The Prison

by Amy Cross

  “Because of a few swear words?” Chris replied. “Are you seriously so fucking fragile that a dirty mouth offends you?”

  “Fine,” Doctor Bell replied, reaching under the desk and pressing a button.

  “This is ridiculous,” Chris told her. “Of all the stupid rules, I can't believe you're getting your no-doubt dusty panties in a twist just because someone uses a few fucking tough words. I mean, Jesus Christ, it's one thing for you to hide yourself away in this shit-hole and act all prim and proper, but where I come from, on the streets, we -”

  “You're just a piece of garbage,” Doctor Bell said, interrupting her. “You're worthless. You're a bad person to your core, you're a waste of meat, and the world would be considerably better off if you'd never even been born. I'm sure your parents agree.” She leaned forward. “You have pure evil in your soul.”

  Before a startled Chris could respond, the door opened and two guards stepped into the room.

  “Problem?” one of them asked.

  “Ms. Bradford is being uncooperative,” the doctor said with a faint smile.

  “You think this is me being uncooperative?” Chris asked as the guards made their way over to her. “Seriously? You think this is uncooperative? You should see me when I'm being uncooperative, because this right now is me being very fucking cooperative, as you can tell from the fact that I haven't punched that smug grin right off your fucking face!” She flinched as the guards grabbed her arms. “Don't touch me!” she shouted. “You don't have any right to touch me!”

  “Take her to the isolation wing,” Doctor Bell told the guards. “I think she needs some time alone to reflect.”

  “Isolation?” Chris yelled. “What the hell are you talking about?”

  “Up,” one of the guards said firmly.

  “I don't want to go to isolation,” Chris continued, starting to panic. “Please -”

  “Maybe full withdrawal is the best option here.”

  “Withdrawal? You mean...” She stared at the doctor in horror for a moment. “No way. No, you cannot be such a vicious bitch that you -”

  “Up!” the guard said again, this time grabbing her arm and starting to haul her out of the chair, “and mind your language around the lady.”

  “Don't fucking touch me!” Chris screamed, trying to push him away before the other guard placed her in a headlock and pulled her back.

  “Violent tendencies,” Doctor Bell muttered as she made a note on Chris's file. “Possibly dangerous to others. Also, an alarming recourse to the use of swear words, as if the inmate might have further undiagnosed mental difficulties -”

  “Bitch!”

  “- possibly brought on by years of substance abuse as well as a rather damaging home background.”

  “Get the hell off me!” Chris shouted as she tried to kick out at one of the guards, only for him to grab her by the waist. “Please! I'll do anything, but don't send me to isolation and don't take my meds away! You'll fucking kill me, you psychotic whore!”

  “Take her down,” the doctor said calmly. “Maybe some tough measures will teach her to be better behaved.”

  As Chris was dragged out of the room kicking and screaming, Doctor Bell couldn't help but allow the faintest flicker of a smile to cross her face. She turned to a fresh page in the patient's notes and wrote a few remarks, taking particular care to mention “the degree of violence used by the inmate as she attempted to fight staff-members. Full restraint required at all times.” After double-checking that everything was in order, and with the sounds of Chris's screams still ringing along the hallway, the doctor got to her feet and made her way out into the corridor. She paused for a moment, savoring every last moment of her patient's agony until finally silence returned. Still smiling, and still wearing her plastic gloves, she turned and headed toward her office, completely ignoring the little girl watching her from a nearby doorway.

  Six months ago

  “Who's there?” Chris shouted, sitting up in the dark room.

  She waited, listening to the hum of the empty house, convinced that at any moment she'd hear... something. The presence was nearby again, hovering on the edge of perception, threatening to move closer at any moment. Reaching up to the window, Chris pulled the curtain aside to let light into the room, but there was no sign of anyone.

  “Fuck,” she whispered, putting a hand on her forehead to feel the sweat that was running down her face. After a moment she checked her pulse and found that her heart was racing.

