Second Thoughts

Originally posted on 27th January 2006

The heavy-set Journalspace guard led me from my cell and along the corridor; he was a large, utterly silent man, his face a blank slab, rendered cold and expressionless by the dreadful things he had seen on this site: I felt no inclination to speak to him as we made our way to the Warden’s office. The only item I carried was my inflatable Angelina Jolie doll, rolled up under my arm. I could not leave her; my fellow inmates would do unspeakable things to her in my absence. She was the only person who kept me sane in this place. I held on to her tightly as we approached the Warden’s office, seeking her comforting touch.

My skin felt cold as I contemplated meeting the Warden. No one knew his name: he was simply ‘The Warden’, but no one could speak of him without blanching. He had absolute power within the walls of that great, grey prison they called Journalspace. But I had no reason to be afraid, I told myself. My pro access had expired; they had no right to keep me any longer. I wanted out. I wanted to delete my journal and leave Journalspace forever. After my I will never forget her entry I could not remain – the only way I could redeem myself was by leaving. They had no hold over me. Once outside, if I kept my head down and my nose clean, there would be no possibility of my returning. I had made my mind quite clear on that point. I was leaving for good. No one could persuade me otherwise.

All too soon we were at the oak-panelled door with the polished brass plate: Warden’s Office. Just as the guard reached out to open it the handle turned of its own accord and the door swung open, revealing a woman in the drab Journalspace prisoner’s uniform. I was unable to recognise her, for her face was distorted with terror, and she was crying uncontrollably. A hideously obese female guard was half-supporting her, guiding her out of the room and into the corridor past me. I moved back automatically, staring at her in horror. What had they done to her? But I had not time to think the matter over; my own guard was steering me inside.

The office was sumptuously furnished, but I was not able to take in the details in my shocked frame of mind. I was pushed forward until I was standing in front of a large, leather-topped desk, behind which sat the Warden. He looked up, and I could see his neat, pink, bespectacled face. I felt momentarily relieved – he seemed like a kindly fellow; perhaps it was pure rumour that… then I remembered the woman again, and my heart shrank.

‘Well, Simon, isn’t it?’ he enquired in a pleasant fashion. ‘What is it that you want?’

Some instinct made me hesitate, and instead of making my request, I asked ‘What was wrong with that woman who was just leaving as I came in? She seemed…’ I struggled to find an appropriate word, but failed, ‘upset.’

‘Ah,’ he said, leaning back in his comfortable, leather-padded chair and twirling a pen between his fingers. ‘She wants to leave. Her pro access has expired; she wishes to delete her journal.’

I felt my throat constrict with fear. ‘Why should that make her afraid?’ I croaked. ‘Shouldn’t she be glad to be leaving?’

The Warden didn’t answer my question, but instead asked one of me. ‘What do you think lies outside Journalspace, Simon?’

‘Freedom,’ I answered simply. The truth was that I had been inside so long I could not remember the real world any longer.

‘Ah yes,’ he said, his expression thoughtful. ‘Freedom. Have you ever seen the doors to Journalspace open, Simon?’

Of course I hadn’t. No one had ever seen those great iron doors open – other than those who had left through them. No one ever came back. My answer seemed superfluous; I assumed he was speaking rhetorically.

‘Quite,’ he went on. ‘You see Simon, the fact is, no one leaves Journalspace.’ He hesitated briefly. ‘At least only in the spiritual sense.’

What was he saying? I had been so unnerved by the sight of the terrified woman prisoner I could not make sense of his words.

‘What did you have for breakfast, Simon?’ he said suddenly.

The change of tack caught me out, and I looked momentarily blank. Only one type of food was available in this grim place. ‘I— well… it was the usual. That synthetic food product – made from soya and lentils, isn’t it?’

‘Well,’ he replied, studying my face, ‘not exactly. That is what we tell our inmates. It is not strictly correct. But you were asking about the woman, weren’t you? Why she should be upset at being allowed to delete her journal and leave?’

‘Yes,’ I said cautiously. I wasn’t quite so sure I wanted to hear the answer now.

‘I told her the manner of her departure; that was why she was… distressed. People may achieve release, but no one physically leaves Journalspace. They are merely reprocessed.’

What did he mean? Initially cold, I was now prickling with sweat.

‘It always faintly amuses me when inmates choose such names as ‘Breakfast’, ‘Toast’ or ‘Sausage’ with such unknowing irony,’ he said reflectively. ‘But anyway,’ he went on more purposefully, ‘you had a request for me, I believe?’

As the significance of his words sank in my limbs went weak, and Angelina spilled from under my arm and onto the floor, unrolling towards the Warden’s desk. Her face, with its round eyes and wide, O shaped mouth, looked up at me, her seeming look of shock matching my own feelings of horror.

‘I… I…’ I stammered. I looked down at Angelina for inspiration.

‘A puncture repair kit,’ I croaked. ‘Please. Sir.’

The Warden glanced over the edge of his desk at Angelina. ‘Ah yes,’ he said. ‘Of course. A common request. I shall see that you are supplied with one. Was there anything else?’ He looked up at me, his eyes surveying me with interest.

‘No,’ I managed, ‘no, no thank you.’ I bent to roll up Angelina again, hiding my face from his examination. I straightened up. ‘I’ll just be going back to my cell then,’ I said, my voice becoming more confident.

‘You’re quite sure?’ he pressed me, and I could see a faint glint in his eyes.

‘Quite sure, Sir,’ I said, ‘thank you.’ I turned to the waiting guard, who had been standing there impassively the whole time. I had changed my mind. I would be remaining in Journalspace for a little while longer.

Whether I could manage to eat another meal was another matter.