by Ruth Dugdall
“God, that’s horrible.”
“Well, don’t let it get under your skin.”
“When can I meet her?”
Paul looked at his watch. “No time like the present. I’ll walk with you as far as the education block. From there you’re on your own.”
Cate navigated her way into the education block, deafened by the constant noise. Iron doors echoed around the cold walls, women’s voices called from barred windows, officers shouted, and above it all the seagulls screeched.
In the corridor she saw Dave Callahan, who was making a show of larking around with a nervy-looking colleague, a young officer in a shirt so new it still had the creases from where it had been packaged. When he saw Cate, the young man stood straighter, and she saw his eyes flick over her body in that surreptitious way of sexually inexperienced young men.
Dave called across the corridor. “Hey, it’s our new probation girl.”
Cate ignored him and offered her hand to the shy young man. “Cate Austin. Probation Officer.”
“Mark Burgess.” His hand was limp and sweaty.
Callahan sneered, “Mark only left school a few weeks ago, isn’t that right, lad?”
He blushed. “University.”
“University educated and he wants to work in this shithole.” Callahan laughed.
“Are you on a graduate programme?” Cate asked.
“Yes, two years as an officer, and then I’ll be fast-tracked. I could be a Governor grade by the time I’m twenty-five.”
Callahan laughed so hard he almost choked. “You’d better grow a beard then lad, or the cons’ll think it’s ‘bring your son to work’ day.”
Cate willed Callahan to shut up. She said crisply, “I’d like to interview an inmate for a parole report. Rose Wilks.”
Callahan leered at her. “A number’s all we need, darling. Preferably yours.” He chortled at his own wit, turning to Mark. “Off you go, lad. Fetch the con for the lady. D wing. Quick sharp.” Mark scurried off and Cate walked smartly to the opposite room, to await Rose Wilks’s arrival.
6
Black Book Entry
My black book, my precious notebook. Once it was just empty pages, but now I’m filling it. This book is like a diary, and also like a letter because one day I’ll hand this book to you, Jason. I like to imagine you reading it. But not yet. Not until I’m free.
The jury eventually found me not guilty of murder. They believed me when I said I loved Luke, that I would never hurt him. But they found me guilty of manslaughter. I was there, that night, when it happened. I am a smoker and a cigarette started the fire.
It’s three years, ten months and two days since that night, but in six weeks I could be free. I need to get parole, need good reports from Officer Callahan and most of all from probation. I’m getting gatefever and I couldn’t survive being locked up for another two years.
It’s quiet. Most of the women are at classes, some are sleeping, and I’m mopping the landing. Officer Callahan walks across the clean floor with his dirty boots.
“I have something for you, Rosie,” he says, leaning against the wall with his hand on his crotch. I have to laugh, as it wouldn’t do to appear frosty. Callahan’s my personal officer, so it’s him who fills out my file and knows my case best. He waves the papers he has in his other hand: my parole report. I reach for it but he stretches his arm up.
“Patience, patience! No need to grab.”
“Please can I see it?” I sound like a begging child.
“Of course, Rose. But first I’d like a kiss.”
He often taunts the girls in this way. Usually I ignore him, but more than pride is at stake. Disgusted with myself, I graze my lips over his cheek, but he turns his face at the last minute and his mouth touches mine. His wet, greedy lips make me feel sick, but I smile anyway. I know who has the power here.
“I just met the probation officer who’ll be writing your report, Rosie.”
“Really?” This is important, but I don’t want him to see how much. “What’s he like?”
“It’s a she. Bit wet behind the ears. I just gave her the grand tour and she looked a bit shocked that it’s not like Butlins.”
“What’s her name?”
“Cate Austin. Ms Austin to you. You’ll be meeting her after lunch. Bit of a bugger for you, I’d say. A woman’ll always be harder on a child killer.”
I look around to check no one is listening.
“Don’t worry, Rosie. Your secret’s safe with me.”
