The Prison

by Amy Cross

  “Damn it,” she muttered, frustrated by her disability, “just get in!”

  For almost an entire minute, she fumbled with her shaking hands, but finally she managed to get the door open.

  “Good evening, Christine,” she said as she entered the next room and pushed the door shut. “I trust that you had a pleasant day. I know you can hear me, so we'll dispense with any foolishness. How did it feel to have your wounds being cleaned by the closest thing to a friend that you have in this place? Is it comforting, or does it merely seem vaguely tragic? I could see it from either point of view.”

  Making her way over to Chris's bed, she looked down at the blood-stained bandage that covered the girl's face.

  “Still leaking, I see,” she continued. “That's unfortunate. I just don't understand what's wrong with you. Everything I do, every attempt I make to cauterize and fix your wounds, it all goes to waste.” She reached down and began to loosen the bandage, before pulling it away to reveal the ravaged face beneath. Leaning closer, she peered at the eye-sockets. “Only half full this time. That's a slight improvement, I suppose.”

  Smiling, she dipped a shaking finger-tip into one of the sockets, coating the very end with blood before bringing the finger to her lips and holding her tongue out.

  “Huh,” she said finally, “it tastes rather good. I hope that gives you some comfort, Christine. You might not realize it, but you're doing some very useful work for me here. Tell me, though, how is the pain?”

  Grabbing a fresh syringe, she filled it from a nearby bottle and then slid the needle into the side of Chris's neck.

  “I still hear your little groans, you know, and I suppose they're still your best attempt at a scream. It must be so difficult to have all that energy directed inward, but I simply can't have you raising a fuss, can I? There'd be plenty of do-gooders rushing to help if they heard the pain you're in, and I can't possibly allow that. Don't worry, though, it won't last forever. I'm so close to using you for your final purpose, and when that happens... There'll be no more pain, no more suffering. I know you're in a dark place right now, but soon I'll allow you to sink so deep, your mind will fall apart entirely. Then again, I can only imagine what state you're in at the moment. Perhaps the fragmentation of Christine Bradford has already begun.”

  She paused for a moment, before leaning closer and gently pressing her lips against the raw, pink flesh of her patient's ruined face, and giving her a brief, gentle kiss. As Chris moaned with pain, Doctor Bell sat back.

  “I thought would make everything better,” she continued, checking her watch. “Did it hurt instead? I'm so sorry. Anyway, you'll just have to be patient, I have somewhere to be, so if you don't mind...” Heading to the door, she glanced back at Chris. “Good night. Tomorrow I have something very special planned, something that will help make sense of all the pain you've been enduring. Until then, sweet dreams, and wish me luck. Oh, did I forget to tell you? I'm going on a date!”

  ***

  “One more,” James said, gesturing to the barman.

  “You sure?”

  “Just one. Why? Do I seem drunk to you?”

  “Not drunk,” the barman replied as he grabbed a bottle of bourbon and began to refill James's glass, “just... worse, you seem sad. I don't mind serving drunks, but people who are sad... Well, it just seems wrong.”

  “I'm just catching up on some work,” James told him, as he looked down at the papers he'd laid out on the bar. “I figured it'd be easier to concentrate if I was here. The house is too...” He glanced at the photo of Amanda that was on one of the old news cuttings about the case. “Ghosts,” he added under his breath.

  “I heard about her,” the barman replied, putting the lid back on the bourbon bottle. “That's the woman who cut up her two little babies, isn't it?”

  “Allegedly,” he replied. “She didn't actually do it.”

  “Oh? I could've sworn I heard that she got put away. Life in prison, wasn't it?”

  “That doesn't mean she did it.”

  “But I thought she confessed and -”

  “She still didn't do it!” he said firmly, almost losing his temper. “I'm sorry, can I just get back to work? I've got so much here to read, and I need to have it ready for tomorrow in case she lets me...” He paused. “I just need to get it done.”

  “No worries,” the barman replied, as another customer came through the door. “Just let me know if you need a top-up.”

  Looking down at the article on repressed memories, James tried to get back into the zone. He'd been in the bar for several hours now, knocking back whiskeys as he trawled through medical articles about cases that seemed similar to Amanda's, but although he kept telling himself that the alcohol wasn't affecting him, he could tell that his concentration levels were dipping dangerously low. Frowning, he got to the end of a paragraph, only to start it again since he'd not managed to take in any of the information; when he finished the paragraph for a second time, he realized it had happened again.

  “Damn it,” he muttered, taking another sip of whiskey. “Come on.”

  After a moment, he realized that a faint glimmer of light was dancing on the page, as if it was being reflected by something shaky.

  Turning, he saw that the smartly-dressed woman a few stools along was wearing a metallic watch, and her shaking hand was causing the irritating reflection.

  Suddenly she turned to him, and then she looked at the patch of light.

  “Oh,” she said, “I'm so sorry, was I doing that? It must have been the most annoying thing in the entire world.”

  “It's fine,” he replied, “really.”

