The security guard can’t stop yawning. The jail smells freshly painted and the overwhelming feel, beneath the boredom and mundaneness, is of fear. Jimmy passes through security and is told to remove his belt. He gets thumb-printed and searched. He wonders if someone might check up his arse. Do they actually do that in jail? He hopes he wiped properly. The security guard pulls the two photos out of his pocket and examines them, suddenly attentive. One of the photos he hands back, the other he holds up. ‘What’s this?’ ‘Um. Art.’ ‘Did you get a permit for this?’ ‘Yes.’ Jimmy tries to hold the guard’s eyes but can feel himself wavering. The security guard examines it again and then bends it back and forth, back and forth. Jimmy wants to snatch it from the cunt. ‘It’s a present . . . A special present for my friend.’ ‘Looks like graffiti to me. Graffiti’s illegal, mate. Not allowed in here, I’m afraid.’ The man smiles. ‘But I —’ ‘Sorry.’ Jimmy looks away so the man can’t see that he’s on the verge of tears.
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