‘If you don’t calm down, I’ll have to restrain you.’ The female guard digs her bony fingers into my shoulder so it hurts. ‘My granddaughter is the same age as that poor girl,’ she hisses into my ear.
‘Ow!’ Kev must see what she’s doing.
But he’s drumming the fingers of one hand on the newspaper. Bored. He doesn’t care.
They don’t believe me. The poisonous reality spreads spores through my body. No one is going to protect me.
‘Ready?’ Kev cocks an eyebrow.
I feel like I’m back at school. I force myself to nod. ‘Yes.’
‘Ring, please.’ Kev points at my hand.
My fingers close over the solitaire Robert gave me. ‘It’s my engagement ring.’ It’s the only thing from him I have. The only part of the old me.
‘You can keep a plain wedding band only,’ he says. On his own finger he wears a worn gold one.
‘We’re not married yet.’ The words sting.
‘You can apply to send it out or give it to a visitor. Or we will keep it till your release . . .’
The female guard snorts.
He takes a plastic bag from his desk drawer. I want to kiss the ring, it feels like I’m cutting a tether to Robert, but I daren’t weaken myself more in front of them. I slide it off my finger and place it on the desk.
Kev picks it up, turning the platinum band over, watching the diamond twinkle in the light. I didn’t want to take it when Robert gave it to me. I worried it was too much too soon. He laughed and said he’d never been more sure of anything in his life. Tears prick at my eyes. I’m sorry, Robert.
‘Fancy,’ Kev says, dropping it into the plastic bag. With a pen he writes on the outside of the bag. ‘Fallenbrook is not responsible for any items that are lost or damaged. Unless you can prove a member of staff did it.’
And how would I do that? Injustice feeds my growing internal voice. ‘What are you writing on it?’
‘Your assigned prisoner number is A170788F. You will need this for all application forms . . .’
What will I be applying for?
‘. . . incoming and outgoing post, and such. Don’t forget it.’
‘A170788F,’ I repeat back. I’ve been reduced to a number. Another layer of me peeled away.
‘Okay.’ Kev nods at the female guard.
A smile spreads across her lips. Dread pools in my stomach. ‘This way, Princess.’
I glance at Kev, but he’s studiously focusing on the forms in front of him. He doesn’t want to bear witness.
‘In you go.’ She shoves me toward a closed blue door.
The door opens into a small room. Grey walls. No windows. It smells of fear. A tatty blue medical curtain clings onto a pole by two remaining rings, it doesn’t cover the bulky plastic moulded chair behind. I swallow. It looks like a cross between a toilet (with no pan) and a very poor copy of the designer chairs in Robert’s parents’ house.
The female guard pulls the door to after us. It’s just the two of us. No cameras in here. She has a horrible look on her face.
‘Strip,’ she says.
I stare at her. ‘You’ve got to be kidding.’
‘Strip,’ she repeats.
‘This isn’t fair . . .’
‘Standard practice. No special treatment for you,’ she snaps.
I can’t believe this is happening.
‘Hurry up. Unless you want me to do it for you?’ She takes a step toward me.
I shake my head. I don’t want her to touch me. My shoulder feels tender from her horrid probing fingers. Hurriedly I pull my T-shirt off. My skin prickles. Even the air feels dirty. She’s staring. I tug my trainers off, wincing as they scrape past my heel. There’s blood on my one remaining sock. Pull my jogging bottoms down. The police even took my underwear. I’m in the misshapen blue pants and bra they gave me.
‘And the rest,’ she adds, with a cold smile. I suddenly have a flashback of Ness doing this when we were little. I’d got wet, I can’t remember how. Playing football in the pouring rain? And she made me take everything off so she could wash it.
I try to remember all the details of back then. Ness plaiting my hair. Walking me to school, my little hand in hers. I try not to think about what’s happening now. I unhook my bra and slide my pants down.
‘Turn around,’ the guard commands.
How some days we’d get chips for tea. How Ness would tuck two wooden forks under her lip and pretend to be a vampire rabbit, like the one in the books I loved.
‘Squat,’ the female guard says, with a laugh.
I shouldn’t be here. I do as instructed.