  “I just wasn't thinking,” she continued, slipping the watch off and dropping it into her pocket. “My hands have been shaky for so long, I kind of don't even notice anymore, like it's become a part of who I am. Not unless I'm dealing with a patient, anyway, and then...” She paused. “Too much information, I guess. Please, I'm sorry I disturbed you.”

  He watched as she looked back down at her drink, but a moment later she looked over at him again.

  “Sorry,” he said, turning back to the article.

  “What are you reading about?” she asked.

  “Nothing much. Autonomic repressed memory syndromes.”

  “That's a fascinating subject area,” the woman replied. “I did some research into it when I was in school. I even wrote a paper on the subject, but I didn't pursue it too far since, well, other things sort of got in the way. I still remember a few of the most important issues, though.”

  “You're a doctor?” he asked.

  “For my sins.” She smiled. “Actually, I have a background in neuro-science. My aim all through medical school was to become a surgeon, although things didn't pan out that way. Do you mind if I ask why you're reading about this particular subject? It's not something that people go over in bars usually.”

  “It's a long story,” he replied.

  “People always say that like it's a bad thing,” she told him, getting up from her stool and walking over to join him. Her figure-hugging black dress left little to the imagination, especially with the amount of cleavage on display, which became even more prominent as she leaned over to take a closer look at the papers on the bar. “Long stories are the best, don't you think?” she continued as she scanned the titles of the articles. “They give you more to sink your teeth into.”

  “I'm just looking for any information I can find about repressed memories in times of stress,” he told her.

  “Why? Are you -”

  Pausing, she reached out and picked up the old newspaper cutting that showed Amanda's face.

  “I read about this poor woman,” she continued. “She was accused of that dreadful murder, wasn't she? The one with the two darling little babies and -”

  “Yes,” James said quickly, interrupting her. “That's her, she's...” He paused, feeling a little restless. Having never really talked to anyone about Amanda's case before, it felt strange to be opening u
p to this woman, but something about her put him at ease. “She's my wife,” he said finally.

  “Oh.”

  “Oh,” he replied with a frustrated smile. “That's what everyone says when they find out. Oh. Like they've got no idea how else to react.”

  “I'm so sorry.”

  “Why?”

  “Because... Well, I mean, they were your children too, weren't they?”

  He nodded.

  “To lose them in such a horrible way, and then to effectively lose your wife as well -”

  “I haven't lost her,” he replied firmly. “I'm going to get her out of there.”

  “Out of prison? How do you intend to do that? A file hidden in a cheesecake?”

  “She didn't do it,” he continued. “I know she confessed, but that's just because she's got other problems. I don't fully understand, but basically the situation made her believe that she must be responsible, even though she doesn't actually have any memories of the incident itself.”

  “I see. But...” She paused. “I mean, she was the only one in the house with the children when it happened, wasn't she?”

  “Yes, but -”

  “And from what I remember reading, the gap in her memory is supposed to be only a few seconds, isn't it? A minute at most.”

  “Yes, but that still -”

  “So even if she repressed the memory of those events, surely it's highly improbable that someone else could have broken into the house, killed the children, and then left without being seen. I understand that you want to exonerate your wife, but... Surely there comes a point where you have to accept the obvious?”

  “You think I'm wrong,” he replied. “You're not the first. Basically everyone else, including her parents, has written her off.”

  “I think you obviously love her very much. You love her with all your heart and she's a very lucky young woman, but still...”

  James looked down at the papers, and for the first time he felt a hint of doubt creeping into his soul. Until that very moment, he'd never even contemplated the possibility that Amanda might have killed the children, that the woman he loved so much might be capable of such a horrific act, but now... Deep in his gut, there was a deep, dark twisting sensation, and he began to feel as if he was barely even himself anymore. It was as if there was a threshold approaching, and if he began to consider the possibility that Amanda was guilty, he might never be able to stop.

  “I'm sorry,” the woman said after a moment, “I've clearly opened my mouth a little too -”

  “No,” he replied quickly, “it's fine, I just...” He stared at the photo of Amanda. “She won't let me see her,” he said finally.

  “I'm sorry?”

  “I go to visit her every weekday, and I sit there waiting but she refuses to come out and even say hello. It's like she's trying to push me away.”

  “Maybe she just feels guilty.”

  “She didn't do anything,” he replied, although he could hear the uncertainty in his own voice. “She can't have, she loved the children so much...”

  “Then perhaps she's sick,” the woman replied, “or... No, I suppose I shouldn't say that.”

  “Say what?”

  “Just that maybe you don't really know her as well as you think you do. I mean, people are capable of surprising us, aren't they? Even when they've been in our lives for a long time.”

  “I've known Amanda since we were both at school,” he replied. “We grew up together, we were childhood sweethearts, we got married so young, too young most people said, and -”

  “And you don't want to admit that you might have been duped,” she continued. “I understand that, but at the same time, it sounds like she's trying to get rid of you. Maybe she's accepted what she did and she just wants you to do the same?”

