The Bars That Hold Us (4 page)

My heart screams at my head, unable to allow the reasoning. 

It will always remind you of him.

After a few winters in here, you start to dream of sandy, hot beaches with aquamarine, pristine waters. And beer—ice-cold beer. It’s been so long since I’ve had alcohol that I’m beginning to forget what it tastes like. Yet I still crave the heady after-effects that liquefy my muscles and stupefy my speech. Yeah, I want to be numb. Hard not to have wants like that in a place like this. Don’t think for a second this place is the Ritz – it’s not. There’s no central heating in this neck of the woods.   

Nights are by far the worst. It’s a time where prison staff are at a minimum and the inmates know it. If you plan on being safe at night, think again. There is no safe behind these bars; it’s just an illusion. There are guards that aren’t above a bribe
– you know, turn the other cheek. You just pray that they never come for you.

As if tormenting our captors, some inmates start their incessant howling and wailing the minutes the lights go out. If I didn’t know better, I’d have thought I was a guest
in a mental institution rather than an inmate of a prison.

Night time is when all the insidious dealings go on. Contraband, drugs, sexual
favors and rape – it all happens behind these concrete walls with the warden and custodial officers powerless to stop it. Sometimes the shrieks and moans you hear are not the pleasurable kind. It’s then you know that someone else has just become the bitch of a prisoner that holds more clout than he does. It’s not pretty; in fact it’s sickening. There’s nothing worse than trying to get to sleep and all you can hear are the ugly truths of prison life happening around you. 

Tonight is remarkably quiet, although it’s only early. It’s true what they say, you know – that a full moon makes all the crazies come out. But there’s no full moon tonight, which makes me think that this unusual silence that surrounds me lends itself to bigger things. I guess that means that I’m gonna have to sleep like a dog, with one eye open.

Despite the early hour, Clinton is snoring away on the bottom bunk, oblivious to my inner unrest. He mustn’t feel the cold, because tonight, the air bites like a bitch. Most inmates who arrive in the summer are fooled into thinking that the flimsy tracksuit and blanket will be enough to keep them warm at night. They soon realize that their thinking has been misplaced. It’s hard to settle when there is nothing but coldness and hardness around you. Well, it is for me anyway.

I pull up my blanket around my ears, neglecting my feet in the process. Being in here is all about sacrifice. You’ve got to make choices wisely. You could end up dead otherwise.

The only consolation amongst the constant upheaval of prison life is that in another year, I’ll be out. That’s more than can be said for most of the crims in here. Some of these guys are doing
all day
, which is what we call a life sentence; and the only way out for them is if they get a
Back door parole
. No, they don’t actually get parole. It means they die in prison.

I try and sleep, but it alludes me tonight. There is too much going on in my headspace for me to relax. Besides, there’s an inmate bunking in an opposite cell who’s choking his chicken like nobody’s business. The moans and grunts
are enough to make the hair on my arms stand on end. It’s one thing to watch a porno, but to hear a guy masturbating a few feet away, it gets you excited whether you want to be or not. I’m no fag, but he could be fucking a woman for all intents and purposes. In the dark, it’s the noises that control you.

I feel my dick getting hard. It happens more frequently since I’ve been in here, which is probably because I’m not getting any or
rarely flogging myself off. Some of these guys can do it while everyone else is looking on. Not me. I need a little privacy for those kinds of things.

To distract myself, I start thinking about food; anything to take my mind away from what’s going on. This is like replacing one coveted thing with another. Hardly fair, when there is no hamburger joint in the vicinity. Like the beer, I can only daydream
about the greasy, cheesy, beef burger I’m craving. My stomach rumbles in response. I’ve no clock, but I know it’s been hours since we had chow. It’s probably getting close to midnight if my internal clock is still functioning properly.

I’m lying quite still when the sound of footsteps padding quietly down the hall alert
s me. The cell I’m in is isolated at the very end of the hall, farthest from the custodial station. If shit goes down, even without the staff in on it, it’s going to take long enough for them to get down here that someone could end up hurt—badly.

Hesitation. Time as we know it stops. Even the
masturbator is deathly quiet. Clinton still snores while my heart rate jack-knifes to an all-time high. The blood pumping through my body is doing a tremendous job of coursing through my veins without actually giving me a heart attack. The deafening roar in my ears is only surpassed by a dry mouth that’s making my tongue stick to the roof of it.

The bars of our cell start to slide back, the little mechanical cog whining as it recedes in its tracks. Four dark figures enter our c
age, quickly, calculated and precise. I freeze, determined that whatever is about to go down, does not take me with it. The only place for me to go is back up against the solid concrete wall that frames one side of our bunks. I’m ready to kick the first person who approaches me in the face.

