On My Life

by Angela Clarke

  ‘You’ll have something in common with our last guest then,’ she says.

  The smell hits me immediately. Rancid vomit. My whole body contracts. ‘It’s not clean!’

  ‘It’s been hosed down,’ she grins. ‘But they might have missed a bit.’

  She pushes me toward the tiny, metal-lined cell. It’s like a coffin on its end. There’s a small metal bench. A tiny side window. No seatbelt.

  ‘Please.’ I can’t go in there. ‘I won’t run, I promise. Please.’ The smell catches in my throat. I’m going to gag.

  She pushes me in. Hysteria scratches at me. She slams the door. I hear it lock. I swivel back. There’s no other way out. One of the photographers outside has pressed a camera against the small window. The flash detonates, making dots in front of my eyes. I’ve seen photographers do this on the news. Hold cameras up over their heads to get the shot of the guilty party. But I’m not guilty. I didn’t do this. There’s been a mistake.

  The noise outside increases. The prison officer is yelling something. There’s the blast of a siren. And then the van lurches. I slam into the side of the cell and sit down with a bump. The smell is overpowering. I close my eyes and try to stay calm. We rumble over a pothole. Eyes wide open. It’s all still here. This is happening. This is real.

  ‘I didn’t do anything!’ I cry. ‘I’m innocent!’

  My words crunch under the wheels of the van. No one replies. No one is listening. I imagine I’m holding Emily in my arms, stroking her hair. I can’t stop the tears any more.

  Now

  You’re supposed to be innocent until proven guilty. I pleaded not guilty. Told the Magistrates’ judge I didn’t do this. But he locked me up anyway. On remand until the hearing. How long did the solicitor say it would be? Shock has mangled my brain. I blink grit. When did I last sleep? The custody cell had a board of a bed, a grey blanket. I remember holding it like I cradled Emily’s body . . . I cried when they took my clothes and shoes for evidence. I’d hugged Emily in those clothes. They smelled of her. The T-shirt and jogging bottoms they gave me smell of plastic.

  When they explained I was going to court I thought Mum or Ness would bring me new clothes. Now I know why they didn’t. The prosecution said they’d found Robert’s blood in the house. The police accused me of killing him. I couldn’t. I wouldn’t. I love him. They haven’t found a body. That means he could still be alive. He could still be out there. My stomach tilts as the van turns. They’re not looking for him because they think I killed him.

  I slam my fist against the door.

  ‘Let me out! Please!’

  There’s no response.

  I rest my head against the metal and close my eyes. Each bump jolts the van and me, but there’s something comforting in the pain. It’s rooting me here. If there’s anyone out there who can hear this, please protect Robert. Please let him be okay.

  Does he know about Emily? My heart feels as if it’s being squeezed. What happened? I replay it in my mind, but I always stop at the kitchen door. At the shattered glass.

  The feeling of nausea rises again. This time I’m not going to win. ‘Hey! Please! Stop! I’m going to be sick!’

  I tip forwards. Oh god, there’s no bag, nothing. My throat clenches and punches up. Liquid sprays out and onto the metal wall, the floor, splashing back onto my feet and legs. There’s nowhere to escape it. I retch again. Someone must come now. They must stop the van. Acid burns my throat. My eyes are watering, my nose dripping. The bile makes me cough.

  No one comes.

  The van turns another corner and I slide toward the mess. There’s nothing to clean myself with. It’s disgusting, but it gives me a task to focus on. I take off one of the trainers they gave me and remove a sock. I wipe my face first, then my arms, then my legs and my shoes, before dropping the sock on the floor and trying to contain the situation there. It’s better than nothing.

  It feels like we’re slowing down. Reversing. We must be parking. Through the small window to the side I can see a brick wall. Thank god, we’re here. Then I remember where here is. Prison. I am going to prison.

  I hear the driver’s door slam. Then there’s the sound of shouting. Who’s shouting? They sound angry. Is it the driver? Maybe they’re arguing with the prison officer? No, there are other voices too.

  I can hear bolts grinding: the door into the van is being opened. They’re going to let me out. Thank god.

  ‘Get your hands off me!’ shouts a man. A man. My heart starts to hammer. Surely they don’t use the van for male prisoners too? ‘Where you taking me! I got rights! My baby-mumma’s coming with the kids tomorrow.’

  I step back from the door.

