She makes a hmmm noise.
Something’s wrong. The prison van, Gould, the stress, the lack of proper food, no vitamins – I haven’t protected my baby. ‘Is everything okay?’ My voice wavers.
She looks at my notes again. ‘It says here this is your three-month scan?’
‘Well . . . erm . . . it is. It’s just I’m a little further along, I think. I was on the Pill. And I didn’t know I was pregnant.’ Ryan tuts and I want to cry. I’m babbling. Desperate for her to understand that I do care about this baby. That I can be a good mother. ‘I wasn’t able to come before. I would have if I’d been able to.’
Ryan says nothing to back me up. I refuse to look in his direction.
‘These things happen,’ the sonographer says, smiling, before writing something in my file. What’s she written? Is something wrong that she’s not telling me? Is she saying I’m not fit to be a mother? Could David get hold of this?
‘Okay.’ She clicks her pen shut. ‘Let’s take a look then, shall we?’ She points. ‘You’ll be able to see baby here on the screen. And I’m afraid this will feel a bit cold, dear.’ She squirts icy gel onto my skin, and presses the probe onto my stomach so firmly I worry it’s going to hurt the baby. Please let my baby be okay.
But out of the grey swirl on the screen comes a head, a body, hands, feet, and nothing else matters. ‘Oh my god!’ My baby.
The sonographer beams. ‘There the little one is.’
I reach my fingers toward the screen. My baby.
‘Ms Burns,’ the sonographer says. ‘You are right to think that you are further along. The foetus is far more developed than it would be at twelve weeks.’
‘The doctor thought I was seventeen weeks.’ A blush comes to my cheeks as I add, ‘I know I had food poisoning after a takeaway with friends, but I . . . err . . . I haven’t been able to look at my diary to check what date that was.’
The sonographer nods. ‘I think you are closer to twenty.’
Oh my god. Twenty weeks? But that’s five months?
‘Here, see: you can clearly see the heart, brain, limbs, digits . . .’ she runs through the list.
It’s magic, like Kelly said. A huge surge of love and wonder flows through me as I look at my baby. Our baby.
‘Do you want to know the sex?’ the sonographer asks.
I nod.
‘You see here?’ She points. ‘I believe you are expecting a baby girl. Congratulations.’
My lip shakes and a tear falls from my cheek. ‘Is she . . . is everything okay?’
‘There’s no sign of anomalies from what I can see.’ She pats my arm reassuringly. ‘But because this is your first scan, I’m going to get the obstetrician to come in and take a look. Is that okay?’
I nod. My baby girl. There. ‘Oh!’ We watch as my daughter lifts her thumb to her mouth and starts to suck.
‘Lovely,’ beams the sonographer. ‘Ready?’
I nod again. My eyes fill with tears. I could laugh. Giggle. Nothing else matters. I have a baby daughter, perfect, growing inside me.
The sonographer hands me some tissue to wipe myself and leaves to find the obstetrician.
‘Five months then,’ Ryan says. I don’t look up. That’s September. That’s awfully close to when my trial could be. ‘That change who the father is?’
I pull my jumper down over my stomach. Shielding my baby from this man. ‘It’s my fiancé’s.’
‘Your fiancé?’ Ryan scoffs. ‘I ain’t seen him on your visitor list.’
My eyes swim again. Robert should be here, not this horrible stranger swinging handcuffs on his fingers.
The door slides open and a woman in her fifties, her hair a soft choppy red, and glasses on a string round her neck, enters, followed by the sonographer.
Ryan tucks the handcuffs back in his belt.
‘Now, Jenna, I’m Mrs Picken, your obstetrician. You can call me Mary if you prefer. I’m just going to take a look at you, okay?’ She pulls on plastic gloves.
I nod. Pull my jumper back up and wish Ryan had the shred of decency needed to look away.
Mrs Picken measures from my pubic bone up. ‘This is your fundal height,’ she says, her voice clipped but friendly. ‘This tells us that baby is twenty centimetres in length, which means you are indeed twenty weeks gone.’ She nods to the sonographer. ‘I would suggest a due date of September the seventh.’