  “I think she just wants me to move on,” he replied. “It's her way of trying to get me to start a new life, but I can't do that. I have to help her.”

  “She doesn't need your help,” the woman told him. “It sounds to me like you really do need to let go.” She stared at him for a moment, with a faint smile on her lips. “Why don't you come home with me?” she asked finally.

  He turned to her.

  “I believe in being up-front and direct,” she continued, “so let me make this very easy for you to understand. I'm having one of those nights, and I could really use some company in bed. I've got a good body, I know how to please a man, and I'm most certainly not the type of woman who gets clingy in the morning. It will absolutely be a one night stand, and I think it could be just the thing that you need to help you move on with your life.”

  “I really -”

  “If your wife could see you now, she'd beg you to take me up on this. She'd realize that it's the best offer you're going to get, and that for your own sake as well as hers, you need to move on. It's not pity sex, it's...” She bit her bottom lip for a moment. “It's just a bit of fun.”

  “I appreciate the sentiment,” he replied, feeling a little embarrassed, “but -”

  “Come on,” she continued, reaching up and pulling one side of her dress away to expose her left breast, before covering it again. “I'm just offering some pure, adult fun for a few hours. Let's get hot and sweaty, and let me show you that there's life after the tragedy that struck your life. If you don't do it now, you're only going to have to do it later, and then it might be too late. Right now, right here, you've got someone who's very much willing to do this with you.”

  “Look, I don't even know your name -”

  “Deborah.”

  “Okay, Deborah, this is really flattering -”

  “It's my hands, isn't it?” she replied, with a hurt look in her eyes.

  “I'm sorry?”

  Holding her hands up to the light, she turned them over so he could see that not only were they trembling, but they were covered in scars.

  “Don't be sorry,” she continued, with tears in her eyes. “I guess I should have known better. I throw myself at men all the time, but they usually turn me down. I always see the exact moment, too, when they realize that I'm hiding such ugliness. I know my hands are hideous -”

  “They're not hideous,” he replied, “it's just -”

  “This is why I had to abandon my plans to be a surgeon. The nerve damage was too great.”

  “Listen, I -”

  “I have other burns too,” she told him. “My legs, my inner thighs, my belly. I showed you my left breast because it's the only one that's...” Pausing, she pulled the other side of her dress away, revealing a burned and damaged breast with a large scar where there had once been a nipple. “Look at me,” she continued, keeping her voice low. “There was a fire, years ago, when I was at college. My room-mate was caught up in it, and when the firemen managed to get to us they found me standing by her bed, desperately trying to reach through the flames and get hold of her. I don't remember things too well, but I'm pretty sure they had to drag me away kicking and screaming. Perhaps I would have died if they'd not arrived in time.”

  “I'm sorry to hear that,” James replied, looking over to see that the barman was busy changing the channel on the TV, “but I don't see what I can do to help you.”

  “Make love to me,” she continued. “We both need it.”

  “I really can't just -”

  “Don't you think I've learned to compensate for my scars?” she asked. “I know they make me hideous, but Jesus Christ, I've learned better than anyone how to do other things. Sure, I've got burns on more than half my body, but I make up for that in so many other ways.” With that, she leaned toward him and tried to initiate a kiss, but he pulled back. “We're both damaged people,” she whispered, “and we both need to move on with our lives. Even if you don't feel like it, even if you think it's wrong, can't you just give it a try? I promise you, in the morning you'll feel so much better. After all, when was the last time you were with a woman?”

  “I don't want to move on with my life,” he told her. “I want to get it ba
ck.”

  “Why? Was it really so great? Was Amanda such a wonderful human being that you can't imagine ever being with another?”

  “She was... She is... my wife. That means something to me.”

  She stared at him for a moment, almost as if she was trying to read his mind.

  “You really love her, don't you?” she said finally, as if she found the idea shocking. “My God, it's a rare thing... Love so strong, so blind, that it can withstand anything that's thrown at it. I swear, I didn't really think people loved one another that way in the modern world. I thought everyone was just so transitory and impatient, but you really love your wife.”

  “I understand how this must seem,” he replied, choosing his words carefully, “and you probably think I'm pathetic, but I'm determined to prove that she's innocent and to get her out of prison. Yes, I know I might be deluded, I might be wrong, but I love her and I refuse to believe that she'd ever do anything so horrific. So you see, I have to keep going until I work out what really happened. I have to keep faith in her, even if she wants me to move on.”

  “I've never met anyone who felt true love for someone before,” she said with a hint of sadness in her voice, before taking a step back. “I can't imagine how it feels, but I can only hope that you succeed, and that she's worth everything that you're giving up for her, because... You might not realize it yet, but you're giving up a hell of s lot. One might even say that you're giving up everything, and for what? Some child-killing monster who deserves to rot with the rest of the scum in that prison.”

  “She's my wife,” he said firmly, “and I'm getting her out of there.”

  ***

  “Goddamn woman,” he muttered, hurrying away from the bar.