The Dead Ex(72)

‘Get off me,’ I’d screamed.

One of the officers had come running. ‘I was only trying to help,’ protested the woman.

‘You don’t want to do that,’ hissed another. ‘She’s scum. Used to be a bleeding governor herself.’

‘Fuck. You’re kidding.’

Meanwhile, one of the officers was helping me up. ‘You all right?’ she said in a kindlier manner than I’d expected. ‘You’re as white as a sheet.’

No wonder. I’m even more scared going up the stairs when we have to return to our pads.

How I miss my aromatherapy: the only thing that helps to calm me. What I’d give for some lavender essence right now. I yearn for the old day-to-day contact with clients, the warm feeling that comes from helping others and the distraction of work in the real world.

I’m on kitchen duty this week, in charge of potato peeling. My hands are red-raw from the water and I’ve got small nicks all over them from the peeler. Health regulations demand that you’re meant to go to the nurse if that happens, but she’s been on leave with stress for the last week and they’re still trying to find a standin. Of course, that’s not acceptable. If I was governor, I’d do something about it. But I’m not.

Actually, I quite like peeling potatoes. The banal rhythmical action is soothing. It also helps to distract me from thinking about the trial. It’s due to start in a month’s time, and I haven’t heard from my solicitor for a few days. I know she’s annoyed with me for not allowing her to contact Patrick.

But I can’t go through that shame. I can’t see his face, full of pity. It would kill me. I wonder if he actually knows that I’m in prison. I’d imagine that he does – the gossip lines are hot inside. But if he does, he hasn’t been to visit me – even more reason why I’m not going to ask him to be a character witness.

Ouch! I glance down at my potato, bringing myself sharply back to the present. I’ve cut my skin again. Far worse than last time. The pain actually feels like a release.

‘You’ve created something here,’ said my Number One Governor back in late 2009 after my prison was given an award for its ‘outstanding’ mother-and-baby unit. ‘Well done.’

‘It’s not just me,’ I replied quickly. ‘It’s Patrick too.’ We’d been working together for almost a year by then.

He nodded. ‘That’s why we want you both to do the same at HMP Longwaite. As a team.’

Another move? But I liked it here. Mind you, this new prison was close to London. I could spend my days off in museums and art galleries.

‘It will help you with your career,’ added my boss.

It was tempting. Yet …

‘I’ll do it,’ I replied slowly. ‘But I don’t know if Patrick will be happy to uproot.’

‘He will.’ He looked at me meaningfully. ‘If you do.’

‘We are professional colleagues,’ I retorted briskly.

‘You work well together.’

To my surprise – and excitement – Patrick agreed. If I was honest with myself, there was something there. Never before had I met a man like him. He was intelligent, kind and attractive. He was just different. This wasn’t only because of his poor upbringing back in Uganda (I tried not to think what my dad would say about his ethnicity). It was more because he was, well, simply him. A good, honest man who was not afraid to stand up for what he believed in.

Often, he suggested the same strategy for an inmate that I was about to suggest. The other month, when a woman on C wing lashed out at one of the officers, he organized an anger-management course for her instead of sending her to solitary.

‘Do you agree?’ he’d asked me.

‘Absolutely. Being on her own isn’t going to make her change her way of thinking. We need to provide her with coping mechanisms.’

But, amazing as Patrick was, he seemed oblivious to me as a woman. On the rare occasions when our shifts meant we had a night off at the same time, he never suggested a meal out or even a drink.

Instead, we would both go back to our separate prison bedsits. ‘I’m thirty-six,’ I reminded myself. How had the years gone by so fast?

‘You need to get out more, lass,’ said Dad when I went back during one of my longer leaves. ‘Aren’t there social nights in your line of work?’

‘Yes. Bar quizzes. Darts. The odd staff party.’

I might have added that I had to be careful in my senior position. I could hardly snog someone and then work with him the next day. Maybe that’s why Patrick hadn’t made a move …

That night, I got a call. One of the mothers in the unit had gone missing. She’d taken her child with her. ‘There’s going to be hell in the papers when they find out,’ said my superior, as if this was the only thing to worry about.

By the time I got back to the prison from Dad’s, the pair had been found.

‘It’s my fault.’

Never had I seen Patrick in tears before.

‘We had a counselling session booked, but I had to cancel it for a bloody financial meeting.’

I’d never heard him swear, either.

‘You can’t blame yourself.’

‘I should have been more forceful when they refused to reschedule.’