When the unit starts to come alive outside my cell, I know it’s time to get moving. I leave my room, make my way along the corridors and watch people as they recognise friends from other units passing them along the way. Backs are slapped, cheeks are kissed, voices squeal in delight. None of these people want to leave because all their friends are here. They feel safe here, where they have a routine and know where their next meal is coming from. I’m the only thorn in their side, one of the few female serial killers locked up for life, a dangerous anomaly in their life of security.
“Keep it moving ladies.” Today the screw watching us is a tall, skinny young man. Not Rick the Dick. I forget his name, but he’s a try hard, and the inmates don’t respect him. I see the side-eyes and chuckles directed at him as he makes his way through the prison. Soon he’ll be potted and then he’ll probably transfer.
Potting is not an activity that I take part in. Let it be known that I, Isabel Fielding, take umbrage at the disgusting practice where a guard is showered with collected urine, usually kept in a bottle or a bucket. Prisoners work together on this, blocking a CCTV camera, distracting the guards, and luring one away for the ambush. Then someone will throw the urine over their faces. Last time Genna with a G asked me to help and I outright refused. But, however disgusting I find the practice, I do applaud the ingenuity of the operation.
The day goes by quickly. I mop the floors, working rhythmically, mind elsewhere, on more important things. Owen sent me a letter when I was first brought here. Keep your head down and do what you’re told, was the gist. He said that they’ll hate me. They’ll never trust me. But truth be told, I don’t need trust.
Lunch is a basic sandwich, eaten with a considerably calmer Genna, who shares some noodles with me as a thank you. And afterwards, we make our way to the chapel.
“Look out, Fat Jan’s about,” Genna says with a giggle.
The most potted of all the guards, and yet she’s still here, still throwing her weight around like the OG of the prison system. Genna taught me the term “OG”.
“Fat Jan on the prowl, nothing but a foul growl,” she adds, in a strange rap-like voice. Then she laughs again.
“I think maybe you need to get it together, Genna.” I hiss. How did the task of keeping Genna lucid fall to me? I stare at the rest of the group stumbling into the chapel like zombies and see no one who could help.
“You’re right,” she says, slurring slightly. “Sorry, Izza.”
I grind my teeth together. Of all the ways to shorten my name, which is a perfectly adequate name to begin with, she’s chosen Izza.
“I’ll be all right. You know me,” she says. “You know me.”
We walk up the aisle between the pews like two brides, or two mourners, I can’t decide which is most apt. In front of us is the cross, built out of simple wood. No intricate carvings or depictions of bible characters. I find that I can’t keep my eyes away from it, that it holds some sort of control over me. Symbols hold a special kind of power and this one suggests numerous topics. Life. Death. Resurrection. Guilt. Sins. Absolution. Atonement. The sight of it makes me meditative and, for the first time in a while, my thoughts drift back to Leah and the expression on her face when I told her the story of how I found out my father was a serial killer, the way she leaned into my cell at Crowmont Hospital, with pity all over her face. The sadness of it all.
Someone sent me a book through the post, but according to Jan, the sender remained anonymous. The book is about a drug addict trying hard to get clean. He slips, gets high, sells drugs to a teenage girl who ODs and dies. He feels so guilty that he almost kills himself. Later, he saves the life of the teenage girl’s orphaned daughter and afterwards he spends the rest of his life doing good deeds to atone, even though he doesn’t quite find peace. The addiction is always there to nag at him no matter what he does. When he wakes up in the morning, his first thought is always about drugs.
Will I have the impulse to kill all of my life? Or can I stop it?
I look around at the people in the room. I could steal a knife, or fashion one, and go to town in this room on these people. How many of them could I stab before I’m restrained? How many lives could I take? There’s no death penalty in this country, I’d simply be kept in the segregation unit, probably for the rest of my life. But realistically how many could I kill? Three? Four? Five?
We take the nearest pew to the altar. My heart is fluttering in my rib cage, and it seems to me as though the chapel is filled with blood. Genna chews on the inside of her cheek and I nudge her with my elbow. We begin to sing.
