Three For A Girl (Isabel Fielding Book 3)

by Sarah A. Denzil

  But I’m more uncertain about the future and where it will take us.

  “It’s what makes money these days,” I remind him. “And it makes children happy, don’t forget about that!”

  He grunts again.

  I remind myself not to take his grumps too seriously. They’re all for show. Seb has been nothing but attentive to the pumpkins he’s grown in preparation for Halloween, which is now less than a fortnight away. Every spare moment he has goes on those things.

  I take a sip of tea to hide my smile. “Go on. Don’t be late or your mum will blame me again.” My jaw tenses just thinking about Donna. About her disapproval of me living with her son.

  He plants another kiss on my head and a moment later I hear the familiar sounds of him pulling on his boots in the kitchen. I lean into the sofa and try to enjoy the tea while it’s hot. But I end up putting it on the coffee table as soon as the kitchen door closes firmly shut.

  If there was ever a time when a door opening or closing didn’t make my nerves tighten, I can’t remember one. Long ago, it was the sound of my father coming home. Now it signals solitude in the place where Isabel abducted me. Where I found James Gorden’s severed head on my doorstep. The dead birds on the windowsill. The envelope containing the magpie illustration. It all happened here, but when I’m with Seb, I can block it out.

  Whenever I’m alone in the house I can’t sit still. I head into the kitchen for a cleaning frenzy, scrubbing the kitchen counter even though it’s already clean. I bend down and clear out the dust bunnies behind the fridge, wipe down the shelves, attack the cobwebs in the corners of the room, and when the knock on the door comes, I almost fall from my stool. I’d forgotten all about Jess’s visit. Which means I’m a mess now that she’s arrived. Sweaty hair, dirty fingernails, the scent of bleach emanating from my body. But there’s nothing I can do about it. I quickly run my fingers through my ragged hair and open the door.

  “Hi,” she says, smiling broadly. “I’m Jess.”

  “So nice to meet you,” I reply, sticking out a hand. “Sorry, I started cleaning and got a bit lost in my thoughts. I’m all scruffy now. Come in, though.”

  “Oh, don’t worry about it. I’m a bit of a neat freak myself. It’s nice to know other people lose themselves in cleaning. I was starting to think there was something wrong with me.” She laughs, and I observe that she’s nervous about meeting me, and it feels so alien for someone else to be intimidated by me.

  I let out an appreciative laugh, partly to try and make her feel more at ease. “Can I get you anything? A cup of tea? Glass of water?”

  “Water would be great, thanks.”

  I watch her eyes roam around the kitchen, the way they linger at the door. She must be picturing the severed head on the doorstep. Everybody does. Seb has to stop hikers from taking photographs of our cottage.

  “It was so nice of you to let me meet you,” she says. “It must be a pretty weird feeling knowing that your life is going to be depicted on screen.”

  “It is a bit,” I admit. The tap splutters and water spills over the side of the glass.

  “These situations are always weird. It can’t be helped.” She takes the water and smiles, not commenting on the damp surface of the glass. “But you have my word that I’ll do everything I can to make this experience as painless as I possibly can.” It’s when her smile widens and small dimples form in her cheeks that I see the girl I remember from the TV show.

  Jess Hopkins used to be a child actor, and a pretty famous one at that. She was the daughter in a long running sitcom, one I grew up with. I remember wanting her clothes when she was a teen, and how I used to pull my hair into a high ponytail because that was how she used to do it. All of a sudden, I’m not nervous because she’s here to talk about Isabel, I’m nervous because she’s Jess Hopkins.

  “Do you want to go into the living room?”

  “Sure.”

  She follows me in, and we settle on the sofa.

  “Neal sent you the script, didn’t he?”

  “Yeah.”

  “What did you think?”

  I rub my hands together for a moment. “It’s very respectful, but not exactly true to life.”

  She nods. “The ending.”

  “Is there a reason why he changed it?”

