Jimmy used to take out his eye and show it to you. On the palm of his hand it didn't look like an eye at all, more like a marble. One day, as he showed his treasure to a group of squealing children in the car park, Fat Gary whacked Jimmy's arm from underneath so that the eye shot into the air and winked in the sunlight before rolling under the line of parked Cortinas. It took an hour to retrieve it, and the small council estate came to life as neighbours gathered on the balconies to watch Jimmy scrambling frantically between the cars, all but his short legs disappearing beneath them.

"'Ere - over 'ere, Jim - I think I can see it."

Finally he emerged, triumphant, holding up the glass eye like a trophy to the applauding crowds before sucking it clean and replacing it in its socket.

He was a small middle-aged man with a large beaked nose and a chirpy smile. Everyone knew Jimmy. He popped up everywhere like a sparrow, his beady eye fixed on the East End hubbub of disputes and dramas, and he could give you a current update on anybody's activities, domestic situation, or state of health.

"I don't want to get involved," he would say, "but I'll tell you something....."

The kids loved Jimmy. On most evenings he could be seen crouching in the car park, mending bicycles with a group of dirty children fighting for his attentions. Often, returning from his ten-hour shift at the warehouse and just gasping for a cup of tea and a read of the paper, Jimmy would be greeted at his front door by a snotty tear-stained face. He always had a sympathetic ear, a bit of advice, or some practical tip for a broken toy. That was how Jimmy lost half his vision, when Fat Gary gave him the suction gun to mend. The toy had been jammed with a pencil and Jimmy, peering down the barrel to release the obstruction, shot himself in the eye. He never blamed Fat Gary though. Jimmy never blamed the kids for anything. He loved kids, and it almost broke his heart to read stories in The Mirror about cruelty to children. Once he read a story about a little girl who had been locked in a cupboard for a year. There was a photo of her, a tiny, emaciated figure with enormous eyes in a ghostly face, and sharp protruding teeth bared in the grimace of a skull. Jimmy nearly cried when he saw that photo. He couldn't even finish reading the story.

Jimmy lived with his father and his brother, Reggie. The first floor council flat was divided into three quite separate bachelor bedsits, and the three men met only in the kitchen where they prepared their separate meals. There was a television in each bedroom and one in the kitchen so you didn't miss anything when you were making tea. Dad was a large man who always wore a yachting cap. His emphesema kept him confined to the flat, from where he developed theories about the problems of the world. His theories were rarely disputed, as Jimmy was generally out at work, and Reggie was not given to philosophical debate.

Reggie was also large in build, but with an endearingly childish smile and a vacant gaze. His head was rather too big for his body, giving the impression that he might topple over at any moment. Every morning, as he stumbled off to the day centre clutching his ex-army lunch-box, the kids would shout after him,

"Allright Reggie. Off to school, Reggie?" and he would turn, slowly, sometimes with a wave of his big hand, and occasionally with an incoherent greeting. Reggie had difficulty with conversation and his voice seemed trapped somewhere in his throat. When addressed directly he would cough, growl and, with a huge effort finally force out the words with a fiercesome bellow. But Reggie wasn't fierce. In fact, apart from the time Fat Gary had tried to grab his lunch-box, no one had ever seen Reggie angry. Jimmy had always looked after his brother. He was sharp, and from an early age he had learned to be sharp enough for two. He had never really minded that Reggie wasn't normal. But, then again, Jimmy wasn't really normal either.

Jimmy always knew he was different to the other boys. He liked girls, certainly, but he always knew there was a difference betwen liking something and wanting to touch it. Jimmy never wanted to touch a girl. In fact, the thought of it made him feel sick. The girls liked Jimmy because he was kind, he listened to their troubles and he looked at their new clothes. But they didn't seem to want to touch him either. So it all worked out quite well for Jimmy. He often thought to himself that things could be a lot worse.

