Happy Birthday Cyril

Cyril throws his slimy sock to the other side of the room and apologises to Stan for the shaky bunk.

“Don’t mention it friend. If you can’t enjoy Me Time on your birthday, when can you?”

Cyril laughs, but it’s not very convincing. It comes straight back to him, bouncing off the four grey walls back to his naked lap as if to say This Isn’t Funny.

He stares at the scrunched up sock in the corner of the room, trying and keep the next thoughts of the day out.

“Fancy a game of Torment Cyr?”
“Oh. I don’t know.”
“Come on, Cyril. It’s your birthday.”
“I really don't think I could take it Stan.”
“Do it for me Cyril. I'm so bored, I could do with a story.”
“Alright.”
Cyril looks at his watch. He lies back, exhales.
“It's quarter to ten. Felicity is sitting cross legged on my double bed. The sheets are clean - obviously.”
“Obviously.”
“Clean. And smelling fresh. The window’s open and I’m holding a tray with two plates of toast on it. One Marmalade, one Marmite. There’s two cups of tea, one weak and milky, one strong and sweet.” He swallows at this memory of intimacy.
“They should be along with tea soon…”
“Flis is sitting there, cross legged, reading a National Geographic. The early morning sun lighting up her short, golden legs, hiding any flaws there might be on her face.”
“Are we back in time for this one Cyr?”
“We’re in 1998, Stan. The week before they brought me in...”
“Okay.”

Cyril stops, imagining passing the strong, sweet tea to Felicity. He sees her putting her book down, smiling up at him and taking the cup. He stays silent and Stan knows him well enough not to take the Torment baton just yet.

The key turns in the lock and Little Harry walks in. The name’s a joke because Little Harry’s enormous. She's been here for longer than anyone outside Maximum Security.
“Where’s the birthday boy then?” Little Harry bellows.
Stan jumps off his bunk, relieved to have the mood lightened. “Feeling lucky to be alive are we?”
Cyril swings his legs over the edge of the top bunk.
Little Harry puts a tray of tea down and holds out a big hand for him to shake. He takes it and she smiles at him, throws a pack of Marlboro onto his bunk, practisedly casual. “Don’t let Stan have any.”
“Come on Harry. What’s the point of giving up in here?”
“I don't know Stan, but you said it. One year without smoking is easy. Your words not mine.”

Little Harry slips out the door, smiling. Already bantering with the blokes across the corridor. She pops her head back in the door.

“Oh, I nearly forgot. There’s a letter for you, Cyril.”

A feeling Cyril had forgotten hits him in the sinuses when he sees the handwriting.

Felicity.