I
recognize one of them. He’s Clinton’s fuck-buddy from D Block. Lionel is his name. He covers his lips with one finger, shushing me into silence. Believe me, if they’re here for Clinton, they can damn well have him. I’ll remain quiet no matter who’s making the demands.

The prison is starting to stir. The noise of the door has alerted those inmates
who are still awake that shit is about to go down. It’s like Chinese whispers as news of what’s shaking spreads down the row of cells. Whatever these guys have in mind, they’re going to have to hustle.

Lionel
covers Clinton’s mouth as he yanks him from the lower bunk. My cellie, drugged with sleep, comes freely away from his mattress. The little strip of moonlight that filters through our grimy window makes the whites of his eyes glow as they widen in surprise.

He’s held in a choke-hold and silenced while two other accomplices grab his wildly kicking feet. The fourth guy means business. All I can do is look on, unless I want to involve myself – which I don’t.

Unable to defend himself, Clinton is left wide open for their onslaught. It isn’t pretty and I can see that I’m going to need to find a new cell mate after this little execution. The fourth guy makes quick work of his torso as he goes to work with a homemade shank.

With the scuffle going on in such a confined space, it was only going to be seconds before the alarm was raised. That’s all his attackers need, though. Cells explode, the din blasting out into the hallway as the pen’s alarm goes off.
On the walls, bright yellow lights flash, indicating that all of the custodial staff are needed immediately.

They come, bearing weapons,
Tasers and body armor. The four who’ve entered our cell uninvited stand back against the wall, arms held high in the air. The dark may have provided some obscurity, but now I can see each of their faces clearly as guards work to get them all shackled.

On the floor, Clinton lies inert.
It’s hard to say if he’ll make it. More to the point, who cares?

A guard each takes one of the jailbirds off in the direction of the hole.
A stretcher is brought from the infirmary to take Clinton away. I’m left supervised by the warden as the remaining guard goes and gets a mop and bucket. I can see this is going to be a long night. While the rest of the inmates carry on with their bellowing, I’m left to face off with Reginald Haylock.

This guy is a no-nonsense fella who runs his ship tighter than a fish’s
asshole. If there is one thing an inmate wants to avoid at all costs, it’s a run-in with the warden. Nobody wants to be seen talking to him. You could end up being cast as an informer, which will bring nothing but bad luck and trouble your way. I’ve been around the traps long enough to know to just keep my mouth shut, especially when a
Three Knee Deep
has just taken place. That’s the term they give when someone’s been stabbed, but not killed, usually as a warning. I’m not about to put myself in a position where I could be given the same warning.

‘Prisoner number?’ The w
arden barks. There are no nice requests.

‘224702.’ I watch while
he types the information into his iPad.

‘Hmm.’ He looks at me, weighing up the man before him. I know from the Master Index Number I just gave him that he has every single detail about me glaring up at him on his screen. It will show him everything from my jacket and charge to how much I weighed when I walke
d through these bars.

‘What happened here tonight?’

‘I couldn’t tell you, Warden, I was fast asleep.’

‘Don’t spin your bullshit to me, Saxon. I’ve got an inmate who looks like he’s about to take a trip to the county morgue.’

‘Not my problem, Warden.’

‘Do
you fancy a trip to solitary, son?’

‘No, s
ir.’

‘Then perhaps you’d like to rethink that vague memory of yours and see if you can help the staff out with a testimony as to what in the hell went on here. You never know, you might just be able to get yourself some creature comforts in exchange.’

‘Sorry, but I’m not looking for a juice card.’

‘Juice card?’

‘I’m not looking for favors, Warden. You can do what you like, but I can only tell you what I know—which is nothing.’

‘Fine,’ he says, smoothing down his bad comb-over. The strands of hair are licked together with sticky hair gel, making his baldness just as visible as if it were shaved off.
‘You can clean up this mess. If you change your mind about what you saw you can let one of the guards know.’

I don’t respond, knowing it’s not going to make one iota of difference.

A guard hands me the bucket and mop so that I can clean my cell, watching me while I’m made to feel like a bit of old chewing gum stuck to his shoe. I ignore him and get to work on the blood that’s dripped over the polished concrete floor. I got lucky tonight, I know that. These guys are obsessed over their own rules and structure. One step out of line and they put a target on your back. Many think it’s the correctional services that run this joint, but I know better. It’s the lifers that have the control. It’s just a matter of the government officials catching on.

I may have shut myself out from the world for the last year or so, but that’s not about to stop when I walk out the door today
. I’m in a cage of self-imposed imprisonment; big, steel bars welded tightly shut so that no one can penetrate my fragile state. Work is just a distraction, nothing more.

