by D J Harrison
After they herd her into the activities room, the officers retreat and leave us to it. I start pushing dominoes towards her, counting them out. When I get to seven and stop, Dawn looks bewildered and hurt so I give her an extra one. She smiles and collects them to her enormous bosom. Even after hours of playing she remains unaware that the more dominoes she has, the less likely she is to win.
‘You can start if you like,’ I say.
She shakes her head vigorously, unwilling to part with her black oblongs unless I do so first. I place double three in the centre of the sticky table. She shuffles her dominoes, examines each one in turn then shakes her head.
‘How are you today?’ I ask.
‘They say I can come off the Block and live with you,’ she answers.
My breath catches in my throat and a feeling of dread envelops me. Almost everything Dawn says is untrue but this revelation makes me uneasy. It’s almost crazy enough to be accurate.
Dawn places an inappropriate domino next to mine.
‘It’s all because of you. I’ve told them you’re a good influence on me; that we get on really well.’ She pauses and leans forward. ‘I love you, Jenny. You’re my best friend. I’m going to stay with you for ever and be your best friend as well. When we get out of here we’re going to find a nice place together and be dead happy.’
‘What about your boyfriend, won’t you want to live with him?’
Dawn furrows her brow and bangs down a domino. ‘He can come for tea. Maybe stop over if he’s a good boy and he brings us some gear. It’ll be our house, our rules: only boys if we want them and they bring us nice things.’
‘So you’re feeling better now are you, Dawn? That’s great. I’m really pleased.’
‘How much methadone do they give you, Jenny? They only let me have a tiny bit now and then. Maybe we can share when I’m off the Block? You can give me some of yours.’
Alice takes me back to relative calm and sanity.
‘Dawn was talking about coming off the Block.’
‘Oh, yes. She’s much better since you befriended her. Anyway, there’s a new intake tomorrow, a rough bunch by all accounts. We need to clear some space for them.’
‘You’re not putting her with me.’ I’m trying not to panic. It’s hard enough on my own but the prospect of Dawn’s demented gloom makes me want to scream away the injustice.
****
The prison authorities are using me as her unpaid carer, on duty twenty-four hours a day.
‘Which one out of Take That do you fancy most?’
‘What?’
‘Take That. Which one do you fancy most?’
‘Oh, the ageing boy band … I don’t really like any of them. I find them a bit bland.’
‘Yeah, but they’re gorgeous, aren’t they? Come on, Jenny, which one do you fancy most? You can have first pick.’
I am deep into Thérèse Raquin, and Zola now has the hapless lovers at each other’s throats, haunted by their misdeeds, but still having to play out the social niceties.
‘I’m trying to read, Dawn. This is a really good book. I’ll let you have it when I’m finished.’
‘What’s it about?’
‘Depression, longing, deprivation, lies, guilt … it’s about all sorts of things. You can read it after me.’
‘Who’s in it?’
‘A French girl is the main character. The book is called Thérèse Raquin.’
‘What’s her name?’
‘Thérèse Raquin.’
‘Sounds foreign. Is she foreign?’
‘Yes, she’s French.’
‘Is the book in French?’
‘Yes, but I’m reading a translation.’
‘I’ve never read a translation.’
‘Then you’ll get your chance when I’m finished.’
‘I’ve never read a book … apart from at school. That was about Billy Blue Hat. There was someone else in the book with a yellow hat as well but I’ve forgotten his name.’
I put Thérèse Raquin down on the table. I’ll wait until Dawn’s snoring and read it in the night. The noise she makes when she’s asleep is even more irritating than when she’s awake.
Dawn grabs the book and lets my bookmark fall out.
‘Leave it.’
Her eyes narrow, she opens the book and begins to tear out pages.
‘Stop that. What’re you doing?’
‘I don’t like your book. You can play dominoes with me instead.’