  ‘Shut it!’ roars the female guard. There are multiple footsteps. A struggle.

  ‘I want my lawyer! You’re bent, you fuckers! Get off!’

  Shoes squeak on the floor. We’re not there. We’re picking up another prisoner. A male prisoner. They don’t keep the men and the women together, do they? They’re murderers, rapists. No, that’s madness. You’re letting your thoughts run away with you, Jenna. A small voice inside me whispers, they think you’re a killer.

  The guy is struggling. Rocking the whole van. Between spat words I can hear slivers about his kids. I think of Emily again and close my eyes. I could never hurt her.

  The guards ignore him. They don’t even shout back. The door slams shut.

  If I don’t speak now I’ll miss my chance.

  There are new voices outside. I wish I could see more than the wall. They’re bringing another person in. I press my face fully against the crack of the door to see if I can hear who it is.

  Another cell door opens. I can’t remember how many there were – eight, maybe? I should’ve paid more attention. Will they fill them all? When will they drop me off? Are we even going in the same direction? This is a twisted bus service for prisoners. Is this one a man as well, or a woman?

  I can hear the door being closed, movement in the corridor. This is my chance to get them to move me. To give me some water. I need the bathroom.

  ‘Hello?’ I say. Too quiet. ‘Excuse me – could I get some water and some tissue? I’ve been . . .’ I can’t bring myself to say I’ve been sick, it’s too embarrassing. ‘I’ve had an incident.’

  The female guard gives a barked laugh. ‘An incident? You break a nail, Princess?’

  Keep calm. ‘Could I use the bathroom?’

  ‘No breaks!’ Her hand slams against the door and I jolt back. No breaks? Is that legal?

  ‘Is that a girl?’ the guy to the left of me shouts. Goosebumps run over my forearms.

  ‘Oh yeah!’ the guard yells. ‘Just your type, Boyd. Blonde and stuck-up!’ She slaps her hand against the door again and it shakes. ‘Something for your wank bank, that’ll keep you quiet!’ Then there’s silence as the door is bolted.

  I can barely breathe.

  ‘I like blondes,’ the guy to the left says. Can he see me? ‘Guess what I’m going to do to you when I get out of here?’

  ‘Shut up, man,’ says another voice. The other prisoner. They’re both men. It’s me and two men. I back into the corner as much as I can and hug my arms round my body.

  I shouldn’t be here. I didn’t do anything wrong.

  ‘I can smell your pussy,’ the guy on the left says.

  Revulsion crawls over me. I screw my eyes shut. Put my fingers in my ears. Under my breath I start to count elephants – one elephant, two elephant – like I do between lightning and the roll of thunder to reassure Emily the storm is far away. But it’s not far away. It’s right here, and I’m caught in the eye of it.

  Then

  ‘Please tell me you are joking?’ Becky’s purple-lipsticked mouth is agog as I lace up my walking boots.

  ‘He suggested I wear sturdy footwear.’ Robert texted me directions to our date tonight; I’m to park up in Batsford-on-the-Hill and walk from there.

  ‘Where’s he taking you – a barn dance?’

  I don’t a
ctually know where we’re going. It’s intriguing. And for a moment I imagine we’re about to go on a true adventure. A hot-air balloon trip, rally driving! ‘I’m sure it’s just a pub.’ One of the ones only locals know about.

  ‘I still can’t believe you said yes to Farmer Giles! Can you, Sally?’ Becky has clearly had enough of sifting through applicants for the Snapdragon Bakery. Especially when it’s so much more fun to make me squirm. She knows I hate discussing my love life. Or the lack of it.

  Sally looks up and over her glasses, fountain pen still poised over her paperwork. ‘Said yes to what?’

  ‘Jenna is going on a date with the Milcombe Hotel manager.’ Becky claps her hands together, revelling in her own gossip. I’m not a keen dater. I haven’t been out with anyone since I met a guy on Tinder who made me meet him at a pizzeria at 5 p.m. so he could claim the Early Bird deal. He then spent an hour telling me about his pension plan while he dropped spaghetti sauce all over the table. And he wouldn’t let me leave a tip, even though I’d paid for my half of the bill. He kept picking the note back up and thrusting it at me while talking about market value. I was so embarrassed that I went back the next day to give the waitress her due. That was eight months ago. Maybe I shouldn’t have said yes to tonight?

