by Gemma Rogers
If Darcy had her way, she’d be zoned out all the time, so she was always looking for her next hit. I’d negotiated her down to half the pack of biscuits and offered to pick up some books for her from the prison library. She’d agreed, but I’d still curled up on my bunk, too terrified to go to sleep. When I finally did, I’d dreamt my hair was crackling, the scent of burnt flesh forced me awake. I’d woke in a puddle of sweat, my hair still intact and Darcy snoring above me.
Nightmares were part and parcel of life on the outside, a constant reminder I was never truly free. Not when I had to report into Barry and answer to the Community Rehabilitation Company. My life wasn’t my own. It could be snatched away at any time and we were never allowed to forget it. Karla was right – they did have us by the short and curlies. Mentally, it was almost as much of a prison on the outside. Terrified to put a foot wrong in case I was sent back to Bronzefield.
Early the next day, I had a change of heart about my plans. I ran through the shower and put on the nicest clothes I owned, nothing fancy – a pair of boyfriend jeans, some scuffed biker boots and a midriff-skimming long-sleeved polo neck. All circa 2016. I had no idea what fashion was like in 2020, having not been around to find out. I didn’t waste what little money I had on magazines and I had no television in my bedsit either. The outside world passed me by. Whether it was fashionable or not, it would have to do, although I had to wrench in the belt and the top was baggier than it used to be.
Thankfully, the rain had stopped overnight, and I jumped on the 151 bus outside the train station, which took me up to Rose Hill, near St Helier Hospital. My mum and sister lived in a terrace house in Thornton Road. The house I’d grown up in, although, much to Mum’s disgust, I was always over on the St Helier Estate, knocking around with the wild kids as she used to call them. I know she was trying to shelter us, but we were no better off than them, living in a council house, scrimping month to month. My paper-round money and most of Helen’s wages at Topshop from her Saturday job, all went on keeping the lights on.
My mother was a resilient woman who fiercely protected us growing up. She’d be down the school to sort out the bullies, pulling them to one side and whispering in their ears, ensuring I was left alone. After Dad died of a brain tumour when we were still in primary school, she became two parents in one. The soft, loving mother always ready with a cuddle, but she was also a lioness shielding her cubs whenever we were threatened. I don’t really remember Dad, but I never felt as though I missed out. Mum was enough.
All my friends thought she was stuck-up, thinking she was better than the families on the estate, but now I see she was just trying to keep me safe. Trying to steer me in the right direction, away from the crowd I was hanging around with. I wrote to her every week when I was in prison, but she only replied once.
I knew as soon as the verdict was announced, the moment I was pronounced guilty, my relationship with my family was broken. Helen visited a couple of times in the beginning but slowly withdrew as time passed. The visits stopped and the phone calls diminished. I was left to serve my four-year sentence alone.
With lead in my feet, I approached the all-so-familiar pebble-dashed house. The orange streak from the leaking overflow pipe to the left of the door had widened since I’d last been there. The front garden was a mess: crisp packets and bottles had been stuck into the hedge by passers-by. Red paint flaked from the wooden door and the house looked tired.
My hands trembled by my sides. I was a different person the last time I stood in front of the door, I was happy, loved and had my mother’s comfort back then. Memories of her stroking my hair and putting plasters on my grazed knees as a child flashed into my mind. It seemed light years ago.
I bit my lip and, steeling myself, tapped on the door.
The wait was excruciating. At first, I thought no one was home, but a shadow appeared behind the glass. A flash of blonde hair – it must be Helen.
I formed my mouth into a smile, the exact opposite of hers when the door swung open.
‘What are you doing here?’ Helen hissed through her teeth and stole a glance over her shoulder.
I had expected our reunion to be awkward, strained maybe, but I hadn’t expected such hostility.
‘I came to see you and Mum,’ I said, frowning. Wasn’t that obvious?
Helen tutted and, after a second debating with herself, pulled open the door.