I reach over to retrieve it but she grabs my wrist and pulls me violently. I topple off my chair; she drags me onto the floor and sits astride my chest. Her weight is preventing me from breathing. I feel a surge of panic. Her hands fasten around my throat and begin to squeeze away my life. Shooting my arm upwards between hers, I manage a stiff-fingered strike to her throat, rotating my shoulder to add power. My fingers are partly absorbed by the fatty folds but manage to connect with something solid. Dawn gasps and holds her neck, releasing mine. I squirm and slither out from under her. She grabs at my leg but I kick it free. She lets out a deep roar and lunges at me but I’m back on my feet now, back against the wall, looking for something to defend myself with. The chairs are out of reach and too unwieldy. As she rises awkwardly, I venture forward to kick her leg. She absorbs the blow; it provokes her to unexpected nimbleness and she’s on her feet and rushing at me. All I can do is sidestep her lunge and allow her to hit the wall with her shoulder and head. The momentum of that huge body damages her more than anything I can manage.
She cries out in pain and slumps heavily to the floor holding her arm across her chest. I slide a heavy chair across the floor and swing it into her face. She keeps screaming and threatening me, so I keep hitting her.
24
‘Hello, Jenny, how are you?’ Anthony smiles as he greets me then sits in the metal chair on the opposite side of the flimsy table. I sense his nervousness. It’s as if he’s scared that the women in this place have something that might be contagious.
How am I? Five months on from being abandoned at the court, man-handled into a prison van, locked away from Toby, how am I? Desperate, tired, traumatised, abused, lonely, angry. These are a few of the things I am. When can I get to see Toby?’ I ask.
‘Well, it’s up to his father, and he refuses to bring him here, as you well know.’
‘All I’ve had is the occasional phone call. Is that all I’m entitled to? He’s my son, I’m his mother.’ Tears well up again; they render me incapable of anything rational when Toby is mentioned. The pain of separation is too intense for me to endure.
‘I’ve done everything I can.’
Anthony smooths his thinning hair with the flat of his left hand. ‘I’m sorry things couldn’t have turned out more positively for you.’
‘At least I only have a few more weeks, I suppose. Have you been told my release date yet? Even without remission the six months are nearly up.’
Anthony looks down as he speaks, his reluctance to meet my eyes reminds me of Paul Unsworth and my thoughts flicker momentarily to the job I once enjoyed and how Landers Hoffman sacked me almost the instant my sentence was handed down.
‘There is a slight problem, a delay, not long I’m sure. I’m pressing them for your release date, but they say that there are other matters that need to be considered.’
‘Other matters, what the hell are you on about?’
‘Well, there may be other charges brought against you, concerning your cell-mate. Apparently there was an incident. I was wondering if you could tell me what happened.’
‘You must be joking!’ I feel anger and frustration building. ‘They can’t be serious. They’re going to charge me over Dawn? For God’s sake, she nearly killed me. I’m lucky to be alive after what she did.’
‘What did she do?’
‘She tried to kill me, and very nearly succeeded.’ I take a deep breath. ‘She’s a big girl, massive in fact. Most of the time she’s quiet, a bit child-like, doesn’t really understa
nd what’s going on. Occasionally she just bursts, lets rip and attacks the nearest person. Usually it’s me she jumps on, as I’m lucky enough to be her room-mate. She hurt me several times but never anything too serious, only bumps and bruises. That is until one day she decided she’d strangle me. I’ll tell you it was touch-and-go for a time, I very nearly died.’
‘She tried to strangle you, what did you do to her?’
I suddenly get the picture. Anthony is asking me things he’s already been told the answers to. He’s getting my side of it, but it’s obvious he thinks he knows everything already. It’s like he’s leading a witness in a trial and trying to get me to admit to wrong-doing. Considering he’s my solicitor, I’m getting very upset at his approach.
‘You tell me,’ I say. ‘Tell me what I did or at least tell me what they told you I did.’
He at least has the good grace to look embarrassed.
‘She’s still in hospital,’ he replies. ‘Broken shoulder, broken wrist and concussion, they say.’