Finally, he gives me the report. I fold it, tuck it into the back of my trousers, and finish mopping up, feeling the paper against my spine as I work.
It’s a good report. I am a ‘model prisoner;’ Callahan wishes there were more like me. I haven’t been any trouble at Bishop’s Hill, and I’m always polite and respectful. In conclusion, he supports my early release. I hide the report under my mattress. I can’t risk another inmate getting hold of it; jealousy breeds anger and violence. But on its own this report won’t get me released. The probation officer’s report is the one that holds the most weight.
My palms go slick when I think about the meeting. An officer will come for me soon, unlock my cell and take me to meet her. She’ll ask about you, Jason. And about Luke. It’s what they’ve all asked, the psychologists and shrinks, over the four years that I’ve been locked up, hoping to find something that will explain what happened that night. They want me to say that I did it; that I left a cigarette burning, that I started the fire that killed Luke.
I won’t lie. Not even to get out of here.
The scrape of the key in the lock is the only warning that it’s time for my interview. Officers never knock, never wait for a reply. Even if a prisoner is on the toilet there’s no respect for privacy, no basic good manners here. I have to stop writing in my black book, this long letter that I write to you all the time, even when I have no pen or paper. I’m always writing to you, always talking to you in my head. Dear Jason.
The new officer, Mark Burgess, opens the cell door.
“Come on, Wilks. Parole interview. Time to meet your probation officer.”
I follow Burgess away from the cells and into the education blocks where classes and courses are held. He leaves me outside a classroom.
I peer through the window in the door and see her, waiting.
She’s sat by the far end of the room, looking out towards the perimeter wall, her face in profile. Her navy suit is buttoned up even though it’s warm today, and she is tapping the fingers of one hand against her leg, as if to some silent music. My file is in her lap and my fate is in her hands.
7
Cate waited in the classroom while Officer Burgess went to fetch Rose Wilks. She walked to the barred window and watched the seagulls hopping on the ground then fly freely over the wall to the sea beyond. Inside the wall so many women were locked away, a danger to the public and needing to be kept from the world. And she was locked up with them.
Just fifteen miles away, Amelia was being looked after by Julie. Somewhere else, Tim was getting on with his new life with another woman. Someone he said was easy to be with, who made him laugh and didn’t take life so seriously. I don’t want to be here, I want to be home. I’m not ready to be back at work. She buttoned up her jacket, smoothed it down. I can do this. It’s okay. It’s just a job.
Rose Wilks would be arriving any minute. Feeling tense, she rolled her shoulders and told herself she had interviewed parolees before, and that she would be fine. It was just like riding a bicycle.
She made herself sit, thinking it would make her feel more in control, and then she picked up the thin file, the only details she had on Rose Wilks apart from what Paul had told her. It was scant information, listing the institutions where Rose had been held: the high security prisons, Holloway for six months and Durham for two years; then upgraded to the open prison at Highpoint, then back to higher security here to Bishop’s Hill on the Suffolk coast. Moving down through the prison system w
as normal, but Rose’s transfer from ‘low’ back to ‘high’ security suggested a serious misdemeanour at Highpoint. The discipline record simply stated ‘one adjudication’ against her, but no further details.
Sensing a shift in the atmosphere, Cate looked up. A darkhaired woman was staring at her through the glass. After a brief second, the door was opened, and the glass barrier gone.
Rose Wilks was tall and well built. She wore her own clothes, a concession all female inmates are allowed, but they looked loose as though she’d lost weight since buying them: plain dark garments, revealing nothing. On the sleeve of her right arm was stitched a strip of red fabric. Cate didn’t want to show her ignorance by asking what it signified.
The prisoner’s face was set in a mask of control, dark eyes fixed their advantage, access denied. Her almost-black hair was loose around her face and shoulders, long and wavy, making her look hippyish with her sallow face and leafy green eyes. She looked about forty, but Cate knew from the file that she was only thirtythree. Around her neck Cate saw the glint of gold, a chain that disappeared inside the collar of her shirt.