A musty smell hit me straight away, as though no fresh air had been allowed in for months. A faint aroma of urine followed, hitting the back of my throat. Helen turned and whisked into the kitchen. I followed, hoping she’d put the kettle on, but instead she turned to face me, leaning back against the counter and folding her arms.
‘You can’t be here. Mum is sick and she’ll get upset if she sees you.’
‘What do you mean sick?’ The panic was rising in my voice.
Helen shushed me; her eyes narrowed. ‘Mum had a stroke two years ago. Occasionally she gets confused, has accidents, gets upset. I’m trying to take care of her, but if she sees you, she’ll lose it.’
My stomach sank to the floor. Why hadn’t Helen told me?
I looked around the crisp white kitchen, in stark contrast to the outside, inside was spotless. Everything was tidy, the worktops clear of clutter. The scent of bleach in the air.
‘Where is she?’ I said, turning to leave the kitchen, but Helen grabbed my arm, digging her fingers in.
‘She’s sleeping, and even if she wasn’t, she doesn’t want to see you.’
I brushed her off.
‘Look, is this what you came for?’ Helen grabbed her purse off the side and pulled out a twenty-pound note, thrusting it in my direction.
‘Oh, fuck off, Helen,’ I spat, storming into the hallway and yanking open the front door.
‘What did you expect?’ She rushed after me as I crossed the threshold onto the garden path.
‘I just wanted to see you and Mum.’
‘You fucking killed someone, Jess! It ruined all our lives,’ Helen said, as though she was guilty by association.
‘Who is it, Hel?’ I heard a frail voice call out before the front door was shut in my face.
4
Blinking back tears, I stared at the red paint, the flaky door that stood between me and Mum, contemplating beating on it with my fists until Helen opened it. She was lying, Mum was awake, and I wanted to see her. Even if it was only for her to tell me never to return.
I couldn’t believe she’d had a stroke. Was it all my fault? Had I caused it? A culmination of the pain and stress? I wanted to face her, let her tell me she didn’t want to see me.
I banged on the door, refusing to leave it like this. I kept pounding until my fist was sore. Eventually, Helen opened it and pushed me down the small step, forcing herself out of the house and shutting the door behind her.
‘It’s half past nine in the fucking morning, Jess!’ she hissed; her fingers wrapped tightly around a bunch of keys.
‘I want to see Mum.’
‘Not now, she’s just woken up!’
‘I’ve been calling, Helen. I want to see her; I want to see you. You’re the only family I have, you’re all I’ve got.’
She sighed, seemingly unmoved by my plight.
I clenched my teeth tightly together. We’d never been close, but the animosity came off her in waves.
‘It’s not all about you! She’s not well, I don’t want to cause her any stress and you hammering on the door isn’t helping.’
‘Well let me help. I want to help.’
‘I think you’ve done enough.’ Her words cut like a knife.
‘Doesn’t she want to see me?’ I asked, not quite believing the mother I knew would abandon me.
‘I’ll talk to her okay. I’ll be in touch.’ Helen turned and let herself back into the house, swiftly closing the door. There was little point fighting when she was in this mood. She was like a dog with a bone. A pit bull guarding the gate.
Helen was my older
sister, by three years. Always had her sharp little nose in the air, far more superior than the rest of us. Although she couldn’t hide her bitterness, because even though I was the tearaway, the one who buggered up her exams, played truant at school, the no-hoper, I was Mum’s favourite. Helen had always been jealous.
I knew it was because I reminded her of Dad whom she missed terribly. Helen and I looked similar, long blonde hair and deep-set greenish-grey eyes, but our personalities couldn’t have been more different. Cut from the same cloth, yet she was silk, and I was polyester. We’d never really seen eye to eye. She seemed to think we were always in competition.
My molars crunched together, grinding as I walked past the bus stop and down the road. Inwardly I raged. Feeling stupid for not asking more questions. Was Mum bed-bound? Could she walk?