  “Well, the main reason is to be respectful about what happened to you. But also, because it’s possible there might be a sequel if everything goes well.” She lifts her shoulders as though unconvinced a sequel will happen. “And as you know, there’s been a delay. There was a funding issue, but Neal has sorted that out now. It worked out for me and Cassie because we wanted more time to research anyway.”

  “And you still haven’t cast Tom.” Saying his name has a sombre effect on the atmosphere of the room. My missing son.

  “That’s right.” She takes a sip of water and places the glass on a coaster. “It’s a shame he’s not here to meet. Have you heard from him recently?”

  I shake my head.

  She moves on. “This initial meeting is to help me get to know you a bit better. I know you’ve had a lot of trauma in your life and I obviously don’t want to press you about that or make you feel uncomfortable, but at the same time it would be great to know more about you and how those experiences have shaped you as a person.”

  Her initial nerves seemed to have calmed, and she’s so direct that it’s almost disconcerting. I wasn’t expecting her to dive in like this, but then I’m not certain what I was expecting. She’s also much prettier than me, slimmer, and has eyes that are a different colour. She moves more fluidly, like a dancer. Her accent is nicer than mine, like a middle-class TV presenter. I can’t imagine her ever being me.

  “It’s… complicated,” I begin. “I have countless conflicting thoughts about everything and how it’s affected me. I suppose I should start with my mental health.” I pause, staring down at my hands, at the grime beneath my fingernails, the red tinge of my battered fingertips. My skin will peel tomorrow because I didn’t bother wearing rubber gloves.

  “Why don’t we go for a walk?” Jess suggests. “It’s a beautiful day outside. I put on my boots in case, it’d be a shame not to use them.”

  I agree, mainly because it gives me time to avoid her questions as we put on our coats and leave the house. The cold air greets us like a swift, but gentle, slap across the face.

  “The weather really turned this week,” she says. “Lead the way, Leah. You must know all the best walks around here.”

  “Seb is the real expert,” I admit. Intuitively, I take one of the paths he used to show me not long after Isabel escaped, when he’d take me on long, slow walks to help me heal. Even these fields, these moors, bring bad memories along with the good. I don’t block them out like I often do. Jess is here to hear me talk about the bad times. I need to let them in.

  “It must have been hard to be away from him when you were in witness protection.”

  “It was. I’d think about him a lot. He… he’s a decent man and I don’t think I would’ve made it through any of it without him.”

  “You should see the guy we have cast as Seb. Hot doesn’t even begin to describe it.” She smirks. “I have a strict rule about not dating co-stars. It’s going to be a struggle this time around.”

  She giggles like a teenager and for a moment it feels like we’ve known each other for years and all we’re doing is gossiping about the fittest boy in school.

  I allow my fingers to trail the yellowing leaves of a bush as we climb up the hill. With the bright sun overhead, I almost feel like it’s summer again, and unzip my jacket. My boots dampen with the dew of the grass. Jess helps me as we scramble up a few rocks and find a nice spot to sit.

  “I don’t want to give Isabel too much power over me,” I say finally. “But the truth is, she’s still here. She’s in my head. My dreams. I think about her far too often.”

  “I can imagine.”

  “I see her hurting my son every time I close my e
yes.”

  “Tom?”

  “Yes.”

  She nods.

  We’re silent for a while until Jess breaks that silence.

  “I want you to know that I understand elements of what you’re going through. Not in the same way. God, I would never claim that, but I went through things as a child that have forever changed me. And, yes, I still see his face when I close my eyes. I still feel the same pain.”

  “You do?”

  She nods her head. “PTSD is a bitch.”

  “I’m so sorry.”

  “It’s the reason why I wanted this part. I fought to get it. Neal wanted Anna Young from Seattle Stories, but I threw in my name and basically pestered him until I got the part.”

  “Anna Young? She’s American, isn’t she?”

  “Her London accent was terrible, apparently. Otherwise I might not be talking to you now.” She laughs.

  “Did she go full cockney?”

