It is well-known that children of six, as M was at the time he was interviewed by the police, cannot lie. M, a well-behaved, truthful little boy was incapable of fabricating the allegations and had no points of reference to do so.
Many mothers in similar situations to me, at this time were now fleeing to Ireland, to the point where it could not cope with the demand on its Social Workers, thought to be more compassionate to mothers and women, but this too would change over time.
Despite the lack of any real support in America, we'd coped. Compared to what life had now become, these were Halcyon days. Years later, I would remember them as some of the sweetest of my life., being with M, safe and free - but our sense of freedom then was an illusion, as the outside world was there waiting to swallow us whole for daring to break free from Purgatory.
During the long hours spent in my cell, memories came back to me in wakefulness and in sleep of simple daily activities that had become our life that summer. How little we'd known that it was the dawn before the dark and that each moment of being on the run, would be treasured and relived, so often, in my mind.
Life had been simple then. We'd walked miles each day in the sunshine to the shopping mall to browse and have a sometime treat of multicoloured ice-cream. I can still see and taste the blue streaked dollop that M had always chosen, like Plastacine that's been rolled into a ball with the colours smudging into each other.
To say I was proud of how M adjusted, would be a gross understatement, for he'd accepted so easily the loss of his old life and embraced the new with excitement and zest. He missed his Granddad but, other than that, he'd little reference to our old life, home or the people we'd left behind. He had longed to start at his new School and try new sports such as Ice Hockey, baseball and American Football and told me daily that he loved the States. Back then I had felt certain that the risk had been worth taking. Would I have felt that way, if I'd known how it would end? I very much doubt it - but I am grateful for those special days we had together and had I not tried to save him, I would never have forgiven myself for not trying. I can only hope that M will one day understand why I felt there was no other choice left open to us and that I'd wanted only to end his pain and suffering and keep him safe.
Often I was jolted from my reverie by the voice of the prison chaplain taking a Sunday service, which I'd begun attending – sometimes being the only inmate. I didn’t care what denomination. I was not particularly religious but it got me off the wing and I hoped that I would hear something to comfort or explain this insanity and restore my faith in a God that had allowed this to happen.
“Elijah walked seven times around the walls of Jericho until they fell down,” the chaplain read from his bible.
“Perhaps if I walk seven times round the prison yard, these walls will come down.” I attempted humour, but there was nothing funny about any of this. I wondered if I would ever really laugh again.
I was reminded of an interview I'd watched with Robert Downey Junior. When the troubled actor was sent to jail for drug abuse, he'd said that he'd coped using two strategies, first survival at all costs, and second humour – I know exactly what he meant as I tried weakly to employ these too.
My grief at the loss of my son, whom I had borne, held and nurtured for seven and a half years was like a flood inside me, drowning me from the inside, whilst on the outside an avalanche of fear, anger, betrayal, and rage at the injustice overwhelmed me - anger at the system blazed like an inferno and at other times it became a hungry beast that swallowed me whole, leaving me alive inside its gaping, frothing mouth that called itself justice – an empty cave that wouldn't kill you but hold you between its teeth, until it spat you out.
Exercise time was a mere half an hour a day of walking around under the bleak grey sky against a backdrop of iron green walls the colour of mould, the air raw and damp and the sky featureless – dogs barking in the near vicinity, patrolling the perimeter. I had no gloves so pulled thick wool socks over my hands. I had no coat either as in the shock of what had happened, my father had left it in the car. Now I had to wait for it to be posted in, checked, and approved which would take a few weeks. I was permanently cold to my bones. The cell was like an igloo and I longed to move upstairs where it was warmer but this was a privilege one had to earn. The hot water pipes had been installed in the roof, a poor design, which left those on the lower floor without any heat. As a new inmate I had to be near the desk for observation. The cell was much larger than the others, but as such it was colder, so I had begun knitting.
I'd found oddments of wool in a cupboard in what served as the "recreation room," a few plastic chairs and a craft cupboard. A vast assortment of wool and needles lay untouched and I hoarded them in my cell, hungrily – a veritable magpie storing its treasure lest someone else take the prize. It was ironic that they let me have them, given that I was not allowed other basics like a belt for my jeans, but I'm sure they turned a blind eye on many occasions. They did not consider me dangerous and mostly the wardens treated me with kindness.
Knitting served two purposes - practicality and distraction. I made a scarf and a hat for myself and one for M too. I even managed to knit an under- blanket for my bed and I would actually look forward to getting into my narrow cot, with a cup of powdered tea and my home-made hot water bottle and welcome the distraction of feeling the wool between my fingers, as I worked at my task of trying to make a hat with no pattern for the boy who was my whole world -each stitch, a token of my love.
