The Dead Ex

by Jane Corry

Penny isn’t due to be here for another half an hour. My heart starts pounding.

  ‘You took all the chutney,’ says one of the girls as I get up.

  I shrug. ‘Sorry.’

  ‘That’s not fuckin’ good enough.’

  ‘Shut up.’ This is from the woman I used to share a pad with. ‘You don’t want to mess with that one. She’s evil.’

  It’s not true, I want to argue back as I follow the officer to the legal visits room. Then again, who am I to say?

  Penny Brookes is there, waiting for me, sitting on the other side of the desk. I can almost imagine that this is a normal working office environment except that there are signs on the walls warning that VIOLENCE WILL NOT BE TOLERATED.

  ‘How are you doing?’

  Despite her clipped politeness, there is a reservation about her expression which suggests a problem. As if we don’t have enough.

  ‘I’m concerned about the jury’s reaction when the new witness tells them that she saw you coming out of Tanya’s house, holding something.’

  ‘It wasn’t a chain,’ I remind her.

  ‘But we can’t prove it. Even if they found the Welsh spoon, it wouldn’t be enough. What we need is a character witness who can vouch for your good behaviour in the past. How about this Patrick M—’

  ‘No.’ I stand up abruptly. My solicitor jumps. For the first time since we’ve met, I see fear on her face.

  ‘I’m sorry,’ I say quickly, sitting down again. ‘But he’s the one person I can’t ask.’

  It was December 2008 when I met Patrick Miles.

  ‘You’re going to another women’s prison,’ one of the deputy governors had told me. He paused as if about to say something else and then stopped. ‘There aren’t many in this country, as you know. This one needs someone like you to shake it up. There’ve been, let’s say, some issues with management which the press have got wind of. If you do a good job, Vicki, you’ll be well on your way to the top.’

  My heart thudded with excitement. Wasn’t that what I wanted? Maybe I might even make deputy governor one day or – the real cherry on top – governor itself? That would show Dad and the neighbours.

  ‘What kind of problems?’ I asked.

  ‘The usual. Overcrowding. Rebellions. Hunger strikes. Racist attacks. Arson. You name it.’ His eyes searched mine. ‘Are you up to it, Vicki? I know you like a challenge.’

  ‘Is there a mother-and-baby unit?’

  ‘No.’

  ‘OK.’ I felt slightly more reassured.

  ‘But there should be. And that’s partly why we’ve picked you, Vicki. We want you to start one.’

  My skin went cold. I could see all too clearly Sam Taylor’s body lying on that cell floor.

  We’re the forgotten island.

  ‘Here’s the thing, Vicki.’ My boss took in my expression. ‘The government’s been embarrassed by some of the inmate revolts. It’s prepared to spend some money – providing we can get the right person to turn it round.’

  ‘Is there a psychologist in the prison?’

  ‘Well, there’s the usual medical staff. Doctor on call. Resident nurses.’

  ‘I want one.’ I heard my voice coming out cool and clear. ‘Someone who specializes in family relationships.’

  ‘I’ll see what I can do.’

  ‘No.’ I could hardly believe I was speaking like this. ‘I will only go if I have a definite “yes”.’

  He looked annoyed.

  ‘And if there isn’t one?’

  ‘Then I will have to consider my future in the prison service.’

  It was a gamble. But it paid off.

  The mother-and-baby unit was opened to fanfare in the press.

  One journalist wrote a profile of me in a national tabloid, describing me as the ‘driving force’. He declared that I ‘wasn’t afraid to do a fair job’ and mentioned how I’d suspended a prison officer in possession of a mobile phone, made sure that smokers weren’t housed with non-smokers and initiated regular drug tests, which had become infrequent because of staff shortages. It meant more employees had to work overtime (including me), but it reduced the number of offences.

  When an anonymous cartoon caricature of me arrived in the internal mail, I pinned it up on the staff noticeboard to pretend I didn’t care – even though the sender had portrayed me as being at least three sizes larger than I was, with hairs sprouting out of my chin.

