The Education Of Thomas Dylan

For Thomas Dylan life at high school was a struggle. The lessons were okay, he enjoyed his studies, but he found it hard to make friends. Maybe his shoulder-length hair didn’t help. It made him stand out and as a teenager at high school, it was important to fit in. But, he loved his long hair. His parents would nag him to get his hair cut, but Thomas always refused. 

‘You look like John Lennon.’ His dad teased.

‘I like it.’ Thomas insisted. 

His dad ruffled his hair playfully and called him a hippy.

Outside of school, he enjoyed reading the latest book he rented from the library, and writing short stories. He was happiest in a world of his own creation, and was always getting ideas for stories. He would spend a lot of his free-time curled up on his bed, notebook and pen in hand, writing story after story.

While he wasn’t bullied at school there was always the occasional altercation. He seemed to attract attention because he was alone. Not a week would go by without being pushed around. He would simply pick himself up, and straighten his school tie and try not to dwell on things. 

One day during morning break a few older boys noticed he was on his own. They heckled him as he walked by, shoving him out of the way. He bounced against the metal lockers, and just about managed to stay on his feet.

Thomas felt his cheeks burn red with embarrassment. 

At lunchtime, in the school yard, another group spotted him on his own. They pointed and called out to him. Thomas winced as he watched them approach, preparing himself for the abuse that would no-doubt follow.

The three lads walked over to him.

‘What are you doing over here on your own? Where’s your mates?’ One of them asked.

Thomas simply shrugged.

‘You got no mates?’ 

Quite unsure how to answer, he shook his head.

‘We can’t have that. You have to have school mates, dontcha?’

‘What’s your name?’ 

‘Thomas.’ He said.

‘Well, you’re one of us now, Tommy.’ 

The lads were called Ian, Pete and Steve and were in the same year as him. It was strange to suddenly be included in things, to have a group of friends to hang around with. Rather than spending break-times on his own, he would join his new friends, hanging out, kicking a football around the yard. 

Ian was the leader, the one who came up with the plans for the latest escapade the group would get up to. Pete had a sense of humour that was infectious. When playing football, Pete would give a running commentary, as he played. And Steve, rather like Thomas, was quieter, simply enjoying the company. 

Thomas wasn’t sure his parents would approve of his friends. They smoked cigarettes and talked of drinking at the weekends. His mother, he was certain, would call them ruffians and insist that he keep his distance. The way Tommy saw it, didn’t really have a choice. Being with the boys was so much preferable to being on his own. 

School life was much easier being part of a group. And, he did enjoy their company. Okay, they didn’t let something like the law, or school rules, stop them from doing something, and no subject was taboo when it came to joking around, but they were good lads. 

One lunch-time, Tommy joined the group as they left the school playground, and headed for the local shop. The rules were that pupils were not allowed to leave school premises during the day. And yet, here Tommy was, with his new friends, squeezing through a gap in the railings before strolling along the street as though it was the holidays. He felt the rush of adrenaline at flaunting the school rules. 

Tommy followed the others as they piled into the local newsagents. Before Tommy could ask what the lads wanted to buy, he saw they were helping themselves. Tommy was stunned to see the lads filling their pockets with sweets and bars of chocolate.

‘Come on, Tommy, take something.’ Ian whispered.

Tommy didn’t quite feel comfortable with stealing, but he sensed that if he did not, then Ian and the group may turn against him. Tommy picked up the smallest bar of chocolate and pocketed it. 

The owner of the shop came from behind the counter, and stormed towards them, telling the boys to put the stolen sweets back. His friends laughed and swore at the man, as they dashed out of the door. They ran down the street, cutting down the back alleyways to evade capture. 

‘That,’ Ian said, as he tried to catch his breath, ‘was hilarious.’

Back in school, Tommy threw the stolen chocolate bar in the bin. He couldn’t face eating the chocolate that he had stolen. 

That would be the pattern from now on. Whenever went shop-lifting, Tommy would go along with it, taking a token item, just to fit in. He would discard anything he took. He knew that part of the reason the others encouraged him to get involved in the petty thievery was so that he would be implicated as well. If he was actually involved, then there would be less chance of him telling on them. While it never did sit well with him, he went along and wished for the incident to be over. 

They would bunked off school now and again, getting the bus into Manchester city centre. They would spend the day hanging around, they would do a bit of shop-lifting and treat themselves to a chip-shop lunch. The excitement of charging out of the automatic doors, their jackets stuffed with stolen goods had the lads laughing hysterically. Tommy was swept along with them. He enjoyed the company, the camaraderie, the laugh they always had, even if he didn’t completely agree with their more questionable activities. He enjoyed belonging to the group of friends and knew they would be there for him when he needed them. 

