The Prison

by Amy Cross

  “They're certainly old,” the governor replied. “They must be from the days when the prison was open in the past.”

  “One of the inmates has got a theory.”

  “One of the inmates? Which one?” He turned to look at the women, who were all watching him with suspicion. A shudder passed through his body as he imagined how much they must all hate him. “Which of these women claims to have a theory? Tell her to speak up!”

  With a sigh, Robin stepped forward.

  “Ask her what she thinks,” the governor said to Ferguson.

  “Tell the governor,” Ferguson said to Robin.

  “If you look at the necks,” she replied, “you'll see it for yourself. They've all got these little nicks on 'em, see?”

  “What nicks?” the governor asked Ferguson. “Ask her what she's talking about!”

  “Um, Sir, you could just -”

  “Ask her!”

  “Is he refusing to actually talk to me?” Robin asked the guard. “Seriously, is he only willing to do it through you?”

  “Answer the governor's question,” Ferguson said firmly.

  “You didn't tell it to me yet,” she replied drily, “so I don't know what he asked, do I?”

  “Tell us what nicks you're talking about,” Ferguson continued, clearly unimpressed. “And don't act dumb.”

  “And tell her to hurry up,” the governor muttered. “I don't have all day!”

  “And hurry up!” Ferguson parroted.

  “Knife nicks,” Robin explained, running a finger across her own neck. “They all had their throats slit, didn't they? All of 'em, and you know what that means.”

  “What does it mean?” the governor asked Ferguson. “Ask the woman!”

  “What does it -”

  “I heard!” Robin replied, rolling her eyes. “It's obvious. These are the bodies of Leonora Blake's victims, aren't they?” She reached down and picked up one of the half-broken skulls. “They were all buried out here, and now they're, like, coming up.”

  “Get these women inside,” the governor muttered, turning to Ferguson. “Now!”

  “Alright, ladies!” Ferguson called out. “Everyone back in. Work's canceled for the -”

  “No, wait!” the governor added, seemingly in a state of panic. “No, keep them here, tell them to...” He turned and looked down at the bones for a moment. “Tell them to bury the lot.”

  “Bury them, Sir?”

  “These bones. It's disgraceful and disrespectful to have them up here on the surface like this. Why, I would have thought that any decent human being, upon discovering such things, would leave them down there rather than hauling them from their resting place. Tell the inmates to rebury every last bone, and then... And then move the vegetable patch. Put it somewhere else.”

  “Where, Sir? This is the only part of the yard that isn't concreted over.”

  “Do I have to micro-manage every little decision?” the governor asked, clearly becoming frustrated. “For God's sake, man, just work it out! I have more important things to be worrying about.”

  Turning, he hurried back toward the main door, as if being anywhere near the inmates was an experience he couldn't handle for too long.

  “What crawled up his arse and died?” Robin asked Ferguson after a moment. “I was trying to help and he wouldn't even look me in the eye or ask me a question without filtering it through you.”

  “You all heard the governor!” Ferguson called out. “He wants these bones buried, and do it deep! Six feet or

  more! We don't want them coming up again! It's disrespectful!”

  “Isn't that kind of creepy?” Robin asked. “I mean, surely there are better places to put them than just... here, right outside our windows.”

  “You've got your orders,” Ferguson said firmly. “I'd suggest you all get digging. It's going to be a long morning.”

  “This place is nuts,” Robin muttered, grabbing her spade and glancing at the governor as he headed into the building, “and that guy, he's the most nuts one of all.”

  Three years ago

  “So I'll be back on Monday,” Brad said, kissing the back of her neck as she prepared breakfast. “Do you think you can wait that long?”

  “I'll try,” Emma replied, unable to hide a smile as she felt her boyfriend pressing his crotch against her. She tired to focus on chopping fruit for a smoothie, but finally she had to put the knife down. “Good morning, soldier,” she added. “You're standing to attention, huh?”

  “My flight's in four ours,” he continued, kissing her shoulder, “so I have to be out the door in forty-five minutes. Now, I have time for breakfast, and I have time for some fun in the bedroom, but I don't have time for both. Which one should I choose?”

  She bit her bottom lip, already fully aware of how things were going to develop.

  “How am I going to get by without you for a whole weekend?” he asked as she turned to him. He reached down and put his hands on her waist. “You drive me crazy, you know that? Before I go on this business trip, I need you to know something, just in case the plane comes down or -”

  “Don't say things like that!”

  “You know what I mean.” He paused for a moment. “I love you, Emma. There, I finally said those three magic words.”

  “I love you too,” she replied, leaning up and kissing him gently, before pulling away. “Why don't we take this into the bedroom?”

  “Come on,” he said, reaching out and taking her hand, before turning to lead her out of the kitchen, “I hope you don't mind if this is a very quick one.”

  “I don't mind at all,” she replied, following him across the room before suddenly stopping. The smile left her face as she felt a kind of unfamiliar echo in her mind, bringing flashes of dark thoughts.

  “Honey?” Brad asked, turning to her.

  “Yeah, I...” She hurried back over to the counter and picked up the knife. Staring down at the blade for a moment, she felt a chill pass through her body and then, with no further warning, her mind became completely blank.

