LA MAISON DU DÉLICE

PAUL HAWORTH

FALKLANDS

Today, I am detained at Her Majesty’s pleasure in Stanley, East Falkland.

I write these closing remarks sat at my desk. My outfit: a tobacco-coloured jumpsuit. Its cloth is a heavy hopsack weave, a blend of equal parts cotton and linen. Warm yet breathable, durable - it is a sensible choice of fabric. Though I would prefer a closer fit, the stitching is excellent - this garment has all the hallmarks of a military tailor.

My cell is inside an army prison. Interestingly, this prison connects to a hospital: the very same hospital where I was born. La Ronde. I was even visited by the midwife who delivered me. Sister Hatherley. She still works in the hospital and keeps photos of every baby she delivers. She showed me a picture of the bloodied lump that would ‘grow up’ to become this inmate.

Most fellow prisoners are soldiers, locked up on drunken misbehaviour charges for a night or two. There is one other full-time resident. His name is Stanley. Stanley of Stanley, I know. He was involved in a beer-watering scandal that rocked the Isles. A story for another time!

I merely wish to conclude with the assurance that this is not an unhappy ending. My Anthrophobie Suisse has lifted and my strength has returned. Even my hair looks to be coming back in a thicker growth.

Is that possible?

It is in my cell that I have written these words. I felt a compulsion to tell my story. As much for myself as for anyone else. I needed to make sense - literally make sense - of what has happened. The process of writing has allowed me to come to terms not only with the events that led to my being here but also my failures and shortfalls as a parent, and as a human being.

I know myself better.

My sincere hope is that this conclusion marks a new beginning. For instance, Proust! Tonight’s the night I begin that journey. Roland sent them over and I’m looking at my six editions now, ready and waiting on a shelf above my desk.

It’s no Roentgen, alas, but it does the job. Taped to the wall facing me is a photo. Dougie, smiling. Next to that is the card from Leanne’s envelope. I opened it after the verdict - then I truly was at my lowest ebb - but when I read the words, I knew it would be okay. I still have a look at it every now and then, when I have wobble and feel life hasn’t turned out quite as intended:

“If we don’t change directions, we will get to where we are heading”

—Anonymous

THE END