Jimmy had plenty of friends, he had the occasional weekend in Amsterdam, and he had Gordon. Gordon and Jimmy had known each other for fifteen years and Gordon was fond of saying that they were like an old married couple. Jimmy didn't feel married to Gordon, though, perhaps because he only saw him once a week. Gordon lived with his invalid mother in Essex, but every Saturday afternoon he got a friend to look after Mother, hopped on the train, and spent a sweaty three hours locked in Jimmy's bedroom. He was a pale, bald man, who looked very much like a bank clerk, which is what he had been before he gave up his career to nurse Mother. Jimmy didn't think he was in love with Gordon, but the arrangement suited him. Love, like a fast car or winning the pools, was one of those things that happened to other people and eluded Jimmy. Besides, he was fond of Gordon. Sometimes, however, when Gordon had left, Jimmy would sit on the crumpled bed and watch the sun go down over the gas works, and he would get a funny feeling inside which stopped him turning on the T.V. or picking up the paper. He could not exactly describe that feeling, but it was scarey, and Jimmy knew that he had to watch the sun disappear before the feeling would go away.

It was raining the last Saturday that Gordon visited Jimmy. Fat Gary banged on the front door just as he was leaving and, after stinging him for fifty pence, turned his attention to Jimmy.

"Let us in for tea, Jim?"

Jimmy was tired and looking forward to a quiet smoke and a read of the racing page. Behind Fat Gary stood a tall Bengali boy whom he did not recognise. Both boys were dripping wet and shivering.

"Come on, Jimmy, let us in - Mum's chucked us out again." Fat Gary pursed his lips and opened his slitty eyes as wide as they would go in an attempt, it seemed, to appear like an abandoned puppy.

"This is Tariq," he nodded behind him. "He's got nowhere to go neither."

The Bengali boy smiled shyly at Jimmy, flashing a set of perfect white teeth and shifting uncomfortably from one foot to the other.

"Please, Jim."

Jimmy sighed.

"Allright, just a quick cuppa," he said, and Fat Gary led the way to his bedroom while Jimmy went to the kitchen to put the kettle on. He switched on the T.V. and was pleased to see the end of the last race.

"Phwoor," shouted Fat Gary from the bedroom. "Smells like a Sumo wrestler's jockstrap in 'ere!"

Jimmy smiled and began preparing the tea. A tray was always laid out in the kitchen with a teapot, cups, sugar bowl, and a mug full of water with teaspoons in it. Jimmy opened a cupboard, took out a packet of custard creams, and was putting them on a plate when Dad wheezed into the kitchen.

"Tea's up," said Jimmy.

"Ah, just the thing," replied Dad. "Gordon gone?"

Dad had become accustomed to Gordon's visits and, without exactly giving his approval, had managed to convey a certain amicability towards him. Dad maintained a silence regarding Jimmy's difference, ever since his initial outburst of outrage many years before, which had started and ended with the words, "No son of mine." After this tirade, which had left Jimmy shaking for a week, it was never mentioned again, except just once. That was when Dad had picked up a photo which had dropped out of Jimmy's pocket. It was of Jimmy, in Amsterdam, dressed from head to toe in black rubber, and wearing a rubber mask with a ventilator tube.

"What's this?" Dad had asked, turning the photo sideways and then upside down. Jimmy had taken a big breath and said,

"It's me."

Dad had frowned, squinted hard at the picture, and then looked straight at Jimmy. He appeared confused.

"Sometimes I wonder what I did wrong," he said.

Jimmy carefully carried three cups of tea and the custard creams into his bedroom. Fat Gary was lying outstretched on the bed, watching T.V. Tariq was standing looking at the Hot Hunks Calender on Jimmy's wall. Mr September was a blonde Adonis wearing a small fig-leaf and a foolish smile.

"Here you are then, lads. D'you take sugar, Tariq? I put two in anyway - I don't know anyone who doesn't take two sugars!"

The boy turned and smiled at Jimmy.

"You like men?" he asked, taking the tea.

Fat Gary snorted.

"Course he does, he's a fucking woofter. An arse bandit!" Fat Gary sat up, laughing. "Didn't I tell you, Tariq? He's a bloody turd burglar is Jim - that's his boyfriend just left. Ain't that right, Jimmy?"

Jimmy ignored him and turned to Tariq.

"That's the way I am," he said simply.

Tariq smiled again. He sipped his tea delicately and then placed the cup on the window sill. His long fingers were smooth and brown and he pointed one straight at Jimmy and then at the calender.

