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had no response, just a desperate need for help.
    Then he
heard, “Time’s up Banner. Get off the phone.” But this was from behind him.
    Mister
Sargent was firm but fair. He was one of those guards that actually did have a
little respect among the prisoners. He was in his early fifties with graying
hair and a moustache to match. A fine physique of a man for
his age. Six foot one and well groomed.
    Luke
wasn’t finished, but Mister Sargent could be persuasive when he wanted to be.
He walked over, invaded Luke’s personal
space, and stood right in front of him. He glared into Luke’s eyes, raised
an open hand, ready to receive the phone, and using his special ‘prison guard
powers of ESP’ he let Luke know he was mentally counting backwards from ten.
    Luke
spoke again. “Gotta go.”
    “You’ve
got to do something, Graham.”
    “Yeah?”
    “See ya.”
    Luke put
the receiver in Mister Sargent’s hand and conjured up another of his graphic,
sarcastic facial expressions. They’re so incredibly useful. They’re practical
and economical with oration, time and effort, yet packed with so much message
and implication.
    This one
advised Mister Sargent, “You know I hadn’t finished, but I’ve chosen to succumb
to your authoritative charms and abide by the official timing rules on phone
calls. You haven’t got the better of me but I’ll let it go this time. I’ve got
bigger things to deal with. Get over yourself.”
    He
stepped away from the phone on the wall and took a casual stance with hands in
pockets. In came ‘Spencer’ who had been waiting his turn. Mister Sargent tapped
the Switch Hook a couple of times to make sure the line was clear and ready for
use again, then handed Spencer the receiver.
    Luke
glanced at Mister Sargent once more, lost interest and set off for his cell.
    The door was, of course , open . He went in and picked up the book he was reading,
which had been left open at his page,
face down, on the lower bunk. First he sat on the bunk, then he slumped
backwards to rest his shoulders on the wall behind, then, deciding this was, a
little, uncomfortable, he spun and lay down properly. With one hand behind his
head, and the other holding the book (his thumb holding the pages apart) he
began to read. Problem was, though, he wasn’t inwardly digesting anything. His
eyes were reading but his thoughts were elsewhere.
    “How the
hell do I have a son?”
    “Three
years old?”
    “I
didn’t do any of this.”
    He
genuinely believed he hadn’t done anything. Not this time! Luke was guilty of
many things, but the ‘catalogues of crap’ he had just been put away for were not his doing. They can’t have been.
    “I don’t
remember any of it.” He shouted to himself internally with gritted teeth.
    Luke
drops the book at his side. Then with both hands clasped behind his head he
brings his elbows forward, tightly squashing his ears. He grits his teeth again
and tenses everything.
    In one
big bursting pressure release he finally lets his handgrip go, in one of those,
“must give in scenarios”, and begrudgingly steps back from his
self-confrontation, infuriated, frustrated, angry and clueless.
    Luke
takes a breath. He rests his arms and legs once more, relaxes himself and ponders
his predicament further.
    “During
the trial they confirmed the date of birth of the kid (Jason) as 19 th September 2002. That means he must have been conceived around Christmas 2001.”
    The
gears inside his head were back in action.
    “I was
at mum and dads’ on Christmas Day. Come to think of it, I didn’t leave till
Boxing Day. Massive hangover! Even then, had to be driven back to London by
Angie (the girlfriend of the moment).”
    “Good
looker. Good shag! And what a pair of
tits!”
    “I must
have been to a party every night for the two weeks over Christmas. A lot of drinking. A lot of sex. Not all with Angie.”
    “But I
never went near Suzanne.”
    “Did I?”
    “Graham’s
stag do was in Amsterdam on the