Soon I’ll say the words. I’ll repent all my evil acts and promise to walk in the light. I’ll begin to atone.
Chapter Three
Leah
Alison Finlay, the murdered woman, lays below me on the grass, her blood barely visible in the night. My hands are dirty with it, or it could be mud, I’m not sure. The ground is damp, my bare feet are wet. The knife lies nestled amongst the reeds of grass, its metallic edge finding a thin sliver of moonlight. Then a cloud drifts across the sky and the moon turns as black as the blood.
“Come away now, sis.”
I turn my head to the left to see Tom’s pale hand reaching for me in the darkness. Part of me wants to grasp it and pull him to me, but then I see the second person at his side. She’s smaller than him, around my height, and there’s no shock or fear on her face, merely a blank expression. Eyes as wide as I remember. A pleasantness to the shape of her mouth, as though she’s about to tell me a sweet secret. Isabel. With her hand entwined with Tom’s. But what I don’t understand, is why.
I wake gasping for air, the sour tang of sweat lingering around me like vapour, the back of my neck still damp. Seb snores away, blissfully unaware of my tumultuous thoughts, missing the way my chest heaves up and down as I catch my breath. Blood and mud mingled, the smell of rust, the light of the moon fading, and Tom and Isabel watching… Pushing myself up against the pillow, I rest back against the headboard and massage my temples, trying to rub away the memory of the nightmare. The imprint it left on me. But I already know that this one is going to linger.
At least Seb is here. And, truly, I can’t blame him for not waking. The man has been working himself so hard that sleep is more like a collapse in exhaustion at the end of the day. Transitioning from a working farm to events management is taking him every waking hour and he sleeps like the dead now. Not even my tossing and turning can disturb him.
The day had may as well commence, the dream was nothing but a dream, and I can’t allow it to get to me. I get out of bed and walk slowly on stiff legs to the kitchen. Recently, I’ve often been waking to find my calf muscles cramped up, like I’ve slept in a curled-up position, tense as a coiled spring. I hobble into the kitchen and grab the pill bottles from the kitchen counter, swallowing down my daily cocktail with a tall glass of water. They may stop me from hallucinating, but they do nothing for the dreams that haunt me each night.
At 5am on a chilly October morning, the light outside is still as dark as midnight. Soon Seb’s alarm will vibrate through the ceiling. I’ve mostly learned to adjust to a farmer’s routine, but my stomach gurgles and complains about being up so early. I pour another glass of water and then grab some bread for the toaster.
Jess is visiting again today. I said we’d walk to the farmhouse where Isabel tried to torture and kill me, which hadn’t seemed so bad on the phone. Now, after the nightmare, even thinking about it makes the scars on my back itch. I remember sleeping on my belly for over a week while the scars healed. The swoop of the wings she carved into my flesh. I think of the way Seb runs his fingers along them, plants small kisses on them, softly telling me to retake the power from Isabel, to own those scars. Wear them. Be proud. Even Jess reminded me of how I survived. I’m out here, living freely amongst the beauty of the countryside, while Isabel is trapped in prison. But those thoughts don’t make me feel any better.
The toast is buttered by the time Seb comes downs
tairs, and we eat quickly and quietly together. He kisses me before he leaves and stares deeply into my eyes, checking for any cracks. I nestle my head in his neck and whisper that I’m okay. And then he’s gone, because we both know that he can’t be with me every hour of the day. If I’m going to move on from my nightmares, the healing must come from within.
At least I have plans to see Jess again. It’s been over a week since we last met and I felt a connection with her that took me by surprise. It’s been a while since I made a friend. Hutton village isn’t always the most welcoming place, especially for the nurse who accidentally released a serial killer into the world. I haven’t made friends since being in Clifton. Even though I exchange emails with Mark, I haven’t seen him since George’s funeral.
The tears come on suddenly, and I find myself gripping the counter, bent over the sink, tears dropping onto the porcelain. And as soon as they come, I wipe them away, clear my throat and start tidying up the breakfast dishes.
