by Gemma Rogers
Barry was witty, sharp as a tack and impossible not to like. He was in his mid-thirties, average height with kind eyes, freckles and auburn hair that would curl if allowed to grow. On our first introduction, shortly after I was released, he’d talked easily about Catholicism when I mentioned I went to an all girls’ school. I’d remained quiet as his voice boomed around the tiny room. He was a fountain of information on life on the outside and rehabilitation. Not beaten down by the system, like so many others who dealt with us daily, trying to keep us on the straight and narrow. At times, it must have felt like a thankless task.
When he first saw me, he declared I needed feeding up and handed me a lukewarm sausage roll from Greggs. Although rude of him to comment on my stature, I’d munched away, my stomach rumbling gratefully. Pastry crumbs had rained on the table as I watched him complete some forms on my behalf. Together we wrote a rehabilitation plan, how I would go about integrating and adjusting back into society. When we were done, he took a long look at me, sizing me up and said he knew somewhere that might take me on.
‘Can’t wait to get the fuck out of here.’ Karla sighed, wrapping her hands around her mug. Her nails bitten to the quick.
‘You mean Bright’s?’ I asked.
Karla nodded and took a long drag, squinting as the smoke reached her eyes. Her fingers stained yellow from nicotine. ‘Bright’s, Croydon, all of it. Once I’m off licence, I’m going to move down the coast, Brighton or somewhere.’
‘What about your family?’
‘Don’t have any now,’ Karla said, gazing far into the distance.
‘Everyone has parents.’
‘I haven’t been home since I got released. It’s better that way.’ She said it so abruptly, I assumed they’d turned their backs on her. It obviously wasn’t something she wanted to talk about.
I surveyed her without detection. She was pretty, caramel skin and eyes so dark they could be black, but the circles beneath and hollow cheeks aged her. I couldn’t talk, I knew I was a far cry from the girl who had been sent down. My skin no longer glowed, now sallow, and hair like straw. I avoided mirrors, I hated my body, the jutting collar and hip bones. Gone were the soft curves and femininity. I was too angular. Karla and I were the same – pointy and hard.
She grimaced; a shadow crossed her face. I was dying to ask what she’d been in for, but it wasn’t the done thing. Most ex-offenders were private and didn’t want to talk about their time inside or what had led them to it. I suspected whatever it was; it wasn’t as serious as mine.
Although small and fierce, Karla didn’t look like she’d killed anybody.
2
Terry Bright’s office was a mess, every surface covered in leftover polystyrene food cartons from the ‘fat wagon’ – the van which came around the industrial estate to feed all the hungry workers. His bin was overflowing with discarded crisp packets and chocolate bar wrappers, but that didn’t stop him shovelling the cold fried-egg sandwich into his mouth, licking his fingers one by one. I was amazed to see he had a wedding band on, unable to believe he’d got someone to marry him.
My stomach rolled, throat constricting as I stood in front of the desk, waiting for Terry to speak. He was a short, greasy man with sallow skin and a receding hairline. Although he always appeared to wear fresh clothes, his face had a sheen, like a permanent layer of sweat resided there, and come the afternoon the smell of body odour lingered in his office.
Finally, he spoke, mid-mouthful. His accent reminiscent of an EastEnders character. It sounded exaggerated, as though it was what he thought a south Londoner would sound like. ‘How did you find your first week, Jess?’ Dabbing his mouth with a serviette, missing a splodge of yolk on his cheek entirely.
‘Good, thank you,’ I said politely. Terry thought he was a big deal, owner of Bright’s, master and commander of all in his shitty warehouse. I’d heard him holler at some of the others, he talked to them like dirt, but he paid our wages, so I guessed he believed he was entitled. He gestured for me to sit and I lowered myself into the chair.
‘I like to look after my girls, extra hours, bonus schemes, you know.’ His eyes twinkled. ‘You interested in any of that? Going the extra mile?’ He rubbed his crotch provocatively and I chewed the inside of my cheek, my gaze falling upon the expanse of skin where Terry’s overhanging belly had stretched his shirt buttons. An icy finger traced its way down my back. He scrutinised me, lingering on my non-existent chest.
