The Dead Ex

by Jane Corry

  But now the reality was in front of me with bright blue and pink pastel murals of Snow White and the Seven Dwarfs lining the corridor. At the far end was the ‘play area’, where twenty or so women sat about in ordinary jeans and baggy tops while the children played with an assortment of toys. Several had arms around each other. Women prisoners, I’d already noted, were more tactile with each other than they were Outside. But those two over there, scrapping over a push-along toy train, looked like they could kill each other.

  ‘That’s my Jimmie’s,’ snapped one. Her thin arms bore a large tattoo of a bluebird on one and a heart on the other.

  ‘He’s just pinched it from our Alice,’ hissed another with a shaved head.

  ‘No he bloody didn’t.’

  ‘What’s going on here?’ This was the prison officer who’d been assigned to show me round.

  The shaved-headed woman pointed to the other. ‘She’s always hogging all the best stuff from the cupboard. Just cos she’s going to lose him before I have to give up my Alice, she wants him to have the best.’

  ‘BITCH!’

  The tattooed arms flailed. Then the pair were sprawling on the ground. ‘She’s scratching me. Get her off.’

  We took one each. I found myself with the tattooed woman.

  ‘In the cooler, both of you.’

  ‘Actually,’ I butted in, ‘I’d like to talk to this one privately.’

  The prison officer gave me a stony look. Tough. I was the superior here. I addressed the young girl with the tattoo. ‘What’s your name?’

  ‘Sam.’

  ‘Well, Sam. Shall we chat in your pad along with your Jimmie?’

  The room was only just big enough for a single bed down one side and a cot on the other. Baby stuff littered the floor. Packets of nappies. Rusks, some of them half-eaten. A pair of small denim dungarees. And toys. Lots of them.

  ‘Do all these belong to you?’

  The young girl nodded, protectively hugging the small boy in her arms. He sneezed, producing a large lump of snot, which Sam tenderly wiped away with her sleeve.

  ‘I thought you were only allowed to have a certain number of personal items in your room?’

  ‘I’ve borrowed some of them.’

  ‘So you were lying just then.’

  There was a shrug.

  The little boy wriggled out of his mother’s grasp and began walking uncertainly towards me. He was actually clambering onto my lap!

  What if I dropped him?

  ‘There’s no one in my family what can have him.’ The girl’s voice was tearful. ‘Only me sister but she’s done time, and they say she’s not responsible enough. So he’s going to be fostered or maybe adopted. He’ll grow up without me.’

  The boy was playing with the buttons on my jacket. I could smell him; a mixture of biscuits and milk. ‘How long have you got?’

  ‘Ten years.’

  Something serious, then. It wasn’t ‘done’ to ask what someone’s offence was, but the question lay there, hovering.

  ‘I killed the bastard.’

  ‘Who?’

  She looks down at the ground. ‘My uncle. Said my mother had dishonoured the family name by going out with this bloke he didn’t approve of. So he slashed her throat.’

  She says this with such matter-of-factness that I almost wonder if I’ve heard correctly.

  ‘How terrible.’

  She shrugged. ‘That’s why I killed him. Life was too good for him.’

  Maybe. But even so, you couldn’t just go round taking the law into your own hands or the world would be even more anarchic than it was already.

  ‘You might be out early with good behaviour.’

  There was a sniff. ‘I’ve got into trouble already.’

  Jimmie was now playing with my keys instead.

  ‘I was pregnant when I came inside. If it hadn’t been for him, I don’t know how I’d have got through. And now they’re taking him away.’

  Tears were streaming down her face. As if sensing his mother’s distress, Jimmie began to cry too. ‘When?’ I asked quietly.

  ‘Next month.’

  The girl reached out and clutched my hands. ‘You’re important here, aren’t you? Do something. Please. He likes you.’

  The child was staring up at me, through his tears. Such long dark lashes!

  ‘I’ll look into it,’ I said, handing back the little boy to his mother. ‘But I can’t change the rules. Do you have a counsellor to talk to?’