These short, sharp moments of grief happen almost every day. Sometimes I cry for George, who died not long after finding new family members to love, other times I cry for James Gorden and Alison Finlay and everyone else who died because I made a terrible mistake, and sometimes I even cry for Isabel, who was failed a long time ago by the people who should have given her a happy, healthy childhood. But I always cry for Tom, and I always cry for me.
***
Jess arrives before lunch, dressed in a wax overcoat and rubber boots. I whip up some ham sandwiches to take with us. She has an aluminium bottle filled with water that makes a strange shushing sound when she unscrews the cap.
She picks up fallen leaves as we walk, takes pictures of the spider webs on the trees, the dew on the grass, feathers caught on barbed wire.
“I know it’s super pretentious,” she says. “But it gives me a lasting reminder of what this place is like. The feel of it. The soul of it.”
“That’s a magpie feather,” I tell her. “I can’t stand the sight of them anymore.” I think about Tom with the feather in his back pocket. The dead magpie he tried to “save” and how strange all of that was. Then my mind drifts back to my dream, where Tom and Isabel were hand in hand, staring down at Alison Finlay’s lifeless body. A shiver runs down my spine.
“Are you all right?” Jess leans over and places a hand on my shoulder, her eyebrows pulled together in concern.
“It’s been a while since I came here, to the farmhouse. I haven’t faced it for a long time.”
“I’m so sorry,” she says. “Maybe we can go back. Perhaps this is too soon.”
“No,” I reply, her concern lighting a fire of stubbornness, that I can do this, that I won’t allow Isabel to ruin my life. “Come on. Let’s go.”
She nods, and we set off up the hill, tracing my footsteps back to that place.
“I don’t remember the direction I ran away from the old house,” I say. “It was so dark that I couldn’t see anything. Most of the time, I knew I wasn’t on the path. I could feel the uneven surface underfoot.”
“You were naked.”
“Pretty much, yeah. Covered in blood. Tom had stabbed David Fielding, killing him, and I was wearing his jacket. I had a mixture of mine and David’s blood all over my body. God, I must have looked a sight.” I shake my head, continuing slowly. “We were running away from the farmhouse. I thought she was unconscious but then I heard her, calling my name in her sing-song voice.”
Jess lets out a long breath. “Jesus.”
“We fought. I remember so much of it. I thought I would forget, but I didn’t. I remember stabbing the knife into her thigh, the way we kicked and hit each other. She taunted me. Said I wasn’t a killer.”
Jess’s face pales. She stares out at the moors, no doubt imagining the tussle.
“I told you, she’s dangerous. She looks like a slip of a thing, like butter wouldn’t melt. But inside, she’s dark and twisted up.”
“Do you hate her?” she asks.
My fingers wrap around the sleeve of my jacket and I twist it inside my fist. “Yes.”
That moment in the cave, when I’d already stabbed her in the neck, and then I pushed her head under the water, feeling her thrashing body as she almost drowned. It was a moment I’ll never forget. Jess is quiet for a few moments, and when I pull myself back from my thoughts, I understand why. I’d started walking faster and she was struggling to keep up with me. I slowed and allowed her to catch up.
“Sorry,” I say. “I’ve grown so accustomed to these hills that I can storm up them now.”
She laughs. “I guess I need to hit the gym.”
During the last few minutes of the walk, we idly talk about how directors often ask for actors to lose weight before a role. “It’s never a character choice,” she says. “They just want you to look fuckable from every angle.” One casting agent even told Jess that she should get a boob job because her “tits were saggy”.
“I was eighteen years old,” she says. “They weren’t saggy, they were real.”
That conversation brought us to the abandoned building, and I was glad for the distraction, because the enormity of it could have caused me to turn away and go back. Instead I stand up straight and face it without wanting to run away. My legs feel strong, like I could walk all over the grounds of it and barely tremble. But at the same time, the cold nips at my exposed skin here. I wrap my arms around my body.
