I sat down on the narrow bed feeling trapped, frightened in an alien land, as if I'd entered some kind of parallel universe where everything was a mirror image of life, reversed in its order.
I fingered the photograph of M and I in Lapland – I ached to hold him, talk to him, comfort him, but instead I was now a bird in a cage with no door. I had been officially gagged and put out of sight. In this Draconian other world, Victoriana lived with its suppression, oppression and submission. I must now try to blend in with this colourless background of empty faces and beaten life.
I couldn’t relate to the people around me. It wasn't that I felt judgemental or even different – I knew these women had back-stories that had led to where they were now and that nothing is ever as straightforward as it appears. There is no black and white in life and here the shades of grey were stronger than anywhere. If I was going to survive though, I had to learn their language, their survival strategies - their codes; But how? I didn’t speak the lingo.
Grey was the only colour you could be here. If you wanted to be anything other, you had to earn the right to stand out from the bleak, sameness, in the endless sterile and far-stretching days of nothing. I made the fatal mistake of trying to bring light into darkness by trying to win friends. I made the terrible error of trying to be myself in a place where my-self, would not be acceptable. For they saw me as a strange and alien being from a planet that was outside their domain, their knowledge and understanding, a threat- for the way I spoke, my education, my very demeanour and they hated me even more for trying to cross that line. I, being as unknown to them as they were to me.
The Prison Governor came to see me, by way of welcoming me to the Jail. It felt like being admitted to a very strict boarding school. When she asked if there was anything I needed, it seemed faintly ironic and absurd because all the things I needed were outside of this world. What I needed most was my son and an end to this madness.
“I need to see my little boy.”
“We’re working on that.” She replied.
“When can I see him?” I begged to know.
“Like I said, we’re working on that.” She delivered the message with feigned concern, but her eyes betrayed an indifference that saw neither my pain, nor my longing, but only the clock on the wing wall that ticked away our time like a metronome.
“My laptop. Can I have my laptop?” I said. “I’m working on a novel and I want to pass my time usefully, writing.”
“I’ll see what I can do.” She smiled. I never heard another thing about it. I had known, as she had known, that it was impossible. We were merely playing out a scenario of pretending to be where we were not, feigning civilisation where there was none.
Naturally my request for a computer was absurd. The only computers allowed were strictly for use in IT classes which I had no intention of attending. My writing was private and personal whilst in its embryonic stage and nothing written on a computer in the prison would or could remain so. Instead I ordered writing pads from the canteen and until they arrived, I scrawled on the back of any piece of paper I could find, mostly gleaned from one of the kinder wardens.
Writing had always saved me through the worst times in my life and now, I tried to turn the hell into something else on paper. I told myself that I had peace and quiet from the insanity for a while and an opportunity to gain perspective and try to make order from chaos. I ignored the world around me as I entered the realms of my thoughts and imagination and allowed my pores to absorb the greyness and turn it back into the black and white of ink on paper; to separate the bleak, damp, coldness of it all and put the colours into their rightful spectrum, as a way of making sense of what was impossible to believe.
I scrawled the date on a piece of paper and wrote down the dates of each day until my release. Written down, it seemed like forever and I was only on my first day.
It was time now to brave the wing and meet the other inmates. It was to be my first meal inside and I went to line up at the servery with the other girls to see what fare would be dished out to us. I picked up a pale blue plastic plate and picnic knife, fork and spoon with D Wing marked in black marker on each one. The plate had the name of a past inmate on the back. Someone laying claim to an object as a means of trying to gain some measure or feeling of control over one’s fate, where any such thing was an illusion.
A couple of girls spoke to me – more I think out of curiosity – the novelty of someone else from the outside world – but most looked at me with fierce hostility as if I'd gate-crashed a private club and wasn’t on the list. I accepted my food, dished out by a woman of similar age to me – badly- dyed blonde hair, a smile, a few broken teeth, but nonetheless affable. I later discovered her name was Irene and she'd been jailed for throwing a fruit bowl at her boyfriend. The case hadn’t yet come to trial and she was being held on remand.
“Beans?” She inquired.
“Yes please.”
“Chips?” I looked at the greasy, soggy mass of chips and shook my head.
“May I have one of those baked potatoes please?” I pointed at two micro-waved, anaemic looking potatoes on a plate.
“Nah, they’re spoken for. You have to order those in advance.”
“Burger?” I nodded and took the solid brown circle that was dropped onto my plate and went to sit at a table. One girl with a streak of purple in her hair, in her late twenties and very pale complexion, looked up as I sat down and said hello. She half smiled and I smiled back, but when I tried to talk to her, she said she wasn't feeling well and headed to her cell. I later learned she was awaiting an operation and had gall bladder trouble, but at that moment of deep insecurity, I had taken it as rejection. I was the odd one out, the posh bitch that everyone hated on sight.
I dreaded the lock up that night more than anything. I knew it would not be long before the sound of a key would close me into my cell and would not be re-opened until 7.30 a.m. the next morning - nearly twelve hours of solitary confinement, and even longer at weekends.
