by Shelly Pratt
‘You need a minute?’
‘What do you think?’
‘I’d say you look marginally better than you did yesterday.’
‘Well it’s a start, quit your bitching.’
He chuckles at my teasing. I’ve always played the hard-ass, the tough guy. That’s the old me. This soft ball of mush that falls apart at the drop of a hat is a recent addition to my personality, one I don’t think he particularly likes.
No, that’s not right. He just doesn’t know how to handle those kinds of emotions. He comes from a family of ten boisterous boys – all cops who’ve walked the same beat as him for the last forty years. I’m sure when I first came along he didn’t know what to do with me.
Just before Daniel’s death we were really close, even working at the same precinct together. I’m sure my absence this last year has been just as much of a kick in the nuts to him as what it was to lose his future son-in-law.
I know he persecutes himself, but he never shows it to me. I guess he figures I’ve already got enough on my plate.
While I throw myself in the shower and figure out what to wear, dad helps himself to a cup of coffee. When I come downstairs I find him staring absently out the back door, probably contemplating the knee high weeds I’ve got growing out there.
‘It’s a bit of a jungle, isn’t it?’
‘I like it that way. People probably think I’m a crazy cat lady and won’t dare to come onto my property to rob me.’
He humphs in response, ready to make an argument over the state I live my life in. Considering the recent development where I’ve finally decided to leave the house, I guess he’s willing to overlook my sloth-like ways for the time being.
‘You ready to go?’ he asks, dropping his still-warm cup in my hands.
‘As I’ll ever be,’ I say, looking into the bottom of the coffee cup and reminding myself that I don’t have to think of Daniel every time I smell the heady aroma. It’s just coffee.
My heart screams at my head, unable to allow the reasoning.
It will always remind you of him.
#4
After a few winters in here, you start to dream of sandy, hot beaches with aquamarine, pristine waters. And beer—ice-cold beer. It’s been so long since I’ve had alcohol that I’m beginning to forget what it tastes like. Yet I still crave the heady after-effects that liquefy my muscles and stupefy my speech. Yeah, I want to be numb. Hard not to have wants like that in a place like this. Don’t think for a second this place is the Ritz – it’s not. There’s no central heating in this neck of the woods.
Nights are by far the worst. It’s a time where prison staff are at a minimum and the inmates know it. If you plan on being safe at night, think again. There is no safe behind these bars; it’s just an illusion. There are guards that aren’t above a bribe – you know, turn the other cheek. You just pray that they never come for you.
As if tormenting our captors, some inmates start their incessant howling and wailing the minutes the lights go out. If I didn’t know better, I’d have thought I was a guest in a mental institution rather than an inmate of a prison.
Night time is when all the insidious dealings go on. Contraband, drugs, sexual favors and rape – it all happens behind these concrete walls with the warden and custodial officers powerless to stop it. Sometimes the shrieks and moans you hear are not the pleasurable kind. It’s then you know that someone else has just become the bitch of a prisoner that holds more clout than he does. It’s not pretty; in fact it’s sickening. There’s nothing worse than trying to get to sleep and all you can hear are the ugly truths of prison life happening around you.
Tonight is remarkably quiet, although it’s only early. It’s true what they say, you know – that a full moon makes all the crazies come out. But there’s no full moon tonight, which makes me think that this unusual silence that surrounds me lends itself to bigger things. I guess that means that I’m gonna have to sleep like a dog, with one eye open.
Despite the early hour, Clinton is snoring away on the bottom bunk, oblivious to my inner unrest. He mustn’t feel the cold, because tonight, the air bites like a bitch. Most inmates who arrive in the summer are fooled into thinking that the flimsy tracksuit and blanket will be enough to keep them warm at night. They soon realize that their thinking has been misplaced. It’s hard to settle when there is nothing but coldness and hardness around you. Well, it is for me anyway.
I pull up my blanket around my ears, neglecting my feet in the process. Being in here is all about sacrifice. You’ve got to make choices wisely. You could end up dead otherwise.