  “Something up, babe?” Brad asked, heading over to her. “You seem -”

  Before she could even realize what she was doing, Emma turned and forced the knife into his chest, directly through the heart.

  Today

  “So you use a small amount of this iodine solution,” Doctor Bell explained as she put some drops into Emma's wound, “and then place the gauze over, like this.”

  Carefully she placed a small piece of fabric over the damaged knee, before grabbing a roll of bandage and wrapping it around the limb.

  “That hurts,” Emma winced.

  “Well next time, be more careful,” Doctor Bell muttered. “Congratulations though, inmate. You're officially the very first person who's had to seek medical treatment here at Hardstone since I arrived.”

  “So I'm breaking your virginity?” Emma asked with a smile.

  “I wouldn't say that,” the doctor added, clearly not amused. “Amanda, pass me the scissors.”

  As Amanda grabbed a pair of scissors from the nearby bench, she couldn't shake the feeling that Emma was watching her with unnatural interest.

  “So you're new, right?” Emma asked after a moment. “We met briefly before.”

  Amanda nodded.

  “And you've already got a cushy little job here in the medical room?”

  “I'm just helping out,” Amanda replied. “Mr. Dunne -”

  “Amanda has proven herself to be very useful,” Doctor Bell interjected. “It's only natural that over time, people should display different sets of competencies that make them more effective in different working environments. Everyone can't be the same, you know.”

  “Wish I could get a job like this,” Emma continued, watching as her knee was bandaged up. “I spent all morning out there digging up bones before I scraped my knee.”

  “Are there more bones?” Amanda asked keenly.

  “Bloody sea of them.”

  “Language,” D
octor Bell said firmly.

  “What? I only said bloody? What's -” She let out a gasp as the bandage was pulled tight. “That hurt!”

  “Perhaps there's a little too much pressure,” the doctor replied with a knowing smile, easing the bandage a little. “Is that better?”

  “There's loads of bones out there,” Emma continued. “We worked out what's going on, though. It's all the victims from that little girl. It's all the body parts that are left after they've been rotting out there for a hundred years.”

  “You really don't know that for certain,” Doctor Bell pointed out.

  “Their throats were cut,” Emma told her. “There was damage to their neck bones. It's obvious, isn't it? After what happened, the people in charge just took all the bodies and buried them out there in a mass grave, left 'em to rot into the ground. Pretty callous if you ask me, but I guess no-one really cared. Plus, five hundred dead women is a lot to deal with at once.” She paused for a moment, as the doctor finished bandaging her knee. “If the same thing happened today, to all of us -”

  “Don't be foolish,” Doctor Bell said firmly.

  “No, but if it did... They'd probably do the same thing, wouldn't they? They'd hush it up and toss us all into a big pit, just the same way.”

  “They most certainly would not,” Doctor Bell continued, taking a step back. “This is the twenty-first century and we're not barbarians, you know. Anyway, your knee will be fine. Come back in two days and I'll check it just to be safe, but you can get back to work.”

  “It's cold out there,” Emma replied. “Can't I just get a sicky for one day?”

  “Absolutely not. There's nothing wrong with you, Ms. Tate. If you're cold out there, I'd suggest that you simply work harder. That should soon warm you up.”

  “Wanna swap for a bit?” she asked, turning to Amanda.

  “Get out of here,” the doctor said firmly.

  “Fine,” Emma muttered, getting to her feet but immediately letting out a gasp of pain. Turning, she began to limp toward the door, but it was clear that she was exaggerating her difficulty in an attempt to gain sympathy. “I don't know what kind of doctor sends someone back outside to do back-breaking work in this condition,” she went on, “but there's nothing I can do about it. God knows, I already have enough to be dealing with, what with being the only black woman in the entire prison.”

  “What did you say?” Doctor Bell asked, looking up from her notebook.

  “Haven't you noticed?” Emma asked, turning to her as she reached the door. “The whole of Hardstone is a sea of white faces, except for me. I mean, statistically speaking, that's pretty odd, isn't it?”

  “It...” The doctor paused for a moment, as if she was genuinely surprised. “Given the general make-up of the national population,” she said finally, “it's extremely improbable.”

  “So what's going on, then?” Emma asked. “Are they segregating the prison population, and they just forgot about me?”

  “Your ancestry,” Doctor Bell replied, “is... What, Caribbean?”

  “Good catch,” she replied with a faint smile. “My great-Grandad came on the Windrush in 1948 and settled in Brixton. Met himself a nice English lady, integrated himself into society by knocking her up, and the rest is history. So I guess I'm only, like, one eighth or one sixteenth Caribbean. Maybe that's not a high enough percentage to get me noticed.”

  “It's certainly a fascinating point,” the doctor continued, typing her password into the computer and bringing up the prison's database of inmates. She began to look through the profile photos. “You're absolutely right. With the notable exception of yourself, Ms. Tate, every other person in Hardstone is white. Given that the local courts serve parts of the city that have above-average non-white ethnic populations, I can't begin to imagine how this situation has occurred.”