I reassure myself that will be after my trial. Mr Peterson said it had to be before the end of August. I could be out by then. Or I could be convicted of murder, and David could have my baby. No. That won’t happen. I have four months till my baby is due. Four months to get out of prison. Four months to fight David.
Mrs Picken feels around my stomach with her hands. ‘And did your midwife not say anything to you, Jenna?’
‘My midwife?’ I stare at her. ‘I haven’t seen one.’
Mrs Picken’s face clouds.
‘I didn’t know I was supposed to . . . I didn’t know how.’ Should they have done other checks? Is anything wrong?
Mrs Picken turns to Ryan. ‘Who is responsible for this woman?’
‘Well it ain’t mine,’ he says lazily.
She rounds on him. ‘She is legally entitled to maternity care. Why has she not seen a midwife?’
The smirk falls from Ryan’s face. His ears tint. He shrugs. ‘Not my department.’
‘Well then you need to speak to someone whose department it is.’ Mrs Picken turns back to me. Her voice softening. ‘Have you had your blood tested for Rubella immunity? HIV, hepatitis B, syphilis?’
‘I . . . I . . . the doctor did some tests when I arrived at . . .’ I don’t want to say prison. Why did he not tell me I was entitled to see a midwife? Did he just not care? Was I just not worth it? What about my baby?
‘Okay.’ Mrs Picken puts a reassuring hand on my arm. ‘And how long have you been incarcerated for?’
It’s such a brutal word. Jagged. Cold. ‘Seven weeks.’
She nods. ‘I think we’ll do a full bloods screen again. Just to be sure.’
She means it’s long enough inside that I might have caught something else. I clutch my stomach.
‘A word, please.’ Mrs Picken signals for Ryan to follow her outside.
He glances at me as if to say something, but decides against it.
I hear her voice rise as I get dressed.
‘You have no jurisdiction within my hospital to insist on being in the room with a patient who doesn’t want you there. Everyone has a right to privacy.’
My face burns. I can feel where he touched me. He deliberately came in here to watch me undress. To humiliate me. Because he could. I feel a rush of gratitude for Mrs Picken. For the sonographer. For the fact they’re sticking up for me. For their kindness, their professionalism. The gift that they have given me. For a few precious minutes here I wasn’t a prisoner, but an expectant mother. A human being. Ryan is being told off because of me. But soon the handcuffs will be refastened. The shame yoked to me once more for the return to Fallenbrook.
A new emotion burns inside of me: anger.
Now
‘You know we’re supposed to get an extra carton of milk and some fruit each day?’ Kelly is wildly gesticulating with her arms, furious about my scan.
I’ve been an idiot. ‘I never even asked what I was entitled to.’ Kev’s presence made the journey back bearable. Ryan seemed to sulk. He did tell Kev the doctor was a stuck-up bitch, but disappeared off to smoke as soon as we got back. Kev, seemingly still upbeat after his Costa, escorted me back in time for lunch. It’s a relief to be out of those cuffs.
‘A fluffy told me.’ Kelly is pacing our cell, taking bites out of her baguette.
They literally speak another language in here. ‘Sit down, you’ll get heartburn. A fluffy?’
‘One of them charity birds. I said to the screws I should be getting fruit – that my baby needs the vitamins and shit, and they told me some crap about budget cuts.’ She stuffs the rest
of her sandwich into her mouth, pulls her diary from our bedside table and opens it to pages of neat writing. ‘That’s what I’ve been writing my book on, see?’
How To Do Your Bang Up Banged Up is written across the top in biro. I flick through. It’s tips and tricks all based on what you can get hold of and what you can do inside. My eyes hungrily grab the information. I turn to the page headed Diet & Exercise.
‘I got Abi to help me with that bit.’ She watches me read about Pilates moves to stretch and strengthen.
Save up on your canteen and get some lavender oil. You can rub it on your skin during pregnancy. Helps stretch marks and it’s calming so it stops you doing your nut inside.
‘This is amazing, Kelly, why didn’t you say?’
Her cheeks flush and she shrugs. Kicks the floor with the toe of one trainer.
