SHADOWS OF REGRET: If your life was ruined, would you seek redemption or take revenge?

by Ross Greenwood

  We had a rehearsal and got changed together in my room. Nobody had qualms over seeing others’ naked bodies after being around hundreds of women. They both commented on my figure. Maleeha’s body was slim but untoned. Nancy looked like a plucked chicken covered in smudged blue ink. It made me look at the similar tattoos on my hands and the one on my bicep. I tried to remember my mental state when I let a stranger put them on me, but it was too long ago.

  Maleeha put nail varnish on us. She took her time and it was a pleasant experience. That said, I stared at our hands throughout. They seemed so normal, yet they had committed appalling deeds. Were they capable of more?

  When they went back to their own rooms, I stared at my body in the mirror. Having become an avid reader when sleep failed to materialise, I studied healthy eating and exercise. I looked in good shape for a number of reasons. There was no sun damage because tanning in the prison yards was an infrequent treat. I swapped desserts for vegetables and salad, but there were usually leftovers. I should think the last time Nancy went near a lettuce was when she was stealing from people’s gardens.

  Prison doesn’t have to age you. After my first year, I avoided drugs. There were no late booze-filled nights to slacken my face. And no children to wear me out. All the prisons I was in had gyms. My only vice was enjoying a few cigarettes at night. After bang up, I’d sit with a coffee in silence and smoke one as a reward for getting through another day.

  Finally, I learned to fight. Some girls in jail, as you’d expect, were violent. They were used to scrapping. I felt unmatched, having avoided conflict even in various children’s homes. Many women added ten years to their looks through missing teeth lost in fights. I asked those who knew how to defend themselves to teach me. I picked up bits here and there, but it was more the confidence it gave me that would cause others to back down.

  Of course, as the saying goes, you can’t win ‘em all. An eighteen stone Latvian named Gripa once bounced me off every wall in my cell and broke two of my fingers. She would have killed me if someone hadn’t called the guards.

  12

  Two Days Later

  Acceptance

  Saturday night arrives and we totter downstairs at six p.m. The painter feigns a heart attack when we sashay by. I turn and smile at him as I go down the stairs and I’m pleased his gaze lingers on me. The open-mouthed expression declares attraction. That’s nice as I usually see lust and a desire for control.

  When I walk my dress rises up, and it’s already short. We stare in the mirror under the stark kitchen strip light, and I think the girls must have been out of practice as my face paint looks more Comanche than Clinique. Our outfits are completed by ridiculous winter coats. It’s too cold without them because none of us has much insulation.

  Sally says she will take a picture, so we haul off our jackets. I watch in awe as she uses her mobile phone and shows us the photo straight after. I’m amazed by the leap in technology. Maleeha is shocked by how we look.

  ‘Are we going to a whorehouse?’ she asks.

  ‘Why’s that?’ says Nancy as though it’s an option.

  ‘It’s the only place we’ll fit in dressed like this.’

  This gets me giggling and soon we’re all at it. When we’ve settled down, Sally reminds us to focus on our behaviour. She says it’s important that we’re able to have fun but still be in control. She tells us not to drink alcohol and to stay clear of trouble. Most importantly, she pleads, look after each other.

  The painter remains astonished in the hall when we stride past stinking of perfume. Nancy had a range to choose from. I’d had small plastic bottles of cheap stuff over the years — obviously we weren’t allowed glass — but nothing that smelled like this. I must resemble an undercover cop with my nose attached to my wrist. When we get outside, Maleeha whistles.

  ‘He has the hots for you!’

  ‘He’s married.’

  ‘I think he forgets that when you waltz around in a towel after one of your many endless showers.’

  ‘Maybe he’s married with kids, but his wife doesn’t understand him,’ Nancy adds. ‘They haven’t made love for years, and he has never met anyone like you before.’

  ‘That’s right, He’ll definitely leave them because he lurves you.’

  Maleeha’s face drops at her own joke. The following silence enables me to consider if I’m ready for sex. It’s been a long time. I had female affairs at the beginning of my sentence. The butch daddies aggressively pursued me, but they held no interest.

