by Ashe Barker
One day, maybe, I’ll find out.
I take advantage of the frosty silence to think back over my day.
Four officers phoned in sick, which meant we were spread even more thinly than usual. That, combined with the scuffles down on H wing meant that most of the inmates spent the day locked up while those of us who did show up for duty patrolled the parts of the prison where trouble seemed ready to kick off. The governor ordered that prisoners could only leave their cells for essential purposes—medical appointments, court appearances, some visits. Education was cancelled, as well as all association and recreation. That strategy might be enough to keep the lid on for now but makes for a bored, discontented wing, and prisoners with a grievance are a volatile bunch. In the long term the policy causes more trouble than it solves.
Still, I got my fix of Jared North today, though I had to bend the rules and piss off Andy to do it. North was down to miss his gym session, but I offered to escort him and not put in for overtime. The wing supervisor was happy enough to let me do it, so I got to ogle him on the bench press for half an hour.
It was not especially professional of me, I know that, but I couldn’t help it. There’s something about that man, something I can’t quite pin down but that makes my stomach clench and causes me to dampen my underwear. He’s off limits, obviously, and I would never dream of making so much as a flirty remark to him, but I can look. And I can imagine.
My good sense screams at me to stay well away from G wing. Jared North, Prisoner Number KG8329 is an armed robber, for Christ’s sake, doing five years. According to his prison record he’s not been any real bother for the last year or so now and might have a shot at parole before much longer, but he’s most definitely bad news, a man to be avoided.
So why, when I could have just clocked off on time and headed home, did I volunteer for unpaid overtime just to escort him to the gym? And having done that, why do I now feel so bloody guilty for having dragged him out of there early? He was lucky to get any time at all.
Tomorrow, if I get a chance, I’ll drop by his cell and try to explain.
Any excuse…
* * *
I’m on the late shift today, two in the afternoon until ten at night. Andy always hates this, complains that I’m never at home and when I do get there I’m too tired to be decent company. I suppose he has a point, but mine isn’t a nice nine-to-five job and he knew that when we started seeing each other. He’s still sulking from yesterday and I was secretly quite glad to see the back of him this morning as he left for work. I had a few hours to myself so I got on with cleaning our flat and put something in the slow cooker for later. I was at the outer gate by quarter to two as it takes a while to get through security and onto the wing.
When I eventually get inside it’s to learn that two of yesterday’s absentees are still off sick and we have reliable intelligence to suggest there’s contraband on the wing. Usually that means someone managed to smuggle drugs in, but this time apparently it’s a mobile phone. The governor has ordered a cell search.
I’m paired with another officer and we’re assigned to search the even numbered cells. My colleague, Jim, is an experienced old hand close to retirement. I like him well enough, but I know he’s just working out his final months until he can draw his pension and he’s looking for a quiet life. He’ll be well and truly pissed off if we do find anything because the aftermath of that entails hours of reports and form-filling, and Jim just wants to clock off and go home to his Doris who’s making a shepherd’s pie this evening, I gather.
I find I have little interest in clocking off myself as it’s only Andy waiting for me, with his sour face and unending complaints. I’ll do any paperwork that might arise.
“Okay, everyone outside. Stand in the corridor.” Jim unlocks cell number two and the occupants file out past us to lounge against the emulsioned brick wall opposite. Their expressions are sullen but resigned; this is a common enough occurrence.
Jim and I step into the narrow cell and start the search. We strip the beds, lift mattresses, drag the bedframes away from the walls, then do the same with the small items of other furniture. We open drawers, cupboards, even lift the lid on the cistern. All personal property is examined, then one by one Jim does a pat-down of each of the men themselves. As a female officer I’m not permitted to do that so I finish off the cell search by shaking out the laundry. I try not to make too much mess, but this is never a tidy business and the men are expected to clear up after we’ve finished.
We find nothing and move on to repeat it all in the next cell along.
The cell occupied by Jared North is the eighth on our list. He rolls from his bunk and files out with the other two inmates. As I start the bed search I can see him leaning against the doorframe, his back to me. He is chatting to his cellmates, seemingly unconcerned that his belongings are about to be heaped onto the floor for him to sort out later. There are days I hate this job, and today is one of them.
I leave the toilet to Jim and quickly strip the top bunk. I find nothing and move down to drag North’s mattress from the metal frame. I might have missed it, but for the faint clunk as I pull the bed out. There’s something lodged inside the mattress cover. I glance up to see that Jim is still occupied in the toilet cubicle. I open my mouth to call out to him, but I don’t. Instead I run my fingers around the edges of the thin mattress to discover whatever it is that shouldn’t be there.
A hard, flat shape meets my questing fingers. It could be the phone we’re seeking. My heart sinks—North will end up on report for this, and probably find himself back on a basic wing. Bloody idiot, what was he thinking of?
I slip my hand inside the mattress cover to grasp the offending item, and I pull it out.