Usually at this time of year, approaching Christmas, I would be hiding away gifts with which to surprise M. It was a magical time and I would start quite early looking for treasure to make him smile on Christmas Day. Now I could only offer a home-made scarf and hat, but I knew it would mean something to M that Mummy still did what she could to show him she cared and loved him. With this in mind, I knitted furiously, hoping that by the time I got a visit – which was still being “arranged” with Social Services, I would be able to give it to him. It also gave me a much needed sense of purpose. The endless tedium is one of the biggest enemies one faces in prison and many of the girls took to their beds day in and day out, barely existing and listening to music played loudly and monotonously in the upper level from sun-up to lock down. The relative peace was one of the few advantages of being downstairs.
When I wasn’t knitting I wrote, using the pens and few sheets of paper I'd gleaned from the warden as soon as I'd been put inside. I wouldn't receive my order of toiletries and stationery that I'd placed from the canteen for a few days. There was also a limit placed on spending, so items had to be carefully chosen in order of necessity. Two writing pads were high on my list of priorities and I would write daily. As soon as I'd written thirty or forty pages, I would put them in an envelope and mail them to my solicitors, these being the only letters that could go out sealed - they promised to keep them safe for me until my release.
Writing gave me an outlet and means of articulation, as well as a way of getting through the long hours. When so little happened, it was a wonder I found anything to write about, but I drew mostly on my inner world where there was still life and hope and joyful memories. Occasionally some small thing that happened on the wing that pierced the grey mundanity of the usual day.
Whilst others chose to return to their cells and their beds after breakfast, I tried to stay outside of mine as much as possible, in a vain attempt to give the days some sort of structure. I hated being locked up and took the opportunity to sit at a table on a plastic chair to give contrast to the room in which I spent between twelve and fifteen hours.
Father Shaun, the Catholic Priest visited on the first Saturday I was there. He asked to speak to me and whilst I’m not Catholic and consider myself spiritual rather than aligned to any particular religion, I was happy to talk to anyone and glad of any company and diversion.
My brother, a vicar, and I had drifted apart at this time - the relationship another casualty of the horror that had become our lif
e. Since this time we've managed to bridge the divide, but back then we had virtually become estranged - so now I turned to this man of God for comfort, someone who had never married or had children - but who nonetheless understood something of what had happened to us.
I wasn't without sympathy and compassion from other people. I was inundated with letters of support. Some hundred and twenty letters arrived for me during the weeks I was in jail and they brought much comfort and overwhelmed me with gratitude that so many people cared about us. Not once did I receive anything at all that was negative or critical. The letters came from far and wide, many from strangers who'd read about my trial in the press. As the only woman to date to have been jailed for Child Abduction of her own child in the British Isles it had led to significant media attention. Although mostly I was oblivious to this, my Dad sent me cuttings.
Father Shaun was a kindly Irish man in his seventies. However his words to me that day chilled me to the bone. I had come to the conclusion that M’s father may not have been a Freemason as I had first thought – a theory that had been borne out of a desperate need to solve the puzzle that surrounded our fate - However, Father Shaun thought otherwise. He shared some horrific stories with me of injustice that had occurred through this institution and it soon became clear to me that what I had first suspected, may indeed be true.
One thing was clear, M’s father must have had some connection or influence with the right people for him to be so protected. This odd reality hit me hard, but was then overshadowed by the news of my friend's now confirmed murder, later that same day. When her body was found and her identity confirmed, I could only watch in horror as the appalling facts were reported on the BBC news. I had to be thankful that at least I still had breath in my body to fight for M.
As Shock followed shock, I developed a blank exterior and went through the motions each day of my tedious existence. In the silent darkness of the night, my cheeks were wet with tears as I thought of my little boy and wondered how he was, yearning to hold and comfort him. I prayed he knew how much I loved him and hoped that would carry him through this wicked ordeal.
At first I didn’t think that any of the girls could relate to me at all and it left me terribly isolated. Not only was I considerably older than most, more educated and spoke differently, they were already in cliques. We had nothing in common other than being in jail. Outside of the prison walls our paths would never have crossed and they found me as alien, as I found them. It was not their fault, nor indeed mine, but the gulf between us was too wide. I was someone they couldn't understand. I didn't speak their language – didn't swear or endlessly hurl abuse at the wardens. I wasn't one of them and couldn't fit in.
Most of the girls were jailed for drug related crimes or petty thieving. I'd never even smoked pot as a student - but it was arrogance on my part to think I would never light a cigarette or drink a glass of wine again - that I was immune to this kind of weakness or failing when life no longer resembled anything it had before.
Fortunately smoking was something I neither wanted nor could do in jail, despite the one lapse after the court outcome - a temporary reaction to extreme stress. I was glad that cigarettes weren't available though as who knew how strong my resolve would be having stepped into this abyss from which there was no escape. Just making it through each day in whatever way possible was all I could do. I had to survive for M - my whole world and I was determined to ensure that Mummy was there for him after this ordeal.
Eventually a few of the other girls began to accept me. Especially when they discovered I was a novelist which seemed to interest them. Although I was in the early stages of my writing career and was anything but well-known, I was a novelty. At least it stopped them focusing on the way I spoke or their resentment of what they perceived as my over-privileged life.
