The Dead Ex(61)

I shake my head. ‘I don’t eat meat, although I’m happy with fish.’

‘That’s OK. This place has a comprehensive gourmet menu. I used to take my …’

Then he stops. I have the distinct feeling he was going to say ‘wife’. But the sentence lies unfinished in the air between us, and my intuition tells me to leave it there.

Slowly, slowly, I warn myself as we go inside and someone takes my coat. I’ve waited a long time for this. I can’t afford any false moves.





29



Vicki

4 April 2018


The officer in the van doesn’t tell me which prison we are going to until we’ve been on the road for over an hour. I suspect from the frantic flurry of calls that I have caused a certain number of admin issues. As a former prison governor, I can’t be taken to a jail where I’ve worked before or where I might know one of the inmates. They might have a grudge. Even try to kill me.

Eventually I’m informed that we are going to a brand-new prison which has recently opened in the West Country. How ironic that I am being taken back to the very area I have just left.

I’m stiff when they finally let us out. I want to stretch my legs so am quite relieved when I am marched through a wide courtyard and into a modern-looking room with ‘SAFETY FIRST’ posters on the walls. After being frisked, I am allowed to get back into my own clothes. Only if I am convicted will I have to wear prison uniform.

This particular prison is made up of what they call ‘houses’ – rather like a posh school. I’ve seen a few like this. There’s a huge hub at the centre of each with different corridors leading off like spokes from a cartwheel. In the middle of the hub is a glass office, or ‘watchtower’ as it’s known, where the officers monitor activity.

Usually prisons are noisy with constant shouting. But right now, it’s silent. Everyone is looking at me. Staff and inmates. I see it all on their faces. Shock. Disbelief. Pleasure. Evil intent. Even though I’ve never worked here, prisons inhabit a small world. Word has clearly got round about my arrival. A prison governor – past or present – equals the enemy.

Then, like a play when an actor suddenly remembers his lines, the noise starts up again. A very pale-faced woman in prison green – indicating garden duty – yells at another woman who is pushing a massive kitchen trolley. ‘Get out of the fucking way. Look where you’re going.’

Someone else starts arguing with an officer about visiting privileges. A young woman with scraped-back hair and a weary expression begins to sweep the floor around my feet as if I am not there. I am escorted towards a double gate that forms the entrance to one of the houses. I can see through it. It’s the type with iron bars going vertically down. On the other side is a table. Women are eating lunch. There’s a smell of vinegar. They appraise me. One is chewing with her mouth open. Another holds her knife and fork very precisely, as if to say, ‘I may be here but I’m not one of you lot.’ She catches my eye for a second and then looks away dismissively. Clearly I fall into the last category for her.

I’m led up a flight of stairs but have to stop halfway.

‘Move it,’ snaps the guard.

‘I can’t.’ I grip the handrail. ‘I feel dizzy.’

‘How convenient,’ says the other.

Are they testing me? Don’t they know what happened at my last place?

My cell is by the stairs, on the right. It has bars on the window and overlooks the mother-and-baby unit. Another deliberate act? Hard to know. I force my face to stay straight, as if this means nothing to me. But inside I am quivering.

There’s a shower in the corner and a loo. A narrow bed takes up one side, and there is a long shelf which looks like it acts as a desk/dressing table. Lino rather than concrete. By some prison standards, this would be a palace.

‘You’re just in time for tea,’ says one of the officers. His voice has a sarcastic edge, as though I have dropped in to pay a courtesy visit.

I sit on the bed. It’s hard. ‘Not hungry,’ I say.

He shrugs. ‘Suit yourself.’ His eyes become even colder. ‘Is it true you used to be a prison guv?’

I ignore the question. Instead, I remind him that I’ll need my meds soon.

‘You’ll get them when they do their rounds.’

‘Don’t cause any trouble,’ my solicitor had warned. ‘It won’t help at the trial.’ So I nod and take out the picture which they’ve allowed me to keep and place it gently on the table. Then I try to breathe calmly. I wasn’t allowed – unsurprisingly – to bring in my lavender essence or any of the other oils that might calm me down. I’ve had to leave those behind in the flat. Including the equipment that I use to make my own special combinations.

A loudspeaker announces that lockdown is about to take place. Immediately, there’s a click, indicating that the door has been electronically secured.

That’s when I finally let myself cry. I cry for David because, despite everything, I really don’t want him to be dead. I cry for Tanya, even though part of me still hates her. But there’s one person I can’t cry for. It hurts too much.





30



Helen


Talk about a posh restaurant! Some of the women are in long, backless dresses, making my short skirt look like a serviette. The men, like David, are in striped shirts and chinos. Waiters are bobbing and bowing all around us. But the best bit is the view, looking out towards all the buildings along the Embankment.