  ‘Just the other girls. And they’re in the same situation. We’re the forgotten island. That’s what some of us call the MBU.’

  I spoke stiffly to hide my feelings. ‘I’ll do my best.’

  It wasn’t until I’d reached the staff loo and locked the door behind me that I allowed the tears to flow. Mum. As a little girl, I’d pretended to cope with the separation when she’d been in hospital and eventually her death. I’d wanted to be strong for my dad. So I knew all too well what these toddlers – and their mothers – were going through. If I could only help one girl, it would be something.

  Yet, when I asked my superiors, there was nothing that could be done in this particular case. Long-term fostering was the best they could offer, but adoption might well be on the cards. It depended on committees, etc., etc. Any decision had to be in ‘the child’s best interests’.

  I decided I’d break the news to Sam myself. It was the least I could do. But when I went to see her, she was out, walking Jimmie round the grounds.

  Meanwhile, I had a lot to learn in my new role. A prisoner had to be shipped out (moved quietly overnight to another prison) for having a mobile phone. Another was on hunger strike because, she told me, she wasn’t allowed to go to her mother’s funeral. This seemed unfair to me until Jackie, one of the senior prison officers who had been really helpful when I’d arrived here, told me that the woman’s mother had died five years ago and that the deceased was actually her cousin three times removed.

  ‘Prisoners love funerals because it means they can get out for the day,’ she explained. ‘But I respect the fact that you’re not afraid to make a stand. Know what the others say about you? You’ve got breasts and balls.’

  ‘Hope that’s a compliment,’ I said, half-joking.

  She’d touched my arm briefly in a chummy fashion. ‘It is. By the way, we’ve started an all-girls squash ladder in the new gym block. Fancy joining us?’

  Great. It was just what I needed. There’s nothing like physical exercise to block out the stuff we have to deal with. Afterwards we sometimes had a coffee together. My new friend was conscientious like me but also fun. And she could stand up for herself. ‘Clear off,’ she’d say to some of the male married officers who made passes at her. ‘Or I’ll tell your wives at the next social.’

  Privately, I sometimes wondered why she hadn’t found someone. Jackie – or ‘blondie’ as some of the guards called her – was one of those women who looked good even when she wore her hair pulled back off her forehead for work. As a friend, she was a breath of fresh air. Bright. Intelligent. And with a wicked sense of humour. One day Jackie confided that she’d broken off her engagement to an officer in a previous prison. He insisted she kept the ring so she sold it to go on a solo break-up holiday to Thailand.

  ‘Good of him, wasn’t it? He was generous like that. It did make me wonder briefly if I’d done the right thing but then I had a really intense weekend with this Australian bloke in Bangkok who completely wiped the ex out of my head.’ She shrugged, and for the first time I detected a flash of vulnerability. ‘I expected to meet someone else by now. But I haven’t. The opportunities are few and far between in this place. None of the single blokes here do it for me.’

  Privately I considered her attitude to be short-sighted and rather silly. I was still focused on my career and thought the right man would just fall into my lap at some point. It certainly wasn’t a priority right now. But I comforted her and even went to a few singles dating nights with her. It felt
great finally to be making some friends. I was doing a job I loved and had found a group of people who understood me.

  Then, about three months later, the phone rang in the middle of the night. There was a ‘situation’. No details were given, but my presence was ‘needed’.

  My house – which came with the promotion – was in the staff estate block, a short walk away. Just as well my uniform was ready to put on for the next day.

  The Main Gate (as we call the inside area where staff and visitors sign in and out) was quiet; not good, considering how many people were there. Three officers. A medic. Chairman of the IMB. My heart sank. The latter would only have been called at this time of night if something very bad had happened which needed an independent witness. An ambulance had slid up outside too. No siren.

  ‘What’s happened?’

  ‘Samantha Taylor,’ said one of the officers, stepping forward.

  It took a second for the name to register. Then I got it. Samantha with the bluebird tattoo and little Jimmie.

  Numbly, I followed him. Why weren’t they going to the mother-and-baby unit? Of course. The boy would have gone for fostering or adoption now. Sam would have been moved to an ordinary cell.

