by Jane Corry
It’s given me this really good idea.
I’m not sure how to do it yet.
But I will.
36
May 2017
Alison
What exactly do you pack for a prison sleepover? Cells are cold. The men are always complaining about that. Will there be a loo in my room or will it be communal? ‘Ours is crap,’ one of my men is always saying, seemingly oblivious to the pun. ‘Never gets rid of the shit properly.’ Surely they wouldn’t make me share with the men? Or is that part of the experience?
My heart is beginning to pound as I put an extra warm jumper and some clean undies in a case. What have I let myself in for?
But the fear is balanced by an edgy excitement. Perhaps this is where fate has been leading me all along.
I barely sleep. When I do, I dream of violin cases and plaits and a voice. ‘Hurry up – we’re late.’
Then the alarm goes. 6 a.m. I wake with a jolt. Today I am going into prison. And staying the night.
‘In here, miss,’ says one of the officers. We’re walking down a narrow corridor past men who don’t bother to disguise their stares. The ‘hut’ I’m staying in is more like a rambling bungalow with rooms going off at either side. There’s a musky smell in the air. Damp. Dark stains on the walls.
‘This is your room.’ His voice implies Rather you than me.
There’s a metal frame bed with a cardboard box underneath, and a chamber pot. ‘For your clothes, miss, the box. And the other to go to the bathroom. Though I’d recommend waiting till the morning.’ I shudder. The pot has brown stains inside.
I push it back under quickly.
Slightly surprisingly, a smallish desk sits on one side of the room next to a barred window with a pair of flimsy curtains.
‘What happens now?’ I ask.
‘Social time.’ He’s leaving the door open. ‘You can go into the lounge now if you like. Play cards. Talk. Watch a bit of telly.’
‘On my own?’
‘I’ve got to stay with you until you go to your pad. Governor’s orders.’
That’s a relief.
His eyes fall on my materials. There’s a curious look in his eyes. ‘I don’t mind if you want to draw me.’
I sense he’d actually like me to do this. In fact, it’s a great idea. I make a quick sketch and then follow him into the lounge.
Sprawled on sofas and frayed chairs are several men. I recognize some from my classes, but instead of their usual friendly approach, they glare as if I’ve just wandered into a men-only club. Which I have.
‘For those of you what don’t know,’ says the officer, ‘this is Alison, our artist in residence. She’s going to be drawing what she sees here.’
‘Want to come into the shower with me, pet?’ grins a large man I haven’t seen before. ‘You’ll get some inspiration there, all right.’
‘In your dreams, mate,’ scoffs another.
Nervous sweat trickles down my back.
‘None of that,’ snaps the officer. ‘Mind your manners.’
Then someone turns on the television (a Bear Grylls repeat) and after that, they seem to lose interest. My pen skates across the page. The movement calms me down. My students are making awkward sketches. I help them, suggesting a line here and a line there. It starts to get dark outside. I’m aware of a rumble in my stomach. Tea had been a modest affair with toast and hard scrambled egg.
‘You’ll have to wait for breakfast,’ says a young thin-nosed man. He sounds less assured than he does in class. Suddenly I’m aware of the isolation here. I can’t make myself a cup of tea like I might at home. I can’t make a phone call – the public booth in the corridor is out of order, apparently.
I get up. ‘Just going outside for some fresh air.’
‘You can’t do that,’ says the young man swiftly. ‘It’s not like during the day when you can wander around.’
This hadn’t been explained to me.
‘But it’s an open prison.’
He shrugs. ‘Only in name. More like being put in a cardboard box with the lid open. If you try to run for it, you find yourself in a proper metal box. With the lid shut.’
‘Draw it,’ I say suddenly. ‘Draw the box. Then draw yourself, in the box, trying to get out.’
A light goes on in his eyes. He begins sketching. Furiously.
‘Fancy some hooch, miss?’ whispers a man I haven’t seen before.
‘Fuck off, mate. You’ll get us into trouble.’ This is the spotty kid with attitude. ‘It’s this drink we make with sugar and other stuff. Tastes like booze.’