The only consolation amongst the constant upheaval of prison life is that in another year, I’ll be out. That’s more than can be said for most of the crims in here. Some of these guys are doing all day, which is what we call a life sentence; and the only way out for them is if they get a Back door parole. No, they don’t actually get parole. It means they die in prison.
I try and sleep, but it alludes me tonight. There is too much going on in my headspace for me to relax. Besides, there’s an inmate bunking in an opposite cell who’s choking his chicken like nobody’s business. The moans and grunts are enough to make the hair on my arms stand on end. It’s one thing to watch a porno, but to hear a guy masturbating a few feet away, it gets you excited whether you want to be or not. I’m no fag, but he could be fucking a woman for all intents and purposes. In the dark, it’s the noises that control you.
I feel my dick getting hard. It happens more frequently since I’ve been in here, which is probably because I’m not getting any or rarely flogging myself off. Some of these guys can do it while everyone else is looking on. Not me. I need a little privacy for those kinds of things.
To distract myself, I start thinking about food; anything to take my mind away from what’s going on. This is like replacing one coveted thing with another. Hardly fair, when there is no hamburger joint in the vicinity. Like the beer, I can only daydream about the greasy, cheesy, beef burger I’m craving. My stomach rumbles in response. I’ve no clock, but I know it’s been hours since we had chow. It’s probably getting close to midnight if my internal clock is still functioning properly.
I’m lying quite still when the sound of footsteps padding quietly down the hall alerts me. The cell I’m in is isolated at the very end of the hall, farthest from the custodial station. If shit goes down, even without the staff in on it, it’s going to take long enough for them to get down here that someone could end up hurt—badly.
Hesitation. Time as we know it stops. Even the masturbator is deathly quiet. Clinton still snores while my heart rate jack-knifes to an all-time high. The blood pumping through my body is doing a tremendous job of coursing through my veins without actually giving me a heart attack. The deafening roar in my ears is only surpassed by a dry mouth that’s making my tongue stick to the roof of it.
The bars of our cell start to slide back, the little mechanical cog whining as it recedes in its tracks. Four dark figures enter our cage, quickly, calculated and precise. I freeze, determined that whatever is about to go down, does not take me with it. The only place for me to go is back up against the solid concrete wall that frames one side of our bunks. I’m ready to kick the first person who approaches me in the face.
I recognize one of them. He’s Clinton’s fuck-buddy from D Block. Lionel is his name. He covers his lips with one finger, shushing me into silence. Believe me, if they’re here for Clinton, they can damn well have him. I’ll remain quiet no matter who’s making the demands.
The prison is starting to stir. The noise of the door has alerted those inmates who are still awake that shit is about to go down. It’s like Chinese whispers as news of what’s shaking spreads down the row of cells. Whatever these guys have in mind, they’re going to have to hustle.
Lionel covers Clinton’s mouth as he yanks him from the lower bunk. My cellie, drugged with sleep, comes freely away from his mattress. The little strip of moonlight that filters throug
h our grimy window makes the whites of his eyes glow as they widen in surprise.
He’s held in a choke-hold and silenced while two other accomplices grab his wildly kicking feet. The fourth guy means business. All I can do is look on, unless I want to involve myself – which I don’t.
Unable to defend himself, Clinton is left wide open for their onslaught. It isn’t pretty and I can see that I’m going to need to find a new cell mate after this little execution. The fourth guy makes quick work of his torso as he goes to work with a homemade shank.
With the scuffle going on in such a confined space, it was only going to be seconds before the alarm was raised. That’s all his attackers need, though. Cells explode, the din blasting out into the hallway as the pen’s alarm goes off. On the walls, bright yellow lights flash, indicating that all of the custodial staff are needed immediately.
They come, bearing weapons, Tasers and body armor. The four who’ve entered our cell uninvited stand back against the wall, arms held high in the air. The dark may have provided some obscurity, but now I can see each of their faces clearly as guards work to get them all shackled.