They reached their last year of high school. While his friends did little or no revision for their final exams, and attended school even less than usual, Tommy worked hard, managing to fit in time to study as well as hanging out with his friends. 

Ian, Pete and Steve would take long drags of their cigarettes while discussing how there was no point in studying for their exams as there was no jobs out there anyway.

Tommy’s efforts paid off. He did well in his exams and fulfilled his dream of going on to further education. When they left school, Tommy went to college to study English Literature. His mates left school and managed to find work in the factories and warehouses of the nearby industrial park.

He would still see his school friends and juggled his studies, college life and keeping in close contact with his old mates.

He knew they were not exactly law-abiding citizens and knew that despite what they said, there was more to life than getting roaring drunk every weekend. Quite what that was, though, he wasn’t entirely sure.

One Friday night when he had finished college classes, and the lads had all clocked off work, he met up with the lads as usual. He found that they were huddled around a car, with Ian behind the wheel.

‘We’re going on an adventure, Tommy. You coming?’ Ian asked.

‘Road trip!’ Steve yelled.

‘I really don’t think-’ Tommy started.

‘We’re going for a spin. You can either have a great night with us, or you can go back home and join your mum and dad watching Coronation Street. Up to you, mate.’ Pete said.

He joined his friends and climbed in the back of the car. Ian slammed his foot on the accelerator and the car screeched down the street, and off into the night.

‘Where did you get the car from?’ Tommy asked.

‘I borrowed it from a mate. He said I can have it for the evening.’ Ian said.

The grin on his face, and sniggering from the others, told Tommy he was lying. The car was stolen, there was no doubt about that. Tommy felt sick at the thought, but there was really nothing he could do. You had to stick with your mates, though, didn’t you? They would stick by you. It was the way of the world, wasn’t it?

They spent the next ninety minutes tearing down the streets of the city. Ian drove as though he was a rally driver. Tommy clung on to the back of the driver’s seat and just wanted the evening to be over.

Ian pulled the car to a sharp stop, mounting the pavement outside a row of shops. Ian and the others jumped out of the car, and rushed into the off-license shop. Here we go, Tommy thought. Not content with the stolen car, they were now about to shop-lift from the off-license. 

Wishing he had stayed at home and watched the soaps with his parents, he followed his friends into the shop. While Steve grabbed a crate of beer and ran from the shop, Ian and Pete charged to the counter. 

Tommy looked on in horror, as Ian produced a large knife. He yelled at the young lad behind the counter to open the till, slashing the blade through the air.

The lad had tears in his eyes as he opened the till. Ian and Pete grabbed handfuls of cash, filling a small sport-bag. Tommy was just stunned. It felt like he was dreaming, or rather in the middle of a nightmare. He stood frozen to the stop, watching the carnage in front of him. Was this really happening?

When they had emptied the cash register, Ian and Pete raced out the door, carrying the bag full of cash between them. 

Unsure quite how to end this nightmare, Tommy turned and ran from the shop. He was just stepping through the door, when the car sped off down the road, leaving Tommy standing on the pavement, stranded. His friends had left him behind. He couldn’t believe they hadn’t waited for him. 

He was about to make a run for it, when he felt arms grab him from behind and he was tackled to the floor. His head hit the pavement hard. 

In the court-room, the judge glared at him. Tommy had been charged with armed robbery. The fact that he had refused to name his accomplices, plus the fact that CCTV showed they were travelling in a vehicle that had been reported stolen, did not help his case. Tommy had nothing to say in his defence. He was guilty, he had been there. Whether he had been happy about the direction his friends were going did not matter in the eyes of the law. 

There was no way he could have named Ian, Pete and Steve. It just wasn’t done. You didn’t grass up your mates. He hadn’t been quick enough on his heels, and he had to pay the price. 

In the gallery, his mother looked exhausted, her eyes red from crying, his father looked stunned, pale with shock. They couldn’t understand how their son had come to be in this situation. What could he say? He barely knew the answer himself. 

When the judge sentenced him to eighteen months in prison, it was as though the world fell away underneath him. The police officer beside him, grabbed him under the arm to keep him on his feet. 

As he was being led away, he could hear his mother sobbing. He had broken her heart. His parents would never get over this. He hung his head, his long hair hanging over his face.

Still not believing this was happening, he followed the uniformed warder along the prison landing, their footsteps clanging on the metal walkway. The warder stopped and jerked a thumb towards the open cell door.

