The Bars That Hold Us

by Shelly Pratt

  The warmth of his skin sears my cold cheeks, bringing comfort and a burning desire to have him hold me against his body. He doesn’t. He remains inert, not willing to give himself away as easily this time.

  The sexual tension between us is crazy. You could light a match right now and the fireworks would be amazing. He weighs me up for a second before finally speaking.

  ‘You’re gonna have to ask me this time, sweetheart.’ His voice is so husky and low, I’m straining to hear the words as they roll off his smooth lips. I don’t need to ask what he means. The way he’s biting his lip and devouring me with his eyes is enough to tell me exactly what he intends to do, if only I’d give him the green light.

  I know that right now, I can’t think about the future, the ramifications, the danger or the consequences – to my heart or my job. All I know is that my body and soul are living in the moment and right now, I know exactly what I want.

  ‘Kiss me.’

  He doesn’t even wait for me to change my mind before crushing his lips against my own. His kiss is passionate and fierce, no holding back. His hands drop from my face to my ass, pulling my whole body tight against his own. His tongue finds mine, desperately seeking more than I bargained on giving him.

  We melt into each other, discovering the boundaries of our mouths with fevered lips. I can’t help myself when I grab the back of his head with my hands, frantic for more purchase and needing every bit he has to offer me right now. He responds willingly, kissing me with a desperation that won’t be sated any time soon.

  I forget we’re in a prison. We could be anywhere. The only thing that gives me a rude awakening to our surroundings is the distant hum of a door as it buzzes open with a security card. Someone has just gained access to the corridor that leads to the library. We have company.

  We break apart, panting heavily from the kiss. I don’t know who’s on their way down here, but we’re both going to have to wipe the fevered looks off our faces before they make an appearance or we’re both going to have some explaining to do.

  #12

  We were lucky that warden Haylock didn’t catch us while our lips were locked in what had to be the steamiest kiss of my life. Despite her sadness, this woman had the ability to give that insanely hot moment to me. Sure, she only had to cut me down at the knees before bringing me back up to the heavens, but fuck it was worth it.

  What shit me off was the fact that we weren’t left alone for the rest of the day and, with the weekend following, it has taken until today for me to get the opportunity to speak with her about our very electric connection.

  I want her to know that she can trust me; that she doesn’t need to worry about me talking to anyone about what happened between us.

  I want to be ready for her when she comes to get me. There’s still a lot of painting to get through and my brain is running overtime with all the daydreaming I’m doing. You can imagine my surprise then when Victor rocks up to my jail cell.

  ‘Hey, Chief, what’s happening?’

  ‘I’ve come to get you to take you to the library so you can start work.’

  I look around him, trying to see if I can spot Mercy anywhere.

  ‘Problem?’ he asks me.

  ‘No… is Officer Cole not coming today?’

  He grins as me, as though I should get in line like the rest of the schmucks who are drooling after her.

  ‘She’s sick today. Come on, let’s get moving.’ It’s all he’s going to offer me and I can’t delay the inevitable. I follow him out of F Block and along the corridors towards the library.

  It’s exactly as I left it on Friday. While I mix the paint and get the brushes ready, my head starts to run into overdrive. She’s sick? I wonder absently what’s wrong with her, but my thoughts soon spiral. Is it me? Is she avoiding me because of our kiss?

  I try and ignore the niggling thoughts that occupy my thinking while I get to work on the walls.

  Vic doesn’t offer me coffee, biscuits or good conversation. He reads some titty magazine while I work steadily away with the roller. He doesn’t look up once, happy to ignore me and my sorry existence of a life.

  By lunchtime my shoulders are sore and my neck muscles are starting to cramp from looking upwards for the better part of the day. I need a break, and I guess I’m the guy to suggest it since the guard seems quite content to sit on his ass all day and do nothing.

  ‘Hey, Chief, any chance I can break for lunch?’ I say, putting the roller down. He lazily looks at his watch.

