Judith picks up a carrot stick.
‘No, darling,’ David says, and she puts it back down. ‘We’re watching our weight.’ He smiles at me.
But Judith is tiny. Barely skin and bone.
‘Do we have any cucumber?’ David asks.
‘Use these.’ Robert offers a green stick from the plate.
His mum makes a soft clucking noise and bats his hand away. ‘Don’t be silly, darling.’
‘And ice?’ David asks, helping himself to a celery stick and a healthy scoop of dip.
What about his weight?
‘I’ll fetch the bucket.’ Judith smiles at me. ‘Could you help me reach down the placemats, Jennifer?’
‘Of course.’ I feel an absurd pride in being asked to fetch something.
‘The cotton ones, darling, for outside,’ Judith says. ‘And maybe a few of the blankets – in case we get chilly.’
They’re in the ancient pine dresser that lines the dining-room wall. I run my fingers along its smooth edge. Reach past framed photos of Robert growing up. Pin neat in his uniform. Wearing a straw hat that’s ridiculously cute. It’s a far cry from my own school’s haphazard attempts at uniformity. I had a jumper, I think, and an old black skirt of Mum’s. There’s another of Robert, posing with his Masters scroll. Emily, as a baby, in David’s arms at her christening, swathed in the white lace gown Robert’s great, great, great, grandfather wore.
Outside I can hear Emily singing the lyrics to the latest song she and Phoebe are learning. The scented smoke drifts inside, carried on the early autumn breeze. David is right, this probably will be the last barbecue of the year. And I’m so happy, I think for a moment I might cry. I never imagined a family like this. I’d never seen one. The love, the care, the joy. They’re so lucky to have each other. I’m so lucky just to witness it. But they’ve made me welcome. I feel at home.
It’s only when I carry the placemats outside that I see everyone has a glass of Pimms, except Judith.
Now
The same guard, Ryan, is lounging against the wall outside the doctor’s room, as if he’s waiting behind the bike sheds at school. He gives me a leering grin. ‘Cheer up, love, bet I can make you smile.’
But we aren’t at school and this isn’t some trifling matter. Irritation bubbles over. ‘Should you be hitting on prisoners?’
‘As if I’d be interested in you.’ His lip curls, and his gaze lingers on my unwashed hair.
‘I don’t want your or anyone else’s interest.’
‘Bent bitch,’ he snorts, and starts to swagger back toward the wing. Did he think that would really work? Does it with others? I’m glad I haven’t washed my hair, not least because it makes it look darker than the blow-dried photo of me in the newspaper. I need to do everything I can to not look like that woman – like me – while I’m in here. No one can know I’m the ‘Blonde Slayer’. Especially not now.
I slide a hand under my jumper and feel my stomach. Is it bigger? Have I just not noticed? It’s puffy, but I just thought that was a touch of IBS. Kept meaning to go gluten-free in the last few weeks, but with Robert’s work, the wedding planning and Emily’s approaching birthday it’s been so busy. I swallow the lump in my throat. I need a bigger jumper. Adding bulk to my frame will help. I want to keep my baby hidden for as long as possible. Being pregnant in prison can only be a weakness. It’ll be my secret for now. If I can speak to Mr Peterson, if I can explain that I’ve been framed, then they can get me out before it really starts to show.
Ryan is a few paces ahead, apparently over my rejection. He’s whistling to himself, hands in his pockets. It gives me a chance to get to grips with the layout of this place.
The triple-height wing is in the centre of the building. It’s surrounded on three sides, like a horseshoe, with non-prisoner areas that look to be made up of rooms and offices. Through grubby windows in doors I see people slumped at desks, staring at computers. At one end of the horseshoe is the doctor’s surgery that we’ve just left, and at the other end, back toward the cells, are signs for Education, and a Careers Advisor. Some rooms have two doors, one from this side, and one that presumably goes straight onto the wing side of the prison. But we don’t take any of these, instead walking the long way round. It feels like rooms have been added, requisitioned and reassigned in a haphazard manner, over time.
‘When was the prison built?’
Ryan jumps. He’d obviously forgotten I was here. ‘Eighteen hundred and something.’ His speech has an affected velvety tone. Like he thinks I will enjoy it.
