by Jane Bidder
A plate of cold toast was on the table which, rather surprisingly, was laid with a plastic red gingham cloth. There were also packets of butter and jam. ‘No marmalade?’ enquired Jack.
One of the other men at their table, who had closely cropped orange hair, laughed. ‘You kidding? If I were you, I’d make the most of what you’ve got. Mind you, there might be a bit extra now Thomas isn’t here.’
Jack looked as though he was going to vomit.
‘Is he all right?’ asked Simon.
Orange man grinned. He still had food in his mouth. ‘As all right as you can be, laid out on a mortuary slab. Had it going for him, mind. If it hadn’t been for the bloke who did it, someone else would have done him in. You should have heard him going on and on about what he did to those kiddies.’
‘How did he die?’ Simon couldn’t help asking.
‘Sugar.’
‘Sugar?’
‘Sugar and boiling water, mate. It sticks. Don’t try it.’ He stretched over for some toast, without asking Simon to pass it. ‘Food here’s crap. It’s sarnies today for dinner and then tea at 5 p.m. ʼcos it’s early lock-up.’
‘Sugar and boiling water? So they …’
‘That’s right. You chuck it in their face and then beat them up.’ Orange man chewed his toast thoughtfully. ‘We told them. 5 p.m. is too early for the last meal of the day but it’s the new rules ʼcos of staff shortages. There aren’t enough of them so they lock us up early. Means they have to feed us earlier. It’s why we’re so bloody hungry in the morning.’
This was horrible! Really horrible. It was another world which had somehow existed without him knowing until now. To think that he had been responsible, as a lawyer, for sending some people to places like this …
‘Morning everyone!’ Caroline-Jane’s voice rang out brightly as she came into the dining room.
Simon jumped up. ‘Are you all right?’ He wanted to touch her arm; to tell her that he’d been worried about her all night and that he hoped her bed had been a darn sight more comfortable than his.
‘I’m fine, thanks.’
‘Where did you sleep?’ Jack’s question took Simon’s out of his mouth.
‘On some chairs in the office.’ Caroline-Jane’s voice was light but he could tell she looked tired.
‘When are they going to let us out of here?’ Jack sounded panicky again.
‘I’m not sure.’ Something in her tone made Simon think she knew more than she was allowed to say.
‘The police have finished interviewing us so presumably we can go soon,’ he ventured.
‘I hope so, but at the moment, it’s lockdown on the wing. No one’s allowed to go in or out until the police and the governor give the say-so.’
She was sitting down at their table now, nibbling cold toast. Did she realise, wondered Simon, what a contrast she made with her fresh smile and womanly figure sitting amidst a room of criminals?.
‘Caroline-Jane!’ One of the young officers came striding up. ‘We’ve just had a call. You and your men can go now.’
Jack breathed out a sigh of relief. ‘Thank you.’ Caroline-Jane beamed back as though he was a hotel receptionist. She glanced down at her keys that were hanging round her belt. ‘We’ll just sign out, shall we?’
While they were waiting, Simon saw the orange-haired man coming out of the kitchen and stopping by the fish tank. ‘Mind if I ask you something?’ he said.
‘Depends, doesn’t it?’
‘Malik. The man in the pod. He seems … he seems quite a nice man. Should he really be here?’
Orange-haired man laughed so hard that the tub of fish food shook in his hand, threatening to spill its contents. ‘Malik’s one of the worst. Don’t know what he told you but the truth is that he sliced his brother’s head off with a Samurai sword.’
They walked, the three of them, up the main corridor towards the main entrance and through several sets of doors, each of which Caroline-Jane carefully unlocked and locked in turn, rattling each one afterwards to make sure it was secure. It felt good to walk beside her. To feel they were an equal team instead of her being the teacher and him the prisoner.
‘We heard the man got scalded and beaten up,’ ventured Jack.
Caroline-Jane unlocked another door to let them through before locking it again. ‘Can’t say I’m afraid.’
