Shattered Memories

by Susan Harris

  Growing up, I watched my father leave for work every day and travel the short distance from our little village on the outskirts of the Underage Unit. I was privileged enough to have had a great education and knew from early on that I would follow in his footsteps and become a serving member of the UPDC. Always the observant child, I absorbed information from an early age and was eager to please. When I turned sixteen, they gave me the entrance test to see where I would fit in the program. I was delighted to be assigned to the Retrieval Team.

  Being a member of that elite team meant that I got to travel the world on behalf of the Grand Masters of Justice and bring criminals back to the Island. I learned all about weapons, retrieval techniques, and how to disarm or subdue a reluctant prisoner. One of the officers told me that I had finished top of my class at the academy, a full year ahead of schedule. I had a promising future ahead of me… well, I used to. It’s strange that I remember all of those early events but nothing that happened during the last year.

  I forced my eyes to open as the cell door slid with a familiar whirl as the guard barely paused to check on me before he toddled off to the next cell. Pushing away from the wall, I stood and stretched out my tired limbs while slipping bare feet into plain black shoes and pulling the round neck sweater over my head. Black attire from head to toe was standard for death row prisoners. Inmates who wore red were dangerous offenders, in for rape, assault, and mental health issues. Those wearing blue were light offenders, in for robbery and weapons charges. Green jumpsuits indicated drug offences, either for distribution or using.

  Wrapping my arms around myself, I stepped out of the cell and watched from the landing. From the outside of the cell, the mess hall was visible below where we all converged for meal times. Since I arrived at the prison a few months ago, I liked to watch as a sea of green, red, orange, and the occasional black outfits merged on the stairs. Five levels, each containing one hundred cells made for an array of colours blended as one unique painting of the hopeless.

  Authorities weren’t afraid to blend every type of offender together in the general population because of their ability to control inmates with the electronic chips. My stomach rumbled slightly so I shuffled along the floor and became one with the crowd. Normally, I tended to keep to myself around that area for obvious reasons, but I always sensed eyes watching me, wondering, and asking the same old questions: “How could that little girl have done something so horrific? She’s so small;—could she have ever become an officer? I bet I could take her. She barely looks old enough to be out of school, no less training camp.”

  It was my goal, and I worked damn hard to prove that my five-foot height and slight build would not deter me from being good at my job. I barely looked like I could fight my way out of a paper bag, but appearances are really deceptive.

  Sensing eyes watching me from above, I cast my gaze upwards towards the control room. Sure enough, the warden was perched high, watching her empire below. Dressed in a navy skirt suit, her hair was pulled back in a bun to reveal the harshness of her cheekbones. A scowl hardening her face, Warden Theresa Lane’s eyes met mine as I continued down the stairs.

  Her frown deepened as I held eye contact, refusing to break her iron stare. I’d known the warden for years, remembered her in my house for dinner as she and my father discussed matters at the prison. She had been my father’s friend and his second in command. I’d always had a gut feeling about her… something I couldn’t quite put my finger on but never could figure it out. Now she had my dad’s job and from the looks of it, enjoyed the power far too much.

  Finally, she tore her eyes from mine as a guard tapped her shoulder and she had to engage him. A small smile crept over my face. Hooray for small victories, right? I slipped in front of a greener in line for breakfast. She immediately cast her eyes at her feet… a fringe benefit to being on death row.

  You might think that with state of the art technologic advances, the food would be a delightful cuisine. Think again. I held out my hands and a bowl of porridge was slapped down. Servers barely spared us a glance, their faces the epitome of boredom. They obviously couldn’t have cared less if we were fed or not.

  Taking my bowl of cold porridge, grabbing a spoon and moving out of the conveyer belt, I sat as far from anyone else as possible. I deliberately propped my feet up on the bench to prevent any brave souls from climbing in next to me. Luckily, in the last few months, our section experienced a decline in the amount of inmates. I dug my spoon into the porridge and shoved it into my hungry mouth. It tasted foul, and I struggled to digest the cold, sticky lumps as it made its way to the back of my throat. What I wouldn’t have done for a slice of bread and butter. Instead, I forced down a few more bites before my stomach rebelled, and I could no longer suffer the bleak meal. Shoving the bowl out of reach, I rested my chin in my hand and watched the others around me.

  Sometimes inmates kept to themselves, dividing up into country groups or forming alliances, singling out the weak from the strong. The Russians tended to keep to themselves, and the overwhelming sense of righteousness was too much for some people. Their country was one of the power three and the rest of us were just bugs to be stepped on. Veronika Petrov, their ringleader, had been my cellmate when I first came there. When she found out that I had been training to become part of the Retrieval Team and that my dad had been the warden, she lost it. The girl, barely sixteen at the time, had the most kills under her belt, slaughtering six of her roommates in a prestigious Russian boarding school. Apparently, she murdered people simply because they had laughed at something she wore. She used a kitchen knife to slit their throats, and a teacher found her talking to herself about what a nice colour it was while painting the walls with her victims’ blood.

