Blood Sisters(26)

‘Will it be safe to send in the post?’ she asks.

I think of all the hard work that’s gone into her blue and scarlet tulip.

‘Why not wait until you see her?’

She purses her lips with disappointment. ‘That might not be until Easter.’

York isn’t that far. What kind of daughter doesn’t visit a mother whose legs aren’t strong enough to travel herself?

I don’t see my mother enough either. The memories of my sister hang too heavily between us. Especially at Christmas, when families are meant to be together. I steer my mind away from thinking about that first awful December.

Lead Man is the only one not to discuss who he’s giving his panel to. Part of me is curious. I think of that Disney watch in his pocket. Does he have a child? Is he married? But the other part doesn’t want to ask in case he sees it as a come-on. That declined invitation to dinner is an unspoken barrier between us. In another life, I might like him.

But this isn’t another life. It’s now.

As I drive to and from the prison, the shops are hysterical in their secular festive messages. Buy from me now. Save money. Charm your family into loving you by smothering them with presents. A youth squats in a doorway with tinsel on his head. He reminds me of one of ‘my’ men who claims my classes are ‘cool, miss’. It gives me a buzz, despite that uneasy feeling that just won’t go away.

We’re making cards at the moment. I can’t call them Christmas cards because there are lots of different faiths here. So some of the men make their own for their particular festivals at other times of the year. Diversification is a big word in prison, I am learning. Carefully, I cut out the shapes at home with my own scissors. That way, I don’t have to check the stationery cupboard lock over and over again.

‘Pretty colours,’ says Kurt as he admires the red, silver and gold cut-outs. ‘Can I put glitter on mine?’

Once more I am reminded of how childish some of these grown-up murderers and rapists can be.

The cards are going on display in the main hall, near the governor’s office. So too are the other pictures we’ve been working on, including the portraits.

‘Are you going to put up yours too, miss?’ asks Kurt. ‘The one that Stefan did of you.’

I don’t want to. For a start, it reminds me of the terrible scissor accident. And secondly, it brings back the mutilated photograph and the I’M GOING TO GET YOU. But if I refuse, then I’m depriving Stefan of the right to show his picture. So up it goes.

There’s a concert the week before Christmas with a mixture of carols and also non-religious songs and readings. Afterwards, the governor comes up to me.

‘I’ve had some good feedback about your work. The portrait exhibition has attracted a lot of interest.’ His mouth forces itself into an uneasy smile. ‘Not sure it’s such a sensible idea to put yourself up there, mind you.’

I flush. ‘We had uneven numbers in the class. I had to allow one of the prisoners to draw me.’

His lips tighten. ‘Just be careful, Alison. Always keep a distance.’

I try, I want to say. But he has gone, weaving in through the audience of board members and visiting dignitaries. I get the feeling that, although I haven’t left any more stationery cupboards unlocked, I’ve messed up one more time.

Right now, I can’t wait to get out, even though I’ve agreed to come back between Christmas and New Year. ‘The other staff have kids,’ says Angela pointedly. ‘They need their time off.’

The concert is over now. ‘Happy Christmas, miss,’ says Kurt as I get ready to sign out.

Mum’s house might have too many memories. But at least I’m not spending this time of the year in a cell. ‘Thank you, Kurt. You too.’

Aware of my hollow words, I walk down through the main hall, glancing up at my portrait as I do so.

There’s something small and red written in the left-hand corner of the portrait. Something that surely wasn’t there before.

SEE YOU SOON.

My mouth goes dry. I’d thought I was safe after Grandad Barry. But now it looks like someone else is behind these messages. Unless I have more than one stalker. I wouldn’t put anything past this place. How many times have I thought of leaving? But the bills won’t get paid on their own.

Goose pimples break out down my arms. Hastily, I reach into my bag for a pen and scribble out the words. Then I walk briskly – almost running – into the office to sign out.

‘Have a good one,’ says the officer.

It’s the first time since the scissor episode that this particular woman has spoken to me.

‘Thanks,’ I mutter. ‘You too.’

As I walk towards the car I tell myself it’s nothing. Just a friendly message.

When I get into the car, my mobile – safely stored in the dashboard – is flashing. I have a voicemail.

‘Alison?’ It’s my mother. ‘Can you ring and tell me what time you’re arriving tomorrow please? I can’t wait to see you, darling.’

SEE YOU SOON.

I can’t tell her about the message. She’d never let me come back.

But the words keep dancing round my head. What does it mean?

My phone pings in my hand, indicating an incoming email. It’s from the college where I run my stained-glass course. A reminder for the Christmas dinner in a couple of days which I had somehow forgotten.