“What did she say?”
“She got at me when I was in the shower. When I was vulnerable. There were other cons around, watching. She called me a nonce. I couldn’t let it go. It would have been like I was agreeing with her.”
Cate remembered Paul telling her that ‘nonce’ was the ultimate insult, reserved for those who had committed the worst crime of all, that of abusing children. Or killing them.
“Most people don’t know anything about me and as I said I tell them I’m in for burglary. People don’t mind that and, anyway, it’s true. I was a burglar.”
“What did you steal?”
Rose smiled slightly, touching her necklace. “Just a key.”
“So what did you do to the woman who called you a nonce?”
“Only what I had to do. You can’t show weakness in prison. I waited until she wasn’t expecting it and threw hot water in her face. It killed me to do it, but I didn’t have any choice. I couldn’t let word get round that I’d let her get away with calling me that.” Rose blanched, and clasped her hands together.
Cate watched Rose closely. “Are you okay?”
“No.” Her eyes welled, “everything depends on this. And no-one understands that I wasn’t in Luke’s room for any bad reason. I loved him. I know I had no right to be there, but since I lost Joel…” The tears fell slowly. “Just to hold another baby. That was all. I would never hurt him.”
Cate watched as Rose cried, her fingers itching to reach and comfort her until she reminded herself that because of her a child had died. She let Rose cry herself out.
Sniffing and drying her tears Rose asked, “Have you got any children?”
“It’s not really relevant.”
“I think it is. But you’re not supposed to tell me, are you?”
There were three beats of silence between them.
This woman is responsible for a child’s death. Why shouldn’t she know that I understand what that means to Luke’s mother.
“I have a daughter.”
Rose wiped her eyes. “I had a son. Joel.”
“Can you tell me about him?”
Rose shook her head.
“What about Luke?”
Again, she shook her head.
“Rose, to write your report I need to know how you ended up here. I need you to talk to me. I know that what I’m asking you to do is painful. But we need to make a start if you want to be released.”
Black Book Entry
Cate Austin didn’t ask about you, Jason. She didn’t press me to talk about Luke’s death, which surprises me since there are only five weeks until the parole board meet. But then sometimes these professionals do wait, even when they are desperate to know. They want to ‘establish rapport’ as they call it. As if that’s even possible.
After I was convicted, when the case had been adjourned for reports to be written and for the judge to decide what sentence to give me, a psychiatrist wasted hours asking me about things. My favourite bird, my worst subjects at school, if I liked any special flowers. I told him I liked to see blackbirds, that they reminded me of my mother, that I’d always hated R.E and liked roses, because of my name. Finally, satisfied that he knew enough, he asked about the fire. It was like an exam, and every question had a correct answer.
I think it’ll be different with Cate. She told me that she hasn’t got my full case file, when she could have pretended to know everything about me. She seems cool but under the surface things are always different. I’ve met lots of professionals, and I know them, what makes them tick. Men are the easiest to handle. They prefer to think of women as ‘misguided’, rather than plain bad. They’re always looking for reasons and excuses.
There was something about Cate, recognition between us like seeing a reflection in the funfair mirror, distorted, but still familiar. Just a hint, in the damp of her palm when we first met, in the pained way she looked when I cried. She’s hiding something. Some vulnerable part, locked away. She said she has a daughter, but doesn’t wear a wedding ring. Maybe she’s divorced, been abandoned by a man. Betrayed. These things matter, Jason, with a case like ours.
I’m writing this in my cell now, sitting cross-legged on the bed. The bed is so small that with my back to the wall my knees reach the sides of the mattress. The cell door is locked, but I can hear the officers talking in the corridor. We inmates listen, quiet as mice, straining our ears for information. We know who’s sleeping with who, who has family trouble, who’s ill. All their secrets and lies. We know more about the screws than they know about us. Being in control isn’t just about who wears a uniform.
When the corridor is silent I know the shifts have changed. It’s the night shift now, and there’s only one officer on duty. They’re supposed to do an hourly check of the cells but they never do. There are often women on ‘suicide watch’, and they need close observation since there are many ways to kill yourself, and it looks bad on the prison record if a shoelace wasn’t confiscated, if the syringe wasn’t found. Prisons are frightening places, and some inmates prefer death.