  Yup, she’s the psycho who has it in for me. The prison held a group of about twenty Russians in for various crimes, but the black Veronika wore meant she and I shared the same fate, although I was more isolated than her. She caught me watching her, and sneered, running her finger across her neck. I hated to tell Veronika that her continuous threats would be more effective if I weren’t already slated to die in two months.

  So I waited with everyone else for the bell to chime for us to go about out daily activities. I longed to stretch out my body fully but wasn’t allowed to spend any time in the gym, or outside, for that matter. It seemed like forever since I had breathed in fresh air, felt the cold wind lash against my face or shivered as the rain drenched me to the skin. Such luxuries were not mine to have.

  All in all, there were barely ten of us on death row, but according to hushed whispers and gossip, Veronika and I were the ones everyone feared. Veronika, I could understand… but me? I just went about my days as quiet as possible, avoiding everyone and praying I got my memory back. Most of the time, I tried not to listen to what others had done but was more curious about those on death row than the other offenders. At least one of the boys was in for manslaughter, but it was the terrified little Muslim girl who made me think of Sophia’s death. The girl was about thirteen and had a frightened rabbit look. Her dark eyes constantly darted from side to side as if someone was going to come tell her it was all a mistake, that she was not a terrorist, and her family had arrived to take her home.

  Unfortunately, that was not going to happen. I had spent my first few weeks in tears begging them to tell me it was all a nightmare, and I would wake up soon. It didn’t happen. I was glad when I saw the girl being taken under the wing of some of the older inmates, their array of colours ranging from small-timers to one or two like me. As far as I knew, mine was the next scheduled execution, making me even more of a celebrity than I already was, and certainly more of one than I wanted to be.

  A bell chimed, signalling the end of breakfast, and I sat still, waiting for the scramble as people hurried to their respective doors. Each one led off into corridors where their lessons and such would take place. I’d never get to see past those doors. After ten minutes of endless waiting, the doors closed and the res
t of us exited the mess hall and headed back to our cells. Prisoners on kitchen detail began to clear the tables, probably only getting cleaned up in time for the next meal to begin.

  Making my way up the stairs, I watched as Veronika bumped into the defenceless Muslim girl. The young one muttered an apology, but Veronika blocked her path. I stopped on the steps and cleared my throat. The few others glanced in my direction but quickly turned away. I raised my eyes to see if the guards were watching, but they made no move to intervene, which was typical because they only did so if situations got physical. The poor girl looked as if she were about to piss herself. Having sworn never to get involved in prison politics, I put my fingers between my lips and whistled.

  The shrill sound cut through the silence and dragged Veronika’s focus to me. I tilted my head slightly to the left, and we held each other’s gaze, giving the girl enough time to scamper away from her bully and up the stairs to me.

  In heavily accented English, the girl spoke, “I thank you.”

  My eyes never left Veronika’s cold stare as I simply replied, “Don’t thank me. Just stay out of the bitch’s way. Got it?”

  The girl nodded and rushed off, disappearing into her cell at the far end of the landing. Not wanting to look away first, but conscious of the audience gathering from the control room to watch us, I turned and headed back up the stairs. There was no getting around feeling the heat of Veronika’s glare on the back of my head.

  I escaped into my cell and waited to be escorted to my daily therapy session. Apparently, the sessions were to help me try to come to terms with my impending death. Dr Costello really did try and convince me that he wanted me to remember the last year more than anything in this world. I suppose all shrinks would say the same thing, trying to assure their patient they’re on your side, not the Parliament’s.

  Lying back on the bed, I let my eyes drift shut, the familiar sights of blood-soaked carpet and lifeless bodies rushing to the forefront. The only memory I clung to was a vision of me on my knees in front of my dead family… my hands and face covered in blood… my father’s gun on the floor at my left. My own blood pounded in my head as the front door was smashed open. Guards, my future colleagues, swarmed in. Dragged to my feet as tears stained my bloody face, I heard a familiar voice and snapped my head up and stared into eyes that condemned me from the get-go. Theresa Lane, in her then pristine UPDC uniform, took one look at the scene and demanded that I be arrested for the murder of my entire family. And as I screamed hysterically that they got it wrong, a sharp pain radiated my skin and everything went to black.

  A polite knock on the wall caused my eyes to dart open, and I sprang to my feet. Standing in the uniform I would have worn was an officer who had always been nice to me, despite my situation. About twenty years old, he must have been in the field for over two years. His ginger hair and freckles indicated that he probably had been born on the Island, like me. Although the term Irish no longer existed, since Ireland had been erased from the new world map, Connors most definitely had Irish heritage.

  He flashed a grin and nodded his head as if to say come on. “Rise and shine, McCarthy. Time to see the doc.”

  “Oh joy, how will I contain myself?” I drolled, rolling my eyes, but Chris Connors just laughed. Instead of walking ahead of me like most guards, he strolled beside me, keeping me company in the quiet. His boots squeaked, clean shoes on a clean floor as we walked in a comfortable silence to the end of the landing. Connors scanned his wristband and the door slid open, revealing a corridor.

  “You know, McCarthy, I always look forward to our daily conversations. I thought by now you’d feel comfortable enough to tell me some gossip.”