Chunks of plaster are missing from the walls, and bundles of wires run from plug sockets out here into offices, through doors that are apparently kept open for this purpose. It looks patched. A small dated phone booth hangs on the wall, covered in dust, seemingly unused. A draught pushes at the heavy wooden door to our left, whose sign proclaims Library. It rumbles as we pass, as if something inside is trying to get out.
A scream reaches us as we approach the wing. I flinch.
Ryan looks at me from the corner of his eyes. Runs his tongue over his teeth. ‘They used to hang prisoners here.’ He holds up his hand as if gripping a noose, goes cross-eyed, and lets his tongue loll from his mouth.
A creak sounds behind us and I can’t help but imagine the trapdoor swinging open beneath my feet, the heavy rope tightening against my neck. ‘That’s awful.’ Of course the prison was built before they abolished the death penalty.
He looks delighted at the reaction, a cruel expression obliterating any attractive features on his face. ‘I’d have made a wicked executioner.’ He makes a chopping action with his hand.
The noise of the wing is almost a comfort, when he unlocks the gate. I don’t want to be alone with this man. Kev from the arrival suite is unlocking each of the cells, starting at the far end of the wing, and prisoners are starting to mill outside their doors. Thankfully no one pays much attention to me. What is this? Why’s everyone out?
As if he can read my thoughts, Ryan is too close behind me. His breath on my hair. ‘Quick smart,’ he says. ‘Roll-call in five and you don’t want to be away from your cell.’
Roll-call – like Kelly said. Do I have to do something – call my name, wear anything? Those women who are outside their cells don’t look bothered by anything, and are not all dressed alike. In fact, I see now that many have their own clothes on, among the dark-green regulation tracksuits.
Ryan obviously sees me staring. I feel his hand rest in the small of my back. ‘Those are for good girls,’ he says. ‘Or very naughty ones.’
I pull away, my skin burning from where he touched me. I walk quicker.
‘That’s it,’ he calls. ‘Hurry back to your cell – it’s one of my favourites!’
I stop. Turn. ‘What does that mean?’
‘The execution suite was right here in the wing,’ he grins. ‘Handy, huh?’
A shiver runs through me. This must be a wind-up.
But something tells me from the delighted look on Ryan’s face that he isn’t lying. ‘Over all three floors it was. The gallows suspended in the top cell, the trapdoor in the one beneath. Their bodies dropped into the bottom one. Easy access for outside then.’
‘In here?’ I can’t help but answer. He’s got me, dangling, and he knows it. It’s barbaric. Awful. People died here, were executed here. Alongside where we live.
‘Oh yeah, used to be nicknamed the cold-meat suite. They’ve been converted now, but no one likes sleeping in the cells we executed crims in.’
I shake my head.
He steps so close I can smell the mouthwash he’s used to try to mask the smell of cigarette smoke. ‘We try and keep them empty, but with overcrowding it’s tricky.’
He looks over my shoulder. Kev has unlocked the bottom two tiers of the wing now. All the doors are open apart from two cells, stacked on top of each other. The two directly beneath number eight. Mine and Kelly’s cell. We are in the top of the cold-meat suite. Where the gallows once hung.
‘Roll-call!’ Ryan booms in my ear.
The squeak of trainers, last shouts, and hushed whispers fill the space, as the women return promptly, standing two by two, outside their cell doors.
‘Roll-call!’ Kev’s voice echoes from the other end of the wing, up on the third floor.
‘Any inmate not present and correct in thirty seconds will be sent to seg!’ Ryan bellows again.
Kelly’s anxious face peers down from the third-floor landing; she’s obviously back from church. I sprint for the stairs, taking them two at a time, holding my stomach in case it hurts my child. I shouldn’t have answered back to Ryan. I should have let him say what he liked. I can’t afford to make any more enemies.
Kev is working his way down the gangway, counting, as I take my place next to Kelly, who is standing outside our room. So far no one seems to have spotted any resemblance between me and the Blonde Slayer from the news, but how long will my luck last? I can’t hide now.
