Thomas had it. The gift of the gab, the sweet talk, whatever it was that made people believe, and convinced them to part with their hard-earned. Haran had been surprised that he hadn’t wanted the book himself, but it turned out he agreed with him on the not knowing your future thing. It didn’t matter though. The auction was in full swing, and there were plenty of buyers lining up.

They weren’t actually lining up of course. A series of apparently random taps on bars, and bangs on walls sent messages flying around the prison, the secret language of the in-mates. The guards knew, some of them even knew what it meant, but they also knew how to make the best of a bad situation. Much like him.

He lay on his bunk, phone in hand, smile widening every time the buzz informed him that the bid was rising. Pig was asleep, for now, though he’d soon settled in to his role in this place. He wasn’t someone who knew how to make the best of things. He was too small-minded, too set in his ways. Things in here were fluid, and you either went with them, or cracked. Every now and then, someone snapped. It was fun to watch. Good reminder too, helped everyone else remember how important it was to be flexible.

Now, him, he’d been flexible, then he realised that it was the weight above that made you bend. Once that was clear, it was just about becoming the weight, being the pressure, instead of bowing beneath it. Everyone here felt the pressure, guards, inmates, cooks, it didn’t matter, they all bowed beneath it. Thomas applied it using money, the language he spoke in. For Haran Acuna, the language was violence, though these days, just the threat of violence normally worked. It wasn’t as much fun, but far easier in the long run.

They were up to two hundred quid, and assorted favours, duties, cigs and so on. It wasn’t as much as he’d hoped for, but it wasn’t far off either. The next buzz made his eyebrows rise and a slow chuckle to emerge from his throat. It had just gone up to two fifty, and come from the only prisoner everyone agreed was actually innocent.

Mohamed came in on murder charges, killed his wife and daughter apparently. Two minutes talking to him and you knew it wasn’t true. Six months after he arrived, another guy came in on aggravated assault, started telling stories about this family he knifed and got away with. Funny how those things turned out. Mohamed had already forgiven him, but Haran, and some of the others, felt that things were a little unbalanced. The other guy had left now, paroled and sent out into the world. He imagined life was tougher with no thumbs and little fingers. Mo was still here, still innocent, and left alone for it.

Now he wanted to know his future, maybe discover if he was ever gonna be let out, and what the hell he’d do if he was. Well, on the plus side, he probably had the cash. No one else was gonna go higher than that, not now. He tapped in a message, then rolled over and went to sleep.

The exchange was due at dinner, the cash handed over then, the rest later. Smile in place, he swaggered across the dining hall, ignoring the glares as he went. Someone had to win, everyone else had to deal with it. He sat down next to Mo, giving him a grin.

“So, you wanna know the future, do you?”

The small man looked at him, his eyes still empty, still lost. Haran knew he wasn’t a reflective man. Life happened one day at a time, and as long as you got to the end in a better shape than you were in the morning, then that counted as a victory. But the innocent man next to him had made him think. Haran knew why he was here, and he deserved it, ‘cause whether he liked it or not, there was a law, and he broke it, plenty of times. But this guy, he’d been in here for four years and in that whole time, he never looked anything other than pathetic and sad. How did he do that? Why was he still alive?

“Don’t you?”

His voice was quiet, thoughtful. Haran shook his head.

“Nah, what’s the point? What can I change?”

Mohamed nodded slowly.

“Yes, there is that, I suppose. Would you not…”

He paused, then looked at Haran again and shook his head.

“Of course you wouldn’t, this is your home. You belong here more than you do outside.”

Haran nodded. He could get angry at that, and from anyone else perhaps he would have, but it was true, and what was truer was that he had it pretty sweet. He was about to get the cash that meant hot, luxury showers for the next year and all the TV time he wanted. Mo’s head was down, staring at his food.

“Mo, what are you gonna change, really?”

“Suicide is forbidden by my religion, and even were it not, I would remain alive.”

Haran waited, but the little man wasn’t going to say anything else. He shrugged, then dug into his pocket.

“You got the cash?”

They exchanged, one packet for another, and he slipped off the bench, leaving behind the little African, and his sad eyes.

Next installment, Monday 29th July