  Gay for the stay is definitely a thing. Straight women start relationships with women for the comfort. There wasn’t that much physical contact with the partners I took. I couldn’t share a cell due to my crime. You might grab the odd furtive shower or fumble in the laundry room. The environment meant that it usually ended in tears. Bitch fights were common, and you would find your girlfriend had been ghosted to another wing or even to another prison.

  That was one reason I needed to defend myself. The management didn’t encourage inmate relationships, but there was nothing they could do to stop them. They would ignore it as long as there was no aggravation, but women scorned can be evil creatures.

  Every now and again you would meet inmates with skills. A corrupt solicitor, perhaps, who could advise on appeals, or someone happy to teach you a foreign language to while away the time. I found Mai.

  I met her in my third year. She was a Vietnamese cannabis farmer with a six-year tariff. Obviously, she wasn’t. People traffickers smuggled Mai into the country and then presented her with an impossible bill. Her options were nail bar, prostitution, or sitting in a semi on a council estate and growing dope in all the rooms except the one she inhabited. She chose the latter as it cleared the debt faster. When the police raided the house, she was the person they found.

  I decided I needed to learn some form of defence and spotted Mai practising moves in her cell with a girl from the Philippines. They moved in poetic unison.

  Mai was a peaceful lady, in her twenties, who knew a Vietnamese martial art, Vovinam, which combined many forms. She was tiny but packed a stinging punch. I remember her attempting to teach me flow. ‘When you kick, use all your body. Strike through your hips. It is how you push a vacuum cleaner.’ She was right. She taught me it all. My technique was donkey-like compared to her crane, but I made great progress.

  Shortly after we met, an illegal immigrant from Barbados attempted to throttle me with a mop. Mai dropped her in seconds. All that over me walking on a wet floor. Regardless, I took note, and we became friends.

  I called in a favour from an officer. I’d given him information about an inmate who had promised to hang herself. They caught her in time, so he owed me. When wing cleaning jobs came up, the two martial artists were first in line. They worked as though they were scouring their own homes. Most unusual for prisoners. After they were sentenced, they got promoted to a big double cell. No one complained. Especially the other wing workers as their work load had decreased dramatically.

  We would enter their larger room and practice tai chi and Vovinam. The latter used special combinations of other arts, taking into account the Vietnamese small stature. It focused on speed. Mai was only a dot of a thing, but she was so quick it was beautiful to watch.

  I got nowhere near her level but it gave me self-assurance. She’d urge me still to be sensible; there are weight bands in fighting for a reason. Someone who’s twice as heavy as you is unlikely to lose. The exercise helped tone my body and emptied my mind. Mai promised peace could be attained through acceptance but that particular state eluded me.

  We became lovers for a year until they deported her. She was the only lover I didn’t instantly forget. That was the last serious relationship I had inside. I was devastated when she left. She thanked me with a warm smile and told me to celebrate how lucky we were to find each other. That wasn’t so easily done when I still had over ten years to serve.

  After she’d gone, I felt I had more control. If I was stre
ssed, I would slowly do the exercises and be marginally more relaxed. Prowling my cell was still a common occurrence.

  I push those distant thoughts away and consider my new friends. Tonight will not be a relaxing time.

  13

  Clubbing

  When we reach the town centre, we hold hands in a line on the pavement and separate only to let others walk past. It feels good to be part of something. I’m nervous as hell, though. I’ve no idea what to expect, but I feel silly saying so.

  ‘Are we going to a bar or the pub?’ I ask despite not knowing the difference.

  ‘It’s a cross between the two,’ Nancy answers. She’s jittery, and I recognise the signs match those of someone about to get a fix. ‘The chain is called Wetherspoons. I like it and it’s perfect for tonight, mostly because of the cheapness as we don’t have much cash.’

  I imagined a swanky venue full of men in evening wear sipping whisky, and glamorous women enjoying cocktails. It’s quite a shock when we arrive and find it very different. It’s loud and packed. Maleeha keeps my hand in a vice-like grip while Nancy charges to the bar like it’s one minute before closing as opposed to seven p.m.