On the floor, Clinton lies inert. It’s hard to say if he’ll make it. More to the point, who cares?
A guard each takes one of the jailbirds off in the direction of the hole. A stretcher is brought from the infirmary to take Clinton away. I’m left supervised by the warden as the remaining guard goes and gets a mop and bucket. I can see this is going to be a long night. While the rest of the inmates carry on with their bellowing, I’m left to face off with Reginald Haylock.
This guy is a no-nonsense fella who runs his ship tighter than a fish’s asshole. If there is one thing an inmate wants to avoid at all costs, it’s a run-in with the warden. Nobody wants to be seen talking to him. You could end up being cast as an informer, which will bring nothing but bad luck and trouble your way. I’ve been around the traps long enough to know to just keep my mouth shut, especially when a Three Knee Deep has just taken place. That’s the term they give when someone’s been stabbed, but not killed, usually as a warning. I’m not about to put myself in a position where I could be given the same warning.
‘Prisoner number?’ The warden barks. There are no nice requests.
‘224702.’ I watch while he types the information into his iPad.
‘Hmm.’ He looks at me, weighing up the man before him. I know from the Master Index Number I just gave him that he has every single detail about me glaring up at him on his screen. It will show him everything from my jacket and charge to how much I weighed when I walked through these bars.
‘What happened here tonight?’
‘I couldn’t tell you, Warden, I was fast asleep.’
‘Don’t spin your bullshit to me, Saxon. I’ve got an inmate who looks like he’s about to take a trip to the county morgue.’
‘Not my problem, Warden.’
‘Do you fancy a trip to solitary, son?’
‘No, sir.’
‘Then perhaps you’d like to rethink that vague memory of yours and see if you can help the staff out with a testimony as to what in the hell went on here. You never know, you might just be able to get yourself some creature comforts in exchange.’
‘Sorry, but I’m not looking for a juice card.’
‘Juice card?’
‘I’m not looking for favors, Warden. You can do what you like, but I can only tell you what I know—which is nothing.’
‘Fine,’ he says, smoothing down his bad comb-over. The strands of hair are licked together with sticky hair gel, making his baldness just as visible as if it were shaved off. ‘You can clean up this mess. If you change your mind about what you saw you can let one of the guards know.’
I don’t respond, knowing it’s not going to make one iota of difference.
A guard hands me the bucket and mop so that I can clean my cell, watching me while I’m made to feel like a bit of old chewing gum stuck to his shoe. I ignore him and get to work on the blood that’s dripped over the polished concrete floor. I got lucky tonight, I know that. These guys are obsessed over their own rules and structure. One step out of line and they put a target on your back. Many think it’s the correctional services that run this joint, but I know better. It’s the lifers that have the control. It’s just a matter of the government officials catching on.
#5
I may have shut myself out from the world for the last year or so, but that’s not about to stop when I walk out the door today. I’m in a cage of self-imposed imprisonment; big, steel bars welded tightly shut so that no one can penetrate my fragile state. Work is just a distraction, nothing more.
You’d think that with something else to focus on, my nightmares would leave me in peace; that Daniel would leave me in peace. Instead he tortures me just as much as he always does, only leaving me at dawn when he slips from my grasp and I fall back into reality.
Today, I’m no longer a beat cop. I’m a custodial officer of Silverwater prison — a guard within concrete walls that hold murderers, rapists and armed robbers. It’s a position that can allow me to maintain distance with other people. No one can get close enough to know me and my pain. No one can touch me, hold me or feel me in the way that he used to. I will be just as insignificant as those who I watch.
As I put on the uniform provided by the Corrective Services agency an inescapable twinge of pride tinkers through my bones. Serving the municipal is what I was born to do. I can’t avoid my vocation any more than I can help breathing. The relief at not having another partner after Daniel is liberating because, even though there would be no romantic relationship, the tenure of a partnership on the beat is entirely different from other law enforcement roles. You rely on each other. I don’t want anyone relying on me. I’m damaged.
