by Jane Corry
‘No, miss. Not till I got here. But my cellmate gets on my nerves. Always talking, he is. So I started doing something to shut him out of my head.’
How I know that feeling! That burning, urgent need to get away from the world. To create another where you can find peace, if only for a short time. And suddenly I want this job. I want it very much. Because not only will it help me make things right, it might also enable me to help others.
‘Thank you for your time, Miss Baker.’ The governor is shaking my hand on the way out. ‘We’ll be in touch.’
By the following Tuesday, I know I haven’t got it. Monday, they had said. That’s when they were making a final decision. I tell myself that it’s just as well. Prison? Crazy idea. But I stupidly crack a piece of blue glass while I am cutting it because I keep thinking about the man who was sketching his family – I just know those were his kids – and hoping he didn’t get into trouble for abusing a library book. An artist needs materials. It’s a basic need. Like breathing.
On Thursday morning, I am about to leave for my college watercolour class when I spot two brown envelopes on the wobbly table in the little communal hall. Both are addressed to me. One is my credit-card statement. And the other has HMP stamped on the front. The first will show I am over my limit. So I start with the second.
‘You’ve taken a job in a prison?’ shrills my mother when I make my usual evening phone call. She gets nervous when I don’t, just in case ‘something’s happened to you’. Loss does that. Makes you fear for your remaining loved ones. Of course, I want to reassure her. Her voice comforts me too. I love my mother so much that it hurts. But sometimes it’s hard to think of something new to say. Yet tonight is different.
‘How can you even consider it?’ she continues.
‘I need the money, Mum.’
‘Then I’ll lend it to you.’
I want to hug her. ‘That’s really kind, but you know you can’t afford it.’
She can’t argue with that.
‘But is it dangerous?’
‘No. It’s an open prison. You know. The type Jeffrey Archer was in. Nothing to worry about.’
‘Even so …’ My mother is shaking her head now. I can hear her. See her. She’ll be sitting in her wicker conservatory chair, overlooking the garden which dips down to the sea. Later, my mother might take a walk down to the beach, making her way over the shingle and pausing every now and then to pick up an unbroken shell. Then she’ll wander back and leave her offerings in the churchyard by a stone that no longer looks new. Always the same. Rhythm is what keeps some people going.
But right now, I’m going to smash mine into little pieces.
4
September 2016
Kitty
Kitty was still bruised and shaken from the events of the day before. At least, she thought it was the day before. Her mind could be so unreliable when it came to timing.
Not that the date was important. It was what had happened which mattered. Flabby Face’s visit. All Kitty knew was that he had done something bad. She’d had to get away. But just as she thought she’d escaped, her wheelchair had gone out of control. ‘Hang on,’ Straight Fringe had yelled but they’d gone smack bang into the wall. For a moment everything had gone fuzzy.
While Kitty was being checked by the doctor for ‘possible injuries’, she had listened to Bossy Supervisor in the corridor outside.
‘Barbara! What on earth’s going on?’ she demanded.
‘I was rescuing her,’ protested Straight Fringe. ‘That man in the office quite clearly scared her.’
‘How do you know? She can’t speak.’
She! Always ‘she’, or, just as bad, ‘her’. Does she take sugar? Does she want her bottom wiping? Didn’t they get it? Kitty wasn’t, she was sure, the only person in this place who knew more in their head than their brain would allow them to say.
‘It was obvious. And if you ask me, Kitty seems to understand more than we give her credit for. Otherwise, why would she have been so upset?’
There was a sigh from Bossy Supervisor. ‘The point is that you had no right to take off like that with Kitty. We operate a calm environment here, based on routine and pattern. It makes our service users feel secure. And above all, safety has to be paramount. If you really want to work in the care industry, you need to know that.’
‘I’m sorry.’
‘I’m afraid I’m going to have to be in touch with your sixth-form head.’
There’d been a groan. ‘Please give me one more chance. I need to do this for my university application.’