I stayed quiet, shrinking inside, contracting smaller and smaller. Trying to shrivel away.
Terry stood and walked over to the blinds, twisting the handle to close them, concealing his office from the warehouse. He stood so close, towering over me, I could smell sweat emanating from his shirt. I sat rigid, biding my time before I intended to open the door and flee, but he returned to his seat behind the desk.
On the wall, I eyed the clock, it was ten past five on Monday afternoon. My second week at Bright’s. Most of the workers would have left already. Terry had called me in just as I was taking off my tabard.
‘Now, Barry and I are good friends, he likes to keep in touch and see if you’re all behaving yourselves,’ Terry said, pushing back from the desk, wheeling himself into view, legs spread wide. I swallowed. ‘You are behaving yourself, aren’t you, Jess? I can tell Barry you’re settling in just fine?’
I nodded.
Terry licked his lips, slowly unbuckling his belt, lowering the zipper and sliding his hand inside. I baulked.
‘Your wife?’ I said, my voice low, knowing I was clutching at straws.
‘What she doesn’t know won’t hurt her, eh?’ He simpered, tapping the framed photo on his desk I hadn’t noticed before, and gave me a wink.
A blonde woman holding a gummy toddler smiled out at me and I thought I might be sick. My head swam as I watched him play with himself for a moment, unable to tear my eyes away from the nauseating sight.
‘I think we have an understanding, right?’ He chuckled, eyes glinting.
My heart pounded in my chest, heat bubbled inside, whooshing upwards like a bottle of fizzy pop. ‘Go fuck yourself, Terry,’ I spat and pulled open the door, grabbing my rucksack from the side and rushing out of the building. I didn’t look back.
At the bedsit, I took a long shower, but I couldn’t scrub myself clean. It wasn’t the first time I’d been propositioned. Favours were traded for sex on the inside daily with the prison officers, but when I walked out of those gates, I thought I’d be able to put that behind me. Did I go back to Bright’s tomorrow, pretend like it never happened? I needed the job, the money. Employment didn’t come easily to ex-offenders and I had to keep a roof over my head. I wouldn’t survive on the streets.
Agitated and unable to settle, I walked that evening for hours, my stomach tied in knots. Drizzle lit up by the street lamps as I moved between them, the pavements slippery underfoot. It was cold and miserable, not the sort of night to go for a walk, but the bedsit was small, and the walls closed in until I felt I was in my cell again.
I rang Helen’s mobile, but she didn’t answer. I wasn’t surprised, things between us were strained to say the least. I didn’t ring the home phone; I didn’t want to disturb Mum, not if she didn’t want to speak to me either.
Helen had met me outside Bronzefield prison on my release day, with a suitcase full of clothes, an old mobile phone and a bag of groceries. She held the key to Stuart’s garage conversion and once she’d driven me there and I was settled in, she’d left. Unbeknownst to me, it had all been arranged while I was inside. Apparently, I wasn’t welcome to live back at Mum’s and she’d organised the bedsit to keep me away. I was surprised she was still living there now she was twenty-five; she’d always said she’d move out the first chance she got. Perhaps she’d stuck around to help Mum out or keep her company.
I put the phone back in my pocket, I didn’t have anyone else to call, Helen’s was the only number I had in my pay-as-you-go phone.
My best friend when I was
a teenager, Ashley Parsons, had gone to Portsmouth University. I hadn’t spoken to her for four years. She wrote a couple of times while I was inside, apologising for what happened, but I asked her to stop contacting me. Not because I was angry about that night, but I wanted her to move on, forget the past. She had a chance at a real future, and I wasn’t going to let this mess drag her down. She’d always been the smartest of us. The one who was going to get off the St Helier estate and make something of herself.
I never thought it was that bad, although everyone said it was overrun by hooligans. Kids on mopeds, dealing drugs on every corner. It was never quiet. Loud music boomed into the night, and no matter what time of day, there would be someone rowing and a baby screaming. The more respectable, hard-working adults moaned about antisocial behaviour and vandalism but nothing ever changed.
