The Dead Ex(64)

I felt my stomach dipping down with fear. ‘What do you mean?’

‘Didn’t they tell you, love? This is the sex offenders’ wing.’

What? I stared at the officer. Surely there’d been a mistake. No one had said. Then I recalled the nudges and the winks when I’d started that morning. Someone had set me up. Or else I was being tested to show my mettle.

‘Never been in one before, Smith? Good luck.’

By 11.30, my head was ringing with the shouts, pleas and threats.

‘Officer, I need a crap, and there’s no fucking toilet paper in here.’

‘Get me out of here, I’m going to be sick.’

‘What about my human rights? I’m going to get my solicitor to sort out you bastards.’

This wasn’t right. It couldn’t be.

‘Miss, do something. PLEASE.’

This was after I’d made the mistake of talking back to one of them through a closed door. Instantly, they’d seized on the fact that I was a woman.

Even worse, I needed a pee myself, but there was no one to keep watch while I went. Surely this was against employment regulations.

At last! A loud bell sounded accompanied by a metallic click. Each door opened at the same time. How was I going to manage all these men?

‘Stay in line,’ I shouted as they pushed past me, jostling down the stairs. So much for an ‘orderly fashion’.

‘Fuck that, miss,’ retorted a man with a closely shaved head. ‘I’m bleeding starving. You need more bloody staff. Going to talk to the IMB, I am.’

The Independent Monitoring Board is a panel of volunteers from the public who visit prisoners to make sure that the proper standards of care and decency are being observed. An inmate, for example, might complain about the temperature of the cells or that the food portions are too small. The IMB then forwards this to higher authorities. It’s a good system in my view. Frankly, I had some sympathy for the man with the shaved head. As I was beginning to learn, staff shortages caused huge problems for all of us.

There were just two men left now. One walked with hunched shoulders, revealing a large red dragon tattooed on his neck. Another was loitering at his door as if he didn’t want to leave, despite the fuss he’d been making earlier.

‘I need to show you summat, miss,’ he said in a soft voice.

Male prisoners often called women staff ‘miss’, regardless of marital status. That was something else we’d been taught.

‘Look.’

He was beckoning inside.

Never go into a pad unless someone knows your whereabouts. That’s what our training manual had said.

Hesitantly, I put my head round the door.

‘Look at my bloody toilet. It’s fucking bunged up.’

I walked over to inspect. That was when I felt his hand on my head, tugging at my roots and pushing me towards the faeces which were rising up over the bowl.

Dad’s words rang round my head. ‘They’ll eat you alive.’

No bloody way.

‘TAKE YOUR FUCKING HANDS OFF ME.’

There was a horrible clunking sound as his head hit the radiator. Oh my God. I’ve killed him!

Then he got up and lunged towards me.

Swiftly, I twisted his arm behind his back in the ‘holding’ position while shouting for help. ‘Make as much noise as possible,’ the self-defence instructor had told us. ‘Then others will be aware of your location.’

‘What’s going on?’ yelled two officers bursting in.

‘She bloody assaulted me!’

‘It’s all right,’ I panted, wiping the sweat from my face. ‘Everything’s under control.’

If only I could say the same all these years later. But one thing is clear. If a jury hears about my self-defence training, each one of those twelve might well assume I am capable of inflicting serious harm on someone else. And they’d be right.





32



Helen


I’ve seen fancy loft conversions like this in magazines. You could put five other flats plus mine in this open space and still have room for more. There’s even an L-shaped white leather sofa by the huge paned windows overlooking the city, seven floors below. The security system downstairs was something! David had to enter a code on the alarm pad before we could get into the lift. Talk about Fort Knox.

The enormous bed, with loads of cushions all over it, is at the other end of the room with a black-and-white frieze behind it, showing famous London silhouettes like Big Ben and Buckingham Palace. There are no dividing walls apart from a door which leads into the bathroom, as I discover when I need the loo. It has automatic lighting and taps. Neat.

When I come out, David is opening a bottle. The cork seems to be a bit of a struggle. But eventually it pops open. ‘My first wife always said I was handy with both a corkscrew and the coffee machine. One of my few pluses, apparently!’

He sounds rather bitter. ‘So, what do you think of my place?’ he says, handing me a glass.

‘There’s enough space,’ I reply, not wanting to flatter him. I suspect he gets enough of that.

He nods. ‘I have a phobia about being cooped up in small places.’

‘Why?’

He turns away. ‘Reminds me of the army.’

‘It must have been scary,’ I say gently, in case he wants to tell me more.