Something in the Water(20)

I don’t care about the wedding as long as he’s happy.

Nigel clears his throat loudly and gives me a nod. I turn on the camera next to me and stand awkwardly, as if I’ll be greeting someone I don’t know. But the funny thing with Alexa is that, since our telephone chats, I feel like I actually do know her, even though I’ve never met her.

I see her through the reinforced mesh of the door’s window, her eyes: warm, calm, serious. She enters looking at me from under soft blond bangs. Her open face. The pale blue Holloway prison-issue sweatshirt, pants, and slip-ons look like they’re from a Scandinavian fashion house on her. Like she’s trying something new for London Fashion Week. Very minimalist, very chic. Alexa is forty-two. She looks toward Nigel and waits for him to nod before pulling out the seat opposite me. I extend my hand across the white void of the table. She takes it with a muted smile.

“Alexa Fuller,” she says.

“Erin. It’s great to finally meet you, Alexa. Thank you so much for coming.”

“Yes, great to finally put a face to a voice,” she says, her smile widening. We take our seats.

I want to get straight to it but Alexa is staring at Nigel. His presence is going to be an impediment.

“Nigel. I’ve got the camera on now. It’s recording already, so would you mind stepping out of the interview? I’ll make the tapes available. Just the other side of the door is fine.”

I wouldn’t have dreamed of asking Amal to do the same during my interview with Holli, but Alexa is by far the safest of my interviewees. Nigel shrugs. I’m sure he’s aware of Alexa’s history and her crime. He knows I’ll be perfectly safe in here alone with her. I’m not so sure how safe I’d be with Holli and Eddie Bishop, though. I wonder if the authorities would ever even allow those two to be unsupervised.

Eddie has requested another telephone interview. I received an email from Pentonville on Sunday. I’m not sure what exactly he wants to discuss. I hope he isn’t getting cold feet about filming next month. I hope it’s not more game-playing.

I wait until Nigel leaves and the bolt slides on the door before I speak again.

“Thank you, Alexa. I really appreciate you taking part in this process. I know we’ve talked it all through over the phone, but just to recap: What I’m going to do is record everything we say here today. If something comes out wrong or you’re not happy with how you’ve expressed something, then just let me know and I’ll ask you again or I’ll rephrase the question. You don’t have to worry about performing for the camera or anything like that. Just ignore it and talk to me. Just like a normal conversation.”

She smiles. I’ve said something funny.

“It’s been a while since I’ve had a ‘normal conversation,’ Erin. So you’ll have to bear with me, I’m afraid. I’ll do my best.” She chuckles. Her voice is warm and deep. It’s funny to hear it now in person after hearing it on the phone for so long. We’ve had three pretty comprehensive phone conversations since we started the process. I’ve managed to keep off the central interview topics, as I want her to be able to tell me her story in full for the first time on camera. I want to keep it fresh. It’s strange to see her now, here, real, in front of me. Of course, I’ve seen pictures of her in her file, articles in papers, the story Mark read over my shoulder only a month ago, but this is different. She’s so calm, so self-possessed. I’ve seen her arrest photos from fourteen years ago, when she was twenty-eight. She’s more beautiful now somehow; she was attractive then but she has clearly grown into her beauty. Her soft dark blond hair is tied back loosely in a low ponytail at the nape of her neck, her naturally sun-kissed skin has a sprinkling of freckles across her nose and forehead.

She’s only half joking about the lack of normal conversation. I can see it in her eyes. I smile. I understand why she might have agreed to this project. Cultural homesickness. I can’t imagine there are too many people like Alexa in Holloway. From where she’s from. We’re not the same generation, she and I, but we’re definitely the same tribe.

“Shall we give this a go then? Any questions before we start?” I ask.

“No, I’m happy to jump right in.” She straightens her already straight sweatshirt and shakes her bangs from her eyes.

“Great! Just to let you know, I’m going to keep my questions short; they’ll be more like prompts for you, really, to focus you on a topic or redirect you. I can edit myself out and we can use voiceover later to overlay. Okay. Let’s give it a go. Could you tell me your name, age, and sentence?”

I feel my phone buzz silently through my pocket. Mark. Maybe good news. Maybe a job offer? God, I hope so. That would solve everything in one quick stroke. The buzzing stops abruptly. Either went to voicemail or he’s remembered where I am today. What I’m supposed to be doing right now.

I snap back into focus. I watch as Alexa takes a soft breath, I let go of thoughts of Mark, and the prison interview room seems to disappear around her.

“My name is Alexa Fuller. I’m forty-two years old and I’ve been here, in Holloway, for fourteen years now. I was convicted for assisting in the suicide of my mother, Dawn Fuller. She was terminally ill. Pancreatic cancer. I was sentenced for the maximum sentence allowable.” She pauses. “Um…the maximum conviction ever given for assisted suicide. There had been a lot of press that year around lenient sentencing, lots in the media about assisted-suicide convictions being thrown out of court. There was an inquest where it was decided that the Crown Prosecution Service should take a harder line in the future. I just happened to be first through the door after the rules changed. They decided cases would be treated similarly to manslaughter, even if they clearly aren’t manslaughter.”