Not a phone. A camera. I turn it over in my hand. It’s one of those tiny digital things, the sort you just point and press, and quite new I’d say. And definitely contraband. Without thinking through what I’m doing I slip it into the pocket of my uniform trousers and continue with the search.
I refuse to even look at North as Jim concludes our business with the obligatory pat-down, though the prisoner can’t fail to have seen the mess I’ve made of his neat bed. He has to know what I found, but he’s saying nothing. Even more inexplicable, neither am I.
* * *
The following day I clock on, the camera still tucked in my pocket. Needless to say, I checked the memory card at home after my shift. North seems to like to take pictures of prison life, though I’m relieved to see he’s not particularly interested in photographing other prisoners. I would have to take issue with that; even hardened criminals are entitled to their privacy. The pictures on the card are of his cell, the wing, the laundry where he usually works. And there are several of me.
I resolve to ask him about those, though I’m not at all sure I want to know his answer.
I check the work rota, and find that North is in the laundry. I spend a couple of hours on paperwork and do my usual rounds of the cells and communal areas, then make my way along to the utility wing where our industrial-sized washing machines are housed.
North is occupied piling small bags of underwear into the huge dryer. Prisoners like to get the same underwear back from the wash as the alternative is to wear things that hundreds of other men might have worn before and of course no one likes that. Each man has a small cotton bag that they can mark with their name, and into that they place all their small, personal items of laundry. With luck, the bag will be returned to the wing with its contents still inside, but now freshly laundered. The system works, on the whole.
Another prisoner is here too, but I know that Pearson is due a visit later so he’ll need to be making his way to the visitors’ suite before long, for processing.
“Pearson, you’re going to be late.” He has plenty of time, but I want to talk to North alone.
“No, miss. I’m fine for a bit yet.” Pearson seems quite content to continue shoving clothes into the steam pres
s and slamming down the lid. I watch him for a couple of minutes before I try again.
“We’re short-staffed today, everything takes longer. Better get a move on, Pearson.”
“Is someone else coming, then?” Pearson switches off his laundry press and ambles over to where I’m stationed by the door. The regulations require at least two people to be present when the laundry is in use in case of accidents.
“Soon. I’ll let you out then I’ll stay with North until Jackson arrives.”
It’ll be at least half an hour before the next prisoner is detailed to come down and take over from Pearson, which should be ample time to ask Jared North about the camera. I precede the prisoner down to the gates at the end of the utility wing corridor and let him through. From there another officer will let Pearson back onto the wing, and onto the visitors’ suite. I relock the security gate and return to the laundry room.
North is still occupied with his task, though he does glance at me over his shoulder as I re-enter the huge room, then he switches his attention back to his work.
“I want my property back.” His curt remark is delivered without even looking at me. He straightens, flexes his muscles, and drags another wheeled bin of dirty laundry in the direction of an empty washing machine.
“You’re not supposed to have a camera in here. You know that.”
“Neither are you, Miss MacBride.” Now he does turn to regard me fully, one hip propped on the edge of the bin, his expression inscrutable. “Care to explain?”
I don’t. I don’t care to explain at all. I have nothing even vaguely resembling an explanation to offer, either to North or to myself.
“Where did you get it?” I try to inject a note of authority into my question.
He simply shakes his head.
I try again, piling on the officiousness as best I can. “Someone brought it in for you. I want to know who that was.”
More head-shaking.
“I could put you on report, you do realise that?”
Now he just chuckles. “But you won’t. You can’t.”
“I—”
He continues as though I hadn’t spoken. “Because if you do, you’ll have to also explain why you didn’t report it yesterday. Why you hid it, and I assume took it home with you. And why you brought it back. I hope you did bring my camera back, Miss MacBride.”
“Why did you take pictures of me?” I blurt out the question, homing in on the one aspect of all this that makes me most uncomfortable. And most exhilarated.
He smiles and meets my gaze, though he appears rather calmer than I am right now.
“Because I like looking at you.”
“What do you mean? That’s, that’s…”
“You’re prettier than Mr. Drummond.”
“That’s not saying much.” Our wing supervisor is certainly no oil painting, I’m not sure I appreciate the comparison.
“Perhaps not. So, are you going to give it back to me?” He holds out his hand, one eyebrow raised in what could only be described as a direct challenge.
I tilt up my chin; assertiveness is everything in these confrontational situations between officers and prisoners. “No, North, I’m not. It’s a contraband item and it’s been confiscated.”
He appears quite unruffled. “I see. Very well, I’ll apply to the governor for it to be returned.”
“No! No, you can’t.” I take a step toward him, then pause, uncertain how best to proceed.
“Can I not? Oh, I understand, because then you’ll have to explain how it found its way into your pocket during the cell search. Yes, I can see that might be awkward. Still, that isn’t really my problem.” He starts to load the laundry into the machine. “Could you close the door as you leave, Miss MacBride?”
I stand, glaring at his muscled back, intensely aware of the camera nestling in my pocket. He has me, it’s as simple as that. I have no choice.
“Okay, you can have it back. But you have to delete the pictures of me.”
He turns to face me again. “Are you still here, Miss MacBride?”