‘Cough,’ she orders.
I didn’t do anything wrong. I force myself to cough. Shame burns across my body.
‘Up.’
It’s like a twisted game of Simon Says. I turn to face her, try to cover myself with my arms.
‘Sit.’ She points at the moulded chair.
Dread infects me. Why? What is it?
‘Are you hiding something?’ She claps both hands down onto my shoulders. Her boot squashes some of my toes. I can feel her stale breath on my face. On my flesh. Her jacket zip is cold against my breast.
‘No.’ I try to shake her off. Her fingers plunge into my muscle. She knows exactly where to press.
‘Do you have any concealed weapons or phones?’ She pushes me toward the chair.
Concealed weapons? A phone? Where would I hide something? She forces me down toward the chair. ‘What’s it going to do?’ I brace for an electric shock.
‘It’s magnetic,’ she says.
My legs make contact with the seat. Nothing happens. I imagine a phone or a knife ripping out of me.
The guard looks disappointed. ‘Get dressed.’ She kicks my stuff toward me. My naked buttocks peel off the plastic. I feel sick. Dizzy. Pathetically I scrabble for my clothes and put them on.
My skin feels raw. Kev is still filling in paperwork. I hug myself, feeling like I’m holding myself together. I never want to go through that again.
Outside, I can see another white prison van approaching. Another unfortunate inmate. Is she innocent too? The two male guards are still outside as it reverses, beeping, slowly obscuring the last of the light. Exhaust fumes seep into the room.
The radios of the guards outside crackle into life. ‘Charlie, foxtrot, Oscar eleven. Prepare for arrival.’
Kev looks up from his forms, alarm tracing across his forehead. ‘Here we go,’ he whispers under his breath. He removes the paperwork, and the pen pot from the desk.
What’s happening? The female guard and I both look.
‘Ready?’ the bigger guard asks the other. They’re both huge, I realise. Brick-wall men, swaggering like bouncers.
‘As I’ll ever be,’ the second one grunts.
All the saliva in my mouth evaporates. Who is in the van?
Now
‘Fresh meat?’ the female guard asks Kev.
‘Rotten, more like.’ Kev is keeping his eyes fixed on the door of the van.
Should I be here? It doesn’t feel like a good idea. The female guard takes hold of my arm.
‘Can’t be worse than this thing,’ she says.
Thing? She made me squat naked and cough. She laughed at me. Shame fizzes into anger. I turn to glare at her. Like I faced down the guys who were bullying our Ness on the Orchard Park estate. ‘What did you call me?’
She looks surprised, before contorting her face into a grimace. ‘Show some respect. Call me ma’am,’ she says.
Not likely.
She digs her nails into my arm. I feel the surface give, and blood sting its way out of my flesh.
I grit my teeth. I will not cry.
‘Call. Me. Ma’am.’ I can smell cigarettes and Marmite on her breath.
I ignore the jagged nails clawing into my skin, the empty feeling inside me, and cling to the anger. ‘No.’
Behind me the van door slams. She lets go. It’s as if we’re in an aeroplane and the ca
bin pressure has dropped. My ears pop. All eyes are staring toward the new arrival.
She’s flanked by the two guards. They have hold of her, the dark grey arms of her oversized hoodie so scrunched they look like elephant legs. Her hair is gelled flat to the top of her head. Her eyes are red-ringed burn holes in the dirty freckled concrete of her face. There’s something familiar in its hardness.
‘Jesus,’ the female guard mutters beside me.
‘Charlie Gould,’ Kev whispers almost in awe.
Charlie Gould? Each of the fine hairs on my arms stands to attention. Charlie Gould the crazed killer? It can’t be. I’ve seen her on the news. Her husband was head of some gang. And they thought he’d killed off all his rivals. He went down for it. Then new evidence came to light – she was torturing this guy. She cut off two of his fingers, broke his legs, but he escaped, and that’s when the truth came out. The press are saying she did it. That she killed all her husband’s rivals. She’s a sadist. Surely they have different prisons for people like that?
I’m staring. We all are.
‘What you looking at?’ Charlie Gould’s voice is smooth, not what I was expecting.