  ‘Shit, that went fast. You’ve probably missed the lunch service, but we’ll head on over anyway and get the kitchen to make you up a plate,’ he concedes.

  Relieved, I follow him out of the library towards the industrial kitchen. As we pass down the long connecting hallway that links the buildings, I get a good view of the pen outside. Inmates are out and about, exercising or catching the weak, winter sun and making the most of their scheduled rec time.

  My eyes flit from inmate to inmate until they finally rest on the familiar figure of one of the guards. Vic realizes I’ve stopped walking and turns to see what my hold up is.

  ‘Are you coming?’

  ‘Yeah. Hey, Chief, I thought you said that officer Cole wasn’t in house today?’

  ‘That’s what I was told, Miles.’

  ‘So what’s she doing on rec duty then?’

  He comes back to where I’m looking out of the window and stares at the guards on duty.

  ‘Your guess is as good as mine. Now let’s get moving before you miss out on chow altogether.’

  I can tell he’s saying this more for his own benefit than my own. Some of the guards here actually like the prison food, but I’m guessing that’s only the ones who live alone or whose wives are seriously bad cooks.

  Reluctantly I leave with more questions than I had this morning. When we enter the meal hall we’re greeted by silence and the smell of boiled meat. It’s not at all like ma’s cooking. Instead it resembles dog food and hot Weet-Bix.

  ‘Sit there,’ Vic commands, while he goes off in search of a meal for the both of us.

  Judging by Mercy’s appearance outside, it’s clear she’s been at work all day. So why didn’t she want to see me today? Is she embarrassed? Have regrets? Finally get some sense about her and realize that nothing good can come from falling for a crim? All scenarios lead to disappointment for me. I don’t want her to regret a single second of that kiss we shared. I only want her to want more. More of me, more of us.

  Vic slaps a tray down in front of me. The food on it looks like something my dog ate and threw up—that is if I had a dog, of course. I look at him questioningly, hoping he can shed some light on what I’m about to ingest.

  ‘Meatloaf, mash, vegetables and rice pudding,’ he grins.

  ‘Settle down, Chief. You almost look happy.’

  ‘It beats going hungry.’

  ‘You don’t look like you’re starving,’ I say, looking pointedly at his stomach. He rubs it and smiles.

  ‘It’s winter. I’m storing.’

  ‘Uh-huh.’

  He leaves me alone while I sift my way through the slop on my plate. I only barely manage to eat half of it, not nearly as keen as he is to eat the unidentifiable mess.

  I thought today would be fun. It’s a horrible thing to be so reliant on another’s company, because when it’s taken away, you feel nothing but misery. I wanted to see her, because she’s the only light in an otherwise dark day. I needed to see her, because she ignites such passion in me that I can’t control. There is reciprocation, I know it, yet I still can’t help wondering why she is doing this—why she’s distancing herself from me. More like, I just don’t want to confront the reality of her choices.

  I don’t want her running scared because it reaffirms every single self-depreciating thought I have. Most would believe I’m not worthy but, for just a moment in time, she thought I was. She was interested in me; she wanted to kiss me just as much as I wanted to kiss her. Without
even realizing it, I bang my fist on the table.

  ‘Oi! Knock that off,’ grumbles Vic, as though it’s too late in the day to deal with me if I’m about to go off the rails.

  ‘Sorry.’

  I am sorry. Sorry that Mercy doesn’t want anything to do with me.

  Vic’s radio chatter is enough to end the five-star lunch we’re having.

  ‘That’s us done. I’ve got to get you back to lock-up so I can help with parole hearings in D block.’ He offers no apology, but by now I don’t give a shit anyway. I’m done with the dog food and I think I can wait until dinner to be disappointed all over again.

  We make our way back to my cell. The halls are eerily quiet with the absence of inmates. I may have missed rec time, but I don’t think that would be the place for a confrontation with Mercy. Somehow I get the feeling that I wouldn’t have been able to resist had she been standing within meters of me.