  It takes us a while to catch up to her. Many of the people we brush against have been here for a long time. The chatter, stares, laughs and cheers overwhelm my senses. I’m glad of my bulky coat. The place has a smell that I haven’t encountered. I make a note to ask Nancy although the slight pull from the carpet on my soles distracts me.

  Nancy passes over ten-pounds and collects her change. She turns with a grin, holding three big glasses of a yellowy substance between her small bony fingers. I have a flashback to random drug testing in the prison.

  ‘Come on, let’s find a seat.’ Her smile is wild and white. Maleeha and I are more shocked by that sight than all the other strange ones. It’s heaving and the only place to rest our drinks is a high table near three young lads. They eye Nancy warily as she plonks our glasses down.

  ‘Bottoms up, ladies.’

  ‘What is it?’ asks Maleeha.

  ‘Old Rosie. It’s like apple juice.’

  We all drink together. My right eye waters as I swallow, Maleeha spits hers back in the glass, and Nancy drains hers in one.

  ‘My juice has gone bad,’ says Maleeha, causing us to laugh. ‘Does it have alcohol in it?’

  ‘Of course. No apple juice is worth two quid a pint.’

  ‘Okay. I’ll try but I don’t really like the taste of alcohol.’

  The mass of bodies has made the room warm, and I remove my coat. Nancy is always cold and I sense Maleeha also thinks hers is a shield against this place. I pull my dress down but note girls with shorter skirts than mine. Some look like they’ve just come from cheerleading, while others could be lawyers. Intermingled between them are scruffy types of all ages and a lot of old men glugging soapy-looking drinks.

  Nancy scans the crowd with a practised eye. Ten minutes later, she’s twitchy and eyeing her finished drink. She starts on Maleeha’s who looks pleased. Nancy must have forgotten the spit in it. I persevere with mine and find it gets easier. Maleeha asks me what I’m thinking as I scowl.

  ‘What’s on your mind?’

  ‘What’s that funny smell in here?’

  Nancy takes centre stage. ‘Who knows? Could be the toilets, but most likely it’s the carpets. You can imagine the vomit, blood and booze that’s spilt on it over a week. No Shake’n’Vac’s up to that task.’ She’s finished Maleeha’s drink now. I eye the carpet like it could absorb me any second, and then down my cider with a gasp.

  ‘Why are we drinking so fast? Do we have to go somewhere?’ I ask.

  ‘We’re time restricted. We want to have a boogie at a club and guzzle plenty of drinks, but we don’t want to pay nightclub prices. It’s cheap here, so we stay until nine and get pre-loaded.’

  ‘Sally told us not to drink alcohol,’ Maleeha recalls.

  Nancy grins. ‘Sally said to be careful. She meant don’t come home pissed. Right, I’ll buy another now we’ve drunk up.’

  ‘Can I have a glass of water, please?’ asks Maleeha to Nancy’s disappearing back.

  ‘Here, you ladies can have these.’ The guys next to us offer their high stools. It’s so unexpected, the one near me receives a beaming smile in return as I gratefully peel my shoes off the floor. The lads can’t be more than twenty-years-old. Nancy returns at that point with a suspicious stare. Soon, however, we’re all chatting. They’re students, reasonably good-looking and polite. They are also giggly.

  Maleeha complains to Nancy that her drink is warm. Nancy explains that the barman must not have run the tap long enough. Maleeha’s look of disgust has me chuckling out of control. I feel great, confident even. The lads buy us a round of drinks. Maleeha fakes a swoon as she’s passed a chilled bottle of sparkling mineral water. I’m not sure what mine is. It tastes sweet and fiery. I forget there’s alcohol inside, and it’s gone in minutes.

  Too soon, Nancy declares leaving time. She explains where we’re going. The boys say they have to study tomorrow. The most confident one, who has shuffled himself to my side for the last few minutes, holds my hand and looks me in the eye.

  ‘It was a pleasure to meet you, Katie.’

  He dips his head to kiss my hand and pauses. Again, my prison tattoos register in a depressing way. To his credit, he completes the manoeuvre, but his enthusiasm visibly chills. I glance at Nancy who observes on unsteady feet. The scene amuses her no end, and she barks out a laugh. Her top set of false teeth fires from her mouth and clatters along the surface of the table. Now, that is funny.