  She laughs again. “Yes, full cockney.”

  “I need to make a confession,” I say, after we’ve stopped laughing at Anna Young’s accent.

  “Go on then.”

  I pick up a stone and bounce it on the heel of my hand. “I’m not happy about the movie.” The stone drops to the ground and begins to roll down the hill. “Honestly, I think it’s too soon. Far too soon. Decades too soon. This is going to feed Isabel’s ego, and believe me, it’s big enough already.”

  “I swear, I wouldn’t be on board unless Neal had promised to be responsible about the way he’s telling this story.”

  “No, you don’t understand. Isabel isn’t simply dangerous, she’s incredibly intelligent. She’s escaped one secure institution.” I grimace, trying not to dwell on the fact. “She can manipulate or ingratiate herself to make people help her. You have no idea what she’s capable of, no one does, not truly.”

  Jess nods. “I get it. But she’s in prison now, and she can’t escape prison. No one escapes maximum security.”

  Not without help, I think. Not without manipulating someone until they make a mistake. I was the one who made the mistake before, and it resulted in even more murders. My stomach turns and I try not to let my thoughts dwell on the lives taken.

  But maybe Jess is right. Isabel is in a women’s prison and she’s one of the only Category A prisoners. She was even segregated for a long time, due to her numerous suicide attempts. I know that, in theory, there’s no way she could possibly escape. But I also know how resourceful she is. How persistent. How patient.

  “I think this film is irresponsible,” I continue. “I said as much in an email to Neal, and it’s why it’s taken so long for me to agree to meet with you. But that doesn’t mean I won’t meet with you again. I, umm… I guess curiosity got the best of me.”

  “It gets the best of the best of us,” she says with a laugh. “Look, remember that you’re here and she’s in prison. You survived. You’re much stronger than you think you are.”

  I want to believe her.

  Chapter Two

  Isabel

  “Fielding?”

  5am and there’s Rick the Dick yelling through the door, banging his skinny hand against the metal. I roll over in bed like I’m supposed to do, to show them that I haven’t died in the night. Every single one of us has to do this at 5am and 6am. The 6am roll call is because of changeover. The night staff go, and the day staff arrive. Prison is almost as boring as Crowmont Hospital, but at least the inmates come up with wicked nicknames for the guards here.

  Rick the Dick is the kind of long, thin man who leans over you and breathes coffee breath in your face when he talks. He’s the sort who’ll try to be your mate. Fat Jan isn’t that sort. No, she’s forever on guard, one hand perpetually hovering above her walkie-talkie like it’s a gun. Then there’s Gabby-zilla, Fat Elvis and Fiona Forehead. They’re the main crew who never leave. Others come and go before the prisoners can think up a new nickname.

  When the screws – yes, I’m truly one of the inmates now, even using the lingo – are satisfied with roll call, our doors are unlocked at 7:45. Breakfast is one slice of bread and butter. Everyone here is fucking starving, that’s why they all eat dehydrated noodles for breakfast.

  I shuffle out of my cell and head down to the kitchen, receiving my toast and butter while Fat Jan watches me from the other side of the room. I see her pencilled eyebrows wherever I go.

  “How are you today, Miss?” I ask her. The inmates seem to have adopted a schoolroom mentality towards the guards. When we’re being polite, it’s “Miss”.

  “Can’t complain. Did you sleep okay?”

  I sometimes wonder whether Jan has been tasked with keeping an eye on me herself, the way she follows me around with that sour look on her face, her back always straight, her large breasts poking forwards.

  “That mattress is a torture device,” I say. “Any chance of a new one?”

  “I’ll find out for you.”

  “Thanks, Miss.”

  “It’s your big day today isn’t it?”

  I nod my head and smile. Then I finger the rosary around my neck.

  “Well, hope it goes well for you,” she says with a stiff nod.

  “Thanks, Miss. I’m a bit nervous to be honest.”

  “I’m positive it’ll be fine.”

