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Summary
If he lies still enough, keeps his eyes shut or fixed on the black ceiling of his cell, he can trick himself into being however old he pleases. He’s four, thinking about all the possibilities that the future holds. He’s ten, realizing that there’s not much to the future but this, with Mary. He’s sixteen, thinking 'fuck that, I’m getting out of this place.' He’s seventeen, having just been returned home by the cops. He’s twenty-two, in his flat, knowing distancing himself is not the same as freedom. He’s twenty-five, lying next to some pretty face he’d found in one of his favourite haunts, trying to delude himself into thinking that this could be real. That this could be normal.
He lifts his head to see out into the dimly illuminated hallway and the illusion is dispelled. He’s in jail. Mary is dead but not gone. He’s trapped.
Or: Gerry is waiting for trial. Michael is his lawyer.