‘You’re in here.’ He said.

Tommy nodded and entered the cell. The room he would be sleeping in for the next eighteen months was tiny. The room had bare brick walls and metal bunk beds. It looked like something from a film. 

There was a man sitting on the top bunk. He wore the same grey prison issue tracksuit as he was wearing. He was somewhere in his forties, his dark hair showing traces of grey. He got to his feet and stepped towards him. 

Tommy flinched as his new cell-mate squared up to him. He didn’t know what to say, what to do, so he said nothing, didn’t move.

‘You in here with me?’ The guy asked.

Tommy simply nodded.

‘I’m Archer. I’m on the top bunk, you’re down there.’ He pointed to the bed underneath. 

‘Okay, fine. I’m Tommy.’

‘Welcome home, Tom.’ Archer said with a grin.

Over the next few days, Archer showed Tom the ways of life in prison. There were certain things you did, certain things you did not do. You never asked what anyone was inside for, or if they were innocent or guilty. If people want to tell you, they will. You ask the wrong feller how he came to banged up, then you could wind up bleeding to death in the recreation room. And there would be no witnesses, of course. Nobody would have seen anything, they never did.

When you walk down the landing, and into the rec room or canteen, you had to handle yourself a certain way. You don’t look anybody in the eye, don’t stare at anyone, whatever you do. But you don’t look away either. You don’t cower and shy away. 

Lying on their bunks in the darkness, Tom and Archer would talk late into the night. Tom was glad of the support and advice of the older prisoner. Archer had been in and out of prison since his teens. He was what they used to call an old lag. 

Tom found himself confiding in him about the events that led him being sent to prison, how his friends had been tear-aways and how he had gone along with things, before finally coming unstuck. He detailed how he had been left hanging, while they had driven off. And here he was.

‘You really don’t need friends like that, Tom. And let me guess, you haven’t heard anything from them since?’

Tom shook his head. 

‘You’re better off without them, mate. Take my advice, get yourself out of here and don’t come back. Your friends will be joining me inside before too long, I’m sure. You need to learn from this and make something of yourself.’

Tom nodded. He was glad of the darkness of the cell, to hide the tears in his eyes. 

In the months that followed, Tom found his feet in prison. He mastered the way of walking and acting so that people did not bother him. He spent his days in the gym, weight-training and learned how to box from a fellow inmate. 

At the end of a boxing session, as Tom wiped the hair out of his eyes, one of the lads asked if he needed a haircut. 

‘Don’t tell me, there’s a hairdresser’s salon and a spa on C wing.’ Tom laughed.

The guy explained how Terry on the third landing was a barber on the outside. For a packet of smokes he would cut your hair.

Having showered and changed into a clean tracksuit, Tom headed to see Terry.

Terry’s cell was set up like an old-fashioned barber shop. There was a wooden chair in front of the mirror with scissors, combs and other barber equipment laid out on the table.

‘If sir would like to take a seat.’ Terry said, with mock politeness.

Tom took the seat in front of the mirror. Terry threw a bedsheet around his chest.

‘What can I do for you?’

Tom ran a hand through his thick shoulder-length hair.

‘I want it short.’ Tom said. 

‘How short?’

‘Take it all off.’ Tom replied.

Tom studied his reflection in the mirror as Terry dragged the clippers through his hair. His long hair, the locks he had cherished since he was a child, fell away, tumbling onto his shoulders. 

When he was done, Tom did not recognise the features looking back at him. He looked like a different person. He ran a hand over his shaved head.

His arms were toned from the weights and the punch-bag, his head freshly shaved and there was a steel in his eyes that hadn’t been there before. Perfect. He nodded and jabbed a fist at his reflection. He looked like somebody that people would think twice before messing with.

He got to his feet and pulled the sheet away. He handed Terry the packet of cigarettes. 

In the weeks that followed, Tom really settled into prison life. He had a circle of friends he would play games with in the rec room. The lads would play all kinds of games, chess, darts, cards, dominoes and pool. He also struck up friendships with the warders. They knew Tom as someone who would give them no trouble and always up for a chat and a laugh. In the films he had seen about prison, the warders were seen as the enemy. He found, however, that the prison officers were decent people who generally had the inmates’ interests at heart.

A few days later, as he was leaving the rec room, one inmate shoulder-barged him as he was passing, slamming right into him. It was clearly an insult, a challenge. His prison reputation hung on how he handled this situation. 