‘It’s all bollocks!’ I really am getting angry now. ‘All this fuss and concern about a murderous psychopath they should never have exposed me to. They should be protecting me, not accusing me of assault. If it was me lying dead they’d probably say I brought it on myself. They’re crazy in here, everyone is mad.’
‘Whatever the situation I’m afraid that Dawn is in a pretty bad way. They say you’re a martial arts expert and that’s what you used on her.’
‘I did do some self-defence classes once, I told them that. It’s lucky for me that I did. They aren’t concerned about my safety; all they care about is their precious Dawn.’
‘What sort of self-defence?’ he asks, but I know he already knows.
‘You tell me, you’ve heard their story.’
‘They say you’re a karate expert, a black belt, and that you terrorised other prisoners prior to injuring Dawn.’
My volcano of exasperation erupts. I can’t help bursting into tears and shouting. I know deep inside that none of this will help but the feelings of injustice take over. They’re all against me, even this stupid lawyer who is paid to be on my side.
‘Poor Dawn, poor everyone! What about me? It’s me who’s been strangled; it’s me who they threaten; it’s me they lock away from my son; it’s me. Can’t you understand it? Can’t you see what’s happening here?’
Anthony waits for me to sit down and regain some semblance of composure before he replies.
‘Take it easy, I’m only telling you what the prison authorities have told me. I know it’s their version of events; there are always two sides, I’m only trying to get yours.’
My breath is coming in great gasps now but I manage to slow it down in order to speak. ‘Yes, I suppose they’re right, I did do karate and I did get a black belt. When you’re a vulnerable female you need to be able to do something to defend yourself if you’re attacked. My training saved my life. I’d be dead now if I hadn’t put in all that time and effort.’
‘What were they referring to when they said you terrorised other prisoners?’
‘Ha!’ I can’t help but laugh. ‘More the case of me being terrorised by them. As soon as I arrived here they started taking my food and belongings, eventually enough was enough and I stopped being compliant. There were a couple of minor scuffles, that’s all.’
25
The temping agency finally came up with something for me. Jervis & Co, Structural Engineers, must be so desperate for a temporary book-keeper and the agency must be so short of staff that they have to send me. Getting a job can be difficult at the best of times. When you are released from prison, having served nine months for corruption, money laundering and aggravated assault, the difficult becomes impossible. Accountancy is not a profession that welcomes dishonesty and violent behaviour.
My CV being fatally flawed means I have to be a little economical with the truth and this is the first agency that failed to make the proper background checks on me. Whether they’re lazy or desperate is of no concern. I get to go to work. I get to earn some money. I get to stay in this accommodation a little longer. I get to put off the day I will be living in a Manchester city centre shop doorway.
Tim showed uncharacteristic decisiveness in obtaining the divorce, and immense cruelty when he gained legal custody of Toby with draconian conditions of non-access to his mother. Fortnightly visits are not able to begin to repair the shattered bond between us, only serving to intensify the ache in both our hearts.
Jervis & Co is a step though, the first positive step towards getting Toby back. Alan Jervis is a tall, quietly spoken man with a mane of unruly, reddish-grey hair, eyes that twinkle with amusement at the least excuse and a business that is failing fast. The dozen or so engineers he employs are in the main decent, hard-working guys and everyone seems very busy, but after less than a week I’ve done enough to know that this welcome position is going to be extremely short-lived.
‘How are you getting on, Jenny?’ Alan enquires benignly.
‘I’m fine thanks, Alan.’ I wonder whether to give myself a few days extra employment before telling him there is little more I can do. ‘We do need to talk about the cash-flow.’ There seems no point dragging it out. ‘Unless you can get the bank to extend your overdraft or some big payments come in, you’re going to find it difficult to pay the wages bill at the end of the month. I’m sorry but that’s the way it is.’
His face betrays his worry.
‘How much do we need?’