  “Beats me,” Emma replied. “If you like, though, I could stay the rest of the day in this nice warm office and help you with -”

  “You're dismissed,” Doctor Bell said firmly, still staring at the monitor. “Get back to work.”

  Limping out of the room, Emma muttered something under her breath as she let the door swing shut.

  “So what do you think is going on?” Amanda asked, joining Doctor Bell by the computer. “I hadn't noticed, but she's right, isn't she? Everyone else here is white.”

  “It can't have happened naturally,” the doctor replied. “If I didn't know better, I'd say that someone has been implementing a policy of only sending white prisoners to Hardstone. Why they'd do that, I can't even begin to imagine, but it makes absolutely no sense to me.”

  “Apart from Emma,” Amanda pointed out.

  Doctor Bell turned to her.

  “Well, she's here. If there's some kind of policy, why would they break it for just one prisoner?What's different about her?”

  “I...” Pausing, the doctor turned back to look at the screen. “I don't know, but I'm going to find out.” Getting to her feet, she headed to the door. “While I'm gone, I need you to start going through the patients' files. Look for any mention of non-white ethnic mixes, even if they're as weak as third or fourth generation. There has to be something going on here, some kind of pattern.”

  “Are you sure you want me to do that?” Amanda asked. “You said yesterday that I'm not allowed into the patients' files. Something about privacy rules?”

  “You're my assistant,” Doctor Bell told her. “I never thought I needed one, but now that you're here, it's only natural that you should do whatever is required.” Glancing back at her, she allowed herself the faintest of smiles. “And Amanda... You've done a very good job this morning. I'm impressed.”

  ***

  “What are you talking about?” Governor Windsor asked as he stared blankly at Doctor Bell in his office.

  “The latest statistics show that around twenty-five per cent of the UK prison population is from ethnic minority groups,” she replied, “and yet here at Hardstone, the figure is half of one per cent. Does that not strike you as being a little strange?”

  “Well, yes, maybe, but it's certainly nothing to -”

  “Is there some kind of policy in place to only send white prisoners to Hardstone?”

  “Absolutely not.”

  “Then what's going on? Don't insult my intelligence, governor, by trying to claim that this is just a coincidence.” She paused for a moment, trying to hide her anger. “If someone else is conducting an experiment here, I need to know. It could get in the way of my own work, it could ruin everything!”

  “No-one else is doing any such thing,” he replied. “Clearly there has just been... an anomaly. We only have two hundred prisoners here so far, so we're hardly up to full capacity. Whatever's happening -”

  “I'm a woman of science,” the doctor replied, interrupting him, “and I won't be persuaded that this is a natural occurrence. Somewhere in the system, someone is doing something that has deliberately loaded the ethnic make-up of this prison in one particular direction, and I want to know the cause.”

  “I can look into it, if you like,” he muttered, “but I doubt I shall come up with anything. It's just a coincidence, doctor; a very surprising coincidence, but a coincidence nonetheless. Then again, I suppose we should be celebrating, shouldn't we? The do-gooders out there are always complaining that the proportion of ethnic minority groups in the UK prison system is too high. Perhaps Hardstone has, by some strange turn of events, become an outlier for social progress?”

  “I'm not going to ignore this,” the doctor replied, turning and heading to the door. “There's some kind of -”

  “Have you seen her?” the governor asked suddenly.

  Stopping, she looked back at him.

  “Have you?” he continued, his voice trembling with fear.

  “What are you talking about? Seen who?”

  “You know... Her. The girl.”

  “What on earth do you mean?” she asked, making her way back over to his desk. “My God, man, you
look pale.”

  “You've heard the stories,” he continued. “You must have, everyone has. That little girl, Leonora Blake, the one that did all those awful things here more than a century ago.”

  “Of course I've heard, but why are you bringing it up now?”

  “There's a rather unsettling story being bandied about among the inmates,” he replied. “It's on the internet, too. There are people who think the little girl can be seen around the place still, and that anyone who looks her in the eye is... Well, that they end up... I mean...”

  “I know the story,” Doctor Bell replied patiently, “and that's all it is, a story. It's exactly the kind of fluffy nonsense that propagates in a place like this when you've got lots of impressionable minds all cooped up together with insufficient external stimulation. It certainly shouldn't penetrate the offices of the staff, though. We're supposed to know better.”

  “I know, I know,” he hissed, keeping his voice low, “it's just... They say that if you look her in the eye, you're doomed. That you'll soon die.”

  “I don't see fresh corpses piling up, do you?” she asked.

  “Apparently David Bradford was muttering something about seeing a little girl the other day,” he continued. “The man seemed otherwise quite sane and bright.”

  “People can surprise you.”

  “And then...”

  She waited for him to continue.

  “And then what?” she asked finally. “Did you... Please, Alistair, don't tell me that you think you saw a ghostly little girl?”

  “I saw something...”

  “And had you been drinking, by any chance?”

  “Of course not! I never drink at work. It was in your examination room, as a matter of fact. When the elevator doors closed on you last night, for just a moment, I saw a little girl's reflection, as if she was standing right behind me.”