You can ask the screws to leave the room during labour and when you’re breastfeeding.
‘Seriously, this is really really good. I don’t know half this stuff!’
‘Yeah, but they don’t listen to me, do they?’ she jabs a finger toward the wing. ‘And then I get all riled up and angry, you know?’
I think about the way I froze at the hospital. How I didn’t stop Ryan touching me. Even the good ones like Sara calling us ‘girls’. Even if they don’t mean to, they infantilise us. They dehumanise us. I nod.
‘I ain’t finished yet,’ she says, tapping the book. ‘But you reckon it’s coming along good?’
‘More than good – I would have loved to have been given this when I found out I was pregnant. You should speak to Education or Helen, the librarian; this is good enough for a prize, mate.’
She hides her grin while retightening her ponytail.
Thinking of the woman with Sally’s handbag in the hospital, I say, ‘I thought I saw a friend of mine today. None of my mates have been to see me.’
Kelly sounds sad. ‘Yeah, that happens.’
‘I’ve got this one friend – Sally. She was there the night I was arrested. I think the police stopped her talking to me. She won’t let her number be added to my call list.’ I suddenly can’t believe how they have all dropped me. Nothing. Not a word from Deb, Becky, Sally. And it’s Sally who hurts the most. They can’t all believe I did this. But the police found child pornography on my laptop – presumably they searched my office computer as well. She will know. I feel sick.
Kelly puts an arm round me. ‘Honestly, bruv, you’re not alone. No one wants to know you when you’re inside. Screw ’em!’
I turn the pages of Kelly’s writing. All the clever things she’s found out. All the time I spent in the library and I don’t have half of this. I was busy thinking about nurseries, hanging mobiles, kidding myself that my fantasy life still existed. When it’s shattered beyond recognition.
‘Roll-call!’ comes the yell from outside.
‘Urgh,’ sighs Kelly.
But as I’m closing the book I catch some words that detonate panic inside me:
You can apply for a place on a Mother and Baby Unit, where they let you keep your baby for up to 18 months. But there aren’t enough places for everyone. Nowhere near.
‘Come on!’ Kelly heads to the landing.
And you got to take your case to the Admissions Board with the governor to find out if you can keep your kiddie. No one seems to want this meeting to take place and the screws drag their heels. If you don’t get a place then they either give your baby to family or the social.
‘Is this true? Do we have to fight for a place on a Mother and Baby Unit?’ I’m due in September: I’ll either be free, or convicted. Would they let a convicted killer keep her child? The worst-case scenario threatens to overwhelm me.
‘Roll-call! Hurry up!’ The shout comes from the landing. The door bolt is unlocked.
Kelly looks nervously over her shoulder. ‘Yeah. Come on. The screws will already be pissed at you after that doctor ripped them a new one.’
‘How many places are there?’
Kelly snatches the book from my hand and drags me out onto the landing. ‘About sixty, I think.’
‘Here?’ How many women have I seen in here who are pregnant? Ten, maybe. How many more are hiding it, like me?
‘Nah,’ says Kelly. ‘In the whole country. More than half have already got lags in them.’
We step onto the landing.
‘Shut up, you dipshit,’ hisses a prisoner to our right. Ryan is scowling as he walks toward us, doing the head count.
Sixty. In the whole country. And half are gone.
‘If you don’t get your act together quicker, prisoner,’ Ryan booms, his face in mine, payback for earlier, ‘I shall dock privileges from the whole fucking landing.’
I wipe my cheek as he storms off. ‘Three hundred, three hundred and one. Stand up straight, prisoner!’
‘Fucking morons.’ The woman next to us glares.
And then I notice her left sleeve is rolled up. My mouth runs dry.
Now
The computer monitor flickers and Mr Peterson’s face appears, frozen mid-word, before it jumpstarts again.
‘Hello? Mr Peterson?’
‘Can you hear me?’ he speaks at the same time as me. He has the same tie on as when we last met and I wonder if he only owns the one.
I’m back in the same room I was for my Crown Court plea, ten weeks ago. Ten weeks ago when I thought I would be out at any minute. The number-one cleaner recommended a twenty-minute video call was the quickest way to see my lawyer. ‘I’m here.’ I blended into a bustling group of Bengali women who were on their way to Education to get out of the wing unseen, but I’m here. ‘I can hear you.’