  Locked up and nothing to do, I feel now is a good time to make a kite. No, not the play-thing, it’s a note. I don’t want her to think I’m begging, but… yeah, okay, I’m begging her to come back and watch me because it’s the only thing that makes me feel even remotely like my old self again.

  I need to tell her exactly how I feel without scaring her away for good.

  Dear Mercy,

  I missed you today. It’s because of me, I know. You can pretend all you like—that you’re sick or whatever, but we both know the truth, even if you aren’t willing to admit it to yourself.

  I’m going to make this easy on you. We can go back to how we were – you my guard, me your prisoner. If that’s what you want? We can pretend it never happened and I promise I’ll never touch you in that way again. Or even look at you, unless you ask me to.

  But I need to confess to you that I’m miserable without you. I know that sounds pathetic but, in an otherwise bleak and mundane existence, you’re the sunshine amongst the cloudy storm. You make five hours seem like five minutes. Please don’t take that away from me when all I have is time.

  I know things are complicated—for both of us. If there’s one thing I can say to reassure you, it’s that you have the upper hand here. It’s weak, but it’s all I have to offer you when I’ve nothing else to give.

  I could say that there is nothing I want more than to rewind a few days and take it all back. I’d be lying. Maybe you just need a friend…

  Can you forgive me if I’ve overstepped the mark?

  The last thing I want to do is put you in a compromising position. I know there’s a lot at stake with your job, although I’m selfish enough to admit I’d risk it all.

  Can you forgive me for wanting you the way I do?

  Saxon.

  When I’ve finished writing, I wrap the kite with sticky-tape, making sure to fold it up as small as possible. The loud chatter of rough voices coming back from the yard are enough warning to the fact that my fellow house mates are returning from their outdoor rec time.

  I watch from my bars as they file into their cages. I pay particular attention to a cell on the opposite side of the block. There are two inmates who keep squaring me off. I know they were part of the gang rape crew who were convicted along with the two assholes I beat up in the shower block a couple of weeks ago. They look like they want to rip me a new one. I say, come and try. I’m not afraid of rapists. Killers, maybe, but soft-cocks relying on numbers to subdue and overpower a woman to steal what isn’t theirs to take in the first place, no.

  With all the indifference I can muster, I stare them out until they turn their backs on me and retreat onto their bunks. I’m going to have to watch out for them, I know that now. It’ll only be a matter of time before they come looking for some retribution.

  From where I’m standing I can see one of the prisoners slowly making his way down the linoleum with a mop and bucket. I’ve seen him on many occasions and occasionally swapped contraband with him for favors. His name’s Jessop and he’s doing time for armed robbery. Hard to imagine the old guy with a gun in his hands, but there you have it.

  I watch as he makes his way towards me. He notices me standing at the edge of my cell long before he arrives. His eyes are calculating, weighing up prisoners and guards. I’d say he’s a smart man, although not enough obviously because he’s here doing time instead of living it up in the Bahamas with dough to last him a lifetime and a hooker young enough to be his daughter.

  When he finally arrives, he scans my cell while the mopping continues. Whether he’s in search of a new arrival or contraband, I can’t rightfully say. The wrinkles around his eyes tell me he doesn’t have all the time in the world – not like the rest of us younger crims. So I get right to the point.

  ‘Can I trust you, Jessop?’

  ‘That would be a fair assumption, mister.’

  ‘I’d like to think I can.’

  ‘I think I’ve proven that since we started our business relationship.’ His voice sounds old and scratchy, like he’s done far too much talking over the years.

  ‘Good. I need a favor.’

  ‘I see, and what kind of favor would that be?’

  ‘I need to get a kite to someone important.’

  ‘How important?’

  ‘A guard.’

  ‘I’m listening.’ Still he mops.

  ‘She’ll be knocking off soon. Cole, I mean.’ The mopping halts abruptly while he stops and stares at me. He looks around to see if anyone is paying any attention to us. They’re not. He goes back to the mopping, digesting what I’ve just said.

  ‘A favor of that variety is going to cost you.’