The two women shook hands, and Cate, conscious of her tendency to sweat, hoped Rose wouldn’t notice her moist palm. She directed the prisoner to a seat.
“Hello. I’m Cate Austin.”
“Rose Wilks.”
“I’ll be writing the parole report on you. The board is sitting in five weeks.”
“I know that. I’ve been counting down the days.”
“I imagine so. How are you getting along at Bishop’s Hill?”
The prisoner sat straight, poised. “Don’t you know?”
Cate was not affronted by this challenge, “I haven’t had your full case file yet, so all I have is a list of dates. I hope that when we next meet I’ll have got the records from your last prison, but today I’ll have to rely on you for information.”
The silence provided enough space for the woman to flick her eyes over Cate, evidently weighing her up. “I’ve been here sixteen months and I’m getting on as well as anyone could, locked away for something I didn’t do. Now let me ask you a question. How old are you?” Her voice was tilted upwards with the trace of a Suffolk accent, leaving the question raised in the air between them.
This was a familiar one. Cate Austin had joined the Probation Service just after graduation, but she looked younger than her twenty-nine years. Torn between the desire to let this woman know she was no rookie and that her age was none of her business, she compromised. “My age is irrelevant. But I’ve been a qualified probation officer for seven years, and written many parole reports. Isn’t that what you really wanted to know?”
Rose smiled, her shoulders dropped a little. “So I’m in good hands?”
Cate knew this was an attempt to draw her in, but she was practised at rebuttal. “I’m sure you know my job is to write a considered report, recommending whether or not you should be released on parole licence. You’ve been found guilty of manslaughter and that’s my starting point. What I’m interested in is if you’ll re-offend. If you’re sorry for your crime.”
“And how will you know that?”
Now it was Cate’s turn to consider. This question struck at the heart of her job, the weighing up of words and emotions. The delicate skill of peeling back the layers of another person’s psyche, stripping back what someone had done to find out who they were and what motivated them. This was what she was good at. It was why she loved her work, or had done until Amelia was born. When Tim left she’d sunk into despair, robbed of her self-belief. She told herself now it was just the illness making her doubt her abilities. She was better now, ready to be back. She could do this.
“Trust me,” Cate answered with a confidence she didn’t feel. “I’ll know.”
“Good. Because I shouldn’t even be here. I need to be free; prison is killing me. It’s not easy being locked away.”
Cate looked to the window as a gull flew past, screaming.
“Especially for someone who’s been convicted of a crime like yours,” Cate said, keeping her voice neutral.
“You mean with others thinking that I’m to blame for a child’s death?”
“Yes. You must get a hard time.”
“I don’t tell anyone what I’m in for, that would be asking for trouble. I’ve spent four years pretending, avoiding the attacks that would happen if anyone knew. I had to invent a crime. Aggravated burglary is a more acceptable crime.”
“Do they believe you?” Cate asked.
“People always believe lies. That’s why the jury convicted me, when the truth of what happened was staring them in the face.”
“I should warn you, Rose, that accepting your guilt is crucial to you getting parole.”
“You want me to lie too. But I would never hurt Luke. I loved him.” Rose was leaning forward, almost pleading.
Cate held her gaze for a beat. “I’ve been reading your disciplinary record.”
“Ask any screw and they’ll tell you I’m no bother. My cell is always neat and I’m a trusted inmate.”
“You’ve had one adjudication. At Highpoint. What was that for?”
“Doesn’t it say?” Cautiously, testing.
“No. Whatever it was, it got you sent back to a high security prison, so it must have been serious.”
Cate waited for an explanation, but none was offered. She watched Rose remove a packet of Rizla papers from her top pocket.
“Can I smoke?”
“You know you can’t. Not in here.”
Rose looked up through heavy-lidded eyes that showed a flicker of contempt.