I’m reminded of one of my students who always helps himself to at least three packets of sugar from the classroom coffee tray. Have I unwittingly been contributing to his hooch-making stockpile?
A loud bell sounds. I jump. The students start putting their pens away.
‘Time for bed,’ says the man who made the shower suggestion. ‘Better get a move on, miss. Or you’ll get a strike.’
For a minute, I think he means a whipping. ‘It’s like a black mark,’ says the spotty kid. ‘If you get three, you lose privileges. Like not being able to ring home. Or having to take on an extra job.’ He grins. ‘I’m on toilets this week. Take a look at my nails.’
They are black underneath. I want to vomit.
Already I’m amazed at how subservient this place makes me feel, even though I’m not a prisoner myself. Then, as I make my way to my room with the officer, we pass Martin, my new talented student, sitting on a bed with the door open. He’s facing sideways, away from me, and his scars glint in the electric light. That profile seems haughtier than usual. Maybe it’s because he appears deep in thought.
‘Hi,’ I call out.
‘Hi.’ He starts as though I’ve caught him in the midst of doing something he shouldn’t. Then he holds out his hand as though to shake mine. We’re not allowed to have any physical contact with inmates. Surely he knows that? But I feel bad not taking it in case it offends him. So I pretend not to notice.
If he’s upset, he doesn’t show it. ‘Welcome to our hut.’
‘I haven’t seen you for a while.’
‘Yeah. Sorry. I’ve been on gardening duty. Really missed your classes, though.’
That’s nice. ‘Will you paint something for our exhibition? I’d really appreciate it. You’ve got talent.’
Martin looks flattered. ‘Thanks. Maybe I will.’
The officer is waiting impatiently; eyes indicating that I should not be on friendly terms with a prisoner. Of course, he’s right.
‘Have a good night,’ he says, showing me into my cell.
Then he shuts the door. I hear the lock clunk heavily into place. I am alone. And nervous. Grandad Barry’s bloody eye keeps coming into my head. Not to mention the image of boiling water and sugar.
So I do what I always do when the old terrors and anxieties start to overtake me. I sit down and I draw. I sketch myself sitting here in a cell, looking out over the darkness outside. I put into lines, the feelings in my body. Fear. Guilt. Jealousy.
There’s a tapping at the window. At first, I think it’s rain. But then I see it’s a branch. I draw the flimsy curtains. The noise has made me edgy. Don’t be daft, I tell myself. There are bars. No one can get in. Just as I cannot get out. A wave of claustrophobia hits me.
It’s late now. Nearly 1 a.m. I’ve been working for longer than I meant to. Time for bed. It’s ridiculously narrow, even for a slight frame like mine. Strangely high up off the ground. The pillow feels like a rock. I’ve heard the prisoners complain about hard pillows before and used to think they were fussing unnecessarily. Now I know what they mean.
I still cannot sleep. There’s not enough noise compared with the busy prison talk and shouting during the day. At home, I love the sound of traffic outside my flat. It makes me feel that I am not alone. That there are others living equally complicated lives around me. But now, in a place that possibly contains the most complicated lives of all, i
t is too quiet.
It’s cold too. I get up and slip my day clothes over my pyjamas. That’s better. But I still cannot stop shivering.
Then there’s a sound. A definite noise. The window is opening. I am sure of it. Don’t be silly. The branch. It’s just the branch. No. It really is opening.
I sit bolt upright in bed. My mouth dry. ‘Who’s there?’ I croak.
A shape is climbing in through the curtains.
The scream stays in my throat. Too frozen to move.
37
July 2001
Ali
‘Kitty? Are you ready?’ I yelled up the stairs. ‘You’re going to make us miss the bus.’
It was the last day of school. The end-of-term concert. And I was getting a prize. Much good it would do, because I knew I’d failed my history. I don’t need the results – due in August – to tell me that.
And it was all my sister’s fault. That guilty look on her face had been proof enough. It was just the kind of thing she’d do. But now it was payback time.
