Blood Sisters(63)

The last time I saw blood like this was when Vanessa had risen into the air like a swan.

There is a gurgle. As if Stefan is trying to say something to me. Now, released from Martin’s grasp, I crouch down by his side again. His eyes lock on mine. He gurgles again. It sounds like ‘Ali’. And then his lids flicker and close.

‘Get the cuffs on the bastard,’ yells an officer.

For a minute, I think he’s referring to Stefan, but then I take in Martin, who is pushing against two guards attempting to restrain him.

‘It’s all her fault,’ he says, jerking his head at me.

Somehow I find my voice. ‘I don’t know what he’s talking about.’

‘Don’t believe a word that bitch says. She’s the reason I’m locked up in the first place.’

I don’t care any more. Suddenly, all I want is for Stefan to live, if that’s still possible. Too late I realize I should have made my mother talk about his claims earlier. To be truthful, I’d delayed it not just because of everything going on with Kitty, but because I was scared in case it was actually true. Then again, it couldn’t be, could it? The birthdays didn’t match up. Yet maybe there’s some other connection between him and Mum.

Now, if Stefan dies, I might never know.

A team of people rush in. I recognize the nurse from canteen chats. She gasps at the slashed throat, takes Stefan’s wrist and shakes her head.

‘Gone,’ she says.

There’s a silence. The officer doesn’t even swear. I’d like to say that the shock means I cannot think clearly. But I can. All too well.

‘This isn’t the first person she’s killed,’ spits Martin. ‘Is it, Ali?’

Everyone stares at us. There is, I realize, nowhere to hide any more.

‘If you hadn’t …’

I have to stop him. Before he says those words which will seal my fate.

So I scream. A scream of self-loathing which has been building up inside me for years. And which, finally, I am allowing myself to release.

When someone dies in prison, there’s immediate ‘lockdown’. This means everyone has to stay in their place and all the doors are locked. No one can go in or out of the jail. They have to wait where they are until everyone is accounted for, in case someone has used this opportunity to escape.

Then each person – be it inmate or staff – has to give a statement to the police. This can take hours.

That’s what I am doing now. The nurse has found me clean clothes – ‘I always keep a spare set, dear, in case someone pukes on me.’ I’ve been given a cup of tea. It’s very sweet. I don’t usually take sugar but I gulp it down gratefully. Then I feel sick.

I am still feeling nauseous as the policewoman asks me what happened. So I tell her that only Martin turned up that morning. No, I say truthfully, he didn’t seem to be acting oddly. Or dangerously. And no, I’ve no idea how Stefan got into the Education hut. I’d locked the main door behind me, just as I was meant to. And I thought I’d locked the door to my workshop too. I wasn’t sure how Stefan could just walk in.

‘You’re not sure?’

I nod, aware it doesn’t sound good.

‘Why do you think Stefan tried to defend you?’

‘I don’t know. Maybe he was passing by. Heard the noise.’ Another sob escapes me.

‘Maybe they’d fallen out about something,’ I add quickly. ‘Men do in prisons. The smallest things take on big proportions.’

Then I harden my voice. Attack is the best form of defence in arguments. Hadn’t my sister taught me that over the years?

‘Just as well that he did,’ I say firmly. ‘None of the officers were around. All I have to defend myself is this whistle – and Martin told me that I’d be dead if I blew it.’

The police officer is writing all this down. ‘How did Stefan get hold of a piece of glass?’

‘I don’t know.’ The lie sullies my mouth but what else can I say?

‘Did you know Stefan before you came to work here?’

‘Absolutely not.’

At least I can say that in all honesty.

‘And did you know Martin Wright before you came here?’

Only as Crispin. So perhaps my ‘no’ isn’t quite a lie.

The police officer puts down her pen. ‘Are you sure, Alison?’

I nod, my fists clenched under the table.

‘Because here’s the thing.’ She’s watching me very carefully. ‘Martin Wright – or Crispin, as he is officially called – has already given a statement. He says that you were present at the time of his offence. We’ve checked it out. And he’s right. You were there. He was in the car that knocked over your sister, Kitty, and killed her friend Vanessa in front of your very eyes. Not to mention his mother.’

I can get out of this if I choose my words well.

‘Are you sure you’ve got the right man?’ I demand. ‘He looks nothing like Crispin Wright. At least, I don’t think he does, although I haven’t seen him for over fifteen years.’

The policewoman makes an unconvinced face before starting to write again. I’m aware that, as her colleague explained at the beginning, this is all being recorded.

‘You are presumably familiar with prison rules.’ The voice has a warning edge. ‘Any member of staff encountering a prisoner who is known to them must report it immediately to the governor.’