If you want to survive in here you follow the rules – someone gobbing in your food is the least trouble you can expect. I tell the new girls this:
For God’s sake, don’t borrow, no matter how badly you need that phone card to call and wish your mum Happy Birthday, and never deal drugs no matter how much you need that fix. You’ll have to pay it back, but double, and then you’ll borrow again and the debt will rise until you’re on the wrong end of a sock with batteries in it. Or worse. Some girls have razors and, when they’re not cutting their own arms they’ll go for you, especially if you’re pretty, and boiling water hurts like hell, scarring you for life.
Best to learn quickly. It’s dog eat dog in here. One girl with HIV threatens with a needle, so don’t mess with her. In fact, don’t mess with anyone unless you want your cheek cut open. Find someone to look out for you. Someone like me, who knows the ropes. The screws aren’t going to do it, especially not at night and that’s when a lot of bullying happens. If you’re new you’ll be asked to sing or face punishment the next day. The screw on night duty will sleep or watch TV, so don’t expect them to take care of you. Night shifts are an easy ride. Unless they’re on suicide watch, they’re being paid to dream, only disturbed when the day staff arrive at 8a.m.
I go to my window and push open the thin rectangle of unbreakable glass. It’s small but the air comes in fresh and warm, and I breathe it in. From here I can see the block opposite, women standing, as I am, at barred windows. Some have sheets, which they have wound into ropes, using them to swing notes and stuff between each other’s windows. One woman swings a small bundle across, probably cigs or chocolate, friendship or fear making her give away her supply.
I can’t see my own neighbours, but I know who’s in each cell. I can hear them whispering the gossip. Sometimes I just listen, but not today.
“Janie?” I hiss.
She immediately squeaks back, “Here, Rose,” like a pupil at registration.
“Did you do it?”
“Yes. I didn’t find much.”
Janie often gets on my nerves, brown-nosing the officers, but I was still glad when she was also transferred to Bishop’s Hill. Janie’s someone I like having around, we get on and I can ask her for favours. We’re friends, as much as anyone can be in prison. She’s one of those unlucky women who wouldn’t be in prison if she hadn’t fallen in with the wrong sort. But then what other sort would choose Janie as a friend? She’s small and forgettable, perfect for any number of crimes. She would be a loyal lookout, an ideal burglar.
Janie had fallen in with a gang led by a woman who was assistant manager at a jewellers. She passed on the addresses of customers who had bought valuable jewellery and a burglary would follow. Unfortunately for them, on the last job, Janie was so nervous she shat herself. Left a pile of evidence on the grassy verge.
The problem with Janie is that she’s weak. She’s can’t resist pressure; she’s a tell-tale. That’s why she’s with us on the rule. Suicides and snitches, the bullied and the notorious. We all need to be protected, either from other people or from ourselves. D wing is our special place, the inmates in the kitchens will spit in our food; we’re despised.
After the police checked the faeces for DNA Janie was arrested. To get a lighter sentence she spilled the names of every gang member as well as the assistant manager at the jewellery shop. Grassing on that scale means she’ll always have to watch her back.
Janie has some power with us, because she’s an orderly. The officers, recognising her obedience, appointed her to this prized position. She cleans the admin block, the rooms of the psychologist and governor, dusts the filing cabinets where precious files are kept. She’s a good cleaner; she would scrub a toilet with a toothbrush if they asked, she’s that type. But being submissive is also a flaw. What makes her a good orderly also makes her a good informant. Today she cleaned the new probation officer’s room.
“Tell me what you found.”
“Well, it’s a small office, just a desk and a chair really.”
“Did you check the desk drawers?”
“Yup. There was an open pack of custard creams, so I took some.” She sniggers at her own daring.
“What else?”
“There was a notepad. With your name on it.”
“What else was written on it?”
“I’m not sure. Nothing much.”
I curse Janie for not being able to read very well. I’ll have to get her to steal Cate’s notes to know what she’s written about me.
