by Jane Corry
I suddenly realize that I didn’t take in the sentencing that followed my verdict. ‘How long did they give me?’
Robin’s eyes are red. ‘Ten years. I’d hoped that the length of time since the accident might reduce the sentence but there are some crimes like manslaughter which are punished severely no matter how long ago they happened.’
Ten years? I have a startling memory of helping my little sister to do her tables. Two fives. She was very quick like that.
‘It could well be reduced for good behaviour,’ he adds.
If not, by the time they let me out, I will be into my forties. With any luck, I won’t get that far. And if I do, well, that’s my punishment. I’ve had enough of life outside. I deserve every second behind bars.
There’s a knock on the door. ‘Time,’ says a voice on the other side.
I am being taken to a holding prison.
How often have I seen the prison van arriving at HMP Archville with more prisoners to deposit? It has slit windows like narrow eyes. Yet now I can see it’s different from the inside. Like a sealed box. I sit on the edge of my seat, with my wrists in handcuffs on the other. There is no one else here apart from an officer. It feels surreal.
I am being housed here temporarily until the authorities decide where to send me. Robin thinks I will probably go to a Cat C. Worse than the one I was working in. He told me this in a voice that suggested he had failed me.
My old student Kurt had once drawn a series of cartoons about the complicated process of arriving at jail. He’d called it ‘Checking in’. I recall this now as they take me out of the van; my eyes blinking in the bright summer sunlight. But nothing could have really prepared me for this panic-plunge in my stomach as I take in the walls around me, topped with rolls of barbed wire. They’re so high that my neck cricks.
I am marched towards the entrance. There’s the sound of a key on the other side. A gruff bulldog of a man in uniform stares unflinchingly at me. I stare back. It doesn’t do to show you’re scared. Yet at the same time, one needs to behave with a certain respect. I know that much from my old life in prison. The one where I was on the other side.
The interior is more modern than the grimy exterior suggests. I am taken into a side room, where a woman officer gets me to sign a form. I don’t even bother reading it. Then she holds out a plastic bag. ‘Personal possessions in here.’
Reluctantly, I hand over my sister’s locket.
I am strip-searched. Every crevice is examined. I am then handed a too-big pair of navy blue jogging bottoms and sweatshirt.
‘Shoe size?’
‘Six and a half.’
‘This isn’t Russell & Bromley. Six or seven?’
I plump for seven. My feet are lost in them. But my ten-year sentence is too long for tight shoes.
Robin wants to appeal. But I won’t allow it.
I am taken to my cell. It’s not that different from the one I spent the night in as artist in residence instead of inmate. Narrow. Spartan. Except that it has bunk beds. The occupant of the lower one is lying chest down. She raises her head briefly as I come in.
‘What are you in for?’ she sniffs.
Maybe this question is allowed in women’s prisons. ‘Manslaughter, amongst other things,’ I say.
She makes a face. ‘Not good.’
Then she crawls under the blanket. And I sit and wait to see what is going to happen next.
65
September 2017
Kitty
It felt like The Monster was trying to push its way out of her body. Couldn’t it see there wasn’t enough room?
‘It’s the wrong way round,’ said someone.
Did that mean it was inside out, like a jumper? And if so, why couldn’t they just turn it round the right way?
‘Don’t push yet, love.’ Friday Mum’s hand gripped hers. ‘Think of something nice.’
But all Kitty could think of was the wave that Half a Sister had rescued her from. Maybe she should have been a bit nicer.
‘Take deep breaths, dear,’ said another voice now.
Where the fuck was Johnny? Fathers were meant to be there at times like this. If they weren’t, they were really sorry or angry, as if it was the mother’s fault. Sometimes the father who was late bought this whacking piece of jewellery to say sorry. She knew all this from the telly.
‘Think we’ve managed to turn it now,’ said another voice. ‘Can you try and puff, love?’
Humming was better. ‘Ummm, Ummm.’
‘It’s all right, love. I’m here. You’ll be all right. I promise. I won’t let anyone hurt you.’
I won’t let anyone hurt you?
Someone had said something like that before. But it was different.
I won’t let you hurt her.
That was it!
And then suddenly, amidst a scream – what on earth was that? – Kitty remembered with a startling, horrifying clarity, exactly what had happened.
66
September 2017
Alison
It will take, they explained, a while before the paperwork could be processed for visitors. In the meantime, I am being moved to a different prison for the ‘foreseeable future’.
It’s a Cat B.
One category worse than Robin had predicted.
The girl in the lower bunk is coming too.
‘What did you do?’ I ask as we sit together in the prison van. It is the old-fashioned sort – or so the officer keeps moaning – with benches down the sides rather than individual cells.
‘You’re not meant to ask.’
I could point out that she had asked me about my crime earlier on. But I decide to play safe. ‘Sorry.’
She sniffs. ‘Stabbed my flatmate, if you really want to know. I was using at the time and didn’t know what I was doing.’
So much for her earlier ‘Not good’ when I’d said I was in for manslaughter. Yet my fellow prisoner speaks with indignation, as though the ‘using’ bit was a justifiable excuse.
‘Until recently, I worked in a prison,’ I volunteer.