I smoothed down my school skirt, which was clinging to my tights. At least I wouldn’t have to wear this any more. Nor the boring sensible shoes which were waiting by the front door along with Kitty’s: hers polished by David. He never bothered with mine.
‘Calm down, love,’ said Mum, who was rushing around, trying to get her own things ready for work. ‘You’ve got a couple of spare minutes. Don’t forget your packed lunch in the fridge.’
Then she gave me a cuddle and I breathed in that lovely lavender fragrance. ‘I know you’re feeling tense after your exams. I understand that. But try to relax. Enjoy the concert. I’m really proud of you for getting a prize.’
Her words made me shrink away. If only I could just crawl off and hide in a hole. Still, at least after today I wouldn’t have to face Crispin again. For some reason, he hadn’t been on the school bus for a bit but we still had to share some classes, which was agony. Part of me wanted to yell at him for what he’d done in the summer house. And the other part felt horribly ashamed.
‘Kitty!’ I yelled up the stairs again. ‘Get a move on.’
‘Coming, coming.’ My half-sister was walking down the stairs moodily, dragging her violin case behind her. ‘I don’t feel well. I don’t want to go.’
‘That’s because you should have practised a bit more, princess,’ said David, emerging from the kitchen with my sister’s lunchbox in his hand. ‘Shouldn’t she, Ali?’
‘What’s it got to do with her?’ Kitty shot me a furious look. Then she snapped at her father. ‘Where are my shoes?’
‘Right there, love. I put a special protective spray on them. They say it’s going to rain later.’
She pulled them on without so much as a thank you.
‘Kitty,’ said Mum sharply. ‘Is that nail varnish you’re wearing?’
‘So what?’ pouted my sister.
‘It’s not suitable.’
‘Vanessa’s got some and her parents don’t mind.’
‘Have you made up with that friend of yours?’ asked David. ‘Sounded like you two were having a bit of an argument the other day.’
‘We’re good,’ said Kitty, pushing past us. ‘Anyway, it’s none of your business.’
My sister didn’t usually speak to her father like that. What was going on?
‘Don’t forget your sandwiches, Kitty.’
Too late. She was storming ahead as if I was the one who had delayed her.
‘Make sure you catch up with her,’ pleaded Mum, giving them to me. ‘And hold her hand when you cross the …’
As if I didn’t have enough to do apart from babysitting a sister who thought she was more grown up than I was. If only she knew how much I yearned for a different sister who would understand and tell me that it would be all right. That’s what sisters did, didn’t they? But not mine. She hated me. Even though she had no cause.
Robin used to suggest – before he started getting all distant – that I ask her why she disliked me so much. ‘It’s obvious it’s jealousy,’ he would tell me. ‘Younger siblings are like that. Writers are always going on about it. But forcing her to talk about it might clear the air.’
Ha! He didn’t know Kitty.
‘Why did you fall out with Vanessa?’ I asked curiously when I caught up with her. I admit it wasn’t exactly out of kindness. Part of me wanted to needle her. I could tell she was bothered from the way she’d spoken to David just now.
‘You know,’ I started to say, ‘some people aren’t very good for you but it’s hard to know that at the time.’
‘Keep your nose out of my life.’
‘I’m only trying to help.’
My sister scuffed the ground with her foot. For once she looked on the verge of tears. ‘If you really want to know, someone sent Vanessa a stupid letter that said –’
She stopped suddenly, as if a light had gone on in her head. ‘It wasn’t you, was it?’
‘What are you talking about?’
‘It doesn’t matter. You wouldn’t have the nerve to do that sort of thing anyway.’
‘What sort of thing?’
‘I told you before. Forget it.’
We’d turned out of our road now and were heading down a side road that joined up with the main street, leading to school. Blast! There went the bus. Right past us.
‘Run,’ I shouted to my sister. ‘It might just wait.’
We both began to jog. Side by side. Her plaits were bouncing. Today I had my hair in plaits too. I hated them, but all the others in my year were doing it, as an end-of-term celebration. The worst thing you could do at school was to stand out by being different. ‘It’s gone.’ Kitty was panting. ‘Look what you made me do. My violin case has given me a huge bruise on this knee.’