‘Is it true that it was the bloke who walked out when Simon was talking? Was he the one who died?’
‘I really can’t comment, Jack.’
‘Doesn’t it make you scared to work here?’ pushed Simon.
Caroline-Jane didn’t miss a beat. ‘If you thought like that, you wouldn’t do it.’
She gave him a cool look before opening yet another door. A flood of warm spring sunlight filtered down on them. ‘Yes!’ Jack gave a little skip as they made their way across to the Other Side. ‘I can breathe again.’
After signing in at the Centre, they were called into the number three governor’s office.
‘Those earrings,’ commented Joanna enviously, ‘are to die for.’
Gov. Corry was indeed a most unlikely-looking prison governor, although Simon was beginning to realise that nothing was predictable in this place.
‘I believe that you both had quite an adventure on the Other Side,’ she began. Jack was staring at her skirt even though it was a good inch below her knee. ‘You could say that,’ he mumbled. ‘Are we going to get compensation?’
Gov. Corry arched an over-plucked eyebrow. ‘Complaint forms are in the main centre if you wish to fill one in. I was actually going to suggest that you both had the day off your work parties to recuperate.’
‘Recuperate!’ Jack was looking at her face now, instead of her skirt. ‘Do you know what kind of an ordeal you’ve put us through? We had to sleep on a bed that was like concrete with a matching pillow and on a wing where someone had been murdered …’
‘Please stop right there.’ Gov. Corry’s face was steely. ‘No news has as yet been released. I must ask both of you to refrain from mentioning the incident to any of your families until it has.’
Simon began to sweat. ‘I need to ring my wife.’
‘She has already been informed there has been an incident. She has also been told that you cannot call her until tomorrow. By then we hope that an announcement will have been made and the matter will be in the public domain.’
She was looking at each one in turn now. ‘I must also point out that if either of you choose to inform the press either through a personal phone call or through giving details to your families, there will be severe repercussions.’
Simon nodded. ‘Of course.’
‘One more thing, Mills. You will be allowed to go out to work during the day, as from next week. You may also apply for a town visit in two weeks’ time.’
A town visit? The very thought of going outside, with Claire at his side for a whole day, made him giddy with expectation, fear and excitement. As for going out to work – that was much earlier than he had thought. What kind of job would he be given? Only then did it hit him. If he was going out to work, he would have to give up the role of library orderly. Nor would he be able to go to Caroline-Jane’s art classes any more.
Chapter Forty
What kind of an incident, Claire had demanded when she’d received the phone call from the prison. The voice at the other end had been sympathetic but in an officious manner. ‘I’m afraid we are not at liberty to reveal details yet.’
Her chest closed in on her. ‘But is my husband hurt?’
‘No, but he will not be able to contact you for at least another twenty-four hours. This is why we are ringing. He has asked us to inform you of this.’
The voice was so clipped and sure! Claire’s mind flitted back to the prison officers she had met during Visits. There was one older man in uniform who had learned to recognise her and always asked how she was as though she was a guest. There were others whose expressions suggested she was no better than the men Inside
. Somehow she suspected this person was one of the latter type.
That was twenty-four hours ago. Since then, she still hadn’t heard anything from her husband. Claire’s fear had now turned to anger. It was clear that he’d got himself into trouble somehow by arguing with someone – probably a prison officer. She could just see it now! Her clever, arrogant husband, telling an officer that he had certain rights or maybe advising a prisoner, like that boy Spencer whom he kept talking about, to buck up and get a qualification.
Claire gripped her pencil and began furiously sketching. She’d complete the outline the agent had asked for and try thinking about a story to go with it even though stories weren’t her thing. There would just be time to sort lunch for Max and then supper for Ben when he got back after his first day at school.
As she worked, her eye fell on the scrap of paper the dog woman had given her. A charity for families of prisoners. That was all very well but frankly she didn’t have time for that kind of thing at the moment and besides, she could manage on her own until Simon came out. She’d already proved that to herself.
