On My Life Page 10

  ‘Short-staffed again, ain’t they?’ answers a slender woman in her thirties, her ginger hair in a high ponytail with a pinned quiff fringe.

  ‘Bloody disgrace,’ Kelly says.

  ‘Can’t say I’d wanna work in this dump, though,’ the redhead says. A bird tattoo is visible on her freckled arm. ‘No wonder they all quit.’

  ‘Can’t get the staff these days,’ I quip.

  She and Kelly laugh.

  ‘Here, Jenna, this is Abi,’ Kelly says, introducing us. ‘Jenna’s my new roomie. She’s in for drugs.’

  Abi gives me the once over. I suck my stomach in. I’m being stupid, no one could tell under this jumper. But what if she recognises my face from the news?

  ‘Stolen goods – but I was set up,’ Abi says.

  Me too.

  ‘Nice to meet you, Jenna,’ she says.

  I should have changed my name. At least all the reports I’ve seen have called me Jennifer.

  ‘Hi,’ I manage. Abi doesn’t seem to have noticed anything odd.

  ‘Abi runs aerobics classes in Association in the wing,’ Kelly says. ‘When we bloody get it, that is.’

  ‘We had it twice last week.’ Abi holds two fingers up. ‘Two measly hours out the cell. Never mind. Shake it off.’ She rolls her shoulders vigorously. ‘You gotta stay positive. That’s the key to getting out of here alive.’ She taps the side of her forehead.

  Getting out alive?

  ‘Tell her about the programme you designed,’ Kelly butts in.

  ‘Right.’ Abi’s face brightens. ‘We got a particular focus on those who want to lose weight. Some of the guards even join in,’ she says proudly.

  I’m not sure how to respond to this, so I just say, ‘Cool.’

  ‘It’s good for mental health as well, you know.’ Abi looks quite animated now, and I can imagine her shouting encouragement at grapevines and star jumps. ‘I’ve done my Gym Instructor – Level 2, and I’ve put in for Healthier Foods and Special Diets. I wanna be a personal trainer when I get out of here,’ she says.

  ‘Like Gwyneth Paltrow’s got,’ Kelly says. ‘She’s got all these books out the library on running your own business,’ she adds, sounding impressed.

  And it is impressive. ‘What, Gwyneth has?’ I say.

  Kelly blinks for a split second, then she and Abi both crack up.

  ‘Good one.’ Abi claps me on the shoulder. The warm glow of acceptance flows through me. This isn’t so bad. Kelly and Abi are nice, friendly. Abi’s set up a class. It’s going to be okay.

  The feeling is short-lived, as Sara’s radio crackles and tells us there’s a further delay. Sighs of frustration bloom around us. I’m fast learning this is a regular occurrence, as staffing issues seem to be a constant worry. But I haven’t got time to waste. Every minute is eating into my meeting time. And we’ve already lost twenty.

  ‘Why are we waiting?’ someone starts to sing. A few others join in.

  ‘All right now,’ Sara calls. ‘That’s enough, girls.’

  ‘Jesus!’ Kelly snaps. ‘Some of us have work to do!’

  ‘What’s keeping them?’ Abi says, as another mouthful of crackle can be heard coming from Sara’s walkie-talkie.

  I shrug. There’s been no sign of Gould on the wing – there’s no way I would have braved the showers otherwise – but I don’t like talking too much out here anyway. I shouldn’t have cracked those jokes. Shouldn’t draw any attention to myself.

  There’s another burst of static from Sara’s radio and a cheer goes up as she unlocks the gate with a clang. ‘All right, girls, off you go.’

  Anticipation rises inside.

  ‘See ya later,’ Kelly calls, as she disappears off with Abi and the other workers.

  I’m following those who have visitors.

  As we approach the visitors’ hall, nine of us, those with official visitors, are filed off to one side. My heart falls as I see it’s Ryan on duty.

  ‘Ladies,’ he beckons, as if he’s welcoming friends to a club.

  ‘Looking fine, Ryan.’ A woman in her forties with badly pencilled eyebrows runs her hand down his arm, squeezing a muscle on the way.

  Most of the group giggle. Am I the only one who finds this uncomfortable? I busy myself looking at the list of prisoner numbers and allotted rooms. Even Ryan’s smarm can’t dent my excitement. For the first time in ages, I feel hope.