I blink. Oh shit. She’s talking to me. Glaring at me. I look at the floor. I don’t want trouble.
‘Keep moving, Gould,’ one of the male guards barks. Gould walks with a purposeful bouncing gait, as if she’s spring-loaded. Moving to a beat we can’t hear. Her trainers, bright, white, big, with complex laces, squeak against the floor.
I try to step back, but the female officer is behind me.
‘And here’s me thinking you was only getting one famous guest today,’ she says.
I feel my face drop. No.
Gould looks at her as if she’s rubbish, then back to me. ‘Who the fuck is this?’ She spits. The globule lands next to my foot. The male guards tense.
I turn my head, to stare at the woman officer. Plead with my eyes. Don’t do this.
But she’s not looking at me. ‘You mean you don’t recognise the Blonde Slayer?’ She takes a step away from me, and makes a flourish with her hands, as if I’m a washing machine on QVC.
It feels like everyone is holding their breath. Except me. Mine’s coming thick and fast. Gould looks me up and down like I’m a child, shrugs. Makes to move away, not bothered.
She doesn’t know. It doesn’t mean anything to her. I’ve got away with it.
The female guard is level with Gould now, circumventing the men either side of her, leaning in, delivering her hit of nicotine and sandwich spread into the face of the most feared woman in the UK. ‘She killed her bloke’s little kiddie.’
Emily’s face flashes into my mind. A blink of her blue eyes. A flick of hair. I didn’t. I couldn’t.
‘Scum!’ Gould screams. Her elbows jut out. One guard falls backwards, the other staggers to the side.
My hands fly up. Must get away. Before I can get clear her elbow smashes into my nose. Pain explodes into black fireworks across my eyes. Her knee thumps into my chest. My back slams into the desk, propelling me forward.
‘Get off!’ The guards drag her away.
I smack into the floor.
‘Gerroff!’
‘Fucking paedo scum!’ Gould is screaming. ‘I’ll kill you! I’ll do what you did to that kiddie!’
An alarm sounds. High-pitched punches of noise assault my ears. Running feet. Gould is pinned to the ground. I can taste blood.
My eyes close on the smirking female guard.
In my mind I see Emily. The faint smell of chlorine from the pool mixed with coconut shampoo, her fine hair flies about her face as she dances past. I reach for her, but it’s too late. She’s gone. Everything goes black.
Now
‘You’re lucky I was in today.’ The doctor, a puffy man with dark hair and a sloping face, pulls his plastic gloves off and throws them in the bin.
I don’t feel lucky.
‘Try not to get into any more fights.’ He’s studiously avoiding eye contact.
I didn’t try to get into a fight this time. ‘I wasn’t—’
‘You ladies need to learn some self-respect,’ he says, interrupting me to point at the blood that’s drying down my T-shirt. My words sound nasal. How bad is the damage? Will they give me fresh clothes? ‘You need to learn how to peacefully co-exist.’
Fury rises in me. ‘I shouldn’t even be here. I haven’t done anything wrong.’
‘That’s what they all say.’ He shakes his head, already picking up the file for the next patient. ‘What did you say your name was?’
‘Jennifer Burns. Jenna.’ I choke back the anger. Does he not know who I am? Charlie Gould does. She could be telling everyone these horrendous lies. She said she was going to kill me.
‘And you’re new today?’ he says.
I nod.
‘You’re on my Induction list, we may as well get it done now.’ He checks his watch.
‘What does that mean?’ It sounds official.
He pulls a fresh pair of gloves out of the box and the waft of latex makes me feel momentarily sick. He won’t even touch me without gloves.
‘General health checks, we’ll take some blood samples, test for drugs—’
‘I don’t take drugs,’ I snap.
His thick hairy caterpillar of an eyebrow twitches.
I don’t.
‘We’ll check for lice, fleas . . .’ he says. ‘See if you need to apply for any prescriptions.’
Lice? Fleas? Do they think I’m an animal? What kind of people do they have in here? ‘I’m not . . .’ I want to say dirty. ‘I’m not . . . infested.’
‘Standard practice, Jennifer,’ he says. He’s using my name when he hasn’t even told me his. ‘Many of the inmates live rough, or in less salubrious settings, before arrival.’