No-one knew the reality of our simple existence outside, but compared to the lives of some of the girls, I guess mine appeared on the surface to be a good deal better. I tried to understand and feel compassion towards those who were openly hostile to me because I knew that from where they were sitting, I had had it easy and some of them had horrifying back stories. Whilst blinded by my own pain, I had to remind myself that their patterns of behaviour had been learned to protect them in some fairly terrible situations.
The few who spoke to me about my writing, were mostly interested in writing themselves. They lacked education and literacy skills, but in a way they were not bound by the restrictions of having them and one girl who shared her writing with me showed me the rawness of her own abused childhood which had ended in terrible tragedy - the same gentle sweet girl who had spoken to me on my first day. Annabel had been found guilty of manslaughter after a drug binge had gone terribly wrong and a tragic accident had resulted. Talking to her, one couldn't imagine her being charged with such a crime, but life deals out random cards and she had lost the game too many times, with catastrophic results. This particular girl became a friend and also something of a protector when I was being bullied. We had only compassion for each other in common, but that was enough to breach the divide.
Annabel stuck up for me when another girl decided to make me a target of daily bullying.
Two of the older girls were friendly from the outset. Irene, who I have mentioned earlier, who had been jailed for assaulting her boyfriend during a row, and a sweet, quiet girl called Amanda, who was suffering from depression and had been hospitalized. She'd been treated so badly in the hospital that in a moment of rebellion she'd set fire to her pyjamas in a metal waste-bin. It seemed ridiculous for her to be jailed for this. Clearly she needed help, not incarceration. Having said that, as I got to know Amanda better, who was probably the most akin to me in background, I realised that she actually enjoyed the opt-out of life that jail provided. She'd given up on real life and was happy to paint pictures in her cell. She was a talented artist, but was facing losing her own daughter to care and yet, unlike me, who had fought tooth and nail to keep my child, she was resigned and felt no anger. Her acceptance of everything may have made life easier for her to bear, but it was something I found hard to relate to, on any level but like Annabel, she was a sweet gentle soul and I was glad to have someone to talk to.
I would often go and sit on Amanda's bed and chat or watch television in the short time we had after the evening meal. On my birthday, which came only four days after my imprisonment, she made me a lovely poster with the words, NEVER GIVE UP HOPE, emblazoned on it - offering me hope, where she herself had none.
Having a birthday wasn't important in the great scheme of things, but it did increase my sense of isolation and not being able to speak to M or even my father, was the hardest. It seemed crazy that only eighteen months earlier I could never have believed that I would be in any situation where I couldn't see or speak to my son. I had told him I loved him "the world and back" every day of his life and now all I could do was whisper it silently in my mind and hope he still knew and felt the deep bond we'd always shared.
The few hours we shared at contact on my last birthday were so precious to both of us. “Every second counts Mummy,” he would say at each contact and we would do our best to make them count even more, squeezing as much out of our time as possible. When the session was over, I had to wait for M to be taken out of the front door and then I was let out the back way into a dark alley. On that day, it was pouring with rain and as I had been in Court before the session which had run on later than expected, I was wearing heels and a suit. I was trying to carry the cake-tin with the cake he had made me and his toys and find my way in the dark, back to the main road where I'd left my car. Unable to see the potholes I stumbled and fell and the tin went flying. I managed to retrieve it without too much damage to the cake, but I cried all the way back to the car as I couldn’t bear that it had been damaged at all. It had seemed symbolic of how hard they were trying to crush us, when I picked it up off the ground and scooped it hurriedly back into the tin. It had been made with love and care by M and like e
verything he'd ever given me, I would have preserved it forever, if that were only possible.
Here I was now spending my birthday in jail. I would have given anything to have even a few moments with M, even supervised. I longed for his warm little hug, the smell of him, his golden-flecked hair brushing my chin as he snuggled into me. I longed for the life we had had and knew he longed for it too and I blamed myself constantly for running away, whilst knowing that faced with the same situation, I would do the same again. I struggled with feelings of anger towards Dad, needing someone to blame for this travesty but I tried to fight them. I knew how much M loved his Grandad. They'd had a special relationship. He had been the male role model in his life and that too was a bond that I felt could never be broken.
Without a date for contact with M, despite asking daily, I was falling into a hole so deep with despair, I was not sure how I would claw my way out - and with the endless trauma, I was starting to go numb as a coping mechanism. At first, I wailed and howled in the night like a animal caught in a trap, but over time my mind and body simply could not physically cry any more. I felt a cold gripping hand in the pit of my stomach - but no tears, having shed so many for M already.
In jail, nothing happening outside the walls seems real. It was as if I'd entered an alternative universe. Even on the outside, I'd felt the surrealism from the very day M had disclosed to me. We'd crossed over to a place where evil won the day and lies were the only currency.
I'd worked tirelessly on my case with my lawyers, day and night, looking for the needle in the haystack that might bring M back to me, but all to no avail. Incarcerated, as I now was, it could only be a matter of time before he was given to his father and each time I faced the very real possibility, the cold hand of fear gripped me even harder.
Mummy Where Are You? (Revised Edition, new) Page 26