“I got lucky that night,” I say, as we slowly enter the crumbling building. I take her into the same room where Isabel tied me up and started to torture me in front of Tom. “If the pulley system they’d rigged hadn’t pulled down part of the ceiling, I never would’ve escaped. And Tom wouldn’t have made it out of David’s grip to help me.”
Jess takes a step into the centre of the room and stares up at the ceiling. She circles the room, taking in every detail.
“Do you mind if I take some photos?”
“No, go for it.”
I force myself to watch her rather than let my mind wander back to that night. Jess’s presence is a comfort in a place where such a terrible thing occurred. If I allow it, I think about Tom’s scared face. The warm blood on my back.
When Jess is done taking photos she walks over and pulls me into a hug. It’s a welcome gift. The gift of warmth in a cold, cold place.
“I’m surprised Seb’s family haven’t knocked it down,” she says as we make our way out of the building.
“There is a plan to do exactly that, but they’ve been too busy to arrange it recently. Meanwhile, we keep getting serial killer fanatics coming here to spend the night and post updates on Instagram.”
Jess shakes her head. “People.”
“If the place collapses on them, they’ll no doubt sue the Braithwaites. Or try to. Josh comes up to throw them out most weekends.”
Jess sighs. “They’re scummy, don’t get me wrong. But I kind of get it.” She lifts her arms and looks up at the ceiling. “There’s a weight to this place. The air crackles.”
I roll my head from one shoulder to the other, trying to suppress a shiver. And we begin to make our way out. “If nothing terrible had happened here, it’d be nothing more than another broken-down building in the countryside.”
She nods.
I take a deep breath when we emerge from the old building, enjoying the sight of the stretching moor, the hint of the Braithwaite’s farm in the distance. “I’m glad we came.”
“Yeah?”
“I have another memory of this place now. A better one.”
Jess grins. “I’m so glad.” She picks up a stone from the perimeter and slips it into her bag, then takes a gulp of water. “Have you had anymore thoughts about the movie? I can take any feedback to Neal.”
I mull this over for a moment. “No, I still feel the same way.”
“They’ve cast Tom now,” she says.
My eyebrows raise. “Have they?”
“A fantastic young actor. He’ll do a great job. Your son’s l
egacy is going to be protected.”
I close my eyes for a moment, wishing I hadn’t told Neal about my past, but I felt it had to be represented if the film was going to be made. But I need to tell Tom before the movie comes out. I need to warn him, and I have no idea where he is. Not even DCI Murphy has been able to locate him. After sifting through sightings of young men with a birthmark, nothing came up. It’s never the right young man with a birthmark.
“This is kind of awkward,” she says, “but I need to tell you. We’re going to start filming in three weeks. As soon as Freddy, the actor cast to play Tom, feels comfortable with the accent and the part. We’re good to go.”
I shove my hands deep down into my pockets, stretching the interior fabric of my coat. “Okay.”
“I know you don’t feel great about it, but I swear we’re going to do right by your family. I swear it.”
I have no doubt that she means it, and that her heart is in the right place. But ultimately, I’m not too naïve to know that the decision isn’t in her hands.
Chapter Four
Isabel
“You’re looking skinny, Fielding,” Jan observes.
I suppress the desire to roll my eyes, and make a retort about her own weight, but instead I wonder what my father would have made of her. He hated those people with a modicum of power who thought they ran the world. The ones who have a jauntiness to their walk. Cocksure, chin high, nose up in the air. He wouldn’t have killed Jan, because too many people would notice her disappearance, but he would have hated her. He would have imagined what it was like to take her life and then use that hatred on a poor homeless prostitute somewhere.
“Thank you,” I say, suppressing all of those thoughts. “A few of the girls showed me a new work out.”
“Oh, is that right? Well, it’s clearly working.” She shuffles some papers in her hands, still standing outside the cell. Screws don’t come into the cell unless they have to. “You’ve got post, today. Lucky you. Is it your birthday?”
Three For A Girl (Isabel Fielding Book 3) Page 3