I stayed outside the cell as long as I could and joined a few of the girls who were assembled in the ironing room upstairs where they were playing CDs on a portable stereo and chatting. Again I had the sense of being an unwanted gate crasher, but I persevered. The thought of being alone and the lock-up to come was causing my heart to beat fast and furious in my chest and I had so many questions about the life I had been thrown into. The girls were not welcoming. They neither encouraged me to stay nor asked me to leave the room; they merely acted as if I were not there.
I left the room and heard a titter of laughter as I headed back down to my cell on the ground floor. I was a figure of ridicule, a non-entity – the unpopular child at school who is bullied irrationally. It took me back to my primary school days where I'd been bullied mercilessly for living in the big house on the hill, whilst my peers lived on council estates. It was a local village school and I'd suffered in silence until I'd moved to private school where my classmates came from similar backgrounds.
The dreaded lock up came too quickly and I faced my night of solitude and fear. I left the light on and turned on the television, trying to forget where I was. It was a bitterly cold night and exhaustion and shock had rendered me even colder. I put a jumper over my pyjamas and pulled the thin duvet over me as the wind blew an icy draft around my neck from a ventilation shaft that wouldn't properly close.
Tears poured down my cheeks as I wondered how things had led to this. I longed for M, his warm little body hugging me, to be back in our cottage snuggled under the duvet watching one of his favourite DVDs and giggling – mugs of tea – a favourite since very small – and sometimes the treat of a cookie that inevitably found its way into the bed and sprinkled crumbs between my toes in the night. How much we had known of joy – how far away that now seemed in this cold damp cell. I had reached a veritable Bleak House – the Courts had swallowed us whole and spat us out. How would I endure this? I had no idea. I felt as if I would not last the night, let alone a
nother four and half months – but there was no escape, not even with sleep which failed to come and release me from the demons of my mind.
The television flickered through the night as I watched the news over and over on the one available channel, my only companion - it’s white and speckled noise, the only hum of company that life could offer me until dawn would deliver me to another day inside this brave new world that held me in its iron fist.
Surviving each day became my aim. I counted the days and made myself focus on small goals and improvisation to help me get through. When on the second day I developed severe period pains from my endometriosis, a condition which rendered me in agony each month; I asked for a hot water bottle from the warden, but there was only one on the wing and the girl with gall-bladder trouble had naturally been given this. I could hardly begrudge her, but was desperate for some relief from my pain. I had already sought pain killers from the night warden without success as Health Care wasn't open at night. I was told I must last until morning, another twelve hours away. I cursed that I had not asked for something when meds had been given out but the onset of my condition usually presented no warning.
Under normal circumstances I'd have had access to strong prescription pain relief from my GP, but I'd had all medications removed on induction and I was still awaiting the Health Care’s approval for things like my asthma inhalers which had to be re-prescribed by the prison doctor. I was not even allowed to have, what for some was life-saving treatment, but this was prison life and everything was bureaucratic and took an age to achieve.
It's amazing what one can come up with though when forced to. I realised I had two things in the cell that might bring some temporary relief. One was Vicks rub which I'd been allowed to keep and the other was a kettle. I rubbed the Vick on my lower back, knowing that the menthol would provide some warmth and then searched for any container that might safely hold boiling water. Someone had given me the dregs of a bottle of baby lotion to remove the make-up I had come from Court in. I rinsed out the plastic bottle, filled it with hot water and for safety, put one of the small plastic bin liners from my waste bin over it and tied it securely. I then covered this with a sock and low and behold I had a hot water bottle. Later on I found other larger containers that would serve me even better and thus managed to survive the long freezing nights with some semblance of comfort.
Prison life was alien to me in every way. I tried to see it as a challenge and also an opportunity to get away from the stress of the outside world. I was exhausted from all the Court appearances and the constant annotating of reports that the lawyers expected of me. I seemed to be working twice as hard as they were and I'd run myself into the ground. Here, at least I was free from that and could enjoy reading, something I hadn't had the chance to do for a long time. Books weren't plentiful in the prison library and there was very little choice. Kind friends kept me supplied and I devoured these hungrily. It was another way to escape the long tedious days and transport myself into worlds that bore no resemblance to the life I now endured - a non-life, an opting out from the world.
There were other things to get used to, such as powdered tea and bans on seemingly innocuous items like pepper which could be used along with orange peel, pages of the Bible and Nicorette patches to make cigarettes. This being the only non-smoking prison in the British Isles at the time. I had no desire to smoke since the temporary lapse - but stress levels were high enough amongst those who had come in with drug related crimes, and it seemed crazy to deprive them of cigarettes too.
I was struck by how little support there was for the drug addicts, who were offered no form of counselling, AA meetings or rehabilitation and were forced to go cold turkey. This seemed entirely wrong and probably explained some of the more aggressive behaviour. It also meant that those who offended would probably re-offend as soon as released.