  Sally is obviously thinking the same thing. ‘I thought you were off men?’

  I’m not off men as such, it’s just that I’m happy with my life. With me. I’m busy with work, and . . . oh god . . . ‘It’s not inappropriate, is it? Me seeing the client?’ I can’t believe I didn’t think of this before. ‘I’m so sorry, Sally. I didn’t think it through. I don’t know why I said yes really . . .’

  ‘Because he’s hot!’ Becky cackles.

  ‘No. I mean, yes, he is . . .’ My cheeks flush. Why did I say yes? It’s not like I don’t get my fair share of offers. The barman at the Kilkenny has made it clear with his ‘let me message you, baby’. And he’s fit. Why on earth did I say yes to a client? ‘Do you want me to cancel?’ It was something in his eyes. The way he said it. I didn’t get the sense he’d asked anyone for a long time, either. Please don’t make me cancel. I’m surprised to realise how much I do want to see him.

  Sally peers at me for a second too long. I always have the feeling she knows exactly what I’m thinking. Then a smile breaks over her lips. ‘I met my second husband when I recruited the staff for his new restaurant. Just don’t break his heart before you get the signature on the contract, my girl.’

  Becky and I crack up. Typical Sally! Nothing phases her.

  I park on the high street in Batsford-on-the-Hill. An American couple, in matching T-shirts, are pushing two huge cases into the Batsford Hotel. I follow the directions Robert sent me, turning off the high street and resisting the familiar earthy vanilla smell of a second-hand bookshop. Past the Golden Fleece pub, and down Bell Street. The road tapers off into a country lane, the markings sporadic like drips of ice cream, until they’re gone completely. The late April sun turns the few houses I can see over the wildflower hedgerows honey gold. As instructed, I use them to navigate. Where am I going? One cottage on the left, two on the right, and sure enough, there is a sign for a footpath. I should be anxious meeting in such a deserted spot, but I feel nothing but excitement. Besides, Robert asked me out in front of Becky, hardly the move of someone who wished me harm.

  Hedges press up against the path, casting me into cool shadow. The ground underneath is dry churned mud, sloping upwards. I turn and the hedges dwindle, and I’m on the top of a stunning vista. The fields and hills roll away like waves of watercolour paint. It feels like I have the whole world to myself.

  ‘Not a bad view.’ His voice comes from behind me, making me jump.

  His blond hair is lit by the sunshine, his cream shirt and jeans rendered golden in the light. I whip my hand up to my face, trying to shield the flush I feel betraying me.

  ‘Oh god, I meant the landscape,’ he says, jumping up off the stile he’s sitting on. ‘That sounded unintentionally creepy. Not that you aren’t incredible to look at too. Oh god.’ He looks so stricken I can’t help but laugh.

  ‘Thanks, I think.’ He said I was incredible to look at. Incredible.

  He smiles. He really has the most amazingly long eyelashes. ‘I’m not making a very good impression, am I?’ he says. ‘I’m a bit out of practice at all this.’

  Does that mean I was right: he hasn’t been out with anyone in a while? Jump in. Be honest. ‘My last serious boyfriend was over a year ago.’

  A shadow passes over his face. ‘We lost Erica when Emily was one.’ He swallows. ‘She was a wonderful woman. The best mother and wife you could wish for, till she got sick.’

  Oh god. ‘I’m so very sorry.’ My heart aches for him.

  He smiles. ‘It’s okay. It was a long time ago.’

  I want to reach for his hand, but it feels too forward. ‘How old is your daughter now?’

  ‘Thirteen, going on twenty-three,’ he laughs.

  ‘I bet she’s a handful,’ I say.

  His eyes are so warm and full of feeling. ‘I wouldn’t have it any other way. She loves it up here.’

  I turn back to look at the hills, aware of his heat next to me. ‘It’s beautiful.’

  ‘It is,’ he says. Out the corner of my eye I can see he’s not looking ahead, but at me. I get that tingly feeling in my stomach. The one Becky calls ‘the butterflies’. This is daft. I met the guy two days ago. I’ve only spoken to him twice.

  ‘Right.’ He seems to gather himself. ‘I thought we could enjoy the view with a snack – how does champagne and strawberries sound?’

  ‘Delicious!’ What a sweet thing to do. Far better than sitting in the pub.

