The Fall Girl (29 page)

When he reaches out to touch my face, I turn away and wipe my eyes. I don't want him thinking I'm going soft.

‘I'm gonna lie down for a while,' I say. ‘I'll be OK then.'

There's no point in telling him that Lesley is making me ill; he wouldn't understand. How could he? I don't understand it myself, and I have no control over it.

While my parents attend the Passion, I stay in my room, listening to love songs on my radio: ‘Reunited' by Peaches and Herb, ‘I Can't Stop Loving You' by Leo Sayer, ‘Please Don't Go' by KC and the Sunshine Band. Holding a pocket-sized photograph of myself and Lesley to my chest, I wallow in the grief that engulfs me, wailing unashamedly.

After a listless evening sprawled across the sofa watching TV, I climb the stairs for bed around half nine.

‘What are you looking for?' I ask my mother, finding her on her hunkers, rummaging through the bottom drawer of my dressing-table.

‘Have you something to tell me?' she says, standing up and closing the drawer with her foot.

‘What?'

‘I said: have you something to tell me?'

‘Like what?'

‘Never mind,' she says, brushing by me and heading down-stairs.

‘What do you mean? What were you looking for?'

The bitch won't even answer me.

The following morning my mother says it's time we got to the bottom of my problem: I'm still not eating properly. We have to wait an hour and a half in an overcrowded and stuffy waiting room before seeing Dr Harte. She insists on accompanying me into his office. I haven't the will to argue with her.

He goes through all the usual tests – taking my blood pressure, a blood test, my temperature, examining my ears, listening to my breathing, feeling my glands, weighing me.

‘She must have lost the best part of a stone,' my mother says, as I step off the scales.

‘How's your appetite, Frances?'

‘Bad. I only eat because I have to. I never actually feel like it.'

‘What about your periods?'

My face starts to tingle. I can't talk to a man about my periods.

‘When was your last one?'

‘Eh.' I can sense my mother's eyes boring into me. ‘I don't know. About a month, or maybe a bit more. I can't remember.'

My mother gasps when he says he needs a urine sample. ‘I thought as much,' she peeps, putting her hand to her mouth.

God, she must think there's something seriously wrong with me.

‘Let's just wait and see,' Dr Harte says.

My legs are trembling as I try to wee into the sample cup. What
is
wrong with me? Why is my mother so worried? What
is she thinking? Then it dawns on me. Cancer. Bloody cancer. Just like Aunty Lily. Just like my grandmother. That's why I've been feeling so weak; I'm going to die. They'll both be sorry now – Lesley and my mother.

The doctor dips a stick into the urine. My mother has her handkerchief wound as tight as a piece of rope. The doctor looks up at her and nods sombrely.

‘It's positive, I'm afraid,' he says. ‘I'm sorry.'

‘Oh my God,' my mother whispers, standing up and pacing across the office. ‘I knew it. I knew this would happen.'

The doctor is looking at her sympathetically.

‘When?' she asks.

‘Well, if her last period was in February, September or October, I think.'

I start counting the months in my head: only five or six.

‘What are you blubbering about, you little tramp?' my mother flashes.

‘I don't want to die.'

‘You're not going to die,' Dr Harte says. ‘You're going to have a baby.'

A baby! No, I couldn't be. Jesus! I can't take it in. It's shocking.

Pregnant! I couldn't believe it. The thought hadn't once crossed my mind. I was going to be a mother.

Frances Fall, the mother.

Not Frances Fall, the childless cunt, as the horrible woman in Mountjoy prison called me.

I wanted to scream in her face: I AM A MOTHER.

Within the first few minutes of my arrival at the prison, I can sense the underlying threat as heads turn and menacing eyes tail me with a funereal silence the length of two corridors to my cell. I've about as much chance of making myself inconspicuous among these women as a lone deer would have of wandering unnoticed among a pack of lions.

My cell is like any small hotel room except for the bars on the window. In the middle of the prison officer telling me where everything is and how things work, I burst into tears.

‘I shouldn't be here,' I cry.

‘That's what they all say,' she says, closing the door behind her.