"It is not wrong," he said.

Fat Gary chortled and flopped back down on the bed.

"Just be careful, Tariq," he sniggered. "Don't bend over in here without looking behind you!" and he convulsed with laughter, his white belly wobbling between the gap in his shirt and jeans.

Jimmy shook his head at Fat Gary and then turned to the Bengali boy. Tariq was watching him intently with his large brown eyes.

It was still light when Jimmy finished work on Monday, so he thought he would take a stroll round the community garden and look at the last of his roses. Fat Gary and Tariq were leaning against the shed, smoking and watching a group of younger children throw stones at a cat. It was a warm evening and Tariq was was wearing a white short-sleeved T-shirt which revealed his lean arms, innocently smooth but with well-defined muscles. His skin glowed golden in the last rays of the sun.

"Oi, Jimmy," yelled Fat Gary. "Lend us a quid."

"No chance," said Jimmy. "I'm broke till Friday."

"Lend us a fiver Friday then?" shouted Gary.

Jimmy chuckled and began examining the roses. There was still a few fine blooms, and he rather hoped Tariq would come over and admire his labours. Carefully he pulled towards him a large white rose, delicately tinged with pink, and bent to sniff it, letting out a noisily enthusiastic sigh of appreciation. Sure enough the two teenagers sauntered over.

"Whassat then?" asked Fat Gary.

"Madame Alfred Carriere," replied Jimmy proudly. "Smell it."

"Who the fuck's she then - some French bird?" asked Fat Gary, grabbing the rose with his sausage fingers and sniffing loudly.

"Can't smell nothing," he said.

"Watch it, Gary," Jimmy warned. "Oh Gawd - look what you've done!"

The bloom hung limply on its broken stem.

"Madame Alfred fucking Carriere," sneered Fat Gary, unpeturbed. "Fucking poncey name - they should've called it after me, Gary Smith." He laughed loudly. "Eh, Tariq? The Gazza rose!"

Jimmy tutted and with a reluctant frown plucked the rose from its stem and regarded it mournfully.

"You're nothin' but an animal, Gary," he said. "Shouldn't be allowed near anything pretty."

He smelt the rose again and then, on impulse, handed it to Tariq.

"Here," he said. "You have it." Then he blushed and added hastily, "give it to your girlfriend." But it was too late. Fat Gary's eyes leered and his face opened into a broad grin of greenish teeth.

"Aah, look!" he cried gleefully. "Aah, ain't that sweet? He's given 'im a flower - hey kids, over 'ere - look at this."

The group of children immediately left the cat and came rushing over.

"Aw Jimmy - can I have one Jimmy?"

"Jimmy, give me one too."

They gathered round, grubby hands outstretched.

"Please, Jimmy, can I have a flower?"

"Oh no," sighed Jimmy. "Now look what I've started."

Patiently he explained to the children the unique and unrepeatable circumstances surrounding the plucking of Madame Alfred Carriere, until the youngest child, six-year-old David Stassinopolous, jumped onto Jimmy's back and began their usual boisterous manoeveres.

"Me next, me next!" shouted the other children, and each in turn was lifted, swung, thrown and turned upside down, screaming with delight. Tariq stood nearby, awkwardly holding the rose, while Fat Gary took over the task of stoning the cat. Eventually Jimmy, red-faced, was overtaken by a fit of coughing, and tried unsuccessfully to prise the arms of David Stassinopoous from around his neck.

"Right, that's enough," he gasped. "Come on now, get off."

"Aw Jimmy!" wailed David, wrapping his legs tightly around Jimmy's waist and wiping his nose on his shulder. "Just once more."

"Now come on," said Jimmy. "It's time for my tea," and the small boy slipped grudgingly to the floor.

"Coming out tomorrow, Jimmy?" chorused the children as he started walking off towards his flat.

"Maybe." Jimmy smiled over his shoulder at the kids and was surprised to see Tariq coming after him. The boy grinned as he caught up with Jimmy and began walking in step with him. The rose, Jimmy noticed, had disappeared.

"Allright, Tariq?"

The boy seemed nervous, apprehensive.

"Jimmy, I - " he faltered, and then blurted out, "have you really no money?"