You’d think that with something else to focus on, my nightmares would leave me in peace; that Daniel would leave me in peace. Instead he tortures me just as much as he always does, only leaving me at dawn when he slips from my grasp and I fall back into reality. 

Today, I’m no longer a beat cop. I’m a custodial officer of Silverwater prison — a guard within concrete walls that hold murderers, rapists and armed robbers. It’s a position that can allow me to maintain distance with other people. No one can get close enough to know me and my pain. No one can touch me, hold me or
feel
me in the way that
he
used to. I will be just as insignificant as those who I watch.

As I put on the uniform provided by the Corrective Services agency an inescapable twinge of pride tinkers through my bones. Serving the
municipal is what I was born to do. I can’t avoid my vocation any more than I can help breathing. The relief at not having another partner after Daniel is liberating because, even though there would be no romantic relationship, the tenure of a partnership on the beat is entirely different from other law enforcement roles. You rely on each other. I don’t want anyone relying on me. I’m damaged.

My eyes look puffy, the tears and insomnia taking its toll. That’s fine by me. Where I’m going, the worse I look the better. The last thing I want is a jail full of aroused men paying me any attention whatsoever. I leave my face devoid of
makeup and pull my brunette mess into tight braid. There are no prizes for beauty queens in Silverwater; just stern addresses from the warden on the inappropriateness and dangers of making oneself visible to the inmates.

I go to the wardrobe and open it. Taped to the inside of the door is a photograph of Daniel in his service uniform. The dull ache I feel every time I see him
is still there. It won’t go away. His smile infects any happiness that lingers in my body, making me miserable that he doesn’t get to make memories with me anymore. I miss him. I still… ache. I kiss my fingers and place it on the picture, knowing I need to close the door before his image threatens to be my undoing.

Tearing my eyes off his crinkled blue ones, I grab my jacket and slam the wardrobe door shut. I put it on and look in the length of the mirror attached to the bureau. I look every bit the part wearing the jacket, the stitched emblems of the county jail screaming
enforcement.

The phone rings, as I knew it would. He can’t help himself and I can hardly blame him.

‘Dad.’ There’s no hello, for who else would be calling.

‘Mercy, how are you doing today?’

‘I’m fine.’

‘You ready for this?’

‘I was just about to walk out the door.’

‘I love you, you know that.’

‘I know, Dad.’

‘And I’m proud of you.’

‘Dad…’ I warn.

‘Okay, okay. Well I’ve got to be at the station in ten minutes, so how about I pick you up after work and we can go grab a beer and a steak at Joe’s tonight?’

‘What about Mom?’

‘Eh, she’s got her stitch
and bitch class on tonight.’ I hesitate, not sure if I want to open myself up that much yet. There’s one thing going back to work, a place where I can be in my own head all day and not really have to deal. Going out for a meal and a sociable chat is another ballgame altogether. He can sense my reluctance. I guess the silence says it all.

‘Please, Mercy.’

‘Okay,’ I say, caving under the weight of a father who cares just as he should about his emotionally damaged daughter.

‘See you at seven.’ He hangs up, a glimmer of peace in his otherwise strained voice. I put the telephone back in its cradle, ready to leave my demons locked up in the house for the day while I go and earn a dollar.

The drive over to Silverwater doesn’t take long. Despite the dark clouds and miserable weather, traffic is light at this time of the morning. Walking from the parking lot to the main gates gives me a chance to have the biting, icy wind sting my cheeks for a bit. It feels nice. It hurts, don’t get me wrong, but it reminds me that I’m still alive. Still lucky, not like— No! I have to forget about him while I’m here, I promised myself that.

The guard at the checkpoint booth notes my uniform and offers his hand out for my identification tag. I give it to him without a word, which he scans, waiting for the approval beep from the machine.

‘Head on over to the main office, they’ll process you there.’ He jerks his thumb in the general direction of the building.

‘Thanks.’ I take my identification
back off him and make my way to the main entry. There I’m met by a blast of too-warm air and a lady manning the front desk with entirely too much makeup. She obviously doesn’t see the inside bowels of this place. She’s a desk jockey. Too old, too fat and a face full of cosmetics that looks like it’s been blown by a shotgun onto her face. It’s certainly not the complimentary amount that the delicate hand of a much younger woman would use.

She looks me over with the same disinterest the guy out front did. I’m glad, because I don’t want to be her friend either. I offer her my credent
ials, which she scans and pushes back towards me.

‘Through the metal detectors, honey
, and then down the hall to the warden’s office. He’s expecting you,’ she says, voice nasally and phlegmy, marred by years of smoking.

I follow her instructions, taking my jacket
off so it can go through the x-ray machine on the conveyer belt while I walk through the arches of the metal detector. After the guard manning it is comfortable I’m not carrying a gun, he lets me past.