  We burst out of the pub leaving the men with an image they’ll never forget. Nancy guides us through the streets and to a back alley.

  ‘Here, everyone, have one of these mints and we need to take our coats off so we’ll get in for nothing.

  She ushers us around a corner to a big brown door. A wide man blocks the entrance. As we walk up to him, he raises an eyebrow.

  ‘Workers around the rear.’

  I picture pole dancers. Maleeha must do too, and whispers too loudly.

  ‘I said we looked like hookers.’

  Nancy moves swiftly to plan B. ‘How rude.’ Her aggression surprises him.

  ‘We only just opened. I thought you worked behind the bar or in the coat room.’

  ‘I want to speak to the manager. Unless you let us in for free. You can’t go around calling women prostitutes.’

  He isn’t sure whether to be worried or angry. Nancy presses home her advantage.

  ‘Look, we’ve got to leave soon. Catch the last train. We just wanted to have an hour dancing. The blokes who get in early love to see birds doing their thing. That’ll keep them happy and not fighting until it gets busy.’ She leers at him. ‘We turn into pumpkins at midnight.’

  He ushers us in. I hear him tell the ticket girl he’ll explain later. We go down steps and through another set of doors. The music blares louder as we approach. We barge through more doors and there we are. It’s like a huge school disco hall. The song vibrates through my soles.

  Even Maleeha looks excited. ‘Come on, Katie.’ She drags me onto the shiny wooden dance floor, and we begin to step around. I shuffle my feet even though there’s only about ten other people scattered around the sides. When Nancy joins in, I relax. She frowns at the music and walks up to the DJ stand. A minute later, a song from Dirty Dancing roars out of the speakers. I watched the film so many times in jail I could sing them all.

  A blast of smoke envelops us and I leave Katie the prisoner behind. As the others disappear in the grey clouds, years drop away like leaves and finally, I am me.

  14

  Pumpkin Time

  It feels like the same song is playing when Maleeha gasps in my ear and tells me we need to go. The place is filling up and I hate to leave. We find Nancy slumped on a sofa looking tired. She has our coats on her lap and may even have been asleep. We haul her up with little effort. She’s such a big personality, it�
�s a surprise she’s so light.

  The foyer heaves with new arrivals. Everyone’s in high spirits. We catch sight of ourselves in the mirror and flinch. We look like we’ve been through a car wash. Nancy is bedraggled. She pulls her hair back into a ponytail, shrugs, and leads the way out.

  As we depart, I glance at the women queuing to leave their coats and bags. I’ve never seen so many tattoos. They are everywhere. People wear them with pride. Arms have full sleeves, backs are adorned, and necks are decorated. Wow! is all I can think. The only people who had tattoos when I first went away were sailors, other prisoners, and David Beckham.

  Imagine the quality of work from a prison tattooist. Spelling mistakes were a common theme. One poor mare had home sweat home on her shoulder blade in the ubiquitous off-blue shade. The designs here, though, are colourful and beautiful. A lady turns around displaying a peacock on her bare back. She winks at my open face, clearly used to admiration. Her make-up is flawless.

  In fact, most girls are immaculately dressed and shimmer like film stars to my inexperienced eye. I feel like a cleaner leaving before the celebrities arrive. Eyeshadow dehumanises the pretty faces we pass and I find myself wondering who these people really are? What do they actually look like?

  The queue to enter the nightclub stretches along the building. We walk alongside them as we make our way home.

  A tall, ginger youth appraises me as though he’s a farmer at a cattle market. A small, black man further down the line whispers, ‘Nice coat,’ to his mate. They both glance away and laugh.

  Maleeha and I exchange glances. The fresh air perks Nancy up and she starts to sing The Fairy Tale of New York despite the time of year. We join in and stagger home. Around the corner from the premises, Nancy’s self-preservation kicks in, and she gets her mints out again.

  ‘No alcohol passed our lips, remember?’

  We nod in unison, take deep breaths and enter with fifteen minutes to spare. The staff member on tonight is an old guy who’s seen it all before. He lets us in, looks at his watch and smiles. He’s thankful for the lack of aggravation and paperwork that our late returning would have caused.