Her face registers disgust. ‘You’re one of the scum?’
‘I was artist in residence, actually.’
‘Oooo,’ she goes in a mocking manner. Then she sniffs. ‘What’s that when it’s at home?’
‘I helped men to paint and draw.’
‘Why?’
I am reminded of what the governor told me all those months ago. ‘Art can help people come to terms with their crimes.’
At first I think she is crying. But then I realize she’s laughing. ‘What a load of bollocks.’ Her face tightens. ‘Didn’t work for you, did it?’
She glances at the prison officer who is sitting opposite; her eyes steely and watchful.
‘I’ll give you this for free, mate. Don’t make enemies.’ Her eyes narrow as she takes in my elfin haircut and height. ‘Are you a lezzer?’
‘No.’
‘Then pretend you’re bi. Did that in my last stretch. One of the girls took a fancy to me and gave me extra rations.’
The journey seems to take hours. I feel sick every time the van jolts on the road. I find it hard to breathe. ‘Oi,’ says my travelling companion to the officer. ‘There ought to be air conditioning in this thing. Health and safety, innit?’
The woman appears not to hear.
‘I need a pee,’ says my companion more forcefully.
Silently, the officer hands her a cardboard pot; the type I’ve seen Kitty pee into in the hospital.
‘Can’t we bleeding well stop at a service station?’
‘Not allowed.’
It’s one of the few sentences that the officer utters during the trip.
Eventually, the van slows down and then stops. The doors are opened. Sunlight blinds our eyes. We’re being led outside. This building is older than the holding prison. It’s surrounded by open fields. I nearly laughed when they told me its name. HMP Marchville. How ironic. Like my old Archville but with an
M in front, as if one could just march out at will.
‘And one more thing,’ calls out the girl as they take us in different directions. ‘Watch out for …’
But I can’t catch it.
I am being walked now into another room, where I am searched yet again. Through a series of doors, each of which has to be locked and unlocked, as I know all too well. Down a long wide corridor with plain walls on either side. Through another door on the right. And another. I find myself in a corridor, lined with blue-joggered women on either side. They are looking me up and down. It’s almost as though I’m in a beauty parade. With one contestant.
‘Looks like we’ve got ourselves a new friend,’ says one. Her hair is matted. Greasy.
She holds out her hand. Her nails are bitten to the quick. Fingers squeeze mine like a vice. ‘Nice to meet you, love.’
Then someone calls out. ‘Alison? Is that you?’
I know that voice. It’s Angela.
When I first started at HMP Archville, Angela used to tell me that it was quite common for both prisoners and staff to bump into their past. ‘After all, there are only so many prisons. Inmates get moved around. Officers, too.’
It was true. I used to see newcomers greeted by old-timers with slaps on the back (‘Welcome, mate!’) Like grown-up classmates at a school reunion.
And now it’s happening to us. Even so, she seems as surprised as I am. Though in another way, I tell myself, nothing will ever surprise me again.
‘What are you doing here, love?’ she’s saying, her face white as though she’s seen a ghost.
Whenever I’ve thought of my old ‘friend’, it’s been with a mixture of anger and sadness. I’d once trusted this woman who’d allowed me to take the blame for the unlocked cupboard where she’d hidden those mobile phones and drugs. Yet now she was greeting me like a long-lost friend. And amidst all the strange faces I can’t bring myself to ignore the one that I recognize.
I give her a brief version.
‘Can hardly believe it! I had you down as a good girl. Still, you probably thought the same of me, didn’t you?’ She claps me on the shoulder. ‘Sorry I got you into trouble. But I was desperate, love. My Jeff and I couldn’t pay our debts. I had to do something. I didn’t mean to get you in trouble – but I hoped they’d let you off with a warning. And now look at me. Inside. With a husband that doesn’t want anything to do with me.’
Somehow, I’m surprised. I was constantly amazed by wives and girlfriends who had stuck by their men in HMP Archville. Even the rapists and murderers.
‘Got ten years, I did,’ she continues. ‘My lawyer said the courts take a dim view of prison staff that turn to the other side. What about you?’
‘Same.’
I say it lightly. Ten years doesn’t feel real. Will I be too old to have a baby by the time I get out? Perhaps. Too old to do a lot of things.
‘Ouch! Still, the trick is to not count the days.’ Angela is taking me by the arm and walking me down the corridor. ‘I’ll introduce you to the girls. The nice ones, that is. You have to watch some of the others.’
My knees begin to knock together without my permission.
She touches my arm in comfort. ‘We’ll be all right if we stick together.’
That’s when I notice the red, angry mark on her wrist. ‘A burn,’ she says quietly. ‘Got pushed against the hot water urn the other day. And all because I wouldn’t give my biscuit to that one over there.’
She indicates a large woman in overalls who is watching us, arms folded. ‘Just do what I say and you’ll be all right.’
Angela’s words remind me of when I first met her. She hadn’t looked after me then. Should I trust her now?
Yet maybe it would be better than trusting myself.
67
September 2017
Kitty
The Monster, which had been so huge when it was inside her, turned out to be a tiny little baby.