‘That wasn’t me.’
‘Yes it was. You made me rush.’
‘If you’d been on time, we wouldn’t have been late.’
‘I was trying to do some last-minute practice.’
‘Then you should have done it before.’
‘Shut up. Vanessa’s coming.’
So she’d missed the bus too. It was a longish walk without it. But we might just get there if we hurried up.
‘Hello, Ali.’ Vanessa wasn’t usually this friendly. Normally she treated me with contempt, as though I was the annoying younger sister. ‘How are you today?’
Something was up. I could tell from the uncomfortable way in which my sister was looking at her friend. I began to feel nervous although I wasn’t sure why.
‘She’s fine,’ said my sister, walking close beside me. ‘Let’s cross the road. We’re late.’
‘Not here. It’s not safe. We have to wait until we get to the crossing. Kitty, come back.’
I tried to grab her hand but Vanessa caught my arm first. ‘Hey, Ali. I know your secret …’ She darted a look towards Kitty.
‘Shut up,’ Kitty butted in.
I thought she was talking to me but then I realized she was addressing her friend. ‘You promised not to.’
‘Promised not to do what?’ I asked.
Vanessa tapped the side of her nose. ‘Wouldn’t you like to know? You know, Kitty, I really think I ought to tell her.’
I almost felt sorry for my sister. Her friend was bullying her. Kitty’s lips tightened. ‘No. I’ll do it.’
Vanessa gave a nasty smile. ‘If that’s what you want.’
‘What’s going on, Kitty?’ I snapped. We were hovering on the edge of the pavement. Too close to the road. Again, I felt that crawling scared sensation.
My sister’s eyes met mine. Although we both had blonde hair, my eyes were a very pale blue. Hers were a fierce cobalt. Right now they looked like Arctic ice.
‘We know you got off with Crispin,’ she said slowly. ‘We saw you through the window of the summer house. Having sex.’
38
May 2017
Alison
‘You must not fear,’ says the voice. ‘I do not hurt you.’<
br />
The window creaks shut. There’s the sound of metal – the window bars? – falling on the floor.
A figure comes towards me. It is limping. Stefan.
‘I arrive so we can talk, Ali.’
Ali? I freeze. My childhood name. The one my parents had used from an early age. How does he know it?
He makes his way to the chair by the bed. He is not hobbling as much as usual. It occurs to me that the stick might not be as necessary as I’d thought.
‘When we first meet, I think you know me,’ he says, settling down and staring at me in the moonlight which is streaming in through the flimsy curtains. ‘Of course, that is impossible. You were only young the last time.’
The hairs on my arms stand up on end. ‘What do you mean?’
‘Your mother, how is she?’
My eyes dart to the alarm by the door.
‘Do not bother,’ he says softly. ‘It does not operate. I take it apart this morning.’ He appears pleased with himself. ‘I am good at that sort of thing. Just as I make loose some of the window bars.’
‘What do you want?’ I edge backwards.
‘I tell you already. I do not hurt you. We talk. I learn about you. I come here to get to know my daughter.’
‘Daughter?’ My voice rasps in disbelief. What on earth is he talking about?
He puts his hand over my mouth. It’s a strong hand. Much stronger than his frame suggests. ‘Shh. Or they’ll hear us.’
Then he takes his hand away. ‘I want to be near you, like any father wants to be near his daughter.’
‘You think you’re my father?’ I stare at the old man. Not sure whether to laugh or cry. ‘I don’t have a father. He died when I was young.’
Too late, I realize I’ve broken a basic rule. Never give out personal information about yourself.
‘But his name, it is Stephen, yes?’
How does he know that?
I stiffen. ‘Was. Not is. How do you know that?’
‘I know your father’s name because it is my name, Ali.’ He speaks sadly but with a certain acceptance, as though it is a burden he has carried for a long time. ‘Stefan. Although your mother, she call me Stephen in the English style. Stephen Baker.’
