On My Life

by Angela Clarke

  ‘Come Monday. You got to find the number-one cleaner – they have all the forms. Get them done, and in. Apply for the lot – I did. Anything’s better than going stir crazy in here. Am I right?’ She’s buzzing around the room. Under the small desk she has neatly folded all her clothes. She catches me looking.

  ‘You lucky I’m here,’ she says. ‘I disinfected this whole place when I moved in.’ She points at the kettle. ‘You know how many people have hepatitis in here? Dirty fucks.’

  My stomach turns again. I jump up, covering my mouth.

  ‘Oh shit! Get it in the toilet!’ Kelly shouts.

  I make it just in time. My eyes burn. My throat hurts. I must be ill.

  Kelly is buzzing round the cell. ‘Trust me to get a puker. Here.’ She passes me a plastic cup of water.

  ‘Thank you.’ I gratefully rinse my mouth.

  ‘Where’s your toothbrush?’ she says. I should probably stop her going through my stuff, she said she was a thief, but I have nothing of value anyway.

  When she hands me my toothbrush, and some toothpaste from her bunk, I feel guilty. ‘The stuff they give you is shit. Borrow mine. You can pay me back when your canteen comes in.’ Her thin face is very pretty when she smiles. ‘Fifteen minutes,’ she says, looking at her watch. ‘You gonna be okay?’

  I nod. I’ll have to be.

  ‘Okay – you can use the bathroom,’ she says. It’s an instruction as much as an offer. This is a small space and I must smell pretty bad by now.

  I focus on getting myself as clean as possible. I rinse my face under the tap, and pull my lank hair back with a spare band from Kelly. I’ll owe her for that too. I reserve the set of clothes I slept in for pyjamas for the time being, and change into the spare clean set in case Kev did request a meeting with Mr Peterson.

  ‘Do we get visitors on Saturdays?’ I say.

  ‘Thursdays, Saturdays and Sundays, while you’re on remand.’ Kelly reels it off like a pro. ‘You have to get visitors on your cleared list. Same with telephone numbers – it takes a couple of weeks for probation to clear numbers, then you can call those people,’ she says.

  I should be writing this down, there’s so much to remember. I wish there was a handbook or a guide or something. But there’s nothing. ‘What about my lawyer?’

  ‘Theys can come Monday through Friday. They ain’t likely to come in today though.’ She shakes her head as I smooth my joggies as best I can. ‘Would you wanna be working on the weekend?’

  I won’t get to see Mr Peterson till Monday at the earliest. That’s okay. It’s just two days till he can get me out. Just two days till I can explain that I didn’t do this. That someone has falsely incriminated me. There are eleven hundred women here. If I keep my head down I can avoid Charlie Gould. The thought of her screaming face terrifies me. I hope she’s in seg. I hope I never see her again.

  Kelly keeps talking throughout, and from the voices from the other cells, she’s not alone. The whole place is gearing up for Free Flow. It’s a welcome distraction from my thoughts. God knows how I did it, but sleep has made me feel slightly better. At least mentally. I just need to speak to Mr Peterson and explain the stuff on my computer proves someone is trying to frame me. That someone else has done this.

  ‘Two minutes,’ Kelly sings. Her enthusiasm is infectious. She reminds me of Emily, and the thought makes my heart ache.

  There’s a noise at the door, and the little flap that covers the window is opened from the outside. Kelly looks surprised.

  The square jaw and disembodied mouth of a male guard I’ve not seen before appears at it. ‘Burns. Appointment.’

  ‘But it’s Saturday!’ Kelly sounds panicked.

  Kev must have come through for me. ‘Don’t worry,’ I say. ‘Ready.’ I stand by the door as he unlocks it.

  The guard’s eyes sparkle with that knowing arrogance of a good-looking lad. His shirt looks like it’s deliberately one size too small to emphasise the V of his shoulders and abs. He runs a lascivious gaze up over me, seemingly unbothered by the bruised mess that is my face, and I pull my jumper down as far as it’ll go. I follow him as he struts away.

  ‘Hey Ryan – when you gonna unlock us?’ a flirtatious voice calls from one of the cells.

  ‘Calm down, ladies. I won’t be long.’ He winks in the direction of the cell. Is that appropriate?