Nicotine patches and gum were handed out like Smarties and converted into some form of smoking device by whatever means. Valium was equally dished out with aplomb, to keep people quiet and manageable, although fortunately not to me - as I was clearly not considered to be someone likely to cause trouble. I did everything possible to make myself as invisible as I could, to deflect attention from the fact that I was a misfit. Once I'd realised I wasn't going to be accepted on any terms, I knew my best hope of survival was to be largely absent. This was a lesson that took a while to learn and came at a price.
I missed home comforts such as decent food and the occasional spritzer. Having said that, I suspected that anything was available for the right price. It was not a hard core prison, but to me from a relatively middle-class background, it may as well have been Colditz.
This prison was not about reform, but containment - the caging of animals, keeping them in existence without allowing them any dignity or trying to help them to lead better, happier and more productive lives.
I was not a natural rule-breaker- a quiet, shy girl in my childhood and something of a loner, which made me an ideal candidate to become a writer. I'd gone against everything that had been instilled in me when I'd risked my freedom to save my child but then I'd abided only to the law of nature. To protect one’s young is throughout humanity and in every part of the animal kingdom. I can only say that animals play fairer, cleaner and more honestly than humans do in their treatment of each other.
My spirits sank lower and lower. The first few days I feared I may go mad with despair. I had always feared enclosed spaces, had always panicked on long flights, in elevators, in fact any place where I was locked in and here I was incarcerated, locked in a cell for hours on end with only my imagination for company and my overwhelming grief at the loss of my son.
There was a further shock still to come. I learned on the News only days later, that the body of my friend who'd gone missing, had been found and it appeared she'd been murdered by her husband. I was horrified and numb with shock and yet there was no place to grieve in this clinical environment. The compounded effect of the loss of my child who I feared for every minute, coupled with this horrifying news, was too much to bear. I found I couldn't cry. I was too traumatised and I believe at that moment came a point of shutting down - in this world of no sense - came no feeling.
I was a somnambulist, keeping everything inside in my heart in a safe place, with only my deep love for my son forcing my breath through my body. I asked daily for contact and the answer was always the same, "We're looking into it."
Each painful minute inside the cell felt like an eternity. I sometimes drifted into sleep from sheer exhaustion, and would wake minutes later in a cold sweat, not sure if I was awake or still dreaming. I could make no sense of the events that had led me to this solitary end. I relived my life before the fateful day that my son had disclosed to me, going over details endlessly, but there were no clues to solve this insolvable puzzle - the eternal "Why?"
The pounding of my heart rang loud in my ears as I faced the terrifying prospect that M was heading closer to a life of being given to his abuser and I was powerless to help him. I lived in constant torment with nowhere to turn and tried to hang onto hope that my legal team would find a solution that would save him, but it seemed less and less likely as the days passed.
The memory of M being taken in America haunted me constantly. I relived the moment over and over again - the barbaric nature of the apprehension as they forcibly pulled him screaming from my body; the three armed police who had burst into our newfound Paradise and turned it into Purgatory.
His words echoed in my mind: “Please don’t send me to Daddy he hurts me;” the desperate plea of a seven year old boy as he was carried out by his little arms while I could nothing to stop them. Now I was no longer free. I was a feeble match for corruption as deep as this and a system that seemed to grow its army daily, perpetrating lies in an elaborate game of “Simon says.”
This Machiavellian machine continued to turn and there was nothing I could do to stop it. I was a silent voice, in a world that was shouting its lies into
truth - the silent scream, the invisible mother, stripped of her most precious child and in my heart I knew that the day they took him would likely be the day I lost him forever.
Chapter 14
As I went through the motions of prison life, vague memories of the fateful day they'd taken my beloved M would suddenly flash into my consciousness and jolt me into the moment. This horrifying barbaric scene would stay with me forever.
I didn't blame the American authorities for what happened to us. The local people had been lovely, warm and generous. I had found much love and support amongst our newfound friends, despite the shortness of our acquaintance and on the whole they had been non-judgemental in a way that my long term friends back home were not.
The CAS, weren't bullying or discourteous, merely acting on the instructions of another authority in different jurisdiction - and whilst at the time I had thought otherwise, I came to realise that they had only been doing their jobs and had had no personal axe to grind.
Sadly this was not the case as far as other family members were concerned and whilst I forgave my father, I could not my Aunt and Uncle and sadly now we have lost touch.
My Uncle, a product of his own upbringing - had been raised by a cruel father who drank heavily. He'd learned only how to be weak and how not to love. With distance one can see this, but in the moment one only sees the pain of betrayal. It had hurt deeply that they had left us to cope alone, having encouraged us to come to them. Mum was gone now and would never know what had happened. She, at least, had been spared the pain of the loss of her grandchild – a child she had loved so dearly.
I remembered waiting for the Realtor to collect us in the foyer of the Travel Lodge where my Aunt was delivering a parcel and pretending not to notice us. It had been hard to justify this behaviour to M, who saw things with the clarity of a child’s eyes. He hadn't liked them on first meeting and children do not make allowances, as adults do. Children have an instinct about who is loving and who is not and their reactions to people are open, honest and usually immediate, making it even more bemusing that M's disclosures had been ignored by so many.
Mummy Where Are You? (Revised Edition, new) Page 25