My eyes look puffy, the tears and insomnia taking its toll. That’s fine by me. Where I’m going, the worse I look the better. The last thing I want is a jail full of aroused men paying me any attention whatsoever. I leave my face devoid of makeup and pull my brunette mess into tight braid. There are no prizes for beauty queens in Silverwater; just stern addresses from the warden on the inappropriateness and dangers of making oneself visible to the inmates.
I go to the wardrobe and open it. Taped to the inside of the door is a photograph of Daniel in his service uniform. The dull ache I feel every time I see him is still there. It won’t go away. His smile infects any happiness that lingers in my body, making me miserable that he doesn’t get to make memories with me anymore. I miss him. I still… ache. I kiss my fingers and place it on the picture, knowing I need to close the door before his image threatens to be my undoing.
Tearing my eyes off his crinkled blue ones, I grab my jacket and slam the wardrobe door shut. I put it on and look in the length of the mirror attached to the bureau. I look every bit the part wearing the jacket, the stitched emblems of the county jail screaming enforcement.
The phone rings, as I knew it would. He can’t help himself and I can hardly blame him.
‘Dad.’ There’s no hello, for who else would be calling.
‘Mercy, how are you doing today?’
‘I’m fine.’
‘You ready for this?’
‘I was just about to walk out the door.’
‘I love you, you know that.’
‘I know, Dad.’
‘And I’m proud of you.’
‘Dad…’ I warn.
‘Okay, okay. Well I’ve got to be at the station in ten minutes, so how about I pick you up after work and we can go grab a beer and a steak at Joe’s tonight?’
‘What about Mom?’
‘Eh, she’s got her stitch and bitch class on tonight.’ I hesitate, not sure if I want to open myself up that much yet. There’s one thing going back to work, a place where I can be in my own head all day and not really have to deal. Going out for a meal and a sociable chat is another ballgame altogether. He can sense my reluctance. I guess the silence says it all.
‘Pleas
e, Mercy.’
‘Okay,’ I say, caving under the weight of a father who cares just as he should about his emotionally damaged daughter.
‘See you at seven.’ He hangs up, a glimmer of peace in his otherwise strained voice. I put the telephone back in its cradle, ready to leave my demons locked up in the house for the day while I go and earn a dollar.
The drive over to Silverwater doesn’t take long. Despite the dark clouds and miserable weather, traffic is light at this time of the morning. Walking from the parking lot to the main gates gives me a chance to have the biting, icy wind sting my cheeks for a bit. It feels nice. It hurts, don’t get me wrong, but it reminds me that I’m still alive. Still lucky, not like— No! I have to forget about him while I’m here, I promised myself that.
The guard at the checkpoint booth notes my uniform and offers his hand out for my identification tag. I give it to him without a word, which he scans, waiting for the approval beep from the machine.
‘Head on over to the main office, they’ll process you there.’ He jerks his thumb in the general direction of the building.
‘Thanks.’ I take my identification back off him and make my way to the main entry. There I’m met by a blast of too-warm air and a lady manning the front desk with entirely too much makeup. She obviously doesn’t see the inside bowels of this place. She’s a desk jockey. Too old, too fat and a face full of cosmetics that looks like it’s been blown by a shotgun onto her face. It’s certainly not the complimentary amount that the delicate hand of a much younger woman would use.
She looks me over with the same disinterest the guy out front did. I’m glad, because I don’t want to be her friend either. I offer her my credentials, which she scans and pushes back towards me.
‘Through the metal detectors, honey, and then down the hall to the warden’s office. He’s expecting you,’ she says, voice nasally and phlegmy, marred by years of smoking.
I follow her instructions, taking my jacket off so it can go through the x-ray machine on the conveyer belt while I walk through the arches of the metal detector. After the guard manning it is comfortable I’m not carrying a gun, he lets me past.