  The knocks behind the doors on the landing were persistent. Furious. Demanding. ‘What’s going on?’ shouted one woman.

  ‘Tell us,’ screamed another.

  One cell door was open. A visibly distraught prison officer was standing outside. ‘I found her. She’d been upset ever since she got here. But then tonight she went quiet. Thought I’d check everything was all right but when I went in, I found her …’

  The officer stopped. No need for him to say any more. There was the chair. And there was the body on the ground, still with the blue cord round her neck.

  ‘I cut her down. But she was gone.’

  The man’s eyes were red. ‘Same age as my daughter. Couldn’t cope without her kid, she couldn’t. Do you know how she did it?’

  I shook my head numbly.

  ‘She’d hidden the kid’s reins. Just learned to walk, he had, before they were parted.’ He rubbed his eyes. ‘Makes you wonder why we do this, doesn’t it?’

  34

  Helen

  1 December 2017

  When I wake in the morning, David has gone. His side of the bed is almost uncreased, as though he was never in it. The kitchen area is immaculate. Gone is his wine glass. In fact, there is no evidence of last night at all. If I wasn’t physically in the apartment, I might think I’d dreamed the whole thing.

  My mouth is parched, so I help myself to orange juice from a fridge which takes up half the wall. It has an ice cube dispenser on the outside. I spend a few minutes trying it out just for the hell of it.

  Then I see the note on the massive island in the middle of the kitchen. Funny: I’ve never seen David’s handwriting before apart from his signature. This is entirely in capitals; almost childlike as though the author has never learned to do joined-up.

  YOU’RE A REMARKABLE GIRL WITH A BIG CAREER IN FRONT OF YOU. I’M SURE YOU UNDERSTAND THE NEED FOR DISCRETION. JUST SHUT THE DOOR BEHIND YOU. THE SECURITY SYSTEM WILL KICK IN.

  Naturally he wants to be careful. But he can’t forget last night. I won’t let him. My mind goes back to the angry woman with red hair on the other side of the restaurant window. I wonder if she had a similar letter once.

  Half an hour later, I head towards his office. Inside, there are raised voices. ‘Just bloody find them.’ David’s deep voice is unmistakable. ‘They want to see them. It will look suspicious if we can’t produce the paperwork.’

  ‘I’ve tried.’ So are Posh Perdita’s indignant squeals.

  ‘They have got to be there somewhere in the archives.’

  ‘Could you have kept them at home?’

  ‘Maybe. I’ll check. Meanwhile, get rid of that hack in reception.’

  ‘Are you sure? He’s waiting right now to do an interview with you and that irritating work experience student …’

  ‘She’s just ambitious. Nothing wrong with that.’

  Suddenly David’s door opens. I manage, just in time, to look as though I was walking past. ‘Ah, there you are, Helen.’ His deep voice is detached and professional. His face friendly but not over-familiar. There is no sign to show he’d been up half the night making love to me. ‘Ready for the interview, are you?’

  Then his eye takes in the cardigan I am wearing. I’d found it in a wardrobe next to his immaculate line of suits, immediately spotting it as his daughter’s from the picture on his desk. It’s my size. Turquoise with pretty pearl buttons. Soft to touch and smelling of something expensive.

  I give him one of my butter-wouldn’t-melt-in-mouth looks, which I’ve been cultivating. ‘Sure. Let’s go for it.’

  ‘So what have you learned from your week’s experience, Miss Evans?’

  I look up through my eyelashes at my boss and then back to the earnest young man with tortoiseshell glasses. ‘You need to be resourceful if you’re going to work in this kind of business.’

  David looks distinctly nervous.

  The journalist is scribbling. ‘Would you like to define that?’

  ‘Well, you need to take all the opportunities you are given.’ I am rather enjoying this. ‘I’ve got some great shots as a result, and they’re going to really boost my portfolio.’

  My boss smiles, looking more relaxed.

  ‘Of course, there’s one problem.’

  They both look at me. David’s eyes are wary. The journalist’s are keen.

