Alphabet by Kathy Page Page B

getting rid of it and then, when she actually reads it, it will become fully hers. She asked for it. She can decide what next.
    If he makes it through until she answers, well, then he’ll be able to cope with whatever comes next, but until then, there can be no more going back. He must be alert; he must concentrate, resist the sly approach of those sudden bursts of remembered sound, the waves of nausea and terrible intimate glimpses that seem to want to return, now that he has once let his guard down. He will keep busy. Seek out talk, effort, work of any kind. Of course, there will be the nights to deal with.
He needs batteries for the radio and should have thought of that before he started out. So right now, the only thing is to keep his attention out, not in. For example, listen: an officer just walked across the courtyard, whistling through his teeth, and let himself in to A wing. If he tries really hard, he can just about make out the rumble of the occasional bit of haulage on the main road, a quarter of a mile beyond the wall. But in between, it’s quiet, the very quietest time of night. Think of
something pleasant, he tells himself, as he finally gets his heart rate under control, think of something simple and sweet, like ice cream.

13
    The Canteen Officer, Richards, shiny with sweat, mops his face with a handkerchief and speaks through the circle of holes drilled into the Perspex grille:
    â€˜You are only allowed four at a time, but anyhow, we’re out of them!’ he repeats. ‘They didn’t have any at the Cash and Carry. It’s not my fault.’ The canteen is in the basement and the news echoes up the stairs.
    â€˜No batteries – bloody forgot them, didn’t they!’
    â€˜No fucking batteries!?’ It won’t be long before everyone knows, but Simon’s having trouble believing it. ‘No batteries?’
he asks again. His voice comes out thin and hoarse.
    â€˜You’ve got £8.90 credit. Do you require something else instead, Mr Austen, or are you going to move along?’ Behind Richards are shelves on which sit the boxes of confectionery, Mars, Curly Wurly, Toffee Crisp, Murray Mints, Marathon, but no KitKat, Toblerone, Yorkie or Fruit ’n’ Nut, nothing with foil; a crate of softening Golden Delicious apples and a few withering oranges but not any bananas – Not my fault mate, some idiots dry out the skins and smoke them – the dried milk, sugar, HobNobs, the Marlboros, Old Holborn and Hilton (less than half price), the special orders, vitamins, biscuits, washing powder, magazines, all bagged up and labelled on the top shelf, a box of Sure deodorant, Gillette shaving foam, disposables, but no batteries, not even the little ones that won’t do that much damage when knotted into the end of a sock and used as a club, no batteries, not a sign of them.
    â€˜I mean it, Austen.’
    â€˜Tobacco then, I’ll take it in tobacco, Old Holborn, and papers, and a Curly Wurly.’
    â€˜Plan on smoking a lot this week, do you? Three pence left in your account, sign here and let’s pray we go back onto the pre-orders before I drop dead.’ Simon scoops his purchases up, drops the cigarette papers, and, as he bends, finds the floor rushing up to meet him, the world whiting out. It doesn’t last long enough. Minutes later, he’s parked head in hands by the wall waiting until things come back solid. The queue has moved on.
    â€˜You all right?’ asks a new bloke in dirty glasses he doesn’t know the name of. The first thing he does is check his goods; it’s a good thing none of the four packets of tobacco has gone missing.
    â€˜I need batteries,’ he replies pushing himself upright.
    It’s not until evening Association that he gets them, supposedly brand new but probably just hotted up, one set for two packets, a deal. Plus four thrillers from the library; it’s going to be harder than he