At that point the doctor wheeled Kitty back out into the corridor. Just in time. ‘Don’t send her away. I like her. Let her stay. She knows what I’m thinking and her hair is pretty.’ Kitty’s voice was loud and clear in her head. But the words were coming out differently: all jumbled-up and falling over each other in their confusion.
‘Not so loud now,’ said Bossy Supervisor sharply. She threw a ‘see what you’ve done’ glare at Barbara. ‘Normally, she’s as good as gold. But people like her can get quite violent at times, especially when they get upset. It’s part of their condition.’
‘Bollocks!’ yelled Kitty. ‘And it’s not her fault. It’s yours for not understanding.’
‘She was all right until she saw that man,’ pointed out Straight Fringe Barbara. ‘Who was he?’
She’d say this for her, thought Kitty. This girl had a mouth.
‘It’s none of your business. Besides, Kitty’s visitor has gone now.’
That was something. Gone. Gone. She said the words out loud to make them real although they sounded more like ‘Ggggggg’. But still, it was comforting.
‘Come on, Kitty. Let’s get you a nice cup of tea. What colour straw shall we have tonight? Your favourite? Pink?’
Kitty shook her head. ‘Want Barbara to stay,’ she said. The girl reminded her of someone. She just couldn’t remember who.
‘I’m not quite sure what you mean, dear.’
Don’t ‘dear’ me. So fucking patronizing. Kitty began to bang the side of the chair with her good hand to make the point. ‘I need someone to protect me from the man with the round flabby face and the mouth that pretended to smile.’
‘She’s getting really worked up now.’ Bossy Supervisor was rooting round the medical trolley. ‘Time for a sedative, I think.’
No way!
‘Hold her still while I get the needle in her, can you?’
SWING, SWING. SIDE TO SIDE.
‘She’ll hurt herself if she keeps doing that.’
BANG, BANG. On the side of the chair.
‘Kitty.’ The soft voice was coming from Barbara, who was kneeling beside her. ‘Listen to this!’
The girl was taking something small and silver out of her pocket, and breathing into it. The most incredible sound was coming out. Like a bird. Up and down. Swoop, swoop.
‘It’s a mouth organ, Kitty. Do you like it?’
‘She’s stopped thrashing,’ whispered Cheery Carer. ‘Well done.’
‘Wow,’ said Barbara. ‘She’s humming. Listen.’
It was true. Kitty had never heard herself hum before. But when she had woken up the next morning, she’d tried it again. Yes! It worked. Now she was humming all the time. The noises came out of her mouth as though someone else was humming for her. And whenever she did, her body felt lighter. Happier.
It almost, but not quite, took away the thought of the man with the blue jacket and pretend smile. Who was he? And how could you hate someone if you didn’t know who they were?
5
October 2016
Alison
What do you wear on your first day to prison? Jeans? Too casual. Black trousers. Seems safe. White T-shirt?
I slip on the top. You can just about see the outline of my bra through the fabric. This wouldn’t have worried me before but now I’m nervous. As Mum had warned me on the phone last night, I need to remember that I’m going into a prison where men have b
een deprived of ‘physical relations’ for some time. ‘Please be careful, won’t you, darling?’
Black jumper, then? Too funereal with the trousers. Maybe cream instead. A proper linen handkerchief – as an artist you never know when you might need one. And, of course, my locket. Complete with safety chain.
That’s mine, says my sister’s voice in my head.
I glance at the mirror. A nervous me glances back. It reminds me of the teenager I used to be. Yet my facial features bear little similarity. I no longer wear glasses: I’ve got used to my contact lenses now. My hair is fashionably spiky instead of the ‘curtain’ which I used to tuck behind my ear. The nose, of course, is changed. And I’ve learned to wear make-up properly thanks to a free lesson in a department store where I felt horribly exposed and rather stupid. Yet the results were worth it. ‘Incredible!’ the girl had said, as though she had just performed a miracle.
Right now, though, my hand shakes as I apply my kohl pencil. Blast. It slips through my fingers. I wipe the smudge off the carpet before applying a touch of lip gloss. No point in making myself stand out. But at the same time, I need strength. Self-belief.