Looking back now, I can see we were perceived as the hooligans, although we were only ever having a laugh. The estate was our playground, and Mum worried because I was always there. Ashley lived near the estate, like I did, her parents always saving to move away, but she loved being in the thick of it all. I too was drawn to it like a moth to a flame. I just didn’t realise then that I would get burnt.
By the time I returned to the bedsit, my clothes were damp from the January drizzle and I hung them over the chair to dry, although I knew they wouldn’t. The atmosphere was dank, a musty smell in the air. I snuggled down in my cold duvet and read The Faraway Tree by Enid Blyton. It had been one of my favourites as a kid and Helen had packed it for me. Twenty-two years of life shoved into a tiny red suitcase, the kind advertised as perfect for hand luggage when you were nipping abroad for the weekend and didn’t want to check a bag. I’d never even been on a plane.
I went back to work the following day, after all, what choice did I have? Nothing was said and the next three days were uneventful. I kept my head down. Terry didn’t call on me, in fact I only saw him once, and when I did, he awarded me a wink which made my knees turn to jelly. Karla was sullen and not particularly talkative, so when we were teamed together again, we worked quietly, loading and unloading. Going through the sheets, to see what we could clean and what had to be incinerated. I didn’t mind, I liked not talking. What did I have to talk about anyway? I worked, I went home, I read.
Sometimes I found solace in the library in their last opening hour of the day when my landlord, Stuart, had his family round. If he could, he’d pre-warn me they were coming, as the noise would be unbearable. His young nephews were little tearaways who loved to scream the place down and it would echo around the bedsit. We spoke most days, arriving home at similar times. He loved a chat and would find a way to slot Helen into the conversation. So much so, I was sure he had a bit of a crush on her.
Dinner consisted of Pot Noodles and pasta sachets that just required hot water. The only appliance I had was a kettle and a small fridge, although Stuart had promised me a microwave at some point. Most of my money went on the launderette. I didn’t have enough clothes to wear for the week and once worn for a day at Bright’s, there was no way you could wear them again before washing. At the weekend, I promised myself a trip to the charity shop to see what I could scavenge.
On Friday afternoon, Barry, our rehabilitation officer, came in for a visit. He came around to each of his probationers, six in total, seeing us in action before individual meetings. His role was to help us transition back into mainstream life, smoothing any bumps along the way. I got the impression he thought he was saving us from ourselves where we’d be destined for a life of crime.
Karla went in to see him just before I did. She came out, nostrils flared, and fists clenched, storming past me out of the warehouse.
‘Got a minute, Jess,’ Barry called as my head whipped around. He’d seconded Terry’s office for the afternoon.
I sat down on the chair; warmth Karla had left behind seeping into my jeans.
‘Watch out for her, she’s a wild one, that girl. Hard to keep on the straight and narrow. Some toe the line better than others, but I admire her spirit. I might actually miss her.’ He chuckled to himself, rubbing the ginger stubble protruding from his chin. ‘So,’ he said, flipping open a beige folder with my name on it, containing the forms we completed and my rehabilitation plan from the last time we met. He fingered the pages, scanning my information.
I clasped my hands in my lap. Something about Barry’s demeanour made me nervous. It was too formal compared to our time together before.
‘Tel’s told me some money has gone missing from his office.’
My jaw slackened. ‘I haven’t taken anything.’ I laid my palms flat on the desk, already feeling the flutters of panic.
‘Well, there’s no proof anyone has taken anything currently. However, when it disappeared there were only a few of you left in the building. I just wanted to reiterate that any illegal activity could result in you serving the rest of your sentence banged up. You’d be whipped back inside quicker than you can blink.’
I ignored my impending tears, refusing to cry. I couldn’t go back to prison.
Barry’s face softened and he reached over to pat my hand. ‘Just do whatever Tel asks of you, yeah, and you’ll be all right.’
I stiffened, pulling my hand away. Glaring at Barry as the penny dropped. I’d been such an idiot. It had been too easy, coming out of prison, being assigned a lovely case worker. One who had found more a job quickly. Everything was going too well.
‘What happens if I quit?’ I asked, keeping my voice even. The alternative was too hideous to contemplate.