  ‘I wouldn’t do that if I were you,’ said Jackie. I’d asked her to come along with me from the old prison along with Frances, another high-ranking prison officer whom I trusted.

  ‘No point in hiding anything,’ I said. ‘I’d rather embarrass them than pretend it hadn’t happened.’

  Besides, I wasn’t there to be popular. I was there to do a fair job. All too often I’d seen prison staff flaunt their power and sometimes abuse it. It was a crowd mentality thing: only a few had to do it before others followed suit. It was why I’d initiated an investigation into two officers who had punched an inmate in ‘self-defence’, even though his cellmate swore it was because they’d demanded his cigarettes and he’d refused to hand them over.

  But the most important achievement in these prison changes was my appointment of Patrick Miles as the psychologist.

  He’d stood out amongst the applicants not just because of his credentials but because of his empathy. ‘The bond between mother and baby is stronger than any other,’ he’d told me during his interview. ‘It’s inhuman to break it and then expect both to carry on as though they had never been joined together.’

  ‘Is it possible for the mother to cope?’ I asked.

  ‘Yes, but only with the right counselling and care.’ Then, to my embarrassment, he’d glanced at my left hand.

  ‘I don’t have children myself,’ I said quickly, checking his CV. Marital status: single.

  I took a deep breath. ‘I knew a woman who hanged herself because she couldn’t face being separated from her toddler.’

  He nodded. ‘I read about that. In your last prison, wasn’t it? A Samantha Taylor?’

  So he’d done his homework.

  ‘She had no one to talk to?’ he asked.

  ‘Just the other women.’

  He shook his head. It was a kind face, I thought, with lines around those dark brown eyes which might have come from laughter or sadness. Then he ran a hand through his short black curly hair as if expressing frustration. ‘They can do more harm than good. Where I worked before, there was great jealousy amongst mothers who were about to lose their children and those who still had some months to go. We will have to be very careful.’

  ‘You speak as though you have already got the job.’

  ‘I apologize.’ He spread out his hands. His nails were neatly clipped, I noticed. ‘I am, as usual, being carried away by my enthusiasm.’

  It was catching. As I found out to my cost.

  36

  Helen

  5 January 2018

  I didn’t see much of David last month because he was away on business in the States and then apparently he took his wife to the Maldives for Christmas. My own Christmas was busy with family stuff. One of the geeks from the IT department at work asked me to a New Year party, but I told him I was already going out with a friend. The truth was that I needed to think.

  David’s absence made me nervous. There was still so much I needed to do. It was like letting a slippery fish off the hook, hoping that it would come back so I could finish the job.

  When he did return a few days ago, he was cool with me, declaring that I would have to do some general admin ‘as well as taking those pictures of yours’ in order to pull my weight.

  I hoped it was part of an act, especially as he’d said it again yesterday in front of Posh Perdita. But what if he’s genuinely lost interest? Supposing Tanya has lured him back?

  This morning, though, in the Ladies, I heard some of the girls talking. ‘Boss is in a bad mood. Sounds like he’s had another bust-up with the wife, judging fro
m his manner on the phone to her. I had to go into his office with something and caught the tail end of it.’

  My heart skipped.

  So it wasn’t totally unexpected when, shortly afterwards, he came into my office, where I was captioning some of my photographs. ‘Thought I’d see how you’re getting on,’ he said loudly, before shutting the door behind him. I carried on working. Within seconds I could feel his fingers massaging my shoulder blades from behind.

  I stood up and opened the door. ‘Mind if we keep this open? It’s quite hot in here.’

  The disappointment on his face was suitably gratifying.

  ‘I’m only being careful,’ I whispered, ‘like you said before.’

  I watched him eyeing my legs under my short black skirt and a skinny-rib jumper that showed off my shape. I rather missed that nice cardigan that belonged to his daughter. But I got enough money for it to pay for two months’ worth of groceries.

  ‘Come to my place tonight,’ he whispered back. ‘Eight p.m. Don’t be late.’

  Treat them mean. Keep them keen. It’s nine by the time I reach his smart block of flats near the London Eye.