  And then she saw it.

  Standing nearby, over by the door, there was a human figure. Turning, she tried to look at it directly, only for it to somehow fade away. The presence persisted, however, and Chris was certain she could still feel someone nearby, as if some invisible pair of eyes was staring directly into her own.

  Today

  Looking up from her desk, Grace stared at the half-open door that led out into the corridor. She was sure she'd heard footsteps a moment ago, perhaps someone running, but now there was nothing but silence.

  She waited.

  Finally, she looked back at her monitor, where she was drafting a memo to the Minster informing him of the prison's milestone in surpassing a fifty per cent occupancy rate. Usually she had no trouble with this kind of document, but today she was struggling to concentrate. Glancing at the door that led into Governor Windsor's office, she couldn't help wondering about the conversation between her boss and Andrew Dunne. The arrival of Amanda Weir had clearly set the cat amongst the pigeons, but she -

  Turning back to the other door again, she realized she'd heard the sound again.

  Someone running.

  Getting to her feet, Grace made her way over to the door and peered out into the corridor. There was no sign of anyone, but she waited anyway, just in case. Having heard the sound twice now, she was absolutely certain that it wasn't just some figment of her imagination. At the same time, she knew there was no reason for anyone to be running in the corridor. She waited a moment longer, but silence had fallen again.

  Heading back to her desk, she tried to get on with the job of writing the memo, but she couldn't help glancing over at the door every few minutes. Deep down, she was certain that she'd heard someone running, and that it had sounded like a child.

  ***

  “I don't know what to tell you,” Andrew said as he sat in Governor Windsor's office. “Based on the processing interview I conducted with her this morning, I'd say that Amanda Weir is a fairly ordinary young woman. She has certain issues, sure, but I've certainly had people pass through my office with much more obvious damage.”

  “So you think she's okay?” Windsor asked, as he stood by the window. “You think she's safe?”

  “Not exactly. Obvious damage is one thing, but with someone who's been through what Amanda has been through, there has to be something deeper down,possibly something that has been missed. She's had little to no proper psychiatric counseling since the incidents happened, and that was a mistake. Mental illnesses are like their physical counterparts. The longer they go untreated, the worse they get. Frankly, I don't think Amanda should even be here at Hardstone. She needs to be in a psychiatric facility.”

  “That's not what the judge thought.”

  “With all due respect, he was wrong.”

  “It's a little early to be making such sweeping statements, isn't it?” Windsor asked, heading to his desk and picking up Amanda's file. “What I need from you, Mr. Dunne, is your opinion on Amanda Weir's suitability for life on one of our wings. She's been sentenced to life without the possibility of parole, so she's going to grow old and die here at Hardstone. She'll quite possibly outlive us both. I need to know that she's not going to be a danger to the general prison population.”

  “I can't give you that assurance,” Andrew replied. “Not about Amanda, not about anyone.”

  “Are you sure she shouldn't be placed in isolation?”

  “That would be barbaric.”

  “Why? She might grow to
like it.”

  “Throwing her away like that is not a solution,” Andrew said firmly. “I can work with her. It's not going to be easy, but like you said, she's going to be here for a long time and -”

  “Sabrina Huntley,” Windsor said suddenly.

  “I -” Andrew paused, clearly uncomfortable. “I'm sorry?”

  “You heard.”

  “I did, but I'm not sure of the relevance.”

  “I'm sorry to have to bring it up,” Windsor continued, “but I'm sure you understand my concern. The last time you worked intensively with an inmate, at your last prison, things didn't go too well, did they?” He paused for a moment. “You're lucky I was so desperate to hire someone that I was willing to overlook that mess. You could easily have ended up out of the psychiatric profession altogether. Remind me exactly what happened again? If I recall correctly, Ms. Huntley was eventually found -”

  “I was cleared of any wrongdoing.”

  “So?”

  “It's not my fault that she died.”