  ‘What’s that?’ They speak as one.

  ‘A week’s work experience is all very well. But it hasn’t led to a paid internship. We’re meant to find one this term. It’s part of our course, and if I don’t, well, I might not get my diploma.’

  ‘She has a point, Mr Goudman.’

  A flash of distinct irritation passes over my boss’s face. ‘It’s not as simple as that.’

  ‘Really?’ I finger the buttons on my cardigan. ‘I could be useful to you, Mr Goudman. Maybe you’d like some photographs showing one of your many homes. I heard you had a loft conversion with a fancy shower that plays music.’

  David is rubbing his chin. Not in that relaxed fashion as in over dinner. But fast. Angry. Have I gone too far?

  ‘I will definitely consider it.’

  ‘Is that a “yes”?’ persists the journalist.

  I undo one of the pearl buttons and then fasten it as though I am the twitchy one.

  ‘Like I said, I’ll consider it.’

  The journalist is still writing. ‘This is going to make a nice piece on how companies like yours are helping young people get onto the career ladder. Thank you, sir.’

  David finds me at the end of the day. I’ve stayed late, hoping for this.

  ‘What the hell did you think you were playing at?’ There are little dots of sweat on his forehead. They make me feel pleasurably powerful.

  ‘I thought you’d be pleased to have me around,’ I retort.

  ‘I don’t like being pushed into a corner.’

  As he speaks, he begins to do exactly that to me. The wall is cold and hard against my back. His face – the ugly one – is close to mine. ‘It so happens that I was thinking of offering you a job anyway, Helen.’

  ‘I’m sorry,’ I whisper. ‘I was just desperate to work for you full-time. I shouldn’t have put you on the spot in front of that journalist.’

  ‘No. You shouldn’t.’ He pulls up my skirt.

  ‘Here?’ I whisper. ‘Your note said we had to be discreet.’

  ‘The door’s locked,’ he growls.

  He presses his mouth against mine. I can feel his body hardening. Power and excitement surge through me. I suspect he feels the same. Might as well let him enjoy that for a while longer. I’m under no illusions that this is going to last.

  ‘OK,’ he says, doing up his trousers afterwards.

  ‘Better than OK, surely?’ I retort, pretending to look offended. />
  He laughs with a smile that actually reached his eyes. ‘Actually, it was amazing.’ He gives me a quick kiss. ‘The “OK” referred to your earlier request regarding a job. I’ll employ you for six months. After that, we’ll see what happens.’

  Yes! It was almost too easy.

  ‘Thank you!’ I jump up and put my arms around him. He seems frozen for a second, and then hugs me back. ‘Go and tell my PA. She’ll sort out the paperwork.’

  Posh Perdita is going to get the shock of her life.

  35

  Vicki

  17 May 2018

  I’ve got another padmate. The woman whose kids are with her mother-in-law kicked up when she learned she was sharing with a ‘murderer’, even though I haven’t even been tried yet. So much for our ‘innocent until proven guilty’ law.

  The new one is keen to tell me that she’s here for fraud, even though she didn’t do it. ‘They’ say she embezzled several thousand from the company books, which seems a hard one to get out of. She spends hours in the prison library, leafing through legal textbooks. ‘I can’t afford a barrister,’ she says. ‘I’m going to argue my own case.’

  I can’t help being impressed. In a way, I’m surprised my solicitor is still with me. She’s already said that she only wants to represent me if I am telling the truth. Perhaps I should have been honest from the beginning, but if I had, I’m pretty sure no one would have believed me.

  Right now I’m having lunch with the other girls on the wing. We eat outside our cells at a large table in a communal area. It’s quite casual, with drinks machines at the side. The set-up might surprise some people who are used to seeing noisy prison dining halls. But they’re not all like that. However, if I am found guilty, I will be sent to a high-security prison with fewer privileges.

  My cheese roll is actually quite tasty. It’s weird, how you can appreciate things like that even in situations like this one. I’ve almost finished when one of the officers comes in. ‘Legal visit for Goudman.’