Jimmy laughed.

"Not a lot," he replied. "Why do you ask?"

"I need twenty pounds," said Tariq. "To borrow."

It was nearly a day's wages and Jimmy knew better than to lend the kids money, but something in the boy's face made him bite back his instinctive refusal. There was a desperate urgency in his eyes, and although Jimmy had seen his share of desperation, he was touched.

"Only till the weekend," said Tariq. "I beg you."

Jimmy thought of his savings, sixty quid in a jam jar towards his next trip to Amsterdam.

"Allright. Just this once," he said. "It's in the flat."

Jimmy made a pot of tea while Tariq went into the bedroom. When he took in the tea the boy was standing staring at the calender.

"He is handsome," said Tariq.

Jimmy was taken aback by the sincerity of the statement, without the usual smirk of a taunt.

"Certainly is," Jimmy replied. "But out of my league, I'm afraid."

"You like looking at him?" persisted Tariq.

Jimmy chuckled.

"Nosey bugger, ain't you?" But the boy's artless curiosity mellowed him.

"Look, I'll tell you something, Tariq," he said. "There's never been any harm in looking. There's a lot of things in this world to look at - some of 'em you can touch and some of 'em you can't. So long as you know which is which you don't do nobody no harm."

The boy stared at him for a moment, and then a smile slowly spread across his face.

"So, who do you touch, Jimmy?"

Jimmy laughed.

"Now that would be telling," he said. "Here - I'll get you that cash."

Tuesday was wet again and Jimmy's bedroom was full of children watching T.V. Jimmy was in the kitchen preparing his evening meal when he heard a knock at the door. It was Tariq, barely recognisable in a hooded jacket, and holding out a small metal object.

"For you, Jimmy," he said.

It was a steel penknife made in the shape of a fish.

"For you," repeated the boy, thrusting the knife towards Jimmy. Jimmy blinked, and his glass eye closed as it always did when he was overcome with emotion. He took the knife, opened the blade, and gently ran his finger along it.

"Aw, thanks Tariq," he said. "Coming in? I was just making me tea."

Tariq followed him into the kitchen and perched on a stool while Jimmy removed a small meat pie from the oven. On the formica counter lay two buttered slices of white bread and Jimmy placed the pie on top of one slice, covering it liberally with H.P. sauce. Then, removing a fruit cake from its tupperware box, he cut a slab and placed it on top of the pie.

"There!" he said, grinning at Tariq. "That should sweeten it up lovely," and he placed the other slice of bread on top of the concoction and gave it two hearty thumps with his palm.

"Better eat it in here, otherwise the kids will all want some," said Jimmy. "You want a bit, Tariq?"

The boy shook his head vigorously.

"Suit yourself," said Jimmy, "all the more for me," and he opened his mouth as wide as it would go and attacked the sandwich, brown sauce spurting over his face and hands. At that moment there were squeals from the bedroom. Jimmy lowered the sandwich and cocked his head on one side, frowning. A man's deep voice said,

"Spread 'em."

"Oh blimey!" cried Jimmy, dropping his sandwich and running into the bedroom, closely followed by Tariq. Four children were huddled round the video recorder and Tariq just glimpsed a grainy picture of leather and naked skin before Jimmy switched off the set and turned to face the audience.

"Who put that on?" he demanded. His face was white except for a smear of brown sauce on his chin. The children looked at their hands.

"I've told you not to play with the video," said Jimmy. "Who put it on?"

David Stassinopolous hiccoughed. His sister, Charlene giggled.

"Right! Home - all of you," ordered Jimmy.

The children trooped out silently. Tariq and Jimmy listened to the bang of the front door, the sound of feet running down the stairs, and the laughter that exploded at ground level and faded into the distance. Jimmy shook his head.

"Those kids are well out of order," he said.

Tariq said nothing.

"Well out of order," repeated Jimmy, fetching his sandwich from the kitchen and switching on the news. "Let's see what's new then."

They sat side-by-side on the bed, their boots hanging over the edge of the pink nylon eiderdown.