  ‘You’re late again,’ he says through the intercom when I press the DG button on the security pad in the foyer.

  ‘I got lost.’

  It might have been true. After all, I’ve only been here once before.

  When I enter his apartment, he hands me a glass of champagne. ‘You’re lucky,’ he says curtly, still clearly irritated by my timing. ‘The monkfish could have been ruined.’

  ‘You’ve made me a meal?’ Perhaps this man has hidden depths after all.

  ‘Not exactly. I had it brought in. But I did do this myself.’ He gesticulates towards the beautifully laid table with its pink glasses and flashy gold-plated cutlery.

  I am almost touched. ‘That’s really sweet. No one’s gone to this much trouble for me before.’

  His anger seems to melt away. ‘Why not?’

  We are on dangerous territory now. ‘They just haven’t.’

  I need to stop him talking. So I unzip my dress at the back. It slides onto the floor. He moves behind me, cupping my breasts before running his hands further down. Then he steers me towards the bedroom. ‘What about the monkfish?’ I murmur.

  ‘Bugger the fish.’

  ‘And what about your wife?’

  ‘You didn’t bother asking me that last time.’

  My final thought, before I let him throw me onto the bed, is that you never know where you are with David Goudman. In a way, that’s part of his charm. But with any luck, it will also be his downfall.

  Just like my previous visit, I wake to an empty space beside me. Obviously this is the kind of man who doesn’t go in for morning cuddles.

  HAD TO GO INTO THE OFFICE. HAVE A GOOD DAY. THE CLEANER WILL BE IN AT 9 AM. I’D APPRECIATE IT IF YOU LEFT BEFORE THEN.

  I’m not surprised that he’s gone into the office, even though it’s a Saturday. David is a workaholic. Perfect. It’s now 8.30 a.m. I have precisely thirty minutes.

  After opening various cupboards, I finally find the dishwasher – cleverly disguised so that it looks like part of the kitchen island – and put my plate in before washing my hands with the expensive shea butter soap by the sink.

  Then I get down to business. If I don’t do it now, I might not have another chance. He’s clearly bored already.

  I check the wardrobe again – just clothes. Then the modern-looking pale wooden desk in the corner by the sofa. I expect it to be locked, but it opens easily. There are a few bills, marked ‘paid’, but nothing else. I sit down briefly on a beige recliner chair and fiddle with the remote control. Instantly it begins to massage my back. Nice. If I wasn’t in a rush, I might stay put for a bit. Then I leaf through some heavy books on the glass shelves, just in case something is hidden inside. They’re not the kind I would read. In fact, they look like they’re for show. One bears the title Fifty Best Hotels in the World. It’s still in its plastic wrapping. At the other end of the room is a designer side table with about twelve different coloured pull-out drawers. Each one is empty.

  Perhaps he’s cleverer than I’d thought.

  37

  Vicki

  11 June 2018

  Time goes slowly in prison. For inmates, that is. When I was in charge, there were never enough minutes in the day to get everything done. Now I try not to look at the clock because otherwise I might hit the walls with frustration as the seconds crawl by. All I have to do is sit and remember. And those thoughts scare me. I’m also terrified that someone is going to have a go at me because I used to be on the ‘other side’.

  Every day when they unlock us, we have to walk down the stairs to the dining room. I grab the rails each time, my heart pounding at the drop below, palms sweating. Once I made the mistake of looking down and tripped on a step. One of the women reached for me and for a second I thought she was going to send me flying to the bottom.

  ‘Get off me,’ I’d screamed.

  One of the officers had come running. ‘I was only trying to help,’ protested the woman.

  ‘You don’t want to do that,’ hissed another. ‘She’s scum. Used to be a bleeding governor herself.’

  ‘Fuck. You’re kidding.’

  Meanwhile, one of the officers was helping me up. ‘You all right?’ she said in a kindlier manner than I’d expected. ‘You’re as white as a sheet.’

  No wonder. I’m even more scared going up the stairs when we have to return to our pads.