  “So who's fault is it, then? You were her psychiatrist. You were the one who worked with her five days a week for two years. In fact, weren't you also the one who found her hanging in her cell?”

  “If you read the full, independent report, you'll see that Sabrina's problems predated my involvement.”

  “And what kind of involvement did you have with her, exactly?” he asked. “When I hired you, I chose to overlook certain... nasty rumors that were circulating. I do hope that wasn't a mistake on my part. We can't have the staff getting involved with the inmates on a personal level.”

  “Sabrina Huntley was a damaged young woman who ended up taking her own life because she couldn't deal with her demons,” Andrew said firmly. “I did everything within my power to help her, and an independent panel of my peers examined the case and found that I'd done nothing wrong and that I'd acted absolutely professionally. Sometimes some people just can't be helped, no matter how hard we try.”

  “Not very inspiring talk from a prison psychiatrist.”

  “Amanda Weir will be different. I've already got some clinical programs lined up and I'm confident -”

  “Fine, fine,” Windsor muttered, clearly tiring of the discussion. “Just be aware that if it all goes to the dogs with her, I'll waste no time in dropping the ball firmly in your court. I won't have my career tarnished by any of this nonsense, not when I'm so close to a knighthood. I'm not a big fan of the touchy-feely approach to offenders, but I'm willing to tolerate all this psychiatric mumbo-jumbo for so long as we get ring-fenced funding to pay for it. As my wife constantly reminds me, we must try to operate a tight ship at all times. Refrain from causing me any problems, and I'll let you get on with it. Deal?”

  “She's going to be okay,” Andrew replied. “I've got her full case file waiting for me at home and I'm going to go through it with a fine-toothed comb. You know there are actually people who believe she's innocent, don't you?”

  “There are also people who believe in the Loch Ness Monster,” Windsor replied, “and little green men from Mars. Let's not go down that avenue. The girl confessed, she entered a guilty plea and she was convicted. Let's just try to have as little fuss with her as possible, eh? Everyone at Hardstone wants a nice quiet life, and I won't allow anyone to spoil that. Not even the infamous Amanda Weir.”

  ***

  “So let's get one thing out of the way at the start,” Robin said as she stood by the door, watching as Amanda arranged her few permitted possessions next to her bed. “We're gonna be spending a lot of time in here together, and it'd be cool if we could bring a little joy to each other's lives. At the same time, I don't want any weird misunderstandings and I don't wanna seem like a stereotype, so I'm just gonna ask straight out. Are you now, or have you ever been, or have you ever considered trying to be, a lesbian?”

  “What?” Amanda asked, turning to her.

  “A simple yes or no would be enough,” Robin added. “Lesbian? Maybe just a little curious?”

  “No,” Amanda replied, “and... no.”

  “Sure? I could help you learn the ropes.”

  “No,” Amanda said again. “Nothing.”

  “Okay, that's fair,” she continued with a sigh. “Shame. Anyway, I just wanted to get it out of the way, in case it made things difficult. You understand, right? I mean, everyone's heard the dodgy stories about prison life, but it's really not gonna be like that. I've got other friends I can go do stuff with. Don't worry, I won't be waking you up in the night with my heavy breathing.”

  “Thank you,” Amanda replied, looking over at her bed and then back toward the sink.

  “Admit it,” Robin continued with a smile, “you were worried. Especially when you saw my tattoos.”

  “It's, uh...” Amanda paused, not used to such directness.

  “You'll get used to life here, you know,” she added. “Once you get into a routine, the shock factor'll kinda go away. I was just like you on my first day, I felt like I was never gonna fit in, but I managed to carve out a little spot for myself. You need to think of yourself as a character in a story. Define yourself so that others know how to interact with you. If you don't, the others'll define you for you, and that could get messy. You need to control how you're viewed in a place like this.”

  “I'm sure I will,” Amanda muttered as she set her brand new prison-issue toothbrush on the sink, along with a bar of soap.

