My Fellow Prisoners

The Addict

There was something totally dejected about him. Tall, nearly two metres in height, skinny and stooping, his nose badly broken, with small eyes, and huge swollen hands on long arms – hands that you couldn’t fail to notice immediately – Oleg was always to be found standing on the first floor of the barracks.

In fact, that’s what everyone called him – ‘First Floor’.

‘Hey, First Floor, where’s Abdulayev? They’re looking for him!’

‘First, the inspector’s coming. Let everybody know!’

‘Tell the supply officer to come over, will you, First…’

And so it would continue, all day long. The duty orderly’s assistant, a human walkie-talkie…

Things had been a bit different before, however. The first-floor position had been occupied by a professional grass, who had no compunction in planting a prohibited item (like a shank, a homemade knife) in the bedside table of anyone who crossed his path – and then tipping off the detention officer that he might want to do a ‘thorough inspection’.

This guy had felt he was the ‘floor boss’, and he’d yell and lash out at fellow prisoners, who couldn’t respond. He didn’t have the sense, however, to know where to draw the line. There was a ferocious, short-lived fight; he was sent to the punishment ward and then transferred to another detachment.

And now, Oleg. Quiet, diligent, but utterly opposed to mistreating anyone or informing on them.

One day we were out shovelling snow together. We got talking.

He’s thirty. Already a veteran drug addict. He’s had AIDS for several years but his immunity is still holding up, although he constantly gets weeping sores on his legs. Before prison he worked as a meat cutter. He liked his job, the money wasn’t bad. Enough to be able to buy drugs.

His intake increased. He had to switch to worse quality drugs. When they busted him he was immediately charged with possession because of the quantity. They beat him up badly, but he didn’t grass up his supplier. And so he was put away.

His partner also has AIDS. She’s an orphan. He’s only got his mother. She used to earn pretty good money, enough to get by. But now his mother’s fallen ill and things are very tight. His mother lives with his partner, who is 170 centimetres tall and weighs just 45 kilos. She’s very worried that she won’t last until his release.

When I ask him why he doesn’t take any medication, Oleg reveals a toothless grin.

‘If you start taking the medication you have to carry on. Or else it only makes you worse. My family can’t afford to buy it, it’s very expensive. But to get the free stuff – half the year it’s there, half the year it isn’t. When I get out, though…’

And then, under his breath: ‘If she lasts that long…’

‘So how did it come to this, Oleg, why did you fritter your life away like this? Why didn’t you quit the drugs?’

‘I tried to quit, several times. But then my mates would come along and it would all start off again… I don’t have the strength any more. When I get out, I’ve got to get away. But where do I go? And how? What about my mother, my partner…’

He sighs and carries on shovelling snow that falls like an endless shroud. A gangly, sad figure against a white swirling background.