Run trapped boy, run

He is waiting to be released, for the guards to open the gates and say “You have 15 minutes to exercise as much or as little as you like. Do not interfere with the other prisoners. Do you understand?”

 

“I understand,” he says. He has understood every day for a full year now. A long time to be cooped up, or a short time, if you consider the length of his sentence.

 

A click of the lock, a squeak of the door and he is free – he bounds, bounds out into the yard, delighted to see sunlight, the absence of rain, to be free.

 

He runs.

 

He runs every day, just as he ran every day when he was a free man, but here, here in this squalid prison, it is all he has to live for. His last precious pleasure. His last freedom.

 

The other prisoners barely spare him a glance. His first day, of course, that was different, he caused quite a stir, the exercise yard was a place for talking and slouching, perhaps lifting some weights, maybe shooting some ball, but running? Just running, not even for a bet, just running for no reason? That first day prisoners and guards gawped in bemusement as he charged round the yard, full of boundless energy, displaying a joy of freedom that simply didn’t belong in a prison; leaping over outstretched legs, dodging and weaving round any body that sought to block his way. Long after he’d returned to his cell he was being discussed, like a sighting of a yeti.

 

That first day he was talked about.  By the second day he was tolerated.  By the third day he was just another part of prison routine.  Maybe when he’s dead, or released, he’ll be talked about again, become one of the myths and legends that make up prison life. The yeti that used to clean the governor’s office. The guy that used to run around a lot.

 

Every day he ran, ran, ran, for fifteen minutes, exactly, you could set your watch by him, and then the guards would tell him to stop. He would ignore them, keep on running, and the guards would run after him. It would usually take five or six guards to bring him to a halt and drag him back inside. But even the guards tolerated him, for all he did was run, he didn’t kick, punch, fight, spit, fling excrement. An over-enthusiastic runner was just, well, a nice change actually. The first time. Then, just part of the routine. If aliens landed at five o’clock one Saturday it’d be amazing. If they did it same time next Saturday it’s just be routine.

 

Running.

 

He’d loved it as a kid. It meant he could get where he was going quicker, leaving more time to do things. He loved it as a teenager and as a young man. He loved running when he had hopes to run for England one day, loved it still when he failed the trials. Loved it when he was a free man, loved it so much more when he was no longer free.

 

Tolerated. That’s the word. He was tolerated. Nobody tried to stop him. Nobody tried to trip him, to block him. He wasn’t even heckled any more. He was just part of prison life, just part of that which is.

 

Except that one time, a Pole, Gregor Shitzky, or at least that’s what everybody called him, even if he wasn’t christened Shitzky. Shitzky was a big man. A big, Shitzky shithouse of a man. He stepped out as the runner approached, blocking the way like an elephant on a train track, and when he, the runner, tried to dodge, Shitzky countered, and when he tried to shove past and sprint by, Shitzky shoved back.

 

Less than a minute the two of them tussled. The runner dodged, pushed, all his usual tricks, but Shitzky was tricky and he couldn’t push past. Eventually he simply turned around and ran the other way. Five minutes later the tussle was repeated as he approached from the other direction, to find his path blocked again. Again he eventually turned round, and the routine would doubtless have played out all day, had not the guards come to collect the runner when his 15 minutes of freedom had passed.

 

But even the Shitzky problem was a one-off though, not to be repeated.

 

That night, Shitzky, a chef in the prison kitchens, was joined by a new helper, the runner. How the transfer was achieved was never revealed; a bribe, or simply the hand of god, maybe it just happened to be the runner’s turn in the kitchens.

 

Exactly what happened was unclear also, for the incident occurred at that very second when everybody else was looking another way. The facts, such as they are, are that somehow Shitzky happened to be beaten 50 times or more by a large metal ladle, or ‘spooned to smithereens’ as it was described later. The cauldron of parsnip soup, that night’s meal, became so bloodied it was mistaken for tomato, or so it is said. There are a lot of untruths told in prison.

 

“It wasn’t me,” the runner said, when he was questioned by prison guards, “it was a giant rat. I saw it pick up the ladle with his tail.”

 

It was a good story. And with no witnesses to the contrary, it meant that he was free – free to run hassle-free.

 

And so he runs, he tears around the yard, no resistance, no Shitzky blocking his path. His legs simply doing what comes naturally. Left leg forward. Right leg forward.

 

And then something strange happens. He is joined by another runner. Not an athlete trying to show off by outpacing him, but a fellow jogger, happy to fall into his shadow. He doesn’t recognise the face, some new kid. He turns and gives him a wink, the only encouragement he is willing to make, but a significant gesture none-the-less.

 

And then it gets really strange, for they are joined by another runner, and then another, and so on, until there are six of them running around the yard.

 

The crowd around the basketball hoop, alert to something going down, decide to join the procession. Which makes it official, for the basketball gang are major players within the prison population. It is suddenly okay to run.

 

He is now leading a procession, swelling in numbers, fifty, sixty, a hundred. Soon every prisoner in the yard: young, old, fit, fat, all are running round and round.

 

The guards watch on, earnestly, expecting trouble, but seeing none they decide to let events take their course. Stopping the runners now would cause a riot, better to let them wear themselves out.

 

For it is not a protest, it is a celebration, a carnival. Look, one of the runners is dressed as a lion. Two are topped and tailed together as a pantomime horse like the novelty costumes you see in the London marathon. A giraffe, a man in a gorilla suit, and a man with a head on him like a rabbit.

 

A giraffe and a rabbit? In prison? Where did they get the costumes?

 

It is, of course, nonsense. A vision, a dream. He has, he realises, been hallucinating, hasn’t even left his cell.

 

Hasn’t left the cell for over a month. Not since the spooning of Shitzky. His running is no longer tolerated. All privileges have been withheld, he is in total, solitary, confinement.  He has lost his last freedom.

 

Except – except in his dreams, his visions, his hallucinations.

 

The man with the rabbit head overtakes him and charges towards the prison gates. The other runners follow, hundreds of them, thousands. There is nothing the guards can do – the runners dodge, weave and push past the handful of guards attempting to block their path, swarming out onto the streets - giraffes, lions, camels, rabbits – they all tear off into the distance, disappearing over the horizon, never to be seen again.