  “It's kinda like being at school,” Robin explained. “You know, you don't really wanna be there, but you have to go, and you're forced to hang out with a bunch of weirdos and all that crap, but eventually you muddle through and you start making friends.”

  “I'm sure,” Amanda replied, realizing that she was already running out of non-committal answers. Turning, she looked across the sparse room and realized that there was absolutely nothing for her to do.

  “There's a library,” Robin told her. “That's usually the first place to hit. Trust me, you'll end up reading loads while you're in here. Some people even study for a degree. No shitting you, Mona on the fourth floor has become one of the world's leading experts on nineteenth century dolls. Weird, huh? She even gets invited to give lectures, but she can't on account of the fact she's in here for murdering her husband.” She smiled, watching Amanda's awkwardness.

  “That's... pretty cool.”

  “You don't have a clue what to do, do you?” Robin asked.

  “I...” Amanda paused. “What is there to do? I mean, I...”

  “So what are you in for?”

  Amanda stared at her.

  “You might as well tell me,” Robin continued. “I'm gonna find out anyway. Me, I'm here for possession with the intent to supply. Multiple counts. If you ask me, they were a little tough with the sentence, but that's the way it works right now. Sucks, huh?” She waited for some kind of response. “So what about you?” she asked finally, her tone changing a little, as if she was starting to worry. “It's considered common courtesy to talk about it in here. After all, I'm gonna be locked in this room with you every night, so I really think I deserve to know what kind of person you are.”

  “My name's Amanda.”

  “That doesn't tell me very much.”

  “Amanda Weir.”

  “So? What's the -”

  Pausing, Robin narrowed her eyes for a moment, as if she was finally starting to understand.

  “I've heard of you,” she said finally. “You were in the papers, weren't you? Fuck, you're the girl who -”

  “So you don't need me to say it,” Amanda shot back at her.

  “But -”

  “You read about it,” she continued, trying not to panic, “and I already admitted it all in court, so there's really no need to go over and over the details, is there?”

  A kind of awkward silence fell between them for a moment.

  “I understand if you don't want to talk to me,” Amanda continued. “I won't be offended.”

  Robin stared at her for a moment.


  “I'm not one to get high and mighty,” she replied eventually, “but... You wanna watch yourself. There might be some vindictive sods who give you grief. Anything involving kids tends to push people's buttons.”

  Amanda nodded.

  “Okay,” Robin continued, “let's just be clear on one more thing. If you try to pull any shit with me, if I hear so much as a creak in the night, I will hurt you, do you understand? These arms have got some muscle in 'em, and I'm used to fighting my corner. Mess with me and I'll break part of you.”

  Amanda nodded.

  “That's not me being unfriendly,” Robin continued. “I'm just laying down the situation. I happen to think it's very friendly to warn someone that you might cave their skull in. If you're okay with me, I'll be okay with you. I guess... I guess what happened was pretty specific, so you're not into killing random strangers.” She waited for an answer. “Are you?”

  Amanda shook her head.

  “Then we're sorted,” Robin added cautiously, stepping forward and reaching out to shake her hand. “It's a one strike and you're out policy, though. I'm not taking any risks with you.”

  “I probably won't be sharing this cell with you for very long,” Amanda replied, shaking her hand. “I'm pretty sure they're going to move me before too long.”

  “They told you that?”

  “They didn't need to. I just figure it's what'll happen.”

  “Huh.” Again, Robin seemed a little nervous. “Well, I guess we've both set out our stalls, huh? I'll keep my hands to myself and restrict myself to a few glances in the showers, and you'll keep from murdering me in my sleep. Oh, and one more thing. If anything freaky happens with the Blake girl, you've gotta let me know. I love that shit.”

  “What Blake girl?” Amanda asked.

  “You know, the one from here.”

  “I don't know anything about it.”

  “Seriously? You've never heard of Leonora Blake?”

  “Not until today,” Amanda replied. “People keep mentioning her name around here, though.”