I retrieve the camera from my pocket and hold it out to him. “Delete the photographs of me and, and you need to promise you won’t take any more.”
“I don’t need to promise you anything. Why didn’t you delete the pictures if it matters so much to you? You had all night to do it.”
Because they were yours. I scowl at him, reluctant to acknowledge the truth of the matter, even to myself. And perhaps because I was flattered by the attention, by the fact that this enigmatic, compelling man thought me interesting enough to want to take my picture. Even as I allow that ridiculous notion to crystallise, I quash it. He’s a criminal, a prisoner. He is not someone whose opinion matters to me.
I press the on/off button on the top of the camera and squint at the menu of controls that appear in the small screen on the rear. I try to navigate through to select and delete the pictures of me, but I’m soon hopelessly lost. It was easy enough to find my way around the gadget last night in the privacy of my own kitchen, but here, under the harsh scrutiny of Jared North himself, I’m all thumbs.
“Shall I?” He holds out his hand again, and I pass the camera to him.
In just a couple of seconds he has selected the pictures of me and they are ready to be erased. He hands the camera back. “You do it, then you’ll know for sure that they’re gone.”
I shake my head. “I trust you.”
“Really? How touching, Miss MacBride.” He hits ‘delete’ and the offending photographs disappear. “But can I trust you, I wonder?”
“I won’t report the camera, if that’s what you mean.”
“It wasn’t, but I’ll settle for that. I should thank you, I suppose, for rescuing me in the cell search.”
“Just… don’t take pictures of people, okay? And make sure no one else finds it.”
He pockets the camera, then leans back on the laundry bin to regard me with undisguised interest. “So, why didn’t you report me? That wasn’t very officer-like of you.”
“It’s complicated. I suppose I believe people should have a chance, that’s all.”
“Bullshit. You know the rules. So do I. It’s my job to break them, yours to enforce. So, why didn’t you?”
I step back and start to turn away. “I have to go. Like I said before, we’re short-staffed.”
I march across the laundry, the sound of my stout leather boots echoing around the space.
“Wait, Miss MacBride.”
Something in his tone stops me in my tracks. Halfway to the door I halt and turn to face him again.
“Come back here.”
It’s a command. Here. In this place, I issue instructions and prisoners obey. Somehow though, that seems not to apply between Jared North and myself. Putting one foot in front of the other, I make my way back to stand before him
“I meant it. Thank you for not reporting me. I do appreciate it. I’m curious about why you kept your mouth shut, but if you prefer not to say I can live with that.” He smiles at me, and there’s genuine warmth in his slate grey eyes. They’re a beautiful colour, deep, rich, very dark. And very, very sexy.
Out of my depth now, totally at sea, I offer him a brief nod. “I really do need to be getting off.” Even so, I make no move to leave.
“I know.” He cups my chin in his hand, his touch gentle but confident. Something coils and clenches, deep in my stomach. My breath hitches as he lowers his face toward mine. “I meant it, you know. You really are a whole lot prettier than Drummond. Quite lovely, in fact.”
“North, I—”
“Shhh,” he whispers, then he brushes his lips across mine.
I gasp, but I don’t pull away. Instead, I stand perfectly still, my lips parted, waiting.
North is unhurried. He rests his forehead against mine as he cradles my face between his hands, but still he does nothing to deepen the kiss, if it was even a kiss at all.
“What are you doing? You shouldn’t…” My protest is whispered, breathy.
“No,” agrees North. And still he doesn’t release me. Neither does he back off.
Moments lengthen, time seems to stand still, but I’m the one who cracks first. Suddenly I can stand it no longer. I reach for him, looping my arms around his neck and I stretch up on my toes to slant my lips over his.
It’s as though he was waiting for me to commit, to do something, anything. He responds instantly, plunging his tongue into my mouth to stroke and taste me. His fingers tangle in my hair, combing the cropped strands back from my face as he takes over to deepen the kiss.
I hang on to him, even as I berate myself for what I’m doing, what I’m allowing to happen. This is wrong, on so many levels. This is forbidden. I’m breaking every rule, every principle, all my values tossed up in the air. I hate myself even as I reach to tangle my fingers in his dark, silky hair to pull him closer.
Without breaking the kiss North starts to move, pushing, walking me backwards until I’m pressed up against one of the huge machines. He plants his left hand beside my head and continues to kiss me, as the other hand trails a leisurely path down my regulation-issue jacket to rest at my hip. He presses against me, the bulge of his erection unmistakeable against my lower abdomen. Without conscious thought I slide my hand between our bodies to reach for him, then stroke my fingers along the solid length of his cock.
“Ah, Miss MacBride, that feels good.” His tone is low, a sensual murmur as he nuzzles my neck.
“Yes, I—”
“Anyone here? North? What are you up to?”
I am jolted back to my senses as Jackson’s voice rings out around the utility room. His footsteps sound as he marches toward where we are concealed behind the industrial washer. I stare up at North, desperate now. We can’t be found here, together. We just can’t.