“Tell me about the adjudication, Rose.”
An indifferent shrug, not matched in the eyes that stared out with sharp awareness. “As you just said, a case like mine doesn’t go down well inside. One of the inmates will get an idea of what I’ve done. My face is recognised from a newspaper article, or a screw lets something slip. There’s always someone wanting to make a name for themselves. I ignore it all: the looks, the knocks. Even the boiling water, and that hurts like hell. But this was different. What she said was wrong.”
“What did she say?”
“She got at me when I was in the shower. When I was vulnerable. There were other cons around, watching. She called me a nonce. I couldn’t let it go. It would have been like I was agreeing with her.”
Cate remembered Paul telling her that ‘nonce’ was the ultimate insult, reserved for those who had committed the worst crime of all, that of abusing children. Or killing them.
“Most people don’t know anything about me and, as I said, I tell them I’m in for burglary. People don’t mind that and, anyway, it’s true. I was a burglar.”
“What did you steal?”
Rose smiled slightly, touching her necklace. “Just a key.”
“So what did you do to the woman who called you a nonce?”
“Only what I had to do. You can’t show weakness in prison. I waited until she wasn’t expecting it and threw hot water in her face. It killed me to do it, but I didn’t have any choice. I couldn’t let word get round that I’d let her get away with calling me that.” Rose blanched, and clasped her hands together.
Cate watched Rose closely. “Are you okay?”
“No.” Her eyes welled. “Everything depends on this. And no one understands that I wasn’t in Luke’s room for any bad reason. I loved him. I know I had no right to be there, but since I lost Joel . . .” The tears fell slowly. “Just to hold another baby. That was all. I would never hurt him.”
Cate watched as Rose cried, her fingers itching to reach and comfort her until she reminded herself that because of her a child had died. She let Rose cry herself out.
Sniffing and drying her tears Rose asked, “Have you got any children?”
“It’s not really relevant.”
“I think it is. But you’re not supposed to tell me, are you?” There were three beats of silence between them. This woman is responsible for a child’s dea
th. Why shouldn’t she know that I understand what that means to Luke’s mother. “I have a daughter.”
Rose wiped her eyes. “I had a son. Joel.”
“Can you tell me about him?”
Rose shook her head.
“What about Luke?”
Again, she shook her head.
“Rose, to write your report I need to know how you ended up here. I need you to talk to me. I know that what I’m asking you to do is painful. But we need to make a start if you want to be released.”
8
Black Book Entry
Cate Austin didn’t ask about you, Jason. She didn’t press me to talk about Luke’s death, which surprises me since there are only five weeks until the parole board meets. But then sometimes these professionals do wait, even when they are desperate to know. They want to ‘establish rapport’ as they call it. As if that’s even possible.
After I was convicted, when the case had been adjourned for reports to be written and for the judge to decide what sentence to give me, a psychiatrist wasted hours asking me about things. My favourite bird, my worst subjects at school, if I liked any special flowers. I told him I liked to see blackbirds, that they reminded me of my mother, that I’d always hated R.E and liked roses, because of my name. Finally, satisfied that he knew enough, he asked about the fire. It was like an exam, and every question had a correct answer.
I think it’ll be different with Cate. She told me that she hasn’t got my full case file, when she could have pretended to know everything about me. She seems cool but under the surface things are always different. I’ve met lots of professionals, and I know them, what makes them tick. Men are the easiest to handle. They prefer to think of women as ‘misguided’, rather than plain bad. They’re always looking for reasons and excuses.
There was something about Cate, recognition between us like seeing a reflection in the funfair mirror, distorted, but still familiar. Just a hint, in the damp of her palm when we first met, in the pained way she looked when I cried. She’s hiding something. Some vulnerable part, locked away. She said she has a daughter, but doesn’t wear a wedding ring. Maybe she’s divorced, been abandoned by a man. Betrayed. These things matter, Jason, with a case like ours.
