Blood Sisters(49)

Then someone turns on the television (a Bear Grylls repeat) and after that, they seem to lose interest. My pen skates across the page. The movement calms me down. My students are making awkward sketches. I help them, suggesting a line here and a line there. It starts to get dark outside. I’m aware of a rumble in my stomach. Tea had been a modest affair with toast and hard scrambled egg.

‘You’ll have to wait for breakfast,’ says a young thin-nosed man. He sounds less assured than he does in class. Suddenly I’m aware of the isolation here. I can’t make myself a cup of tea like I might at home. I can’t make a phone call – the public booth in the corridor is out of order, apparently.

I get up. ‘Just going outside for some fresh air.’

‘You can’t do that,’ says the young man swiftly. ‘It’s not like during the day when you can wander around.’

This hadn’t been explained to me.

‘But it’s an open prison.’

He shrugs. ‘Only in name. More like being put in a cardboard box with the lid open. If you try to run for it, you find yourself in a proper metal box. With the lid shut.’

‘Draw it,’ I say suddenly. ‘Draw the box. Then draw yourself, in the box, trying to get out.’

A light goes on in his eyes. He begins sketching. Furiously.

‘Fancy some hooch, miss?’ whispers a man I haven’t seen before.

‘Fuck off, mate. You’ll get us into trouble.’ This is the spotty kid with attitude. ‘It’s this drink we make with sugar and other stuff. Tastes like booze.’

I’m reminded of one of my students who always helps himself to at least three packets of sugar from the classroom coffee tray. Have I unwittingly been contributing to his hooch-making stockpile?

A loud bell sounds. I jump. The students start putting their pens away.

‘Time for bed,’ says the man who made the shower suggestion. ‘Better get a move on, miss. Or you’ll get a strike.’

For a minute, I think he means a whipping. ‘It’s like a black mark,’ says the spotty kid. ‘If you get three, you lose privileges. Like not being able to ring home. Or having to take on an extra job.’ He grins. ‘I’m on toilets this week. Take a look at my nails.’

They are black underneath. I want to vomit.

Already I’m amazed at how subservient this place makes me feel, even though I’m not a prisoner myself. Then, as I make my way to my room with the officer, we pass Martin, my new talented student, sitting on a bed with the door open. He’s facing sideways, away from me, and his scars glint in the electric light. That profile seems haughtier than usual. Maybe it’s because he appears deep in thought.

‘Hi,’ I call out.

‘Hi.’ He starts as though I’ve caught him in the midst of doing something he shouldn’t. Then he holds out his hand as though to shake mine. We’re not allowed to have any physical contact with inmates. Surely he knows that? But I feel bad not taking it in case it offends him. So I pretend not to notice.

If he’s upset, he doesn’t show it. ‘Welcome to our hut.’

‘I haven’t seen you for a while.’

‘Yeah. Sorry. I’ve been on gardening duty. Really missed your classes, though.’

That’s nice. ‘Will you paint something for our exhibition? I’d really appreciate it. You’ve got talent.’

Martin looks flattered. ‘Thanks. Maybe I will.’

The officer is waiting impatiently; eyes indicating that I should not be on friendly terms with a prisoner. Of course, he’s right.

‘Have a good night,’ he says, showing me into my cell.

Then he shuts the door. I hear the lock clunk heavily into place. I am alone. And nervous. Grandad Barry’s bloody eye keeps coming into my head. Not to mention the image of boiling water and sugar.

So I do what I always do when the old terrors and anxieties start to overtake me. I sit down and I draw. I sketch myself sitting here in a cell, looking out over the darkness outside. I put into lines, the feelings in my body. Fear. Guilt. Jealousy.

There’s a tapping at the window. At first, I think it’s rain. But then I see it’s a branch. I draw the flimsy curtains. The noise has made me edgy. Don’t be daft, I tell myself. There are bars. No one can get in. Just as I cannot get out. A wave of claustrophobia hits me.

It’s late now. Nearly 1 a.m. I’ve been working for longer than I meant to. Time for bed. It’s ridiculously narrow, even for a slight frame like mine. Strangely high up off the ground. The pillow feels like a rock. I’ve heard the prisoners complain about hard pillows before and used to think they were fussing unnecessarily. Now I know what they mean.

I still cannot sleep. There’s not enough noise compared with the busy prison talk and shouting during the day. At home, I love the sound of traffic outside my flat. It makes me feel that I am not alone. That there are others living equally complicated lives around me. But now, in a place that possibly contains the most complicated lives of all, it is too quiet.

It’s cold too. I get up and slip my day clothes over my pyjamas. That’s better. But I still cannot stop shivering.

Then there’s a sound. A definite noise. The window is opening. I am sure of it. Don’t be silly. The branch. It’s just the branch. No. It really is opening.