CELL BINDING (I)

I was always afraid that this story would end with me in prison. Turns out I was right.

Not exactly a major spoiler though, is it? I mean, we both already know that part, so it's how I got here that really matters.

I'm going to tell you everything, and I'm not going to hold back to spare anyone's feelings. I have to be totally honest if I'm looking for honesty in return. I'll warn you up front, though. Much of what I'm about to say is going to be difficult for you to hear, but there are things about me that I need you to understand. You're not going to like me for some of what I did and said, and the way you personally come across isn't always going to be flattering either, but it's important that you get a handle on how everything looked from my point of view.

It doesn't mean I feel that way now, or that I was right to think what I did back then. It's just how it was, you know?

There are a lot of places I could start, but I have to be careful about that. Certain choices might imply I'm pointing the finger, and I'm not. I know who's to blame for everything that happened. No need for any more deceptions on that score. So I'm not going right back to childhood, or to when my dad died, or even to when the police raided the flat and found a shitload of drugs and a gun. Because this isn't about any of that stuff, not really. To me, this all starts a few weeks ago, with me sitting in a waiting room, looking at a human time-bomb.

THE READER

I know the man is going to explode several minutes before the incident takes place. It is only a matter of time.

He is sitting opposite me in the waiting area, shifting restlessly on the plastic bench, his limbs in a state of constant motion: sudden jerks and twitches beating out a code I can read only too clearly. His head is an unkempt ball of hair, his matted locks merging with enough beard to kit out a whole bus full of hipsters. He looks across at me every few seconds, which makes me scared and uncomfortable, though I know he's not picking me out specifically. His eyes are darting about the room the whole time, not alighting on a single sight for more than a second, like a fly that won't land long enough to be swatted.

I am afraid of catching his eye, so I keep my gaze above him, where a row of posters glare back at me from the wall. They all seem intended to threaten, apart from the ones encouraging people to grass on their neighbours. 'We're closing in,' says one. 'Benefit thieves: our technology is tracking you,' warns another. 'Do you know who's following you?' asks a third. They feature images of people photographed from above at a steep angle, making them look tiny and cornered as they stand on concentric circles. To drive the point home, another poster shows an arrow thwocking into a bullseye: 'Targeting benefit fraudsters'.

I have done nothing wrong but I feel guilty and intimidated. I feel like a criminal simply for being here. I have rehearsed what I am going to say, gone over it and over it in front of the bedroom mirror. I know my arguments, and have tried to anticipate how the officials might respond. I was feeling ready when I left the house, coaching myself all the way here, but now I think I've got no chance. I'm wasting my time. I want to leave, want to run, but I can't. I need the money. I desperately need the money.

I glance towards the counter. Above the woman on reception there is a poster stating 'In the UK illegally? Go home or face arrest.' Bold text proudly announces there were '86 arrests last week in this area'. There are no people on this poster, but if there were, I know what they would look like. They would look like me.

One nation, I think. The Big Society.

I know the poster they'd really like to print. It would say: 'Are you white enough to live here? If not, fuck off back to Bongo Bongo Land.'

A woman emerges from the interview rooms and shuffles towards the exit without looking up. I can tell things didn't go well for her. She is followed shortly by one of the staff: a grey-haired white bloke.

There is also a Chinese woman doing interviews. It's already half an hour after my appointment, and both she and Grey Hair have each come out a couple of times since I arrived. I've been watching them very carefully.

I hope I get the Chinese lady. She seems relaxed, if a little tired. The grey-haired guy is like a coiled spring.

He calls out a name and the twitchy bloke opposite stands up. He walks towards the interview rooms, following Grey Hair, who has barely looked at him. Part of me is pleased that Grey Hair is now occupied, as I must surely be due in next, but the part of me that reads people knows something bad is about to happen.

The Chinese lady comes out again and I sit up straighter in my chair, willing my name to be called. It isn't.

More people drift in and take up the empty spaces on the benches. There has to be a dozen people in here, and the only one talking is a woman in the corner trying to stop her toddler from kicking off. But, to me, there is a growing cacophony in the room, ratcheting up my anxiety. They ain't saying anything, but I can sense all of their tension, anger,...