Blood Sisters(25)

Humm, hummm, sang Kitty in utter bliss as Johnny’s warm body snuggled up again, just like the other nights. How wonderful it was to feel his skin against hers.

‘I was so proud of you in the concert today. You were wonderful. I’ve always wanted a girlfriend.’

Yes!

‘Will you marry me, Kitty? Shall we be together for ever and ever?’

Kitty’s heart felt as if it was going to burst! Never had she felt anything like this before. It was as though she was flying. Running too! Dancing and – Fuck. Margaret had woken up. She was panting: just like she did when she had breathing problems. If she didn’t stop making that terrible noise, they’d get found out!

‘Who’s … gasp … there? What’s … gasp … going … on?’

‘It’s only me,’ said Johnny quickly. ‘Don’t worry.’

Margaret’s gasps were getting worse. A bit like last time when she’d caused a diversion. But this sounded real.

‘I think she’s ill,’ said Johnny. His voice was sharp with panic. ‘We have to pull the emergency cord.’

‘But if we do that, the staff will come in,’ said Kitty.

‘I know that if we do that the staff will come in,’ said Johnny, as if he understood what she’d just said. ‘But we can’t leave her like this, Kitty. It’s wrong.’

Cord. Alarm. Footsteps flying down the corridor.

Johnny was sitting on the edge of the bed now. But his trousers were still undone.

‘Do them up,’ hissed Kitty.

But this time he didn’t seem to get what she was saying. Perhaps it was because he was too busy trying to comfort Margaret, whose lips were turning blue.

‘Please wake up,’ begged Johnny, stroking her cheek. ‘Don’t die.’

Don’t die. Kitty’s skin began to crawl. She had heard those words before. Where was it?

‘Don’t die, Margaret.’ Johnny’s voice got higher. Margaret’s face was pale, as though the blood had left.

Kitty started shaking all over. Don’t die. Don’t die.





15


December 2016


Alison


If it wasn’t for the governor giving me my final warning, I might have told him about the note and the photograph. But there’s no way I can tell him now. He might think I was making it up to deflect attention. I need this job. Far better to lie low, keep my head down, I tell myself.

At night my usual nightmares have now been joined by a bloody eye staring up at me. Last night, it was dripping black liquid. When I woke this morning, screaming, I had to check my nightdress to make sure it wasn’t stained. Of course, it wasn’t. But I still washed it, and my bedsheets.

There’s something else too. According to his statement, Barry claims he hurt himself with those scissors ‘by accident’.

‘It’s what they say when they’re being bullied,’ Angela explained when I asked her about it. ‘Someone in that class of yours had it in for him. If he grassed, then he’d get it even worse.’

Apparently none of the other men in my group had ‘seen anything’. So the police couldn’t press charges.

‘What about this member of staff who said the cupboard door was open?’ I asked Angela. ‘I don’t understand why they’d lie. Or why they waited to come forward.’

‘Maybe it was an officer who went off shift for a bit.’

‘Can you help me find out?’

‘Love, they all work odd hours. If you ask me, I wouldn’t make any trouble. Be grateful you’re still here.’

Just what I’d told myself. Meanwhile, the stabbing makes me even more aware of the lack of security.

‘Can’t I have a guard for my classes?’ I asked the deputy governor.

But apparently there aren’t ‘enough resources’. So my only protection is the whistle on my belt. It’s almost laughable. Except I’m terrified.

On top of this, I am conscious of being watched myself. When I sign in for work, my keys are handed over with a heavy look that says, ‘Are you responsible enough for this?’ I watch my men like a hawk.

They don’t trust me. And I don’t trust them. At least there are no more anonymous notes. It suddenly strikes me that Barry might have been the culprit because I hadn’t paid enough attention to his cat pictures. What a horrible man. Yet, if I’m right – and I’m pretty sure I am – it’s also a relief to know that I don’t have to worry any more.

I try to distract myself at the weekend with a day out at the Victoria and Albert. It’s one of my favourite museums. The stained-glass windows in the dining room alone are worth visiting. On the way home I stop off at a charity shop to stock up on my scarf supply. But then I remember what the governor said that first day about prisoners working in places like this. I hurry out. Nowhere feels safe any more. My initial relief that I was safe because Grandad Barry has been taken away has been replaced by an insidious feeling of unease.

Christmas is fast approaching. This is, I am discovering, a strange time in prison. Men are edgy. Desperate for their families.

On the out (as I am learning to call the outside world), there’s a tangible air of excitement. My stained-glass workshop students are keen to finish their panels in time to give them as presents to their nearest and dearest. Beryl’s is intended for her daughter in York.