Dab of lavender behind my ear. Mum gives me a bottle every Christmas. She wore it and so did my grandmother (whom I never knew) before her. It’s a smell that takes me back to a holiday in Norfolk when Dad was still alive. Before the leukaemia got him. I was only three. My memories are scant but odd ones stand out. Like a big warm hand holding mine and his voice urging me to look at the rows of pretty, purple-headed flowers in the fields before us.
How I wish I knew more about him! But it upsets my mother too much to talk of him. It’s why she doesn’t have any photographs. Maybe if I’d had grandparents, I would have been told more, but they all died before I was born. Death comes early, it seems, to our family. But at least I have some memories. Like the lavender.
It suddenly strikes me that it might not be sensible to smell nice when I’m going to be mixing with sex-deprived criminals. But the action had been automatic. It’s what I do every morning. Too late now.
Besides, there isn’t anything about it in the guidelines the prison has sent me. Nor is there any advice on clothes. Instead, I am told to:
Bring identification (passport or driving licence). (I take this out from my bedside cupboard, trying to ignore the lawyer’s letter that nestles beside it.)
Leave your mobile phone at home or in the car.
Do not have anything dangerous about your person (e.g. sharp implements).
Do not possess any illegal substances (drugs).
Do not possess alcohol.
Do not attempt to bring in anything which could be used as a bribe.
I lock my door, double-checking it, like I always do. There’s only one other lodger in this house, a very quiet young accountant on the floor above, and our landlord, who keeps himself to himself. Just the way I like it.
Soon I’m out of London and the traffic is getting lighter. I’m passing through a small village. There are children waiting at the bus stop, wearing a brown-and-yellow school uniform. I slow down to twenty miles an hour, watching them carefully. I’m safely past. It’s another driver’s responsibility now. Yet I can’t help glancing in the back mirror to check they are all right. They’re pointing to my car. The 1972 Beetle – which my stepfather David gave me years ago, most likely out of guilt – often attracts attention. It occurs to me that it might do the same at the prison. What if one of the prisoners takes note of my registration and somehow tracks me down? It would make sense to go by public transport, especially as this month I need new tyres for my car. Yet the prison is miles from the nearest station or bus stop. A cold feeling crawls through my stomach. It begins to rain.
An insignificant road sign – HMP ARCHVILLE – directs me left.
I turn and the huts pop up before me. It all feels so different from when I came for my interview. That was an exploration. A testing of the waters. A possibility rather than a definite.
But now I am here. For good. Well, for three days a week over the next year (contract renewable for a further year if both sides agree). My throat tightens. I feel claustrophobic already and I’m not even inside.
I’m directed to the staff car park. Not the one for visitors. My throat starts to tighten again. What if I hate it? What if I can’t cope? Will they let me leave? My heart is pounding along with the rain, which is falling more forcefully. I take my umbrella out of the boot along with a box of paints, brushes and paper.
‘Can I help you carry that, miss?’
It’s a young man. Longish hair. Stained teeth.
‘Thanks.’ Not wanting to sound unfriendly, I add, ‘Have you worked here long?’
He grins. ‘I’m a prisoner.’
Only then do I notice the orange under the black anorak.
Students are always offering to help me carry stuff at college. But this is a criminal. What if he tries to hurt me? Mum was right. I should have turned down the job, after being daft enough to apply in the first place.
‘Actually, I can manage myself.’
‘Sure?’
I know I’ve offended him. But I can’t help it. I don’t know the rules. What if it’s an offence to let him carry my things? Struggling, I follow the RECEPTION sign. There’s a woman at the desk. Black uniform, like the one at the barrier. Suspicious eyes.
‘It’s my first day,’ I say, handing her my letter of appointment. ‘I was told to come here.’
She frowns. ‘You’re not on the list.’
I feel a sense of panic combined with relief. Maybe they’ll tell me to go home. ‘The guard at the gate knew about me.’