  “Yeah, it’s a big deal though, isn’t it? It’s not every day that you accept Jesus Christ and absolve of your sins.”

  Jan glances away when I say that. I can see the way her stomach flipped at the thought of my “sins”. “I hope it goes well for you, Isabel,” she repeats, her tone implying she hopes no such thing.

  “Don’t worry, I know it doesn’t absolve me of everything. But it helps me see that what I did was evil. I don’t want to be evil anymore, Miss.”

  “That’s good, Isabel.” She edges away from me, backing away like prey suddenly aware of the hunter before them.

  “See you later then, Miss,” I say brightly, making my way back to my cell with the toast. It’s best not to leave the cell alone for too long when the inmates are milling around. Things get stolen all the time. Back inside my tiny room, I sit down on the mattress and wait, knowing I won’t be alone for long.

  It’s Genna with a G who comes in without asking. But I suppose we’ve come to some sort of comfortable arrangement in that way. We’ve been cell neighbours since I came out of the segregation unit six months ago, which she wasn’t happy about at first. No one wanted to be near the magpie murderer. According to the rumours, she’s psycho.

  “Got any noodles?” she asks, scratching her upper arms and pacing back and forth.

  “On the shelf,” I nod.

  “Thanks.” It comes out “fanks”. “You all right?” She doesn’t give me a chance to answer. “I’m right nervous. Can’t believe it’s come ‘round so fast.” She shakes her head and the greasy hair around her shoulders ripples back and forth.

  Genna and I are being baptised together. It was her who told me about the chaplain and how she made a lot of sense. After going with her to the chapel to pray, I found that I had to agree. Genna is a drug addict. Believing in a higher power has some weight over her decision as to whether to take drugs again or not.

  The problem is, her addiction is still the most powerful force in her world, and all she’s done now is add an extra layer of guilt to her life.

  “It’ll be fine,” I say. “Chaplain Ari will be there to help us. She’ll tell us what to say and when to say it.”

  She sniffs and scratches her chin. “I know, but, right. When I was four, I pissed myself in front of assembly, so I don’t like this public talking thing.”

  “Well, I’ll go first if you like.”

  “All right then, yeah. All right. That’s better. What time is it again?”

  “2pm.” I take a bite out of my toast. She’s asked me this five times in the last two days. “You know that.”

  She shakes her head again and then crumples the packet of noodles in her hands. “I know.
” Her eyes roam over the walls of my cell. “New picture?” She nods to a pastoral of a farm nestled in a valley.

  “I did it yesterday in art therapy.”

  “Not bad. You should sell ‘em.”

  “No, that’s okay. I send some of them to my mum.”

  She grimaces. “What do you want to send them to that cow for? It’s not like she visits you.”

  It’s sweet that Genna with a G seems to like “having my back” but at the same time I don’t quite understand why. Still, I can’t suppress the smile her words ignite.

  “At least it keeps me busy,” I say, broadening that smile.

  “It’s the boredom, innit? Gets to ya.”

  “Are you craving, Genna?”

  She nods her head too many times. “It’s this fucking christening, innit? How am I ‘sposed to get through the fucking thing without a fix?”

  “Do you want more noodles, Genna?”

  She pauses, sniffs again. “Yeah, all right.”

  “Take what you need.”

  “All right, well. You’re rich so it don’t matter that much I guess.”

  “It’s our secret, Genna. Remember that.”

  “Sure.” But her eyes are glazed, staring at the packets of noodles. She isn’t hungry, but she knows they can be used as currency in this prison. Money, noodles, cigarettes, chocolate. All can be exchanged for drugs.

  “See you later, Genna.”

  She grabs as many packets as she can carry and hurries out of the cell. I finish my toast and pick up a book to read until it’s time to go to work.

  We have pointless jobs inside the prison. Some people work in the kitchen, others cultivate a vegetable patch, some even take care of a chicken coop on the grounds, but I’m a cleaner. The screws don’t want me around knives. My weapon these days is a mop and bucket.