Helen had no right to keep me away. I’d have to come back when she was working. I still had a key, unless they’d changed the locks. I had a vague memory of them being handed back to me in a clear plastic bag as I left HMP Bronzefield, along with everything else taken away the night I was arrested. I hadn’t thought to dig them out before I left. Now I wished I had.
Hearing my mother sound so frail made my heart ache. Had I done this to her? Had my crime torn the family to pieces as Helen said? I never meant for it to happen. It was an accident; I hadn’t meant to hurt anyone. My sister was right though, someone had died.
I sniffed, fumbling for a tissue in the pocket of my bomber jacket, and hurried back towards home, making a detour to the high street where I knew there were three charity shops in close proximity.
My anger had subsided by the time I perused the racks. Oxfam didn’t have anything other than old-lady clothes, but Cancer Research was a treasure trove. I spent just over ten pounds but walked away with two French Connection T-shirts, two pairs of Next jeans and a jumper. They all had that charity-shop smell I’d have to wash out, but in the meantime a bit of body spray would do the trick. I found a fluffy hot-water bottle too by the counter for a pound that I bought without hesitation.
I couldn’t help but glance at the row of books for sale before I left. Having to return to the till again. Fifty pence bought me a teenage fiction book and I practically squealed when I found The Enchanted Wood, the first book in the Magic Faraway Tree series for another twenty-five.
‘Don’t I know you?’ came a voice to my right as I sat on the bench outside, trying to roll a cigarette. The tobacco pouch balanced precariously in my lap.
I lifted my head, licking the paper to seal the roll as I did. A pockmarked man’s face loomed down at me, pale skin with breath which stank of lager, even though it wasn’t even lunchtime yet.
‘No,’ I said flatly, although he looked familiar.
He sat down next to me, buffing up until our thighs touched. He appeared to be in his mid-twenties, a cap covering greasy hair and a hoodie pulled up over the top for extra warmth.
I shuddered. Damn it, I knew I should have remembered to look for a new coat.
‘I’m sure I know you, darlin’, you look familiar. You used to live up by the hospital, didn’t ya? St Helier, right?’
I looked at him more closely, wrinkling my nose at the proximity, throat suddenly dry. His name was Gilby, one of the lads from the estate who we used to knock around with. The years had been less kind to him than they had to me and that was saying something.
‘Roll us up one would ya, love?’ He nudged my shoulder.
‘I’ve got to go,’ I said, jumping up and hurrying across the road.
‘Jess, that’s it, innit? I remember your pretty face. You killed my mate, Eddie,’ he shouted, pulling himself to his feet. He followed up by hollering, ‘Fucking bitch,’ but I didn’t look back.
Shaken, I darted into one side street and then another, up towards the library, thinking I could get the 127 or 151 bus home. Perhaps it had been stupid to come home? I hadn’t changed my appearance and Eddie used to run in some nasty circles. In the four years that had gone by, I hoped the past might have been forgotten, maybe a lot of the old crowd would have left the area as we all morphed from teenagers to fully-fledged adults? I was wrong. Should I be afraid? Would anyone come looking for me once word got around that I was out?
As the cold seeped in, I wrapped my arms around myself and hurried on, legs aching as it dawned on me I’d walked over four miles since I left the bedsit.
Warmth from the library escaped from the automatic doors as they opened, and I stepped inside, allowing myself to be enveloped. I had just over an hour before they closed for the day. Shrugging off my coat as I heard my mother’s voice ringing in my ears about ‘not feeling the benefit’, I headed straight for the computers.
I tried to log on to my old Yahoo email account I hadn’t touched for four years, but my username was no longer recognised. Perhaps I couldn’t remember it. I spent a couple of minutes creating a new one, trying to think of a suitable password I’d remember. Glancing around, waiting for a word to pop into my head, the three computers to my right were taken by students. All were plugged into their phones, wearing oversized headphones and writing on large A4 notepads.