It was nearly midday when Claire realised what the time was. Her art had proved a lifesaver since Simon had gone Inside, by blocking out all the thoughts that kept whirling around her head. But now, she told herself, as she hastily got up from her desk, she had another job to do as well if she was going to earn her keep.
Hastily, Claire made her way down the stairs to the kitchen. She had already put a quiche in the oven before starting work but should have checked it by now. Blast. It was slightly burned around the edges but if she cut out the dark bits and grated some cheddar on top, he might not notice.
‘Ah Claire.’ Just as she’d finished laying the table, Max came in, carrying a copy of a tabloid that she wouldn’t have put him down as reading. Somehow he seemed like a Times or Telegraph man.
‘This looks very good.’ He nodded at the disguised quiche in the centre of the table with a bowl of salad that she’d also prepared earlier. ‘Please sit down and join me.’ She had wondered how this would work and had mentally prepared herself for the fact that she might have to make small conversation or none at all.
He helped himself to a slice of quiche; there was a slight tussle with the knife as Max tried to ease the slice off the dish. ‘May I?’ she offered nervously.
‘Thank you.’
They both ate in silence for a few minutes before speaking at once.
‘I’m sorry the quiche is a little …’
‘Crisp?’ He frowned. ‘It has an unusual texture, I agree.’
‘I just need to get used to the oven, that’s all.’
He frowned again. ‘Is it different from yours?’
‘When I had my own …’ She’d been about to say ‘home’ but stopped because the memory was too raw. ‘Before, I used to have an Aga. It’s a different way of cooking.’
The frown relaxed. ‘Ah yes. Our mother used to have an Aga. Wonderful invention, she used to say. Even dried our clothes and the odd Wellington boot.’
She nodded, trying not to let the tears which were welling up behind her eyes come out. Of course it was Joanna’s death that was really dreadful. But talking about the Aga made her feel desperately homesick for her kitchen and the pretty views over the lawn.
‘My sister tells me that you are having to sell your home,’ said Max, matter-of-factly.
She nodded. ‘Someone’s coming back to see it for the second time this week.’
‘When you sell it, you will presumably wish to buy your own place.’
Claire wondered how much Jean had told him. The truth was that they needed the money from the house to live on until or if Simon could find a job. Not many employers wanted someone who had a criminal record. ‘I will rent for a while,’ she said briefly.
Max seemed to digest this information. ‘I am only asking because I would appreciate some notice before you leave.’
‘Of course,’ she said stiffly.
There was a silence during which he began to read his paper while eating. Claire toyed with the overdone quiche, wishing she had brought a book to the table if he was going to be so rude.
‘Here.’ Suddenly he stood up, pushing the paper towards her. ‘I have had sufficient, thank you. This afternoon I have a meeting with my agent so I do not know what time I will be back. I would appreciate it if dinner was flexible.’
There he went again, treating her like a maid! Claire sat up straight. ‘In that case, may I suggest a cold ham salad which I can leave in the fridge for you?’
‘A cold salad?’ Max seemed to be considering the idea as though it was entirely new. ‘In spring? Very well. In the meantime, I have some shirts to be ironed in my dressing room.’ He stopped as though remembering something. ‘Providing, that is, that ironing is within your job description.’
She nodded, unsure of what to say.
Max stood at the door, a slight smile seeming to affect only one side of his mouth. ‘I trust that my collars will not end up with the same brown tinge as the quiche!’ Then he touched his head as though expecting to find a hat, and disappeared into the long hall which no longer seemed so gloomy now she had opened the window and put out fresh flowers.
‘Honestly!’ thought Claire as she idly reached over for the tabloid. It wasn’t the kind of paper she normally read but she needed something to distract her. How could a brother and sister be so different? Then she caught sight of the headline on the front page and froze.
EXCLUSIVE! MURDER AT HMP GRIMVILLE. INMATE CHARGED .