  ‘He’s so hot,’ a girl, who only looks about seventeen, her fair hair plaited down the side of her head, whispers behind her hand to an older woman wearing plain black trousers and a white shirt.

  Ryan winks at the fair girl as we file past. She giggles. How can they flirt with a guard? How can he flirt with them?

  But all my misgivings are forgotten when I reach the door. Meeting room 1B. I’m almost excited. Because this is my chance to prove my innocence. Knowing that someone has put that obscene stuff on my computer proves it, doesn’t it? Truth will out. The system won’t fail me. Everything is going to be okay.

  As I place my hand on the door handle, I see Ryan squeeze the bum of the young fair-haired girl as she steps through her own door. My insides clench. He catches my eye and winks at me, as if to say what you going to do about it?

  And suddenly my faith in the system doesn’t feel so well-placed.

  Now

  Mr Peterson is already sitting in the small grubby room when Ryan shows me in. He’s wearing the same pink-and-blue checked tie and hangdog expression on his face from the last time I saw him, fixated on the papers in front of him on the desk. I feel renewed shame at my joggies.

  ‘Clock’s ticking. I’ll just be outside.’ Ryan’s voice is silky smooth. I hear the door lock behind me.

  Just the two of us.

  Mr Peterson doesn’t look up: he doesn’t look unnerved by being locked in a room with an alleged killer.

  He signals with one hand for me to sit, while the pink fingers of his other move his papers around like Tetris blocks.

  Though I’m his client, I feel like I’ve been summoned to face the board.

  He looks up, his eyes kind, smiles. ‘How are you? I see you’ve hurt your face.’

  Is Ryan still outside? I don’t want to be accused of being a grass. ‘I fell. I’m pregnant.’

  His lip shakes, a wavy line in his upside-down egg face. ‘Congratulations,’ he says.

  I nod because I’m too frightened I’ll cry if I speak.

  He clears his throat, moves another piece of paper. ‘So, the charges have been increased, as a result of new evidence presented by the police.’

  The images. The disgusting things they found on my laptop. ‘I didn’t put that stuff there. I wouldn’t. I couldn’t,’ I say.

  If he feels revulsion, he doesn’t show it. Is it cynicism, professionalism, or does he know I’m not capable of that? I hope it’s the latter. I’ve worked with clients, and candidates, sometimes, who I haven’t liked. But never with anyone who was a convicted criminal. We would ask candidates to disclose convictions. It’s a legal requirement for a certain period after they’ve done time. I remember Becky had a guy once who had a driving conviction for speeding. We chose to reject his application.

  ‘Mr Peterson. I need to tell you something.’

  ‘Okay,’ he says.

  ‘I think someone is framing me.’ I pause, wait.

  He looks unconvinced. ‘And why would someone do that?’

  ‘To cover their own back?’

  He sighs. ‘It seems unlikely,’ he says.

  ‘But I didn’t put that stuff on my computer – that proves it, doesn’t it? That proves that someone else did this.’ He must understand.

  ‘I’m afraid it’s a little more complex than that. As you say, the obscene material was found on your laptop, which was in your possession when it was confiscated by the police,’ Mr Peterson says awkwardly.

  ‘It was in my house but . . . but other people could have put it there.’ I’m not making myself clear. It’s so obvious to me. ‘Someone
must have killed Emily, then planted the images on my computer so the police would think I had motive. They are the ones who must have hurt Robert. They must have taken him somewhere. The estate where we live is huge – there are outbuildings, follies. Loads of places you could hide someone.’ He could be out there in desperate need of help. My voice is rising. ‘I just don’t understand how the police could think I did this?’ I need to understand. Work it backwards. Work out who did this. On the table, a groove has been dug in by someone repeatedly pushing a blue biro back and forth. An angry underline of their meeting.

  Mr Peterson sighs. ‘Because on Wednesday, 1st March the police were summoned to Milcombe Dower House, your current residence, shortly after 5.30 p.m. when Emily Milcombe’s alarm was activated,’ he says. ‘And upon arrival at the scene you were found with the dead body of the girl. Several initial observations by the police pointed to your involvement. Further forensic evidence – blood – was discovered that implied Robert Milcombe – your partner – had also been injured, and been dragged from the house. Since then, obscene images of children have been discovered on a laptop in your possession.’ He pauses. Watches my hands shake. ‘The CPS will disclose their full evidence before the trial.’