‘Did this really come out of me?’ marvelled Kitty as she stared down at the small and slithery wriggling thing they had placed on her stomach. All soft and wet and smelly.
‘Baby’s rooting,’ said the nurse. ‘Let me help you hold her to your breast.’
It wasn’t easy, even with her good hand. But Friday Mum was there to help.
‘Well done, Kitty. You’re a natural.’
Kitty felt a stab in her chest. A nice stab. Baby needed her!
How it sucked at her nipple! Vigorously. Enthusiastically. Its eyes fixed rigidly on Kitty as though aware that it owed her its life.
‘See,’ said the nurse. ‘She loves you!’
And Kitty’s heart was filled with such love and warmth that she pushed the I remember now memory to one side.
Besides, what was the point if she couldn’t speak? That flash of the car and the navy blue uniform rising into the air was far too complicated to explain on the picture board.
Even if she wanted to.
68
October 2017
Alison
During my time at HMP Archville, I’d often wondered what it would be like to be in a closed prison as opposed to an open one. And now I know.
It’s the absence of fresh air that gets to you. That stale smell in your nostrils as you wander up and down the long corridors on your way to class or the pod or your pad. The longing as you stare through the window of the community lounge and see a bird flying past.
What has life come to if I don’t have as much freedom as that sparrow out there?
There are no seagulls, even though we are not far from the east coast. Maybe they choose not to come here. I don’t blame them. In the far distance, I can see the gentle slope of hills. Perfect for running.
‘Don’t even think of trying to get out,’ says Angela as if she’s reading my thoughts. ‘A couple of girls have tried it. They’re in Cat As now.’
Anyway, there’s no point. I can’t see how anyone could get out of this place. The only time we can taste fresh air is during the half-hour walk around the block. We get two a week. Should be more often apparently but there are staff shortages.
I think with longing of the set-up in my old prison. Only now do I really appreciate why my men had said they could finally breathe when they got to a Cat D. Here, there is no walking from one hut to another. Instead, you are let out of the closed wing once a day to go to Education or Chapel (a large number turn to God just to get a change of view, apparently) or the gym (dodgy, because some of the other women use it to ‘eye up the candy’ as Angela puts it).
This walk from one part of the prison to another is known as freeflow. There is always an officer in charge. You are herded along like sheep. There is no respect. We do not deserve any. That is why we are here. This is the message that is drummed into us day after day.
There’s a desperation on faces like I’ve never seen before. Many of my new acquaintances have been separated from their children. My cellmate weeps at night and I cry with her, remembering my lost sister. Offences are mainly drug-related. There are several ‘mules’ here. Plus a sweet-faced woman who decapitated the boyfriend who abused her daughter. The other day in the pod, I spotted her dipping a used tampon into a mug of coffee which she then offered to an unsuspecting mother of three, in for heroin dealing. I should have said something, but you learn to pick your friends in this place.
It’s really weird – almost funny – to be an inmate instead of staff. Each of us has our own job. Mine is cleaning the loos. I have to be careful to call them toilets. My language and accent have already been mercilessly torn to bits by some of the women. I’m lucky that I have Angela to look after me. I should feel resentful towards her but I don’t. You have to be practical in a place like this.
The darkness is the worst. That one night in HMP Archville was child’s play compared with the stifling claustrophobia which now squeezes my throat after the 8 p.m. lockdown when we all have to be in our cells. Sometimes, when the wind whips up from the hills, I fancy I hear someone ta
pping on the window. Stefan’s ghost, perhaps? Occasionally I try out the word ‘father’ for size. It’s becoming more familiar.
Actually, I’m wrong. It’s not the nights that are the worst. It is the lack of communication. Kitty has had a baby. That’s why Mum had to leave the court so fast. A little girl. Mum told me during the brief phone call which I was allowed to make when I arrived here. ‘Are you all right?’ she’d added, almost as an afterthought.
Kitty’s news had come first. Always Kitty.
Even when my prison phone card arrived, allowing me to make calls, I decided to ring Mum just once a month. When you’re using the prison phone there’s always someone eavesdropping on your conversation. So Mum writes instead. Every week. Yet her tone is cool: she simply describes her life. Doing odd cleaning jobs in the village because she had to give up her job to look after Kitty and the baby. Selling the odd painting. Her letters are signed with a ‘love’ but no kiss.
And no wonder, after the court case. If it was not for me, both Kitty and Vanessa would still be here in one piece. And Crispin’s mother too.
As for Crispin, his case – or so I’ve read in the papers – has been reviewed. His conviction for causing death by dangerous driving was quashed because his mother had been behind the wheel. He was given eight years for perverting the course of justice by pretending to be the driver and another twenty-five for murdering Stefan. The jury hadn’t bought the self-defence bit. The sixteen years he’d already served was taken off but, even so, Crispin could be out soon after me although this doesn’t take ‘good behaviour’ into account. But it won’t make up for the loss of his mother. Or his father, who had died a broken man, his wife and son both torn from him.
Unlike Archville, where letters were handed out through an open window from the admin office, the post here is put into labelled cubbyholes, having gone through security. Mine is full of messages. I am trying to gather the courage to read them.
