Blood Sisters(18)

‘Why do you ask, miss?’

I feel as though I’ve been caught out. It’s not considered ‘polite’ to ask what a criminal has done. ‘Someone told me about Barry and … and his crime,’ I venture. ‘I’m just a bit scared in case …’

My voice runs out but Kurt steps in. ‘You’re worried he might kill again.’

I nod.

‘Could do.’ He scratches his chin as if in thought. ‘When you’ve been inside for as long as he has, the thought of the outside is scary – especially if there are relatives of your victims waiting to get you. He’s up for parole soon but he might not want to leave. It’s possible that Grandad might do something bad here just to stay in the system and keep safe.’

I bite my lip.

‘Don’t worry, miss.’ Kurt doesn’t exactly touch my arm in comfort but he looks as though he might. ‘The rest of us wouldn’t let no one hurt you. We like you.’

Has a prisoner just offered to protect me? Have I been naive to confide in him? And – here’s the scary bit – Kurt genuinely did seem to think that Grandad might still be a threat. What if he moved from children to adults? Had I been too abrupt with him in class?

The following day, I voice my fears to Angela. ‘Supposing I annoy someone somehow and they get one of their friends to pay me a visit at home?’ I think about that feeling I had the other day, like I was being watched, but I feel too stupid to voice this out loud.

She puts her head to one side, suggesting I’ve made a valid point. A sense of unease crawls through me. ‘Goes with the job, I suppose. I don’t worry because I’ve got my Jeff.’ She laughs. ‘One look at my old man and any of this lot would scarper. Built like a tank, he is.’

But I don’t have anyone. Only the other lodger and my landlord. Angela notices my silence. ‘You could try putting a man’s pair of boots outside your place. And keep your door on a chain. But that’s just common sense, isn’t it? To be honest, I’ve never heard of a prisoner going after a member of staff.’

There’s always a first time, I tell myself silently.

‘Don’t look like that, love. You can’t get too uptight about all this. Otherwise we couldn’t do what we do.’

‘Angela! I’ve been wanting to catch you.’ A man with a clutch of earrings in his right ear plonks himself down at our table without so much as a ‘Do you mind?’ He could pass for a prisoner, but he’s staff. Works in our job centre: the part of the prison responsible for finding men work on the outside. ‘Need to talk to you about a reference. Got this inmate who might have a chance with a hotel vacancy.’

I make my excuses and wend my way back through the cabins to my ‘studio’. This afternoon’s session is on portraits. In my local authority class I use mirrors so students can copy their reflection. But in prison, this isn’t allowed. So instead, they’re going to draw each other. Exercises in pairs are a good way to bring people together, anyway. Helps them chat. Discover common bonds. So I’ve been told.

I unlock the art cupboard to get scissors and paper, which I will cut into squares. Then I freeze. On the top of the pile is a roughly torn-out cutting from the prison newsletter. It shows a photograph in the ‘Welcome to New Staff’ page. My photograph. In the middle of my face is a red drawing pin. Below, in childish-looking black felt-tip writing, are scrawled five words:

I’M GOING TO GET YOU.

Frantically I rip up the cutting into tiny bits, pricking myself on the drawing pin. Only then does it occur to me that I should have kept it intact. But a small part of me knows I would never show it to anyone. And what does a note prove anyway? There’s no indication of the writer’s identity. If I made a fuss, word would get round the prison and I could be more vulnerable than before.

I can’t think straight. Instead, I concentrate on cutting out my squares and then putting the scissors safely back.

Block it out, I tell myself firmly. It didn’t happen.

I have six students today – including Barry – and a cocky youth. When I explain they are going to start off by sketching each other, the latter rolls his eyes. ‘Piece of piss.’

I am constantly surprised by how childish some of these prisoners are. Was it that immaturity that got them into trouble in the first place? There are times when I feel like throwing all this in to concentrate on my local authority classes and my lovely students like Beryl. She wouldn’t put a drawing pin through my face.

‘Begin by making dots for the nose, eyes and ears,’ I start to say. But then the door opens. An old man with a walking stick and large cauliflower ears. A pair of bright blue eyes fix on me. He grabs the back of the nearest chair as if needing to steady himself.

‘This is Stefan, the new student I was telling you about.’ Kurt sounds nervous. Why?

‘Is it OK if I join the class, miss?’ The old man has a strange accent. Eastern European, I think.

He’s late. I should say no. Besides, it makes for uneven numbers. It means he has to draw me. And I have to draw him. But he seems pretty harmless. Surely an old man with a stick can’t be dangerous. Not like my defaced photograph and the I’M GOING TO GET YOU.

The others take full advantage of the fact that I can’t watch them and draw Stefan at the same time.