  Kelly and I are on the top tier of the atrium, so I have to follow Ryan down the flights of open stairs to reach the bottom, and he starts unlocking gates. I thought we’d be headed back to the room I met the police in, but we must be going somewhere else.

  It’s only when we pass the toilet Sara let me use, that I realise where we are. Apprehension swells in my bruised stomach. Kelly mentioned hepatitis. I think of sitting naked on the magnetic chair. Or using the fork Sara gave me. Were those things clean? By the time we reach the door I’m shaking. This is not a meeting with my lawyer. I’ve been summoned back to the doctor. On a Saturday. As if it’s an emergency. As if something is very wrong.

  Now

  ‘You’re pregnant.’

  I stare at him. I hear the words but I can’t seem to understand them. It’s like they’re sounds crashing, like fists against the side of the sweatbox.

  ‘Do you know when you had your last period?’

  I shake my head. ‘I can’t be. I’m on the Pill.’ I have been since Ness put me on it at twelve.

  The doctor sighs. ‘Some women do find it difficult to manage regular contraception.’

  What is he insinuating? ‘I take it regularly every morning when I get up. Always have done. I tri-cycle my packets . . .’ I stop as the implication hits me. I haven’t bled for three months.

  He looks unconvinced. ‘Have you had any sickness or diarrhoea recently?’

  My blood runs cold. There was that takeaway we had at Robert’s friend’s house. We all had food poisoning afterwards. When was that – two, three months ago? If I could just check my diary in my handbag I could work it out. But of course I don’t have that. ‘I . . . I had food poisoning. I was sick.’ I must have vomited the Pill back up before it worked.

  ‘And when was that?’ the doctor says, sounding bored.

  ‘I . . . I’m not sure.’ I need to see my diary. ‘Two months ago, I think.’

  ‘Then – I think – you are two months pregnant,’ the doctor says.

  That’s as scientific as it gets? ‘Can’t you tell?’

  ‘We’ll know more at your three-month scan. I’ll put you in the system.’

  I frantically count in my head. In seven months from now it’ll be October. ‘But we’re getting married in June,’ I say. Seventeenth of June, the happiest day of my life. I won’t fit in my dress. That’s a stupid thing to think.

  ‘Well that’s something,’ he says drily.

  We. Pregnant. I clutch my stomach. There’s a baby in there. Part of Robert. He’ll be so happy! A younger brother or sister for Emily to— I blink. The breath catches in my throat. Emily’s gone. Robert is gone. ‘I can’t be. Not here. Not now. Not like this.’

  Did they know last night? Is that why they put me with Kelly? Is that why I was sick? Morning sickness. Oh god, I was sick in the van. I was thrown around in the van. I was attacked.

  ‘Is everything all right? Will the Pill have hurt the baby?’ I was punched.

  ‘The Pill will not harm the foetus.’

  ‘But I was attacked – I fell on my stomach,’ I say, desperate.

  ‘There’s no reason to believe there is anything wrong, but we’ll know more when you’ve had a scan,’ he says.

  What happens now? Do pregnant women get convicted of murder? Are people accused of having child pornography allowed to keep their baby? I didn’t do it. I have to get out of here. I have to get to fresh air. I have to get my baby out of here. I stand up.

  ‘Sit down, Jennifer.’ The doctor eyes the alarm on the wall.

  I’m not a threat. I’m no danger. I’m in danger. Charlie Gould’s words replay i
n my head. I’ll kill you! I’ll do what you did to that kiddie! She’s going to kill me. She’s going to kill my baby. Emily’s broken, bloodied body flickers through my mind, merges with a photo of her as a baby in her crib. Blood everywhere.

  ‘I have to get out of here.’ Before he can stop me, I’m at the door. I pull the handle. It’s locked. It rattles.

  The doctor is next to the alarm.

  ‘Jennifer, I need you to sit down. I understand this is a shock.’

  ‘This isn’t a shock – it’s wonderful. It’s the best news. Robert will be happy.’ If he’s still alive. I choke back tears. It wasn’t supposed to be like this. We are getting married. Robert’s parents would probably prefer us to go ahead before the baby is born, but we could put the wedding back. Wait so Emily can carry her baby brother or sister down the aisle. The image in my mind freezes, shudders, blurs like a damaged film reel. That’s not going to happen. That’s never going to happen. ‘You can’t keep me here. You can’t lock up pregnant women.’ I think of Kelly.