  “And what makes you think I have any, Connors? I’m just simply passing time here.”

  His smile widened, and his dimples deepened as he ran fingers through his curly hair. “You take more notice of things than we do. You woulda made one hell of an officer.”

  Our journey ended as we came to a halt next to a door with an engraved plaque with Doctor Daniel Costello embossed on it. I looked up at the smiling officer and found myself smiling back. He knocked at the door, and we stood in silence, waiting for a reply. A voice beckoned me to come in and I chuckled as Connors took a bow.

  “McCarthy, I look forward to our continued conversation for the next couple of hours. For how else will I get through the day if not for your wit and enthusiasm?”

  If we were anywhere else, I could have enjoyed Connors’ obvious flirtation, but deep down inside, I couldn’t let myself relax in his presence. He was a member of the UPDC; he took an oath to serve those in power and rule on the side of justice. I was just another criminal. Sighing to myself as I watched Connors walk back down the long corridor, humming a tune, I keyed in the proper inmate code and the door slid open.

  I watched from the doorway as Dr Costello pushed his glasses up on the bridge of his nose. His brown hair dipped into his eyes, but he seemed oblivious. He chewed on the end of his pen and chose that moment to glance up at me, those sky-blue eyes brightening as he first spotted me.

  If I had been a normal girl and he was a normal boy, then the feelings in the pit of my stomach would have been a welcome distraction. I could imagine that he looked at me as though I were the only girl in the room for him. It wasn’t a problem he could fix.

  But real life wasn’t as clear cut as that anymore, and it hurt more than ever that I wished it was. I stepped out of the doorway and made my way to one of his comfy armchairs.

  4

  Daniel

  “There’s nowhere left to hide, in no one to confide.

  The truth burns deep inside and will never die.”

  (Muse: Sing for Absolution)

  I sensed her watching me, those deep chocolate eyes studying me before she dragged her feet across the floor, approached her favourite chair and tucked her legs underneath herself. She turned her head to stare out my window. This routine happened every day, taking in the scene from outside my window, the lazy sun heating her face. I allowed her this small luxury. Hell, I would have tried to break through the shatterproof glass if only I could, for one minute, if it would erase the haunted look from her face.

  And I hated to admit that I enjoyed observing her. I loved how her nose crinkled when the sun hit her face as if she were surprised by it. When she was anxious, she twirled her hair and tended to chew on her bottom lip, especially when discussing her parents and sister. Even though she didn’t remember me, by God, I remembered her and I, for one, was not convinced that my Alana could have killed her family. She didn’t have it in her.

  When I first saw her all those months ago, I was captivated by her strength and beauty. Barely five foot tall with hazel eyes and a wavy mass of brown curls, Alana stood in the sparring arena of our training centre, poised to strike a boy twice her size. But damn, she was fast. She ducked and dodged his blows, masterfully avoiding his strikes until frustration got the better of him and she got the advantage, kicking him in the back of his knees until they hit the floor.

  Unlike other opponents, she didn’t celebrate her victory; she simply nodded acknowledgment to her trainer and stepped off the mat and back in line. Alana had a lot to prove for being a warden’s daughter, but that never stopped her.

  Back then, I was a lowly academic, not physically strong enough to be an officer, but smart enough to be the youngest in my class to ever have qualified as a psychologist. I had returned to the training centre to undergo classes for profiling and assessment of prisoners when I had met Alana. Our futures would never be the same again.

  As I leaned back in my chair, I closed my eyes, thinking back to when we first met. Officially, anyway.

  The bell chimed to give the signal for lunch and soon the halls were crowded with hungry trainees eager to spend an hour away from the torments of training. Once or twice I was bumped as overly muscled youths cleared a path obviously necessary for their inflated egos. Of course, nobody took any notice of the tall, geek
y guy with glasses. No one except her.

  Preferring to turn my back to the wall while waiting for the throngs to pass, I finally achieved space to breathe. I never went to the centre’s cafeteria. Having seen enough old movies on how cliques merged and tended to pick on the weakest among them to prove superiority, I tended to hide out in the library. Even with technology easily available, I found it calming to sieve through old, dusty books in search of answers to questions I had about various subjects. There was something to be said for the sense of accomplishment after hours of research and ending up learning something new. Now, you can see why I avoided the cafeteria.

  As I pushed away from the wall and continued to the library, I caught sight of her again. She was alone in the training room, punching a bag. Her hands were covered in tape and her feet were bare. I couldn’t help myself; I was entranced by the sheer beauty and fluidity of her movements. Quietly sitting down on one of the viewing seats by myself, I had a full view of the magnificent training room. It was reminiscent of a Roman coliseum, a circular arena adorned with seats and steps leading down to the wooden floor where Alana stood.

  She must have sensed someone watching her, she paused and daggered her stare in my direction. I braved a smile, but that only caused her brow to crease more. My hand raised in apology. Her face softened, but the gaze still held mine. She started to undo the tape from around her hands, but not once did she take her eyes from mine.

  “Did you need to use the room?” Alana inquired as she cautiously climbed the steps.