Could Ashley have sat there over the past four years? Working on her degree? No, she would have stayed near campus, studied from there. Like me, she couldn’t wait to get out of here and the chance to move away would have felt like a golden ticket.
When the accident happened, we were both doing our A-Levels at sixth form, although Ashley was a year ahead of me. She got her results while I was on trial and immediately applied for a degree in Science at Portsmouth University, a five-year course with an optional work placement. It wasn’t an option to carry on my A-Levels inside. I could have picked up my course again on my release, but I needed money for a roof over my head. Education was a luxury I couldn’t afford.
I finally selected a password and moved on to open a Facebook account under the name Emma Evans. Emma was the name I always wished I’d been given, what I called my dolls when I was small. It seemed so much nicer than Jessica. And Evans was the last name of the actor who played Captain America. The hottest guy on the planet as far as I was concerned. I immediately searched for Ashley Parsons and she popped up, the sixth in the list. Her profile picture was her in a tight-fitting dress, dark waves cascading over her shoulders, smiling at the camera with a glass of bubbly in her hand.
I sighed, eyes prickling from seeing my best friend’s face again. One I hadn’t seen in a long time. She looked happy, older and polished, a far cry from us in our jeans and hoodies back then. I wiped the moisture from my lashes. Perhaps one day our paths would cross. She could tell me all about university and how her life had changed. I couldn’t help but be envious. Our lives had gone in opposite directions.
I flicked through her photos, grateful her account didn’t seem to have any privacy settings. Clicking through, every single picture showed Ashley smiling, and I burned when I saw her arm slung around another girl. The same one in many of her photos. She was my replacement. Ashley had moved on whilst I was still stuck in 2016. I kept scrolling, as far back as I could, to see if there were any photos of me, but my breath caught in my throat.
The pointer rested upon a photo of him, a large pink heart framed a black and white close-up shot of his face with the words Taken Too Soon underneath. The photo had over four hundred likes and loads of RIP comments. His steely eyes seemed to lock onto mine and I squeezed them shut, swallowing hard, forcing the lump in my throat down and the guilt along with it. Voices from that night echoing around my head, the noise, the sound of knuckles against flesh and screams were as fresh as the memory.
I opened my eyes, clicking on the photo to enlarge it, and forced myself to take it in. The image on the screen was of Eddie Watts. Ashley’s boyfriend back in 2016. The one I’d gone to prison for. The one I’d killed.
5
After a minute, I clicked back and Eddie’s face disappeared. Once he’d gone, I was able to breathe again. I hadn’t seen his face for such
a long time, not since his picture was printed in the newspapers before my sentencing. Painted as the innocent victim, a shot of him with his mum, gazing at the camera through his dark eyelashes. I was painted the villain of the piece, although I knew better and so did Ashley.
It didn’t stop me from feeling remorse though. Taking a human life was something I’d never get over or stop trying to make amends for. When I first arrived at Bronzefield, spending hours in my cell with nothing but my thoughts to keep me company, the guilt had driven me mad. I wrote to Eddie’s family, pouring my heart out in pages of attrition for what I’d done, but I never received a response. I was sure it was because I’d pled not guilty at the trial, swept up in the advice from my solicitor, who turned out to be severely lacking. It was another reason my sentence was quite harsh for a first offence.
During the first year, I cried myself to sleep, even praying at times, hoping my repentance would bring me back from the edge. The listening service helped a lot. Prisoners trained in counselling would be available to talk to and I was there once a week. Getting the job at the prison library brought me back, it kept me busy but the guilt never went away.
My fingers lingered over the keys and I typed in various names of people I hung around with then: Andy, Ben, Nicola, Jo – some I found, some I didn’t. I didn’t friend request anyone or like any posts or photos. No one would have any idea who Emma Evans was, and I didn’t want to draw attention to the fact I was back in town. As earlier proved, not everyone would be pleased to see me.