‘It’s not the same. Who told you to come here?’
‘The governor’s secretary.’
She rolls her eyes. ‘Before she left, I presume.’
‘I don’t know.’
There’s a sigh. A mutter too. ‘They don’t stay long here.’
It strikes me even in my panic as a rather indiscreet thing to say.
‘I’ll have to make a phone call.’
She says this as though it’s my fault. While waiting, I glance through the window. It’s got bars across it but I can still see out. There appears to be a queue of men outside. One of them looks up and winks at me. He’s the one who offered to carry my equipment. I look away quickly.
‘You’re to go to Keys,’ says the woman, slamming down the phone. Then she looks at my boxes. ‘What’s in there?’
‘Paints.’ I remember the guidelines. ‘Nothing dangerous.’
She laughs. ‘Do you know what the men can do with that stuff? Squirt it in eyes. Blind you so they can escape.’
I’m confused. ‘But this is an open prison. I thought they didn’t do that sort of thing.’
‘Listen to me, love. They might call it an open prison. But it doesn’t mean we don’t have trouble here. Most of these men have been behind bars for years. Now they’re allowed more freedom, some of them go a bit wild.’
This isn’t exactly what the governor had told me.
‘You’ll have to leave your gear here in a locker,’ she continues. ‘Don’t worry. It will be safe.’
‘But I need them for my classes.’
‘Can’t help that, love. Rules is rules.’
As she speaks, another officer comes in. Another woman. She has large fleshy arms with a tattoo on her wrist. A bluebird with a heart. There’s a name too, but I can’t read it. It’s gone fuzzy round the edges. I try not to stare.
‘We need to search you before you go anywhere.’
I’m led into a small side room. ‘Arms out.’
Her hands are big. Swift. Deft.
‘OK.’ She glances at the blue and white umbrella by my side. ‘But you can’t take that in.’
‘Why not?’
‘Got a spike, hasn’t it. We’ll put it in a locker along with those paints of yours. This way.’
I follow her out of the hut. It’s good to breathe fresh air again.
We pass the queue of men. They’re standing, I now see, by an open hatch, a bit like a stable door. ‘Waiting for their post,’ says my guide curtly.
One of the men is walking away, head down. His hands are empty.
I almost feel sorry for him.
We’re going into another cabin now. There’s a little flight of stairs leading up. SECURITY, it says on the door. My companion reaches for the bunch of keys round her waist. She unlocks it, ushers me in and locks the door behind us.
I look around uncertainly. There’s a grey carpet. A noticeboard. One brightly coloured poster advises me to ‘Watch Your Back’. Another reminds me that it is my duty to inform another member of staff if I feel a prisoner is behaving in an ‘inappropriate manner’. A third points out (unnecessarily, I would have thought) that ‘Personal relationships between staff and prisoners are unlawful’.
For a low-risk, open prison, all this seems rather unnerving.
‘In here, Miss Baker.’
‘Please,’ I say. ‘Call me Alison.’
I receive a stony glance in return. Once more, that feeling of apprehension crawls over me. There’s another woman standing there. She has a box of black belts and pouches next to her. But she appears jollier than the one who brought me here.
‘Hi! I’m Sandra. I’m going to give you your key induction chat.’
Keys. I’ve always been anxious about everyday things since the accident. Locking up is one of them. Hence the need to constantly go back and check my own door.
‘First thing is, you keep this belt on at all times. Never, ever take it off. If you voluntarily give it to a prisoner, it’s a criminal offence. Always lock a door when you leave. If you find one open, you have to stay by it until someone passes and you can report it. Do not leave it unattended. Attached to the pouch is a whistle. If you get into trouble, you blow it.’
‘What kind of trouble?’
‘Oh, you know,’ she says airily. ‘If someone attacks you. Doesn’t happen often but you need to be on your toes.’
Attacks me?
‘It’s the mind games you really need to watch out for. There’s a few men who’ll try to make you feel sorry for them by telling you how they were abused as kids. They use it as an excuse for being abusers themselves.’