  ‘You’re not the first woman to arrive here and not know she was pregnant,’ the doctor says. He makes it sound like a personal failing.

  How was I supposed to know? How could I have prepared for this?

  ‘And you wouldn’t be the first who’s thought a jury would view them more leniently if they were expecting.’ He peers over his glasses.

  I stare at him in shock. ‘You think I planned this? I was on the Pill!’ My hands cradle my belly. It doesn’t feel different. It doesn’t feel like there’s anything in there. Is it . . .

  ‘I won’t ask you to sit again, Jennifer.’ The doctor’s hand hovers over the alarm.

  They bundled Charlie Gould to the ground. Forcefully. Face down. Stomach down. Meekly, I return to my chair.

  The doctor blows air out over his face so his thin fringe flutters.

  ‘We’ll need to request a hospital visit for you.’ He sits back down at his side of the desk. ‘Check how far along you are for sure. Check everything is okay. Like I said, I’ll put in an application.’

  An application? ‘Surely I should go now – I was assaulted. My baby could be—’

  He waves a dismissive hand to silence me. He’s not listening. Not caring what I have to say. How many times has he delivered what should be happy news like this? ‘What will happen to the baby?’ My voice is shaking again. They can’t force you to abort, can they? A wave of nausea punches out from my centre, as if the baby wants to alert me to the risk.

  It’s not fair. It’s not fair that Emily is gone and that I am still here. Me and my baby. Robert needs to know. ‘I need to tell my partner.’

  The doctor is making a tutting sound. ‘You can telephone him this afternoon.’

  I wish. Even if Association goes ahead that’s not going to happen. ‘No, you don’t understand. He’s missing.’ And there’s blood. They think I hurt him. They think I killed him.

  ‘Not all fathers are reliable, I’m afraid,’ he says.

  It makes it sound like he’s skipped out on me. I blink. I have to work out what happened in our house, work out who did this. I have to make the police believe me. I have to find Robert. I have to tell him he’s going to be a father.

  I’ve been framed. I’m in prison. I’m pregnant.

  Then

  ‘I’d kill for a gin, darling.’ Robert’s mother flops onto her cream sofa. And for a moment, though she is immaculate as ever in a Peter Pan-collared cream shift dress that brings out the golden flecks in her hair, the small woman looks more like her teenage granddaughter than a sophisticated lady in her sixties.

  I giggle. ‘Have one then – it’s gone four.’ Robert’s dad’s drinks cabinet intimidates me. I wouldn’t dare touch it myself. It looks like double doors to another room, but the polished walnut front opens out into a built-in bar. Well, it’s as big as a bar. They never call it that. Crass, I guess. The doors are lined with polished chrome shelves displaying an array of specialist glasses, shakers, and even little sterling-silver cocktail sticks. On the internal shelves are a wide range of liquors, including at least five types of gin.

  I take the vintage Penguin paperback from my handbag and see Judith’s eyes light up. Her lips a deep berry-red smile. It’s one of the green ones: Agatha Christie’s Death Comes At The End. One of the only ones she’s missing.

  ‘Oh my goodness, Jennifer – you are clever! Where did you find it?’ she cries as I hand it to her.

  ‘I promised I’d keep an eye out for it.’ I’ve been looking for weeks. Ever since she showed me the collection she keeps in her dedicated study. The books are the only old things in the whole house. Everything else is shiny and new and flawless – David had it all redone by a famous Swedish designer when they got married. Robert jokes that by the time they finish re-painting it white each year, they have to start again at the other end, like the Golden Gate Bridge. ‘I found it in the second-hand bookstore in Cirencester.’

  Judith smooths a dog-eared corner. ‘How much do I owe you?’

  ‘It was only a pound, please don’t worry about it,’ I say, embarrassed. She knows I can afford to buy a second-hand book, right? But I see by her face that she didn’t mean anything by it. I don’t think Judith has a strong grasp of the value of money. I guess she’s never had to, growing up in a place like this. David likes to tell people with great pride how he saved the big house and the family fortune after he married her and developed the hotel complex, catapulting them into the social stratosphere.

  ‘Thank you,’ Judith beams.

  ‘This calls for a celebration drink!’ I say.