Tariq sat silently through the news, Eastenders, The Bill and Brookside. Occasionally he would reach for Jimmy's tobacco tin, nudge Jimmy's arm, and raise his eyebrows. Each time Jimmy said,

"Sure, help yourself, no need to ask," and the boy rolled a cigarette with painstaking care. Jimmy watched the delicate way he licked the paper with his pink tongue. After examining the rolled cigarette closely Tariq then leaned back against the wall behind the bed and reverentially struck a match, pausing until the flame almost burned his fingers before lighting up. He smoked with a series of short, deep sucks, blowing the smoke in a fast stream at the ceiling. Between cigarettes the boy stared at the television screen and responded to Jimmy's frequent explanations and comments with a smile, but he showed no apparent interest in the programmes. Jimmy wondered if he was really watching them. It seemed as though he was waiting for something.

At nine o'clock Jimmy switched off the T.V. He was tired and his shift began at six the next morning.

"I'm going to turn in soon," he said. "Fancy a cuppa before you go?"

Tariq seemed to emerge slowly from a dream. He squinted at Jimmy and then frowned and bit his lip.

"I need more money," he said. "Until Saturday."

Jimmy sucked in his breath.

"Look I'm sorry, mate, but I'm the wrong person to ask."

The boy half-turned on the bed and faced Jimmy directly. He leaned forward slightly and lowered his voice.

"I'm in trouble, Jimmy."

Jimmy could smell the boy's spicey breath. He was so close that he could feel the heat of his body.

"What kind of trouble?" asked Jimmy, but his own voice suddenly seemed a long way off and he knew his question would remain unanswered. He heard nothing but the blood roaring in his ears as he saw Tariq's mouth open just slightly, and felt the boy's spidery fingers crawl lightly up his leg.

At six o'clock on Wednesday evening Jimmy's front door was kicked in. Jimmy arrived home from the warehouse at six-thirty to find Dad and Reggie sitting in the kitchen, drinking tea out of the two cups which had miraculously remained unbroken amidst the chaotic destruction. Dad looked calm, although his yachting cap was missing. Reggie was trembling so much that the tea slopped over the sides of his cup and splashed onto the floor. Smeared over the sink, in red letters, was the word 'Nonce'. Jimmy approached the dripping word, put a finger into the letter 'N' and examined the substance closely.

"Ketchup," said Dad. "But it would've been your blood if you'd been here."

"Who was it?" asked Jimmy. His face had drained of colour.

"Gary's dad, and the father of that little Greek kid. And another bloke I didn't recognise."

Jimmy rolled a cigarette.

"They'll be back," said Dad.

"I'm going to buy an ice cream," said Jimmy.

But already he could hear murmurs from outside the front door. He paused, checked the loose change in his pocket, and then opened the door. Under the balcony stood a group of neighbours, six or seven men and women, and although he knew them well it took Jimmy a few seconds to recognise them. Their faces were somehow different.

"There he is!"

"Fucking nonce!"

"Would you believe it - a child molester living right on your doorstep!"

The last words came from a large, sweating woman in a loose floral smock and slippers. Gary's mother, Brenda, was standing with her hands on her hips, looking at Jimmy and chewing gum. Jimmy thought of his ice cream, but the group was baring teeth like a pack of dogs. He wondered if he should just walk straight past them, if they would let him, but he remained outside his flat and stretched out his hands before him on the balcony wall.

"Look, I've done nothing wrong," he said. "I don't know what the problem is, but I've done nothing to be ashamed of."

Brenda sneered.

"Nothing to be ashamed of?" She pointed a finger straight at Jimmy. "Luring innocent children into your bedroom! Showing 'em filth!" Her voice rose to a screech. "Nothing to be ashamed of?"

Jimmy looked bewildered. His glass eye closed.

"I'm going to buy an ice cream," he said. "You can't stop me. I'm a free man and I've done nothing wrong."

But he stayed on the balcony, and did not move until the police car drew up outside the flat.

"Things could be worse," said Jimmy to the prison psychologist, Kenneth Edwards. They were sitting at either side of a large wooden table with an ash tray in the middle. The walls of the small interview room were bare and windowless, and the air smelt of cooked cabbage and urine. Jimmy looked forward to Kenneth's monthly visits as the young man had an unlimited supply of Marlborough and, at the end of each session, he always handed Jimmy five cigarettes.

