Time passed and I 'clocked up' two weeks in jail, I was called in to see the senior officer again.
"When you arrived, Dawson, we were a bit on the full side, so we had to put you in with Wilder. Things have eased now so we can move you in with someone else."
"Sir, if you don't mind I'd like to stay where I am."
The Senior looked at me closely, "Dawson, you don't know much yet. Coby Wilder is a very dangerous individual. I would strongly advise you to move, you'll be safer."
"Well, Sir, it's just that Wilder and I seem to be getting on okay. I don't feel unsafe with him, and it's a matter of the devil you know . . . I really would rather stay where I am, if I may."
Shrug, "As you wish."
I walked back to my cell feeling a sense of relief, but as I came in the door, I had a sudden disturbing thought - what if Wilder didn't want me. I thought that he probably preferred to be alone; I suspected that he had influence; perhaps he could get me moved.
But I had to tell him. I'd figured out that he liked to hear news and information, it was chitchat and idle stuff that he couldn't be bothered with.
I was nervous. "Er, Coby, they asked me if I wanted to move cells, but I said I'd rather stay here. Is that okay?"
He was looking at me levelly and didn't respond.
"I'll be good, Coby, I will. I won't do anything to annoy you, I promise."
I got the nod and let out my pent-up breath.
The weeks went by and I kept strictly to my promise. However, I thought that it would be nice if Coby and I had something to talk about other than the odd scrap of news. He was an avid reader, maybe that was a line in. I knew he worked in the library. I went there.
I asked him to recommend something for me to read, admitting that I hadn't read a book in years. He gave me a slim volume of Agatha Christie short stories.
I was a bit slow with my reading at first, but I enjoyed the stories, mostly they were pretty easy to follow. I got another book from Coby; I think he was pleased to see me reading. It went on.
One day when we were both reading in our cell, I said to him with some trepidation that I couldn't understand a particular story - it was one of Conan Doyles' Sherlock Homes short stories.
He said he couldn't remember it exactly so he took the book from me, read the story quickly and then explained it to me. I thought that was really good of him and I told him so, without getting too gushy, of course.
After that I felt more confident about seeking his help with stuff I was reading.