Blood Sisters(8)

She’d say this for her, thought Kitty. This girl had a mouth.

‘It’s none of your business. Besides, Kitty’s visitor has gone now.’

That was something. Gone. Gone. She said the words out loud to make them real although they sounded more like ‘Ggggggg’. But still, it was comforting.

‘Come on, Kitty. Let’s get you a nice cup of tea. What colour straw shall we have tonight? Your favourite? Pink?’

Kitty shook her head. ‘Want Barbara to stay,’ she said. The girl reminded her of someone. She just couldn’t remember who.

‘I’m not quite sure what you mean, dear.’

Don’t ‘dear’ me. So fucking patronizing. Kitty began to bang the side of the chair with her good hand to make the point. ‘I need someone to protect me from the man with the round flabby face and the mouth that pretended to smile.’

‘She’s getting really worked up now.’ Bossy Supervisor was rooting round the medical trolley. ‘Time for a sedative, I think.’

No way!

‘Hold her still while I get the needle in her, can you?’

SWING, SWING. SIDE TO SIDE.

‘She’ll hurt herself if she keeps doing that.’

BANG, BANG. On the side of the chair.

‘Kitty.’ The soft voice was coming from Barbara, who was kneeling beside her. ‘Listen to this!’

The girl was taking something small and silver out of her pocket, and breathing into it. The most incredible sound was coming out. Like a bird. Up and down. Swoop, swoop.

‘It’s a mouth organ, Kitty. Do you like it?’

‘She’s stopped thrashing,’ whispered Cheery Carer. ‘Well done.’

‘Wow,’ said Barbara. ‘She’s humming. Listen.’

It was true. Kitty had never heard herself hum before. But when she had woken up the next morning, she’d tried it again. Yes! It worked. Now she was humming all the time. The noises came out of her mouth as though someone else was humming for her. And whenever she did, her body felt lighter. Happier.

It almost, but not quite, took away the thought of the man with the blue jacket and pretend smile. Who was he? And how could you hate someone if you didn’t know who they were?





5


October 2016


Alison


What do you wear on your first day to prison? Jeans? Too casual. Black trousers. Seems safe. White T-shirt?

I slip on the top. You can just about see the outline of my bra through the fabric. This wouldn’t have worried me before but now I’m nervous. As Mum had warned me on the phone last night, I need to remember that I’m going into a prison where men have been deprived of ‘physical relations’ for some time. ‘Please be careful, won’t you, darling?’

Black jumper, then? Too funereal with the trousers. Maybe cream instead. A proper linen handkerchief – as an artist you never know when you might need one. And, of course, my locket. Complete with safety chain.

That’s mine, says my sister’s voice in my head.

I glance at the mirror. A nervous me glances back. It reminds me of the teenager I used to be. Yet my facial features bear little similarity. I no longer wear glasses: I’ve got used to my contact lenses now. My hair is fashionably spiky instead of the ‘curtain’ which I used to tuck behind my ear. The nose, of course, is changed. And I’ve learned to wear make-up properly thanks to a free lesson in a department store where I felt horribly exposed and rather stupid. Yet the results were worth it. ‘Incredible!’ the girl had said, as though she had just performed a miracle.

Right now, though, my hand shakes as I apply my kohl pencil. Blast. It slips through my fingers. I wipe the smudge off the carpet before applying a touch of lip gloss. No point in making myself stand out. But at the same time, I need strength. Self-belief.

Dab of lavender behind my ear. Mum gives me a bottle every Christmas. She wore it and so did my grandmother (whom I never knew) before her. It’s a smell that takes me back to a holiday in Norfolk when Dad was still alive. Before the leukaemia got him. I was only three. My memories are scant but odd ones stand out. Like a big warm hand holding mine and his voice urging me to look at the rows of pretty, purple-headed flowers in the fields before us.

How I wish I knew more about him! But it upsets my mother too much to talk of him. It’s why she doesn’t have any photographs. Maybe if I’d had grandparents, I would have been told more, but they all died before I was born. Death comes early, it seems, to our family. But at least I have some memories. Like the lavender.

It suddenly strikes me that it might not be sensible to smell nice when I’m going to be mixing with sex-deprived criminals. But the action had been automatic. It’s what I do every morning. Too late now.

Besides, there isn’t anything about it in the guidelines the prison has sent me. Nor is there any advice on clothes. Instead, I am told to:

Bring identification (passport or driving licence). (I take this out from my bedside cupboard, trying to ignore the lawyer’s letter that nestles beside it.)

Leave your mobile phone at home or in the car.

Do not have anything dangerous about your person (e.g. sharp implements).

Do not possess any illegal substances (drugs).

Do not possess alcohol.

Do not attempt to bring in anything which could be used as a bribe.