Tom knew what had to be done. He lashed out with his fists, threw a left, then a hard right. When the guy crumpled to the carpet, Tom was on top of him, punching him over and over again. 

Finally, Tom got to his feet. The others looked on, everyone had got the message. You didn’t mess with Tom Dylan. He bid the silent room a chirpy good afternoon, before heading back to his cell.

One afternoon, around halfway through his sentence, Tom came back to his cell to find Archer packing his things in a hold-all. 

‘What’s all this? Are they releasing you?’ Tom asked.

‘No such luck, Tom. They’re moving me to another prison. It happens every now and then, especially if you’re in for a longer stretch. It’s like musical chairs. The music stops and they move you.’ Archer said with a shrug. 

‘When are you moving?’ Tom asked, his voice breaking with emotion.

‘When I’ve packed up. There’s a van waiting to take me.’ 

‘They can’t do this.’

‘We’re being held at His Majesty’s Pleasure, son. They can do what they like.’

As he was leaving the cell, the two men shook hands. Tom thanked him for everything and tried to hold back the tears.

‘Hang in there, Tom. You’ll make it.’ Archer said. 

Archer gave him a salute and walked away down the landing. 

Tom flopped on his bunk, the small cell suddenly seemed that bit bigger and emptier without his cell-mate. He would have the cell to himself until those in charge found another inmate to share with him. 

Just over a week later, a warder called to see him in his cell. Tom folded the newspaper he was reading and sat up on his bunk. He waited for the warder to explain his reason for the visit.

‘Have you thought about the courses this place runs? They always go down really well with the parole board. It shows you’re doing more with your time in here than plotting your escape or planning the next bank job.’ The warder laughed.

Tom had to admit, the warder had a point. It would look very good on his prison record to show he had completed a course or two.

‘You might have something there.’ Tom said.

‘Have a think about it.’ He handed him a leaflet. 

Tom nodded, thanked him and said he would consider it. He took the offered leaflet and tucked it under his pillow.

That afternoon, he perched on the edge of his bunk and went through the leaflet. There was all sorts of courses, mathematics, cooking, wood-work, even a meditation and mindfulness seminar. His eyes were drawn to one course in particular. Creative Writing. His mind went back to the stories he used to write when he was a child. 

In the recreation room that evening, Tom went over to the notice board. He scribbled his name down on the form for the Creative Writing course. His was the only name on the list so far. One of the lads looked over from the pool table.

‘Creative writing? Check out Martina Cole, over here.’ He said.

‘It will help with my parole. They reckon it’ll look good on my record. And besides, it’s a change from beating you lot at pool.’ Tom laughed.

Tom did not let anyone know how excited he was for the course. He couldn’t explain why but the writing course, like with his parole application itself, seemed to be offering some hope, some light in this dark place. 

Tom went into the prison classroom. There was a woman sitting behind the desk at the front of the room. She was flicking through a stack of papers. There was a paperback book next to her, On Writing by Stephen King. Tom cleared his throat before speaking.

‘I’m here for the creative writing class.’ He said.

‘Excellent,’ she smiled, ushering him inside. 

‘What name is it?’

‘Tom Dylan.’

‘Well, Thomas, I’m Louise. If you’d like to take a seat, we’ll be starting shortly.’ 

A few minutes later, she checked the time on her watch.

‘Thomas, looks like it is just you and I. Let’s get down to brass tacks, shall we?’

‘One on one tuition. You should make sure you charge them extra for this.’ Thomas said with a smile.

An hour later, having discussed writing and literature in some depth, Louise said she’d be back next week to pick up where they left off. He could tell she was impressed at his knowledge and level of interest. She handed him a blue exercise book. He flicked through the empty lined pages.

‘What’s this for?’ Thomas asked.

‘Your homework.’ She said.

‘What’s my homework assignment, Miss?’ He asked with a grin.

‘I want you to write a story.’ She said.

‘What about?’

‘Whatever you like.’ She said, waving a hand with the dramatic flair of a magician revealing the end of their trick. 

As Thomas walked down the landing, back to his cell, he couldn’t help smiling to himself. He had only been to one class but he could feel the thrill of creative writing coming back to him. 

In his cell that evening, he curled up on the bunk, notepad open, pen in hand. An image came to mind, of his younger self, in his childhood bedroom, writing stories in a notebook, living in a world of his own creation. This course, this chance, the opportunity to get back into his writing, it seemed to be a life-line, like throwing a rope to someone who was drowning. 

Thomas was determined to grab the rope and cling on so tightly.

By Chris Platt

From: United Kingdom