  He bounds back to where he was sitting, and picks up a bottle and two glasses, which were leaning against the side of the stile. Holding them up as if in victory. His energy is contagious. ‘You came prepared – but what about the strawberries?’

  ‘Ah – hold this.’ He hands me the bottle and the glasses. They’re chilled, the glasses slippy against my fingers, like they’ve been kept on ice all day. He didn’t just pick this up from Tesco. He’s made an effort.

  Out of his back pocket he pulls a square of brown paper. Unfolds it. It’s a bag. ‘How do you feel about pick-your-own?’

  ‘Ha! But from where?’ There’re no fruit fields up here.

  ‘We’re going foraging,’ he says. Then pauses. ‘If you’re okay with that? I mean we can always . . .’

  ‘Amazing!’ I clap my hands together. ‘But where do we start?’ All I can see are hedges. They all look the same – hedgy.

  ‘Wild strawberries love dappled shade. So somewhere with quite a lot of shade, but that would get a bit of sun to ripen them.’ He takes the glasses from me.

  I shield my eyes. ‘How about over there?’ The hedge is thicker, higher.

  ‘Good call. Wild ones are smaller than the ones you get in Waitrose,’ he says, leading me toward the hedge. I’m keeping my eyes peeled. ‘And they’re less pointy-ish.’

  ‘Is pointy-ish a word?’

  ‘Genuine farming terminology,’ he says.

  ‘Like that?’ I point to a spear of green upon which fruit hangs like red earrings.

  ‘A bumper crop! You’re a natural!’ he says.

  I gently tug on one of the berries and it comes away in my fingers. A waft of the familiar caramel musk hits me. Do they need washing? ‘Can we eat them?’

  ‘Absolutely.’ He plucks one and pops it into his mouth.

  I do the same. The berry is intense, as if the flavour of a handful of strawberries has been condensed into this one popping sweet. ‘So good!’

  We reach for the same berry at the same time, and our hands brush. The butterflies dance in my stomach.

  Now

  Bang! There’s a metallic thud in front of me. Bang! The male prisoner is punching the wall. No, kicking it. Bang! Bang! Bang!

  The guards must hear that – why is no one coming? I scrabble backwa
rds but there’s nowhere to go. The walls vibrate. Each clang reverberates through my head. My heart, my lungs, my brain are shaking. Bang! Bang! Bang! I cover my ears. My elbows slam into the sides of my cell as we round a corner. Bang! Bang! Bang!

  How can they ignore this? Why is no one intervening? This is wrong. I feel my bladder contract. I need to pee. Bang! Bang! Bang!

  ‘Stop it, man!’ the other voice yells. ‘Hey! Hey! Someone get back here!’ He’s banging on the wall too. I should help. I should try to do something. What if this guy is going to hurt himself?

  ‘Hello!’ I shout. ‘Hello! Can anyone hear us?’

  There’s no reply. The bangs crescendo. The guy must be hurling himself against the walls now. Against his door.

  The banging ceases. I exhale.

  Then I hear him crying. He’s trying to muffle it, but he’s sniffing. Tears prick my eyes. I’m not scared any more. I stroke the cell wall in front of me. You’ll be all right, mate. We’ll both be all right. Please. Just hang in there.

  We were on the motorway, but we’ve turned off. We’re slowing properly now. I jump up. Black stone and barbed wire wash past the side window. It’s too small to show anything apart from what it faces. I need the van to turn. Are we here? Is this it?

  I try to wipe the sweat from my arms as we stop. I can hear the jangle of keys. We’re reversing. Someone slaps the outside of the van. Not more paparazzi? No. It’s a signal to stop. This is it. Suddenly I don’t want to leave my hothouse cupboard. I know how it works here. I know nothing about out there.

  The external door is unlocked. The floor rocks as someone steps up. I hear a bolt being pulled across. But my door doesn’t move. I push at it. It doesn’t budge.

  ‘Come on, then,’ the female guard says. There’s a grunt, a movement. It’s the guy. Another bolt. Both the guys. What about me?

  I push my face against the tiny window and strain to see round the back of the van. They’re in handcuffs. The female guard is there, and two other men in uniform. Which prisoner was crying? One’s in his late forties, grizzled stubble on his face and a shaved head. His shoulders are broad, his arms the size of my thighs. The other guy is younger. He has short dreads. Both are scowling. You’d never know one of them was weeping minutes ago. It’s about show, posturing. I need to remember that. Don’t show fear.