  How I miss my aromatherapy: the only thing that helps to calm me. What I’d give for some lavender essence right now. I yearn for the old day-to-day contact with clients, the warm feeling that comes from helping others and the distraction of work in the real world.

  I’m on kitchen duty this week, in charge of potato peeling. My hands are red-raw from the water and I’ve got small nicks all over them from the peeler. Health regulations demand that you’re meant to go to the nurse if that happens, but she’s been on leave with stress for the last week and they’re still trying to find a stand-in. Of course, that’s not acceptable. If I was governor, I’d do something about it. But I’m not.

  Actually, I quite like peeling potatoes. The banal rhythmical action is soothing. It also helps to distract me from thinking about the trial. It’s due to start in a month’s time, and I haven’t heard from my solicitor for a few days. I know she’s annoyed with me for not allowing her to contact Patrick.

  But I can’t go through that shame. I can’t see his face, full of pity. It would kill me. I wonder if he actually knows that I’m in prison. I’d imagine that he does – the gossip lines are hot inside. But if he does, he hasn’t been to visit me – even more reason why I’m not going to ask him to be a character witness.

  Ouch! I glance down at my potato, bringing myself sharply back to the present. I’ve cut my skin again. Far worse than last time. The pain actually feels like a release.

  ‘You’ve created something here,’ said my Number One Governor back in late 2009 after my prison was given an award for its ‘outstanding’ mother-and-baby unit. ‘Well done.’

  ‘It’s not just me,’ I replied quickly. ‘It’s Patrick too.’ We’d been working together for almost a year by then.

  He nodded. ‘That’s why we want you both to do the same at HMP Longwaite. As a team.’

  Another move? But I liked it here. Mind you, this new prison was close to London. I could spend my days off in museums and art galleries.

  ‘It will help you with your career,’ added my boss.

  It was tempting. Yet …

  ‘I’ll do it,’ I replied slowly. ‘But I don’t know if Patrick will be happy to uproot.’

  ‘He will.’ He looked at me meaningfully. ‘If you do.’

  ‘We are professional colleagues,’ I retorted briskly.

  ‘You work well together.’

  To my surprise – and excitement – Patrick agreed. If I was honest with myself, there was
something there. Never before had I met a man like him. He was intelligent, kind and attractive. He was just different. This wasn’t only because of his poor upbringing back in Uganda (I tried not to think what my dad would say about his ethnicity). It was more because he was, well, simply him. A good, honest man who was not afraid to stand up for what he believed in.

  Often, he suggested the same strategy for an inmate that I was about to suggest. The other month, when a woman on C wing lashed out at one of the officers, he organized an anger-management course for her instead of sending her to solitary.

  ‘Do you agree?’ he’d asked me.

  ‘Absolutely. Being on her own isn’t going to make her change her way of thinking. We need to provide her with coping mechanisms.’

  But, amazing as Patrick was, he seemed oblivious to me as a woman. On the rare occasions when our shifts meant we had a night off at the same time, he never suggested a meal out or even a drink.

  Instead, we would both go back to our separate prison bedsits. ‘I’m thirty-six,’ I reminded myself. How had the years gone by so fast?

  ‘You need to get out more, lass,’ said Dad when I went back during one of my longer leaves. ‘Aren’t there social nights in your line of work?’

  ‘Yes. Bar quizzes. Darts. The odd staff party.’

  I might have added that I had to be careful in my senior position. I could hardly snog someone and then work with him the next day. Maybe that’s why Patrick hadn’t made a move …

  That night, I got a call. One of the mothers in the unit had gone missing. She’d taken her child with her. ‘There’s going to be hell in the papers when they find out,’ said my superior, as if this was the only thing to worry about.

  By the time I got back to the prison from Dad’s, the pair had been found.

  ‘It’s my fault.’

  Never had I seen Patrick in tears before.

  ‘We had a counselling session booked, but I had to cancel it for a bloody financial meeting.’

  I’d never heard him swear, either.

  ‘You can’t blame yourself.’

  ‘I should have been more forceful when they refused to reschedule.’