"The education classes are doing me the world of good," said Jimmy. "I can just about write a decent leter these days. And art! I never thought I was any good at it, but you'd be surprised." He smiled at Kenneth.

"Have you thought any more about what we were talking about last time?" asked the psychologist.

"What's that then?"

"About the boy," said Kenneth, "about Tariq."

"I've told you," said Jimmy. "I don't know what the kid's game is, but when I get out of here I'm going to wring his bloody neck!"

Kenneth sighed and lit another Marlborough.

"That kid's got a lot to answer for," continued Jimmy. "Saying I drugged him, tied him up, forced him to ....I mean, what a story! Why's he do that then? You're a pschologist - what makes a kid tell lies like that?"

Kenneth took a long pull on his cigarette and then looked at Jimmy over the top of his small gold-rimmed spectacles.

"Jimmy," he said slowly. "You've got to start accepting things. Sexual assault of a minor is a very serious offence, as is subjecting very small children to illegal pornography."

Jimmy wished Kenneth wouldn't stare at him like that. It reminded him of the teachers at school.

"I don't know what you want me to accept," he said. "Do you want me to accept that I've been banged up for four years because of a lying little thief?"

"Jimmy," said Kenneth. "Sometimes it's much easier to deny something than to face it. Guilt is not a pleasant emotion."

"What?" Jimmy's forehead creased. "You talk in bloody riddles you do."

"I think you understand what I'm saying, Jimmy," said Kenneth.

"Well I don't, replied Jimmy firmly. "I don't understand a bloody word of it. You tell me I've got to talk about what I'm feeling and when I tell you, all you do is say it's the wrong answer. Can I have another fag?"

"It's time to finish now, anyway," said Kenneth. "I hope you'll think about the things we've discussed - it's important if you're going to get parole you know."

Jimmy gave a litle snort and waited. Kenneth opened his Marlborough packet and carefully removed five cigarettes. He pointed them at Jimmy, tapping them on the table to emphasize his words before dropping them at arm's length.

"Think about what I've said, Jimmy. I'll see you in four weeks."

It was Christmas Eve when Jimmy received the letter. He was watching television with Charles, the magician. There was no television room and the set was chained to the corridor wall outside the fourteen cells of the inmates who, for reasons of their own safety, were segregated from the main body of the prison. They were a strange bunch, Jimmy thought, but nice enough once you got used to their quirks. Charles, for instance, often used his conjuring expertise to acquire extra benefits from his neighbours. Charles didn't call it stealing, of course. He referred to it as "the magic of redistribution". He was a thin, silver-haired man with an educated accent and abnormally long fingers, and he was inside for having sexual intercourse with a twelve-year-old girl. Charles had no shame about this fact, and often spent hours reminiscing to Jimmy about the illicit relationship.

"It was love, you see," he would sigh. "That's what nobody ever understood. Love knows no laws."

Jimmy kept an open mind about Charles' past. Not knowing much about love he felt unqualified to pass judgement.

"Oi, Nobby!" one of the warders called. "Letter for you."

Jimmy trotted up to the office. He was used to his new nickname, although he still didn't understand why everyone referred to him as such. He couldn't complain, however. He got on well with all the screws and, after an initial month of unpleasant remarks and the occasional kick in the shins, he had never had a moment's trouble.

"Here you are, Nobby."

The warder held out the opened letter but seemed to be evading Jimmy's eye. The white envelope was type-written and Jimmy unfolded the thick, watermarked paper in wonder. The printed heading read, James Caulfield & Sons. Solicitors, and the letter was sent to inform him, regretfully, that Gordon was dead. Jimmy read the letter twice, put it in the pocket of his coarse, blue prison trousers, and went to lie down on his bed. He could not think of anything but Gordon's white face on the day of his last visit. He had lost a lot of weight but avoided Jimmy's questions about his health, saying it was his usual 'tummy troubles'. But Jimmy had known there was more to it than that. At the time he had wondered why Gordon looked so frightened.

Charles soon came into Jimmy's cell and, when he learned about Gordon, uncharacteristically produced his tobacco tin.

"What a dreadful thing, old boy," he said kindly. "What a perfectly bloody thing."