When I've cried myself out, I switch on the television, lie on the bed and gaze at the screen. There's a snooker match on. It's easy viewing. It requires no thought – the ball either goes into the pocket or it doesn't. I don't look at the players, only the balls; all different colours rolling in every direction. After a while, I close my eyes and just listen to the balls – clunk clunk clunk. Clunk. Clap. Clunk.

Eventually I fall asleep.

‘Fucking baby-snatcher,' someone shouts, kicking my door. She has an accent like one of the street traders on Moore Street.

‘Leave her for now, Sharon; here comes Hatchet Face. We'll get the cunt when the time is right.'

A few minutes later, I stand at the dining-room door looking in at the other sixty or seventy prisoners, wondering which two of them are Sharon and her friend.

‘Go on in,' an officer says, urging me through the door with her hand on my back.

Within seconds, the murmur of chatter fades away as I make my way shakily towards the food counter. I don't look to the right or left. At the end of the counter, I grab a tray and slide it along the stand, lifting a tub of yoghurt and a bottle of water as I go.

‘Can I have a cuppa tea?' I ask, holding out an empty cup to the sullen woman standing behind the counter.

‘Wha?'

‘A cuppa tea, please.'

‘Wha? I can't hear ya. Speak up.'

‘Just tea, please.'

‘Does any of yis understand this one's language?' she shouts. ‘Where's she from? Pigs Head? Or Muckamaddy?'

‘Oinksville,' someone shouts and everyone starts to snort.

‘That's enough, girls,' one of the officers shouts.

‘Crosshagging.'

‘Culchie-cathair.'

‘Killbumpkin.'

‘Killbumpkin.' Clap clap clap. ‘Killbumpkin.'

Others join in. ‘Killbumpkin.' Clap clap clap. ‘Kilbumpkin.'

‘Oy,' an officer roars, ‘cut it out.'

I drop the cup on the floor and run out the door. I can still hear them chanting as I turn the corner at the end of the corridor.

One of the officers follows me back to my room.

‘Come on back,' she says,' and don't let that shower get to you.'

‘I don't want to go back,' I snivel. ‘I'm not hungry now anyway.'

‘It's a long time until breakfast.'

‘I don't care.'

‘Suit yourself. At least you've broken the ice, I suppose.'

I spend the next three hours, until lock-up, sitting on the edge of my bed, my eyes fixed firmly on the door lock, waiting for the women who were jeering to burst in and batter me.

The following morning, I'm standing by the window looking out on to the courtyard, wondering how I'm going to get through the day, when someone knocks on my slightly open door.

When I turn around, a prune-faced woman in her fifties pokes her head in.

‘I'm from next door. You can walk down to breakfast with me if you like.'

‘Thanks.' I pull a tissue from my sleeve and wipe my eyes.

‘Don't let dat lot see you crying, love. You have to show dem dat you're not boddered by what dey say.'

‘OK.'

‘I lost tree of mine.'

‘Pardon?'

‘I read your story in de paper. I know your baby died, love. And I'm just saying, I lost tree of mine.'

‘It was in the paper about my baby?'

‘Yes, love.'

‘But how did they know? Sergeant Hennessy said no one would know until after the court hearing.'

‘You can't rely on dat shower of wankers to keep der gobs shut. I wouldn't trust dem as far as I'd trow dem. Anyway, alls I'm trying to tell you is dat I know how it feels to lose a child. I'm Veronica, by de way.'

During breakfast, I tell Veronica about the woman called Sharon who had kicked my door the evening before.

‘Oh, it must've been Sharon Pepper. Don't look now, but she's sitting at de table underneat de clock. She's de one with de bruise on her face.'

‘What happened to her?' I ask, keeping my head down.

‘She got in a fight. She's a bit of a Rottweiler, de same one. If she ever axes you for a fag or money, just give it to her, all right?'

‘But I don't smoke. I gave them up years ago.'

‘If I were you, I'd buy a couple of packets. Dey might buy you your way out of trouble.'

‘OK. Thanks.'