  The smile drops from her lips and she jumps up, busying herself plumping an already plump cushion. ‘Oh, I can’t.’

  I laugh. ‘Course you can. Sounds like you’ve had a busy day.’ She’s just finished telling me about the committee meetings she’s been attending, the charity lunch at David’s Freemasons club, and how she and David are meeting their art curator to look at pieces for the new hotel first thing in the morning. I think it’s wonderful they’re still so involved in the family business, even after they’ve retired.

  ‘I’d better not,’ she says swiftly. Then returns the cushion to the others, turning it once – I realise – so the fabric grain is aligned with the rest. She gives a slightly forced laugh. ‘You know men, darling. Only David is allowed to use the drinks cabinet.’

  I hadn’t noticed, but now she’s said it I guess he does always make people’s drinks. I assumed he was being polite. Fetching a glass for his wife, his son, me. ‘I’m sure he won’t mind,’ I say.

  ‘Won’t mind what?’ Robert appears in the kitchen doorway, wearing a blue-and-white striped butcher’s apron, and a white chef’s hat.

  ‘Oh Robert, I thought you were your father for a second.’ Judith clutches her hand to her chest. He must have made her jump. Something stirs inside me.

  ‘I’m not Robert!’ he cries. ‘Hurdy-gurdy, gurdy!’ He waves a pair of tongs around.

  ‘What are you playing at!’ Judith laughs.

  ‘You’re the Swedish chef from the Muppets!’ I cry.

  ‘Exactly! And that’s why we’re the perfect match, Jenna.’ He swoops in for a kiss. He smells smoky from the barbecue.

  ‘Careful – don’t touch the sofa!’ I grab the tongs before they connect with the cream fabric. Like the rest of Robert’s parents’ house it’s painfully expensive. It’d be a nightmare to get a stain out. My mum’s flat has wipe-clean lino in the kitchen, and swirly patterned carpet in the hallway. It hides a multitude of sins, whereas everything shows here.

  Robert loops his arm round my shoulders and pulls me close. ‘Sod the sofa, and give me some sugar!’

  ‘Language, please, darling, we don’t use jargon in this house,’ Judith chides. ‘Talk properly.’

  Properly? Was that a dig at me? I’m being overly sensitive. She was teasing Robert. That’s all. Judith doesn’t know anything about where I grew up. And she probably wouldn’t care. I have to s
top feeling like I’m about to be caught out. Being in this design magazine of a house just makes me feel nervous.

  ‘Oh my,’ Judith says. ‘I haven’t brought in the crudités!’ And she dashes out to fetch a dish of sculpted raw vegetables and hummus. Carrot sticks, all perfectly the same length and width, and radishes lined up in neat little rows. This is where Robert gets his precision from. After years of working in the hospitality industry a tube of Pringles isn’t going to cut it.

  ‘Lovely!’ Robert grabs a cucumber spear.

  ‘Thank you.’ I’m still not comfortable enough to help myself, even though the brightly coloured veg is making me hungry.

  ‘David, darling!’ Judith trills. She trained at RADA before she met David, and it’s apparent in her posture, her voice. She has the presence of someone much bigger than the delicate five-foot woman in front of us.

  Through the orangery, I can see Emily turning cartwheels in the garden. Still practising her swim routines, even on land. David appears in front of her, obscuring my view. Robert is the spit of him. David still has the square jaw and full head of hair, but his skin is softer, weathered, like Sally’s prized Hermès handbag. I can see Robert will still be handsome in forty years’ time. I kiss him. Imagine us together then. Emily, and maybe another kid or two of our own, will be grown-ups. We might even have grandkids.

  ‘Twenty minutes and we’ll be ready.’ David walks in and takes his wife’s hand.

  Judith, demure, blushes and looks delighted. Still so touched to receive attention from the man she loves. Couple goals. This is the perfect family. I can’t believe they’re letting me be part of it.

  ‘Shall I lay the table?’ I finally pluck up the courage to offer.

  ‘Oh, that would be lovely, darling,’ Judith says.

  ‘Who fancies a Pimms? Probably the last of the season.’ David strides over to the polished walnut bar. He opens the door and selects a cut-crystal highball.

  I glance at Judith, but she’s turned away, straightening more cushions.

  ‘Might as well make the most of it – we’ll be onto the mulled wine before you know it!’ Robert says.