Kev stops alongside us and sticks out his hand, placing it on Kelly’s bump.
‘Any kicking yet?’ he says. Kelly looks like she wants to pull away, but she just smiles weakly and nods. ‘Need to know how the little one is doing,’ Kev says, his podgy hand still moving, stroking, uninvited, on Kelly’s bump. ‘We’ve got a sweepstake running on when the little bastard is coming out.’
Kelly manages a nervous giggle.
Kev lets go, and I see her relax. ‘Don’t cut it so fine, next time.’ He looks pointedly at me, and makes his way, his big fat hands clasped behind his back, along the landing.
‘I can’t believe he just did that – you okay?’ I whisper to Kelly.
She looks like she might be sick, but she tries to sound upbeat. ‘Not as bad as when one of this lot cop a feel.’ She jerks her head to signal the other inmates. ‘Everyone thinks they own you when you’re up the duff. No fucking boundaries. There’s one on the second landing who’s obsessed.’
‘Why don’t you tell them to stop?’ I can’t believe this.
‘She’s a lifer,’ she says. ‘In for bloody murder. Abi told me. On the alpha course.’ She gives a croaky laugh.
A horrible prickly sensation creeps over me. ‘What’s the alpha course?’
‘Anger management,’ Kelly says. ‘Don’t want to go all fuck off of my bump on someone who’s gonna kick my head in.’ She shudders, wraps her own arm round her belly.
I don’t know what to say. Images of Gould’s elbow jerking toward my face flash at me. And that was when she was handcuffed to two guards. People – murderers – walk freely around the wing. Kev is descending the stairs, his heavy lolloping strides making the metal sing tonelessly. He’s already a long way away. How long would it take him or the other guards to get to you if you were in trouble? Would they even bother to hurry?
I want to reach out and squeeze Kelly’s arm in comfort, but maybe that’s unwanted too. Maybe Kelly’s scared of me.
I need to request a meeting with Mr Peterson. He’ll get me out of this living hell. He has to. But in the meantime I need to learn the rules. I need to stop drawing attention to myself. No one is going to find out I’m pregnant. Not even Kelly. It’s too much of a risk. I need to protect my baby. I need to protect me. I need to stay focused.
But as I run through the things I need to fit into Monday in my mind, I can’t help thinking again and again of women hanging beneath my feet. I’m not ready to be a mother.
Now
Sunday drags painfully. Kelly goes off to the faith room at 8.30 a.m. and doesn’t return till lunch. Lunch itself is shoved in a bag through the hatch in our door, and consists of a chewy roll and crisps. By one o’clock I’m starving again. Is this what it’s going to be like being pregnant inside – always hungry? In the afternoon I persuade Kelly to let me have one of her gigantic hoodies – it must be a size eighteen to my twelve – in exchange for some promised make-up when my canteen comes in. She doesn’t ask questions about why I want it, or why I’m tearing a strip off the bottom of my sheet to wrap round my hair. I need to find a way to disguise the blonde. Kelly laughed when I asked if it was possible to buy hair dye, and suggested I ask for a fake ID and a key out at the same time. If she thinks my behaviour is odd, she hasn’t said. Perhaps that’s what everyone does in here – tries to disappear.
That night I can barely sleep, and I’m up with the sun on Monday morning, ready. I have a lot to do. I have to have my Induction, and a letter was delivered to our cell informing me I must attend the video-link room in the afternoon session to enter my Crown Court plea. Then I should finally get to speak to Mr Peterson. Then I can get out of here.
‘Free Flow!’ Sara’s voice is upbeat, almost jolly as it echoes round the wing. I want to thank her for her kind tip on Friday, but I don’t think it’s wise to imply I’m pally with the guards.
We’ve all been unlocked already, and it’s a relief to be outside the cell. I want to stretch my arms wide. But I don’t want to draw attention to myself. And now there’s a scramble toward the gates as everyone prepares to move round the prison. I keep my eyes down. I’m hiding in Kelly’s supersized hoodie. The strip of bedsheet a makeshift headscarf round my hair. When my canteen comes in I might buy some coffee granules and experiment with a home tint.