In the late afternoon, I have a doctor's appointment. As soon as I step into his office, I burst out crying. I think it's because I've been putting on a brave face and bottling up my fear since early morning, and now that I feel safe, I cannot hold back.

He hands me a tablet and a glass of water. ‘It'll help you to relax.'

It's not long until I feel the tension drain from my body. Where does it all go?

The doctor thinks that, in the short term, I could do with a mild sedative to get me through the next week or so. I'm willing to try anything that will help me cope with this hostile hellhole.

On my way back to my room, Sharon Pepper comes walking towards me wearing a pernicious smile. Before we meet, I move to the right out of her path, but she sidesteps with me, walking directly towards me. When I step to the left, the same thing happens.

‘Excuse me, please,' I say, moving out of her way as we meet.

‘Look at me when you're fucking talking to me,' she says, grabbing my chin and levelling my face with hers.

She has pockmarked skin, a mean mouth and the sly, merciless eyes of a tiger. Some women hurry past us, pretending not to notice the confrontation. Others egg her on.

‘Give her a good hiding, Sharon. Go on, girl, go for it! We'll keep an eye out for the screws.'

At that, a male officer comes round the corner.

‘Oy, Pepper, keep moving,' he shouts.

She points at my face, then turns her finger sideways and rubs it slowly across her neck.

‘I'll get you,' she says, shouldering me as she struts on, laughing to herself.

The next two days pass without any serious incident. There are still jibes, dirty looks and hissing, but at least no one lays a hand on me. Veronica calls to my room before mealtimes and sits with me in the dining-room. She babbles on about her life and her extended family as if I should know, by their Christian names alone, who is who. She even goes as far as to tell me where each relative lives – all Dublin addresses – expecting me to be familiar with these places. I'm far too self-absorbed either to concentrate or to care. All I know is that it seems strange to me that someone so harmless should be behind bars. I don't know why she's ended up in jail. That's the one thing she doesn't talk about.

On my final evening, after nagging me for the best part of an hour, Veronica finally persuades me to go out for a walk with her. I hadn't risked venturing outdoors before for fear of being set upon. But having seen my solicitor earlier on in the day, I'm in reasonably good spirits. He said that after reading the
psychiatrist's report, he thought I had a very good chance of avoiding a jail sentence, provided I agreed to a specified period of therapy under supervision. I feel relieved. It's probably my last night in prison and I've managed to survive it, albeit with the help of Veronica and the tablets.

Before we leave the room, I open my drawer, take ten pounds out of my purse and hand it to Veronica.

‘Here,' I say, smiling at her. ‘To buy yourself out of trouble.'

‘Ah Jaysus, tanks, love.'

‘You're welcome.'

‘Are you sure you'll not be needing it yourself?'

‘I can get more if I'm stuck.'

‘You're very good,' she says, plonking herself down on my bed.

‘What about the walk?'

‘On seconds toughts, let's stay where we are and have an oul natter. You don't seem dat pushed on going out.'

‘No, it's OK; I feel like going now. I've been cooped up for far too long. I could do with the fresh air.'

‘Well, if you're sure,' she sighs, standing up reluctantly.

Her mood has suddenly changed. She's quiet and edgy.

‘How long are you in here for?' I ask, as we stroll along the path.

‘Wha?' She's scanning the courtyard, as though she's looking out for someone.

‘Are you OK?'

‘Yeah, I'm fine. What were you saying?' She pulls a cigarette from her pocket and lights it.

‘Hey, Veronica,' someone shouts. ‘Would ya be so bleedin' understanding if it'd been one of your kids she'd nicked?'

‘Let's go back inside, love,' Veronica says, doing a U-turn. ‘You don't need dis aggro on your last evening.'

When I turn to follow her, someone grabs my hair from behind and starts pulling me backwards. I have to run to stay on my feet. I call out after Veronica, but she keeps on walking as if she hasn't heard me. I know she has.

‘Gotya now, you childless cunt,' Sharon Pepper hisses as she drags me backwards around a corner and throws me against a wall where there are several others waiting.

‘Did you really think we were going to let you get away with it?' she says, striking me hard across the face. ‘Tuck in, girls, and teach the bitch a lesson.'