Jimmy just felt numb.

"Have a good cry, old chap," advised Charles. "Good to get it out."

But Jimmy didn't cry. He felt as though there were nothing left inside him, not even tears.

"I can't complain," Jimmy said to Kenneth Edwards. "The food's getting worse but at least the heating's working again. You know, they gave us shepherd's pie last night and it was just about all carrot. Not a bit of meat to be seen. I mean, they should at least have the decency to call it carrot pie. Why raise your hopes?" He looked questioningly at the psychologist.

"Talking of raising hopes," said Kenneth. "Your application for parole is going before the board next week - now it's important to consider what we were talking about last time ......"

Jimmy clenched his teeth and counted to ten.

"How many times do I have to tell you? he said finally. "How many times doI have to tell you that I'm innocent? I've got nothing to admit, to accept, to feel guilty about, however you put it. I've done nothing wrong."

Kenneth pulled at his beard.

"Look," said Jimmy. "Let me put it another way. Imagine yourself in my situation."

Kenneth raised an eyebrow.

"Well, imagine one of the screws runs in here now, all bleeding, and says, 'Kenneth Edwards beat me up'".

"I really don't think ...."

"Just listen," ordered Jimmy. "Imagine everyone believes that screw, and everyone thinks you attacked him, although you never touched him. Imagine that."

"Jimmy, this is really quite beside the point."

"No it ain't - it's just the same."

Jimmy banged his fist on the table. In his excitement his voice grew louder and little droplets of spittle flew out of his mouth.

"Now listen, Ken. Everyone says you beat up the screw so they lock you in a cell, give you filth to eat, half an ounce of stale tobacco a week, and make you shit in a bucket next to your bed."

Kenneth shifted uncomfortably in his chair but remained silent.

"But now suppose everyone realises you didn't do it. They all know, but they can't lose face and admit they locked up an innocent man, so they say to you 'Okay, Edwards, if you say you beat up that screw and say you're sorry you can go free.'"

Jimmy leaned back in his chair and smiled proudly.

"Well? What would you do?"

"Really, Jimmy, there is no room here for hypothetical fantasies."

"Answer me."

Jimmy's voice was suddenly unavoidably commanding.

"Well," said Kenneth nervously. "I think, if that was the only way to freedom - I think - er - I think I would probably say I'd done it.

Jimmy looked at the psychologist in astonishment.

"What? But you never did it!"

Kenneth shrugged. A patch of red crept above his beard.

"Sometimes we have to compromise, Jimmy."

Jimmy continued to stare at him. Slowly his glass eye began to close.

"I will never, ever, admit to something I'm not guilty of," he said quietly.

"It's time to finish," said Kenneth shortly. "I'll give my report to the board."

Jimmy waited, but Kenneth made no move towards his cigarettes.

"I'm disappointed, Jimmy," said Kenneth. "I'll see you in four weeks."

They both looked at the packet of Marlborough on the table.

"Goodbye, Jimmy," said Kenneth.

Jimmy returned to his cell and lay on the bed. He thought that perhaps, in an ideal world, he would have punched Kenneth Edwards in the face. That's how it would have happened on T.V. anyway. Jimmy sighed a long sigh and screwed up his face very tight. He had planned for his parole. The first thing he was going to do was to go to Al's cafe and order sausages, chips, double egg and baked beans. The second thing was to go down 'The Bear', see Georgie and all the rest, and have a large rum and black. Keeping his eyes firmly shut Jimmy tried to imagine the faded red velvet chairs in 'The Bear'. Just for a moment he felt a stab of panic as he wondered if he would ever see them again.

"Oi, Nobby! Letter for you."

The envelope came hurtling through the door and, although Jimmy raised his head to see it land, it was a long time before he wearily rolled off the bed and picked it up. It was Dad's familiar handwriting and Jimmy bit his lip as he sat back down on the bed. He studied the name and address closely, postponing both the pleasure and the pain of the contents. And then, suddenly, he laughed delightedly.

"Well look at that!" he exclaimed, his face radiant with glee.

The postage stamp had not been franked and Jimmy, chuckling to himself, began to carefully peel it from the envelope.

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