  ‘I’m willing to pay.’

  ‘Well, judging by the nature of the favor I’d say you are, mister.’

  ‘So what would you want in return for making sure that my kite gets in the right hands?’

  ‘Well, it’s of great risk and personal sacrifice to myself you understand?’

  ‘I get it. What’s it going to cost?’

  His eyes dart about the possessions in my cell while his brain cogs spin, working to make a decision.

  ‘You got any chalk?’

  ‘No.’ He’s referring to a crude wine made from yeast, sugar, fruit and water. Usually only the kitchen staff are privy to this forbidden alcoholic contraband.

  ‘You got titty mags?’

  ‘No.’

  ‘Extra chow? Can you hit me up?’

  ‘I could do that.’

  ‘But that ain’t much, mister. This kind of thing is risky. Risky business needs compensation.’

  ‘I could get you coffee?’

  ‘Now you’re talking.’ He clicks his tongue and sounds excited, the mop moving faster with this news. I’m not about to tell him I’m stealing it from the library, so long as I deliver, that’s all that matters.

  ‘Is it a nice brew?’

  ‘Of course; as good as you’re going to get in here old timer. So, what do you say?’

  ‘Depends… anything else you can bring to the table?’

  I look around my cell. There isn’t much I can offer him, certainly nothing he doesn’t already possess or can easily obtain from others willing to trade favors.

  ‘What about a hundred dollars put into your prison kitty?’

  He smiles widely at me now, not caring who sees.

  ‘You got somebody who could do that for you?’

  ‘Yeah, I do. He comes in on a Tuesday, so he could do it then.’

  ‘Mister, you’ve got yourself a deal. But I still get the coffee, right?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘And the chow?’

  ‘Yes.’

  His hand darts out suddenly, unexpectedly. I place the kite in it, trusting. Before I can blink, it has disappeared somewhere on his person. That is our transaction sealed. I watch as he disappears out of F block, whistling as the mop removes the grime that coats this place.

  #13

  It sits on the coffee table—taunting me. I want to refuse it, ignore it, pretend that it doesn’t even exist. But
how can I when it is so glaringly, obviously real? The small, neatly folded paper is a stark contrast to my dark surroundings. It sticks out like a sore thumb. While I sit amongst dark wood and fabrics in the dim light of the evening, I’m seduced into wanting to touch it.

  The inmate who thrust it into my palm scared the living shit out of me when he palmed it as he brushed by. His sour, dank breath instructed me not to react which, I might add, was next to impossible when his invasive presence was so near to the perimeter of my personal boundaries. He invaded that space, pushing me to places I don’t want to go. He made me have a physical reaction – the kind where your skin pebbles from the chill that runs down your spine and the hair on your arms stands on end. If his eyes hadn’t been so… sane, I would have reacted in a completely different manner.

  I see now, he didn’t want to hurt me. He was just the middle guy. I lean forward, elbows on knees, my work jacket puffing up around my stomach. I’m yet to undress—to even kick my boots off yet. All of my focus is on this nicely folded piece of paper that torments me, willing me to devour its contents.

  The only problem is, I suspect who it’s from, and that lends itself to a whole new dimension of worry and heart-gripping guilt. I told myself I don’t want to feel anymore and yet this little bit of paper makes me do just that. It entices me to reach for it slowly, almost scared to commit. If I go through with it, I’m only entertaining an unexplainable connection with someone who I can’t, or shouldn’t, under any circumstances, get involved with.

  Saxon Miles. The fact that I’m on a first-name basis with him in my head doesn’t go unnoticed—it only adds fuel to the fire.

  As though my body has different ideas to my head, my fingertips reach out, extending towards the intrusive bit of paper. It seems as though I care none for my wishes to stay out of trouble—to stay sad and in the grips of grief that my lost lover has cocooned me with. I’m intrigued, and I dare not say hungry. It’s not a hunger driven by food. Instead, it’s an insatiable want for the forbidden. His hands, his lips… my body starts to feel feverish just thinking about it.