Rodney.’
    â€˜I’d make it up to her. See, I get the empathy. I’d see her right.’
    â€˜I would never support that.’
    Rodney stood again.
    Iris stood too, stepped back from her chair.
    The guard inside the door took a step towards them. He was young and not so big.
    Rodney said, ‘How can there be charges if there’s no witnesses?’
    â€˜There are. The police, Child Protection, the GP and me. We’re all witnesses. You too, Rodney. You’re the main witness to this.’
    He banged the table.
    The guard came all the way forward, ‘Settle down, sport.’
    â€˜Fuckin Lisa shouldn’t have taken her. You fuckin dykes got into their heads. They’ll do me in here.’
    â€˜I know you’re angry, Rodney, and I know you’re scared, but let’s think about Kimberly.’
    â€˜Can we think about me for a sec? How about that?’ hedemanded. He glared at Iris, his fists bunching. ‘You’re supposed to be helping me!’
    Iris edged back casually to put the table between them. The guard tapped Rodney’s shoulder, stepping back before Rodney could turn. His feet were balanced. ‘You are out of order. Lockup time.’
    Rodney glanced at him. Calmed, his head dropping. ‘Right, right man. Sorry. Getting stitched up here.’ He raised his hands showing surrender, compliant. Then he pointed at Iris. ‘You put me in here. You get me out.’ He allowed himself to be led towards the door.
    The guard paused there, looking back to Iris.
    She shook her head. No trouble. No report. No progress either.
    *
    Two guards led Iris to the Crisis Centre. She walked across an inner yard, ignoring a distant derisive catcall. It would be dinnertime soon, followed by the long night of prison. A gate was unlocked and relocked. A white door. A white corridor.
    The Crisis Centre only had eight beds. It was a secure hospital-like ward which held potential self-harmers and successful self-harmers. Those who harmed others populated other parts of the prison and those particularly vulnerable to those men were held within another protective area. Iris passed a young man with bandages on his wrists. Someone was calling, plaintive, pained. One wall of the cells was open plexiglas, each with a closed-circuit camera. The toilets were visible with non-moving seats. Everything was fixed with rounded edges. Table, bed, toilet. Iris paused at a cell where a man in his thirties sat on his bunk growling to no one, ‘Leave it. Leave it now. Leave it.’ A schizophrenic not taking his medication, in need of a bed somewhere other than in a prison.
    The statistics suggested one quarter of the prison population suffered from a diagnosed mental condition. This was besides those with personality disorders: the narcissists, borderlines and sociopaths. This was before they came to prison. Then you could add depression, anxiety and growing feelings of powerlessness. Followed by drug abuse and violence