Almost unable to breathe, Claire tried to make sense of the words which were blurred in her panic.
A 45-year-old man, who had been convicted of rape on five counts last year, was found murdered in his cell on Monday. The authorities have tried to keep the terrible news secret during investigations but an inside source has told us that another prisoner has been charged with his murder. It is said that the man was scalded with a mixture of boiling water and sugar which sticks to the skin and then beaten to death.
Was this the incident the prison had referred to in the phone call? No. Claire could feel the bile rising into her mouth. No. It couldn’t be. Simon’s prison was next door to this one. The two never mixed. He told her so. But then she recalled something he had said during his last phone call; about being involved with an art exhibition on The Other Side.
Dear God. Please, please don’t let him be involved. Her husband wasn’t a murderer. She had repeated that to herself over and over again after Joanna’s death as though to assure herself. That had been an accident. But supposing Simon, who had always been on the side of the vulnerable, had taken it into his head to argue with some rapist or killer?
Shaking, she picked up the phone and dialled the main number. ‘Press one if you know the extension; two for visiting hours; and three for the operator.’
Numbly, she pressed three.
He was working, said a clinical voice at the other end. Personal calls could only be taken in cases of extreme emergency.
‘I saw the newspaper this morning,’ she began, naming the tabloid. ‘I believe my husband Simon Mills was involved in an art exhibition on the other side.’
‘Please wait,’ said the voice immediately.
She did so, for ages, wishing she hadn’t taken the liberty of using Max’s phone instead of her mobile. Finally, after what seemed like ages, she could hear voices in the background.
‘Claire?’
It was Simon. She wanted to weep and scream at him at the same time. ‘What’s happened? Were you involved? What did you do?’
‘Claire. Claire. Listen to me. Please don’t cry. Don’t shout either. I’m all right. I can’t say much because I’m not allowed to. I’m not hurt and I didn’t have anything to do with it. We all had to stay in the prison overnight until we’d been questioned. That’s all.’
She was gasping with relief. ‘You didn’t get hurt by anyone? And you’re back at Freetown?’
‘Yes. And I’
ve got some good news. I’ve been rottled. That means being released on temporary licence so I can go out to work during the day. I can also have a town visit next month. I don’t even have to be accompanied, which is unusual. So you’ll be able to collect me and we can have a whole day together. Isn’t that wonderful? All right, I’m going.’
It took her a second to realise that the last sentence was directed at someone other than her.
‘I’ll call you tonight, Claire. I love you.’
Then there was the dull click as the phone cut her off.
She’d tried to continue with the outline upstairs but the right shapes wouldn’t come. Usually they appeared as though someone was moving her hand but Simon’s words kept resonating in her head. Giving up, she threw her brush on the desk along with the encouraging email from her agent, asking for more, and went downstairs to walk Slasher. The park opposite seemed like a good place to start but as she picked her way through the can tops and broken glass, she wondered if this was such a good idea. Slasher was straining on the lead but she didn’t want to let him go. Supposing he just shot off?
‘Who’s taking who for a walk?’ laughed a man as he strode past, throwing a ball for his own Labrador which looked like a curly teddy bear. ‘You ought to let him go. That one’s got some energy.’
Claire’s arm was hurting from the pull. ‘I lost him the other day and it was awful.’
‘Likes the look of our ball, doesn’t he? Tell you what, just let him play with my Bramble. If he makes a bolt for it, I’ll help you catch him.’
By now, Claire’s arm was almost out of its socket. ‘OK.’ Instantly Slasher shot off towards the other dog, nosing his ball and picking it up before running round in circles.
It was good for him, Claire thought, suddenly realising how much he’d been cooped up during the last few days. ‘We used to live by the sea. He could run on the beach then.’
‘The sea.’ The man whistled with appreciation. ‘I’ve always wanted to do that. What brought you here, then?’
‘Lots of things.’ Claire had said enough already. ‘I’ve got to go now.’
