Blood Sisters(6)

‘But they’re locked up. Right?’

‘At night.’ This is the psychologist again. ‘Prisoners are free to wander outside during the day: providing they don’t go out of the gates without permission. This is an open prison, as the advert said. They’re often known as cells without bars. Many of our men go out to work during the day in the prison van and return by 6 p.m. It prepares them for life in the real world when they are released.’

Sounds mad to me. ‘What kind of jobs do they do?’

The governor appears used to this question. ‘Whatever we can find them. Not everyone, as you can imagine, is keen on employing someone who is still in prison. Charity shops can be quite flexible. Fast-food outlets too. Local colleges sometimes allow day-release students, provided they pass the risk requirements.’

‘How can you be certain they’ll come back? Don’t they try to run away?’

‘That’s exactly the point. It’s a matter of trust. If one of our men absconds, they will be moved to a more secure prison when they are found.’

When, I note. Not if.

I think of the brief research I’ve done on the net. ‘But if they’re in an open prison, they’re not dangerous. Right?’

His voice sounds distinctly hedgy. ‘Cat D signifies a low-risk category. In other words, our prisoners aren’t considered to be a threat to society any more. But many have committed serious crimes in the past. This is their last stopping post until release. Unless, of course, they commit another offence inside.’

That’s it. I don’t like this place. I want to leave. And I can tell that these men don’t want me either. Not the psychologist with the deceptively gentle voice. And definitely not the governor, whose last little speech seems intended to put me off.

They need someone who is used to being in a prison. Someone who looks tough on the outside. Not a skinny, round-shouldered blonde with a portfolio under her arm which she keeps dropping with nerves.

I can’t help thinking that my sister, with her confident I’m in charge here ways, would have been more suitable for the job than me. What would she have made of all this? Get out, I can almost hear her say. Before it’s too late.

My interviewers are rising to their feet now. ‘Would you like to look round, Miss Baker?’

No. I want to go home. Back to the safety of my flat. Get myself ready for the class I’m running this evening at the college for people who haven’t broken the law. Yet it seems as though the question is rhetorical. The door is already being opened for me and I am being led down the corridor past a man in Day-Glo orange.

‘Morning, Governor.’

‘Morning, Mister Evans.’

Mister? But, judging from his clothes, he’s a prisoner. The psychologist notices my surprise. ‘We believe in civility here. Staff usually address inmates in a formal manner. Bad behaviour is not tolerated. Anyone breaking the rules is shipped out.’

‘What do you mean “shipped out”?’ I ask unsteadily. I have a vision of a small boat bobbing on the waves.

‘Moved to another prison. Overnight, usually. It causes less disruption than if done during the day.’

We’re outside now: the autumn sun is making me squint. As we walk past the huts I notice a tub of flowers outside the one nearest to me. Through the window I spot a line of shirts hanging from the curtain rail. It seems almost homely. There’s birdseed scattered on a window sill. A kitten saunters by.

‘Feral,’ says the governor, marking my surprise. ‘Started with one litter which led to another. The men feed them.’ He gives me a sideways glance. ‘You’d be surprised at how even the most hardened criminal can be as soft as butter when it comes to animals. They’re often the same about their mothers too.’

We’re stopping outside a cabin which appears more modern than the others. Less run-down, although the metallic steps leading up are wobbly. ‘This is the Education building. The successful applicant will have a studio here.’

He unlocks the door. My first impression is of a sparsely furnished central room with doors leading off it. Each one is labelled. SUPPORT. READING SKILLS. MATHEMATICS. A man in a green jogging suit is sitting in a chair bent over a book, almost hugging it as though he doesn’t want anyone else to see.

‘Morning, Mister Jones.’

‘Morning, Governor.’

‘Would you like to tell our visitor what you are reading?’ His voice is stern.

Reluctantly, the man holds it out. White paint has been smeared over the text. Covering the pages are pencil sketches of people. A man sitting on the ground. A woman pegging out washing. A child playing on the swing.

‘Are these your drawings?’ I ask, intrigued.

He nods.

‘This book has a library stamp in the front.’ The governor is looking severe. ‘Were you responsible for damaging it like this?’

‘The librarian give it to me to use.’

‘Are you sure of that?’

The man’s stubbly chin trembles. ‘Yes.’

I suspect he is lying. And I’m pretty sure the governor does too. But these sketches are good.

‘Have you always drawn?’ I ask.

‘No, miss. Not till I got here. But my cellmate gets on my nerves. Always talking, he is. So I started doing something to shut him out of my head.’