I lived in a beautiful house, almost a mansion. I had my hair blow-dried on special occasions. Past-me comes kicking and screaming to the fore. I lived in a squalid flat, where my older sister fed me Pot Noodle when our mum was on benders. Is this the universe correcting itself? Should I always have ended up here? Robert and Emily and happiness were a mistake in the natural order. I’m being punished for trying to create a new, better life. I feel faint.
‘You can leave your clothes in a pile on the bed,’ the doctor says.
‘What?’ I don’t want to strip again. I don’t want to be naked in front of another stranger. We’re alone. I can’t clearly remember how many doors we passed through to get here. I was dizzy. Shouldn’t there be a chaperone? If I cried out, would anyone hear me? Do the others think I’m just a flea-infested junkie? I think of Mum. Even if I was . . . that’s no excuse to be mistreated. Calm down. He’s a doctor. You’ve got to trust he’s a professional.
He’s pulling on his gloves. Still not really looking at me. There’s no connection, it’s like he’s about to prepare meat for cooking. ‘Clothes on the bed. Please.’ It’s an order.
There’s no curtain I can pull across. No cover. I start to unlace my trainers. A little spot of blood is on the toe. I blink away the images of Emily. I don’t have enough energy to fight any more. I pull my T-shirt off, and step out of the jogging bottoms.
The floor is cold, and though I can see the room is clean, it has that shabby, grubby feel. Not as bad as the room with the metal-detecting chair, but not much better. Damp discolours the wall and ceiling in one corner. The plasticised floor is peeling away like a half-eaten sandwich left on the side.
He’s still looking at his notes, adding to them.
‘No signs of burns, bruising or scars,’ he mutters. ‘Apart from fresh tissue damage to the right arm and nose.’ He checks my elbows, and between my toes. ‘No signs of track marks. Good girl,’ he says, as if talking to a pet. ‘Put your clothes on and we’ll take some bloods.’
‘Can I use the toilet?’ My bladder is screaming. I’m surprised I didn’t piss myself when that woman attacked me. I can feel the curling edges of a UTI. I’ve always been prone to them. Robert
would tease me about my obsession with staying hydrated. The thought of swigging from a bottle of water is almost torturous now.
‘When you’re done here, ask the guard to take you,’ the doctor says. ‘Get dressed.’
It’s like being a child again. Following instructions. This is what loss of liberty means. My life is now in the hands of others. But unlike family, these people don’t care for me.
I hurry back into the T-shirt and joggies. I barely feel the needle go in.
There’s a knock at the door. The doctor pulls the needle out, presses down with a small ball of cotton wool and says, ‘Yes.’
A female guard, in the same uniform as Kev, pokes her head round the door. Cornrows twist across her head and end in a bun. ‘Ms Burns got visitors.’
Visitors? Ness? Mum? I start pulling my trainers on. Maybe it’s Mr Peterson. Maybe they’ve finally come to their senses. Realised this is all a mistake.
‘We’re done,’ says the doctor, glancing at the guard and taking off his gloves.
‘Good,’ she says. ‘Because it’s the police.’
I freeze with one foot halfway in my shoe. The walls seem to pinch and close toward me.
Why are the police here to see me?
Now
They’ve found Robert. The thought plays over and over in my mind. Alive or dead? Alive or dead? The words bounce through me with each step. I’m following the guard’s broad hips as we walk briskly back through the corridor. I want to run. Alive or dead? Her hips swing like a pendulum. Like a hanging body. Alive or dead?
‘Do you know what this is about?’ I say.
‘No.’ The guard shakes her head. She’s wearing mismatched studs in her ears: gold in one, baby pink in the other. A small act of non-conformity in her uniform. It makes me warm to her.
My body is alert. I feel the cuts, the fingernails, the smashed cartilage. I need to pee. Now. My bladder contracts. I can’t hold it any longer.
‘Can I use the toilet?’ I look around at doors we pass. Hurry. Alive or dead? Signs denote whom the rooms belong to. Education Officer. Welfare Department. The walls are covered in posters:
Suspect it? Report it.
On My Life Page 4