‘Here we go!’ Kelly jiggles next to me, more than ready to go to her job. She’s making bags for a high street chain as part of a team in a huge wooden hangar outside the main building – not that I’ve seen it – for which she earns a nominal amount toward her canteen per week. ‘Good luck!’ she calls as the gates open and we all hurry to our destinations.
Induction involves me and two scared-looking new arrivals sitting in a hot and dark classroom near the library, watching a video, while a guard, with her feet on a desk, reads the paper. On screen, the upbeat ‘Insider’ who is clearly a fresh-faced actor, takes us through the prison routine. Kelly is more convincing and more useful.
‘Sounds like you need a form to take a dump,’ mutters one of the other women as we wait for Free Flow to start up again. I fall in behind the prisoners coming out of the library, as we hurry back to the wing for lunch.
Kelly beats me there. And just after they lock us in again, a hand thrusts two brown paper bags through the door hatch. Kelly catches them before they hit the floor.
‘Lunch.’ She chucks mine to me.
I can barely eat my ham roll, and I just nod along as she tells me about gossip from her work. I’m too distracted to care what some stranger said to another stranger. This is my chance this afternoon. I can tell the judge someone framed me. That it has to be someone I know. The police can then start looking properly. They can let me out. They can find Robert.
Before I know it, it’s Free Flow again. And I’m desperately trying to remember which way to go, and several times have to ask other women the way to the video-link suite. Eventually the crowd thins, and I realise myself and another two women, both dressed in their own clothes – a smart shirt and a dress – are headed in the same direction. None of us talk. I should be in something other than joggies. How’s this going to look to the judge?
Kev herds us all into individual rooms before we can ask questions. The door is locked behind me. I sit at the desk in front of a computer. There’s no keyboard or instructions. What if I’m supposed to do something and I don’t know? What if they’re waiting for me and I don’t know how to see them? I thought Mr Peterson would be on screen. I thought he would talk me through this.
The monitor flicks on, and the feed is there live. A courtroom. A judge. Oh my god. Mr Peterson is talking. Another solicitor – the Crown Prosecution Service. They list the charges. Two counts of murder. Two. I want to cry out that I’m pregnant. No one even appears to look at me. Can they see me? It’s like I’m not there. I’m not. These strangers are in a room two hours away deciding my case.
Suddenly Mr Peterson is prompting me. I’ve been asked for my plea.
‘Not Guilty,’ I say. ‘I didn’t—’
‘Thank you, Ms Burns,’ the judge says. ‘That is all that is required now. The defendant will be remanded until trial, with no bail posted.’
Until my trial? When is that – no one’s said? No bail? I’m staying here. I’m about to open my mouth to say I want to speak to Mr Peterson, when the screen goes blank. Is that it?
I stare at it for a moment. Then I hear the door being unlocked behind me.
‘Back to your cell, prisoner,’ Kev says.
‘I need to speak to my lawyer.’ This can’t be happening. I didn’t even get to tell Mr Peterson I’ve been framed.
‘Fill out a form,’ Kev says. ‘Like everyone else.’
And I walk back, stunned, toward the tiny cold room that is now my home.
Now
It’s been a week since I arrived. A week. I will never get that time back. The hours drag in painful minutes and seconds. I worry about Robert. I worry about my baby. I worry about me. The only way I can fight this is to try to figure out who framed me. Thinking it over, playing it from every angle, retracing everything that has happened in the last year, till I spot the thing that’s wrong, the thing that stands out, the thing that will explain all this. And it must be there. There must be a clue, if only I can remember it. I have to keep thinking. And I have a lot of time to do that.
Every Association I’m ready. I’ve submitted my call-list telephone numbers and my visitors list for approval, and asked to see Mr Peterson. Again. Kelly says I’m unlikely to get work till I’m off remand, and I don’t intend to be here that long. I can’t apply for education until my two weeks’ probation is up, but as there’s nothing higher than a BTEC on offer, I’ve put in for library time instead. Anything to get out of the cell. And on Wednesday my luck changes.
We’re grouped around the wing gates waiting after the call has gone up for Free Flow.
‘What’s taking them so long to unlock?’ Kelly is agitated beside me.
On My Life Page 9
