Blood Sisters(87)

‘It’s the wrong way round,’ said someone.

Did that mean it was inside out, like a jumper? And if so, why couldn’t they just turn it round the right way?

‘Don’t push yet, love.’ Friday Mum’s hand gripped hers. ‘Think of something nice.’

But all Kitty could think of was the wave that Half a Sister had rescued her from. Maybe she should have been a bit nicer.

‘Take deep breaths, dear,’ said another voice now.

Where the fuck was Johnny? Fathers were meant to be there at times like this. If they weren’t, they were really sorry or angry, as if it was the mother’s fault. Sometimes the father who was late bought this whacking piece of jewellery to say sorry. She knew all this from the telly.

‘Think we’ve managed to turn it now,’ said another voice. ‘Can you try and puff, love?’

Humming was better. ‘Ummm, Ummm.’

‘It’s all right, love. I’m here. You’ll be all right. I promise. I won’t let anyone hurt you.’

I won’t let anyone hurt you?

Someone had said something like that before. But it was different.

I won’t let you hurt her.

That was it!

And then suddenly, amidst a scream – what on earth was that? – Kitty remembered with a startling, horrifying clarity, exactly what had happened.





66


September 2017


Alison


It will take, they explained, a while before the paperwork could be processed for visitors. In the meantime, I am being moved to a different prison for the ‘foreseeable future’.

It’s a Cat B.

One category worse than Robin had predicted.

The girl in the lower bunk is coming too.

‘What did you do?’ I ask as we sit together in the prison van. It is the old-fashioned sort – or so the officer keeps moaning – with benches down the sides rather than individual cells.

‘You’re not meant to ask.’

I could point out that she had asked me about my crime earlier on. But I decide to play safe. ‘Sorry.’

She sniffs. ‘Stabbed my flatmate, if you really want to know. I was using at the time and didn’t know what I was doing.’

So much for her earlier ‘Not good’ when I’d said I was in for manslaughter. Yet my fellow prisoner speaks with indignation, as though the ‘using’ bit was a justifiable excuse.

‘Until recently, I worked in a prison,’ I volunteer.

Her face registers disgust. ‘You’re one of the scum?’

‘I was artist in residence, actually.’

‘Oooo,’ she goes in a mocking manner. Then she sniffs. ‘What’s that when it’s at home?’

‘I helped men to paint and draw.’

‘Why?’

I am reminded of what the governor told me all those months ago. ‘Art can help people come to terms with their crimes.’

At first I think she is crying. But then I realize she’s laughing. ‘What a load of bollocks.’ Her face tightens. ‘Didn’t work for you, did it?’

She glances at the prison officer who is sitting opposite; her eyes steely and watchful.

‘I’ll give you this for free, mate. Don’t make enemies.’ Her eyes narrow as she takes in my elfin haircut and height. ‘Are you a lezzer?’

‘No.’

‘Then pretend you’re bi. Did that in my last stretch. One of the girls took a fancy to me and gave me extra rations.’

The journey seems to take hours. I feel sick every time the van jolts on the road. I find it hard to breathe. ‘Oi,’ says my travelling companion to the officer. ‘There ought to be air conditioning in this thing. Health and safety, innit?’

The woman appears not to hear.

‘I need a pee,’ says my companion more forcefully.

Silently, the officer hands her a cardboard pot; the type I’ve seen Kitty pee into in the hospital.

‘Can’t we bleeding well stop at a service station?’

‘Not allowed.’

It’s one of the few sentences that the officer utters during the trip.

Eventually, the van slows down and then stops. The doors are opened. Sunlight blinds our eyes. We’re being led outside. This building is older than the holding prison. It’s surrounded by open fields. I nearly laughed when they told me its name. HMP Marchville. How ironic. Like my old Archville but with an M in front, as if one could just march out at will.

‘And one more thing,’ calls out the girl as they take us in different directions. ‘Watch out for …’

But I can’t catch it.

I am being walked now into another room, where I am searched yet again. Through a series of doors, each of which has to be locked and unlocked, as I know all too well. Down a long wide corridor with plain walls on either side. Through another door on the right. And another. I find myself in a corridor, lined with blue-joggered women on either side. They are looking me up and down. It’s almost as though I’m in a beauty parade. With one contestant.

‘Looks like we’ve got ourselves a new friend,’ says one. Her hair is matted. Greasy.

She holds out her hand. Her nails are bitten to the quick. Fingers squeeze mine like a vice. ‘Nice to meet you, love.’