“And there was a photo of a little girl on the desk. Real pretty. Hair in bunches. Licking an ice cream.”
“That’ll be her daughter. How old did she look?”
“Four or five, I reckon. There was a picture on the wall, y’know a kid’s drawing, with her name on it.”
“You know the girl’s name?”
“Yeah, it was on the picture. In big letters. A– M –E – L – I – A.”
“Amelia.”
Janie has risked a lot for me. If she were caught snooping she’d lose her cleaning job and probably be sent to segregation. She put herself in danger, for my sake.
“Good girl, Janie. You’ve done really well. Now you need to find out if Cate Austin has a man.” I breathe in the free air and smile into the night.
Nights are so hard, Jason. I can’t sleep. Do you still sleep with your body splayed in total submission? I would watch you at night, as you dreamed, amazed that you were mine.
I’ll tell you a story now, write it down for you in my black book, which I’ll give to you one day. It’s more about a girl named Rose who lived by the sea.
My life before you met me, made me what I am.
Black Book Entry
I was brought up in Suffolk, in a seaside town where my family owned a shop. Lowestoft had seen better days and the oncegrand town houses along the front were now split into flats and lived in by single mums and teenagers on benefit. There were four of us: me, my mum and dad, and Peter. He was two years older than me, a beast of a boy with piggy eyes in a pale podgy face and a brain the size of a pea. He had my mother’s pale colouring but none of her delicacy. He used to bully me endlessly, as older brothers do, but Mum said I had to make allowances because Peter was ‘special’, meaning he was stupid.
Our shop was by the beach, the type of seaside convenience store that sells everything and Mum was supposed to look after Peter and me but she went through periods when she just couldn’t handle us and would stay in bed. When she was well she’d be full of fun, taking us swimming in the sea, letting me play with her long sunshine hair. But those days would be suddenly eclipsed by her ‘loony spells’, as Dad called it, when her hair would be greasy and her eyes dull.
I was just a child and didn’t know much, but I’d noticed that one of the customers, Mrs Carron, popped in the shop a lot. She was a flouncy woman with musky perfume and pink lips. Lots of the housewives in the terraces would come in for loaves of bread or packets of biscuits most days. My dad was friendly with them all, and if he was even friendlier with the Mrs Pink-lips, that seemed okay. Why should I think anything of him joking with her or staring at her bottom when she walked away? He was a man, after all, and she was one of those women who dolled herself up and laughed like a spoon in a glass, so it all seemed normal, nothing strange or bad. But Mum didn’t think so.
I heard her shouting about it, and knew the words were bad even if I didn’t know what ‘whore’ and ‘slut’ really meant, and my father shouting back, saying ‘shut up!’ and then calling her a mad woman and finally saying, ‘well, who could blame me?’ That was when she would cry. After these arguments she’d go to bed and Dad would go out. He never said where to, but he’d come back smelling of musk with pink lipstick on his cheek.
After arguing with my father, Mum looked different, angry and sad. She’d hold herself as if she had a heavy weight to carry and her mouth would be pulled down at the sides, she wouldn’t laugh, like she did when she was well. I rode the roller coaster of her moods. She could be warm and loving, when we would do exciting things. But on her ‘loony’ days she’d look at me like I was a stranger.
When Mum was ill, Peter and me would have to stay in the shop and not get under anyone’s feet. There were comics on sale and we would try to sneak a look but Dad would tell us not to touch, and we got bored. Peter would poke me, booming insults in his bass voice, nick my book away or tease me for being fat. Sometimes he would go with his mates to the beach, and I would be glad.
I didn’t want to be in the shop. I wanted to be with Mum. I sneaked into her room and climbed onto the bed, snuggling under her duvet and playing at dens.
The blackbirds were back, building their nests. In the rain.
I could see them from my mother’s bed, flying in the grey-torn sky and darting to a bush. The slash of dark wings against lime and yellow, disappearing into the shrub, one going in, the other coming out, over and over. Wet feathers. Dripping leaves. The beaked grip on thin brown wood, the unlikely angle of the head as the twig slid into place. The black beady eye. A single jet feather lifted by the wind. I watched and shivered.