I know where Reginald Haylock’s office is from the day I came to in
terview. He’s a bit of a greaseball, but I know he runs a tight ship, which makes his own personal shortcomings easier to overlook when he’s professionally adept. You have to be in command and competent in this kind of environment or the prisoners will eat you alive. It’s like walking the beat; it can be unpredictable and downright dangerous, so it’s best to walk around with eyes in the back of your head.

The door is closed, so I rap loudly with my knuckles.

‘Come in.’ The warden’s voice is muffled through the oak. I let myself in and approach his desk. I’m eager to be out of the confines of his office and working my shift.

‘Ah,
Mercy, take a seat.’ He smoothes his hair into place and peers at me with his beady little eyes. He reminds me of a guinea pig I had as a child, all belly and rodent looking. The thought amuses me. I can just see him eating his lunch, face twitching while he tucks into a piece of cheese or something. Thankfully I’m such a fucking miserable mess or I’m sure I would be smirking by now.

‘How are you today?’

‘Fine, thank you.’

‘Good, good. Let me get
straight to business then, since I’m sure you’re eager to get settled into your role here at Silverwater. Let me start by saying that while your dad may have pulled a few strings to get you this position, I will by no means be lenient with you. You have a great employment record with the local police department, but of course I am aware of your leave of absence. I hope that any emotional issues will be left at home and that it will not impede your ability to function here at work.’

Fuck. Did he need to be so blunt? I’ve been here all of five minutes and already he’s dipping into the depression wagon.

‘My personal life is just that, Warden. Personal. Anything that goes on outside of these walls won’t in any way affect my ability to be a reliable staff member here at Silverwater.’

‘Good to hear. So, let’s skip on to the next reason I called you in here. Your employment is to be within the male maximum security prison. I’m pleased you’re not wearing any
makeup because, to be honest, I prefer staff not to wear it.’

Clearly the lady out front didn’t get the memo. Reginald continues to ramble on, his annoying voice grating on my nerves. Now I know why I stayed out of the public for so long. My only consolation is that being here will be a welcome distraction from the incredible emptiness I feel at home.

‘… and you’re an attractive woman, Ms. Cole. It could get you into a lot of trouble in here if you’re not careful and aware of your surroundings at all times. I would suggest you make a few friends with the male guards so that you have an extra set of eyes on you throughout your shift. I’m sure we’d all feel more comfortable knowing that we don’t need to have any raised anxiety just because a female has joined our staff.’

‘I’m sure you’ve got nothing to worry about. I’m very professional and will not be entertaining an
y lewd comments, gestures or insinuations from inmates. I come from a family who are used to dealing with the shit of society, sir.’

‘Good, well see you come to me if there are any problems, do you understand? Anything at all. I wouldn’t want your father upset if anything happens to you on my watch.’

‘Your fears are misplaced, Warden. My father and I both know the risks associated with our jobs.’
And yet you still can’t get over what happened to Daniel
. I squish those thoughts deep down into my gut where my apprehension is already eating away at my stomach.

‘Well then, I’m sure we’ve nothing to fear then, do we. You can head down to the custodial watch house in F Block. I’ll ring ahead and tell Clarence that you’re on your way down. He’s your day shift supervisor. You’re to report to him directly and he’ll make sure you’re kitted up with your gear.’

‘Thank you.’  I get up to leave, pleased that I won’t have to talk too much to people from now until the end of my shift. If I can just get through today, I know I’ll be okay.

I leave the w
arden and follow the maps on the prison walls down towards F Block. There’s a buzzer next to the door that separates the external corridors from the inside wing. I press it and look up towards the camera that’s perched overhead, taking in my every move. Without out being asked, I hold up my identification badge, my staff number clearly visible to whoever is on the other side.

I’m buzzed through two more doors before I step
out into F Block – home to over two hundred of Silverwater’s inmates. The smell is overwhelming, with sweat, urine and excrement reaching my protesting nose. There is an overlying smell of hospital grade disinfectant, but when you’ve got so many men shitting and pissing in the same building with no doors on their cells, you’ve got to expect that the air is going to get pretty rank.

A uniformed guard waves me over to the custodial booth located at the end of the cells. It has triple-glazed
, reinforced glass. The door’s open, so I walk right in to introduce myself.

‘Hey, I’m Mercy.’

‘Nice to meet you, Mercy, I’m Clarence, the supervisor here on F Block. We do a rotational shift – some weekends, some nights. I’m sure a couple of weeks in and you’ll get to meet all of the guards. Today there will be you and me, along with Karl and Victor. You might see the guards from the other blocks from time to time, you know, out in the yard and such, but our crew on this block will always be the same. Any questions so far?’