‘At least thirty thousand,’ I reply. ‘You have much more than that owed to you and some of those debts are more than six months overdue. Can’t you get at least some of those old debts in?’
Alan looks even more glum.
‘We have tried, believe me. Most of the money we have outstanding is owed by one property developer. We did a high-rise apartment block design for them; they haven’t paid us at all. More than £60,000 is owed.’
‘Surely you can’t let them get away with that?’
I regret the implied slur as soon as I speak it. Alan doesn’t react though; his air of resignation pervades his whole demeanour.
‘Oh believe me, we’ve tried everything – phone calls, letters, even got our solicitors to write threatening a winding-up notice. We’ve done all we can. I have the horrible feeling we’ll have to put that one down to experience.’
A prickle of excitement begins in my stomach, spreading upwards as I recognise an opportunity.
‘How about if I try for you?’ I ask.
‘Be my guest, but you won’t get anywhere. They say they’ll lodge a huge counter-claim if we take it to court. That sort of thing could finish us off, both financially and professionally. Our solicitor says that our legal costs to fight the claim would far exceed the debt – even if we won we could easily end up not covering our costs and if we lost, well, that would definitely be the end for us.’
‘I’ll have a go.’
My excitement is growing. Somehow my body has recognised something my mind still hasn’t worked out. ‘But I’ll need to agree a success fee with you – you know, a proportion of anything I recover goes to me.’
‘That’s okay I suppose.’ Alan wrinkles his face. ‘What did you have in mind?’
‘I’ll give you a choice. Either pay me ten per cent of what I recover or else I keep everything I get over the thirty thousand you need to pay the wages and keep your business going. You choose.’
‘As I’ve practically resigned myself to getting nothing, and you tell me I need cash desperately, I’ll take the second deal. You keep anything over thirty thousand, though I’m afraid we’ll both end up with nothing.’
As he answers I feel a pang of disappointment and regret offering him the second option: ten per cent – easy to calculate and not excessive when you’re expecting nothing. Now I’m going for broke. Either I pull off something quite remarkable or he is right: I’ll be left with nothing.
****
Two days of telephoning
get me precisely nowhere. The switchboard lady tells me Mr Usman is in a meeting or Mr Usman will ring me back. I decide it’s the whole ‘Hi, I’m Jenny from Jervis & Co, can I please speak to Mr Usman’ thing and decide to change tack.
‘Hello, I’m enquiring about your Minshull Street development.’
‘Who’s calling?’
‘This is Rothschild’s, my name is Miss Parker and I am the personal assistant to Mr Hugo Mann.’
A brief pause shows me she finally thinks she is speaking to someone worthy of her attention. I have to hand it to my erstwhile colleague Alistair – his father’s position always did have that effect.
‘Certainly, our Mr Usman will help you, one moment please.’
All the meetings and travel and telephone calls appear to have evaporated.
‘Usman.’ The curt answer I’ve been waiting for.
‘Mr Usman, Mr Hugo Mann would like to speak to you about acquiring your Minshull Street development.’
‘You’re Rothschild’s, right?’
‘That’s right.’
‘Okay,’ Usman pauses, ‘What do you want to know?’
‘For the moment it’s a general enquiry. Mr Mann wants to know if you would consider selling your development.’
‘All of it?’ Usman’s voice prickles with excitement, confirming my suspicion that in common with the rest of the property market, apartment sales in Central Manchester aren’t doing very well at all. ‘We have some units sold, of course,’ he says weakly.
‘How many exactly?’ I can’t resist probing his level of desperation.
‘Oh, several,’ he gasps, ‘I can’t tell you exactly as of this moment.’
‘Well, our clients are mainly interested in empty properties. We’re putting together a £100 million property investment vehicle for them.’
‘Ah, yes, that wouldn’t be a problem, I could arrange for you to have the whole building if that’s what you want.’
‘Excellent, then we might be interested.’
‘How much … I mean, how much are you expecting to pay?’ he asks.
‘That’s a matter for Mr Mann, I’m afraid.’
