The Dead Ex(57)

Tanya! Quickly, I make out that I am checking something on my phone and then head back to the water cooler.

It takes a while for Perdita to return, and when she does, she doesn’t seem so haughty any more. Her eyes are red. Her pale freckled skin is blotchy.

‘You know what?’ she sniffs. ‘I’m going to make sure you get your slot with Mr Goudman. How about tomorrow at 5.30 p.m.?’





27



Vicki


My solicitor is sitting back arms folded. ‘If we’re going to work together, Vicki, I need total honesty. No holding things back. Do you understand?

‘Sorry.’ The tablets are beginning to kick in. I’m feeling sleepy. It’s also been a long day.

‘You need to be careful. Not many former prison governors are accused of murder. They’re going to charge you. The likelihood is that you’ll go to a remand prison until the trial for your own safety.’

I shiver, remembering the claustrophobia. The constant noise, which never quite leaves you. The shouting. The loudspeaker announcements. The alarm bell. Slamming doors. The click of electronic locks.

In those days, I was in charge.

Now I’ll be on the other side of the bars.

‘The women will tear me to bits,’ I whisper. ‘You’ve got to help me.’

‘I’ll do my best.’

Then she goes, leaving me alone with my memories.

‘You mean to tell me that you’ve got a degree only for you to end up behind bars, looking after the likes of Billy Jones?’ my dad had said all those years ago when I told him what I wanted to do after uni.

Billy had been three years older than me at school and had got life for knifing an innocent father of four when he was high on heroin.

‘It’s a good career, Dad. They run this special graduate training programme. I’m not going to be a prison officer all my life. It’s where you start. Then you work your way up.’

‘To what? The bleeding prison governor?’

He laughed hoarsely at his own joke and then took another swig from his third bottle of stout that evening. ‘I was so proud of you, lass. A first in History. I’ve told the whole bleeding street. Now what am I going to say?’

This wasn’t fair. ‘You’re the one who’s always telling me to stick up for myself. To not be scared of standing out in a crowd.’

Dad slammed the bottle down on the table so the foam ran over his thick, rough hands. ‘You’re not old enough to remember the strikes, lass. The police were bastards. And so were the screws to the poor sods who got put away. Memories run deep. Including mine. I can’t stand by and see you becoming one of them. You’ll get lynched by folk round here, and so will I.’

After Dad’s outburst, I’d nearly decided not to do it. But a week later I’d found myself in the interview. For some reason, I’d assumed the ‘assessment’ would take place in a prison. In fact it was held in a large government building in central London. Be prepared to engage in role play and to complete written papers in English and maths, the letter had warned.

‘Heard they bring in special actors,’ said one of the other interviewees, as we sat in the corridor waiting our turn. ‘I know someone who applied last year, and they freaked out when an actor pretended to assault him.’

‘At my old school,’ I couldn’t resist saying, ‘you had to learn to fight back.’

They all stared at me.

‘It’s the written bit I’m dreading,’ said someone else. ‘I haven’t done maths since GCSE.’

‘You don’t even get to work as a prison officer to begin with. There’s six months’ training first. You have to …’

‘Vicki Smith.’

I leapt up as my name was called out by a woman with a clipboard and followed her into a room. There were three men on one side of the table. The woman joined them.

Which one was the actor? Or did that come later in the day? And what about the written test?

One of the men leaned forward. ‘Tell us about yourself, Vicki.’

‘What would you like to know?’ I asked hesitantly.

‘What kind of person are you? How would you describe your personality?’

If in doubt, be honest. That’s what Dad always said.

‘Well, I’m not stupid.’

‘Why do you say that?’

‘I got a first in History.’

‘Do you think that’s a measure of intelligence?’

‘In some ways.’

‘Go on.’

‘I want to help others.’

Was it her imagination, or was there a brief roll of the eyes there?

‘I’ve been helping an immigrant woman to learn English and … and I went with her to a prison when her nephew was arrested.’

The woman on the panel looked interested. ‘Why?’

‘She needed someone.’

‘Did you help her?’

I thought of poor Mrs Prasad, who was inconsolable after the trial. ‘I don’t think so.’

‘Then you didn’t do much good, did you?’

‘Maybe not. But it was better than not trying at all.’

‘What’s your biggest achievement, Vicki?’ This was the first man again. ‘Apart, of course, from your first-class degree?’