Blood Sisters(5)

Right now, the first thing Kitty saw of her visitor was a pair of brown shoes. They had little holes in them. Like a pattern. When you had to sit all the time, you always saw the low things first. Then you went upwards. Grey trousers. Pink and white shirt. Navy blue jacket. Silver buttons. Round, flabby face. A mouth that smiled. Eyes that didn’t.

‘Hello, Kitty. I’m sorry it’s been so long. But you do remember me, don’t you?’

Kitty’s good arm began to beat on the side of the chair. Her head knocked forward on her chest. She could taste froth on her lips.

‘Don’t spit at me,’ spluttered Bossy Supervisor.

‘GET ME OUT OF HERE.’

Suddenly the chair swivelled round. They were speeding out of the office. Along the corridor. Straight Fringe was helping her escape!

Just for a minute, Kitty was running. Or maybe she was actually cycling. No. Riding a horse. All these images flashed across her mind, one after the other as if she was trying them out for size.

And then they stopped.





3


September 2016


Alison


‘So, why exactly do you want to work in a prison?’ asks the man with metallic glasses. He’s lean and thin with rodent-like features, a sceptical look about his face and black eyebrows which rise and fall as he speaks. Seems a bit small and wiry for a prison governor to me, but then again, he’s the first one I’ve met.

Why do I want to work in a prison? Simple. I don’t. This place terrifies me. Has done from the minute I stopped the car at the security gates this morning to give my name and purpose. ‘Alison Baker. Interview with the governor.’

But, of course, I can’t tell my interviewer the truth. ‘I feel I can contribute something,’ I hear myself say. How lame does that sound?

The right eyebrow rises, leaving the left behind. The effect is so disconcerting that I almost miss what he says next. ‘So do most artists. But why, Miss Baker, should we pick you instead of the many other applicants whom we are seeing this week?’

Why, indeed? Because, if it hadn’t been for my art, I might have died too after the accident. Before that sunny July morning, I had been what my teachers called ‘an academic’. I could have done anything I wanted – or so they said. Alison, the bright sister. Good at maths and English, though the two aren’t always easy bedfellows. Almost fluent in French. A natural scientist.

Art had always been my sister’s forte. The subject for those who ‘weren’t so capable’ at traditional subjects. A waste of time for academics like me. At least, that’s how my school had seen it when I’d declared my intention to go to art school instead of university.

My mind goes back to the weeks after the accident and the funeral when my mother and I had to sort out my sister’s things. On impulse, I’d opened her paint box and taken out the tube marked TURQUOISE. Her favourite colour. My hand had picked up her paintbrush. It seemed to flow naturally across the page, as though she were guiding it. ‘I didn’t realize you could paint too,’ Mum had whispered. Neither had I.

But this was my secret. Not something I could share with a stranger. And certainly not a prison governor.

‘I’ve had experience in various unusual artistic mediums,’ I say instead. ‘Like stained glass.’

‘We have to avoid dangerous materials.’ This comment comes from the other man in the room. One of the prison psychologists, according to his introduction. I only hope he can’t read my mind. ‘I have to emphasize that many of our offenders have had severe mental problems. Some are psychopathic, although their behaviour is under control with medication. None are considered to be high-risk any longer, which is why they are in an open prison. But we still have to be careful. Workshops using glass would be out of the question.’

‘I am also a specialist in watercolours,’ I continue. My hands are beginning to sweat. The walls are closing in on me. Did he feel that way when they first took him in? I hope so.

‘Can you do portraits?’

‘Yes,’ I say, without adding that, actually, I don’t care for them. You have to get into someone’s soul to make it really work. And I definitely don’t want to go there.

‘From a therapeutic point of view, we believe that portraits can help people take another look at themselves,’ the psychologist says in a gentler voice. ‘It’s one of the reasons we want an artist in residence.’

I had wondered. Why should someone who’s committed a crime be treated to art lessons? Surely prisoners ought to do something deeply unpleasant while serving time.

Perhaps the governor can see the doubt on my face. ‘Increasing self-confidence can lower the risk of reoffending.’ His words carry a challenging edge, as if defending the strategy.

‘I can understand that.’ My voice doesn’t sound as though it’s lying. But then again, I’ve had practice. As I speak, a burst of sunlight suddenly streams in through the window like a dusty rainbow. For a few seconds I am blinded. Then it disappears and the room goes darker.

‘Would you like to ask any questions, Miss Baker?’

I clear my throat nervously. ‘Would I hold my art sessions in the huts outside?’

‘Only in the Education section. The other cabins are for admin. And some are where the men live.’