‘Well, you can of course, but it’ll be difficult to find employment with your kind of record. I don’t have that many places up my sleeve I can refer you to. It’s okay here though, isn’t it? Tel treats you all right, doesn’t he?’ Barry frowned, his eyes warm and compassionate. Had I got it wrong or was Barry not the person I thought he was?
‘Y-Yes,’ I stuttered, mainly because I didn’t know what else to say.
‘Okay, just have a think about what I said. Keep your head down. Well done for your timekeeping and hard work.’
I left the meeting and went back to my machine, mind whirling, and a sour taste in my mouth.
3
Karla was wrenching the wet sheets out of the washing machine, swearing under her breath and grunting with exertion. Throwing the sheets into her trolley with such force it rocked on its wheels, I caught it just before it tipped over.
‘What’s up?’ I asked.
‘He’s such a bastard,’ she spat.
I stared at the ground, perhaps I hadn’t been wrong after all? What had Barry said to upset Karla so much?
‘Got us all by the short and curlies here, no-fucking-where to turn.’ She sighed and rested her palms flat on the folding table, head bowed low.
I had no idea what to say, how could I console her? I reached across the table and placed my hand on top of hers. Mine ice white compared to her darker skin.
Her head snapped up, watery eyes screaming with silent contempt.
‘You’ll be out of here soon, you said so yourself,’ I muttered, taken aback. She looked vicious, like a rabid dog. I slowly withdrew my hand.
‘Not soon enough.’ She stalked off, pulling her cigarettes from her pocket as she went. I didn’t follow.
A few minutes later, Barry left, giving me a wink on the way out, my insides squirmed like eels in a bowl.
For the rest of the day, I helped Agnieszka, a Polish lady with delicate features and the smallest feet I’d ever seen. She told me to call her Agnes, and we worked together to remove some hotel bedding from the pressing machines to fold and repackage. She talked continuously, about her mother coming over to England for the weekend and how she was going to cook pierogi, traditional Polish dumplings. I guessed she was around late twenties, dark hair and eyes, and she looked like she’d blow over if she got caught up in a gale. I got the feeling she wasn’t one of us. Most of Terry’s girls were ex-offenders Barry had told me, but not all.
I zoned out of the constant chatter in the end, thankful when five o’clock came around.
It poured with rain as I left and I jumped on the bus home, looking forward to the weekend ahead. Two whole days stretched out in front of me where I could do what I pleased. I’d rung Helen again, to see if she was free to meet. It went to voicemail and I’d left a message but she hadn’t come back to me. Was she freezing me out too? Just like Mum?
I tried not to dwell, not to let it ruin my mood. I’d intended to get a Subway on the way home for dinner, but the weather was so awful I settled for a Pot Noodle and a KitKat. Where was Karla now? She was the closest thing I’d made to a friend on the outside, if you could call her that. She would likely disagree.
Tomorrow morning, I planned to head to the library and see if I could get some more books and maybe use the computer to find some faces from the past. My phone was so old it had no apps, no social media for me to search. I’d have to remedy that once I’d saved enough wages. A smartphone was a necessity nowadays.
When I snuggled into bed, the rain hammering against the window, I was still unsettled about Barry and Terry. What were they up to? Why had Karla lost it? I hoped I hadn’t made a mistake joining Bright’s. I knew I could be too trusting, but it wasn’t like I had many options. There were a few places that took ex-offenders; Timpson Shoe Repairs was one, but there was no way I was going to be working with people’s manky shoes all day. It was bad enough working with soiled sheets, but I had a thing about feet.
I tossed and turned all night, dreaming I was back in my cell in Bronzefield. Darcy was threatening to set my hair alight if I didn’t give her the chocolate digestives I’d bought. She wanted to swap them for a hit of Spice, a drug some of the girls smoked. Drones would regularly be flown over the wall with packets that looked like cannabis to me. They’d be mixed with their usual tobacco, but you could smell it straight away. Occasionally, letters would get through the post soaked in Spice and tiny strips would be sold at extortionate prices for smoking. Everyone was looking for some kind of escape from prison life, but I was always too scared to try. The ones I’d seen on it looked like zombies, completely out of it.