‘Good,’ he says. ‘How are you doing?’ I presume he is in his office: behind him is a filing cabinet, piled high with folders. The room doesn’t look big, or light, he may not even have a window.
‘I’m five months pregnant.’
His eyebrows flicker but it could be the dodgy monitor. ‘Yes, you said.’
‘I’m further along now.’ I’ve been on at the doctor to get me and Kelly the extra snacks we’re entitled to, to make up for his earlier abject failure to get us maternity classes. ‘My baby is due on the seventh of September.’
‘How lovely, they’ll be the oldest in the year. Statistically more likely to do well at school.’ He smiles, and I wonder if he or his own child has a September birthday.
‘Mr Peterson, I need to know when my trial date is. And I need to know what my rights are, with regards to my baby. If I’m still here . . .’
‘Jenna,’ he tries to interrupt me.
But I don’t have time for this. ‘If I’m still here and there isn’t a Mother and Baby Unit place for me.’ I fight to keep my voice steady. ‘Can I pick who looks after my baby on the outside?’
‘That is a decision for the board and Social Services to take. I’m afraid I cannot advise you on that,’ he says.
‘I’m not allowed legal representation?’ I can’t believe I have to argue to keep my baby without legal support!
‘There are a number of charities that can provide advocacy,’ he says, riffling through papers on his desk. ‘If you can get hold of someone at Birth Companions, they may be able to help.’
‘And how am I supposed to do that?’ I need to speak to Ness. She sent more money in response to my letter, but I haven’t been able to call her as I risk bumping into Gould or one of her goons each time I leave the cell.
He sighs. ‘I know they’re not able to cover every prison. I’m not supposed to comment on this, Jenna.’ He rubs the bridge of his nose. ‘But you should prepare yourself: those who have a record of cruelty against children or child-related offences are not given places on Mother and Baby Units.’
It suddenly feels like I’m on a ferry and the room is rocking. ‘But I didn’t do it!’ David will not get my child. He will not.
Mr Peterson pauses. Clears his throat. ‘With regard to your trial date, as I’ve explained before, you cannot be remanded in
custody for longer than one hundred and eighty-two days.’
‘Yes, but when will it be?’ I can’t keep the tears from my voice. This is mine and my baby’s life, and he just keeps saying he doesn’t know.
‘Jenna, I understand you’re frustrated, but I will not be notified of your trial date until six weeks before it is due to take place—’ The screen freezes again.
‘Oh for fuck’s sake!’ I try the door to the room, but I’ve been locked in. I rattle the handle. ‘Hello? Hello! Can anyone hear me – the computer has gone off!’ I wait but hear nothing. Ryan escorted us in today and I saw him eyeing one of the new young girls. He’s probably locked in a room with her now. I shudder. I try the handle again. ‘Hello!’
There’s no response.
Back at the desk Mr Peterson’s face is still frozen. There’s no keyboard, no buttons I can try. No restart. I look around the room. And see a small camera in the left corner. I wave at it frantically. Nothing happens. I can’t see a light on it. Perhaps it’s a dummy. Or unmanned. I don’t have time for this. The stupidity of prison: on one hand you have too much time, enough time to count every brick in your cell, but not enough time to talk to your lawyer.
I rest my forearms on the desk and let my forehead slump onto them.
‘. . . Jenna? Hello?’
I jump up. ‘I’m here! I can hear you!’
‘Sorry about that.’ Mr Peterson looks flustered. ‘They’ve been digging up outside our offices all week and I wonder if they’ve hit a cable or something.’
‘No problem,’ I find myself saying. Though it obviously is. Poor WiFi is a minor inconvenience for him; it’s a matter of keeping my baby for me. ‘Look, I think we need to take a look at Robert’s parents – his father in particular. David. He’s controlling, manipulative, almost certainly violent. He could have done this.’
Mr Peterson looks stunned.
‘We could ask the police to investigate him, or you could investigate him?’
On My Life Page 19