  ‘When is the trial? No one’s told me.’ This can’t be right.

  ‘You can only be remanded in custody for a maximum of one hundred and eighty-two days,’ he says. ‘Before the end of August.’

  August – but my wedding, my baby! It’s due in October. I can’t be pregnant in here all that time.

  ‘We will be notified of your trial date six weeks in advance.’ He runs his tongue over his teeth. ‘We will work through a strategy as we approach the trial. Try not to worry.’

  ‘The trial date hasn’t even been set yet?’ August. That’s six months from now. But it won’t get to that stage, surely? I’ll be out before then. I have to be. I need to know what other evidence they have. If I can understand why they think I did this, then I can figure out who did do it. I’m probably the only one who can. Apart from Robert. I keep my eyes fixed on the gouge of biro on the desk.

  ‘You will be notified six weeks before—’

  ‘Thank you. I understand. But, Mr Peterson, on that night . . . after I found Emily. The police questioned me all of Thursday. I was in shock, I didn’t take in what they said. Can you take me through everything again?’

  He looks up. His gaze unrelenting, and I see that it is cynicism in there. He’s a kind man; his gestures, his attempts to get them to shield my face from the photographers, show that. But there’s a resilience too, an acceptance of the type of people he deals with. How many of them say they didn’t do it? Say they were framed? Abi said it earlier. How many times has he heard this all before. I need proof. ‘Please, Mr Peterson. I need to understand it all.’

  Mr Peterson rearranges his Tetris blocks one more time, as if they could spell out the answer. I’m locked in a pen-scratched dingy room, with a man whose first name I don’t know, but in whose hands my fate rests.

  I hold my breath.

  Now

  The paper crackles like fire in my hand as I walk back to my cell. Our cell. I could be here for six months. Six months. Kelly is back from work. They’ve started locking everyone in again after Free Flow.

  She holds up a mug. ‘Cuppa?’

  I press the paper to my chest. The facts as they stand. The facts as they’ve been applied to me. Wrongly. I shake my head at Kelly. I can’t take any more input. Any more questions. I have to make notes. My head buzzes. ‘Can’t talk. I need to think.’ What do I need to do? Now I have it here, in black and white: the reason – more reasons – I’m in here and I can’t make sense of it. It’s so much more than the vile images they found on my laptop.

  ‘All right,’ Kelly says huffily. ‘Just thought you might be thirsty after your chinwag with your lawyer.’

  I cringe at my insensitivity. And my stupidity. I have to sleep in a locked room with this girl and don’t know her that well. I don’t know what her moods are like, her temper. If she really is dangerous. Kelly pouts, and it reminds me so much of Emily when Robert told her she had to go to bed, or she couldn’t go to the disco at the local youth club, that I almost smile through the twist of my heart. ‘Sorry. I didn’t mean to be short. Thank you.’ The words are clumsy, stilted. ‘For the offer of the tea.’

  ‘It’s fine.’ Kelly is curt, her actions still so teenage they’re almost comical.

  ‘That meeting was a little bit intense.’ I find myself mirroring her language. I almost stick a ‘like’ on the end.

  Kelly softens, her shoulders let go. ‘All right, I’ll shut up. I’ve got a new magazine anyway.’ She rubs her stomach.

  I smile, grateful. I need to study the list that Mr Peterson gave me. The things I now know. The things that make no sense. ‘Thanks.’

  ‘You could always talk to Vina, she’s well good on all this stuff, you know?’ Kelly says.

  Vina knows about people being framed? How to do it? Or how to prove it?

  Kelly continues, ‘All that legal shit. She’s read up on it. Better than the dozy bint who they sent for me.’

  That makes much more sense. Should I show my list to Vina? The accusation of child pornography is on there. No one can see that. ‘Kelly, can I borrow some paper, and a pen?’ She raises an eyebrow at me. I know she’s got an A4 diary she tears pages out of. But she’s already given me so much. I falter. ‘Please?’

  ‘Course,’ she says softly. ‘Ain’t like I need it to write shopping lists or owt.’

  I want to do something for her. Get her something. Say thank you. ‘Can I get my sister to bring in some more magazines?’

  ‘That ain’t allowed.’ She rolls her eyes.

  ‘How did you get yours then?’ The rules are opaque.

  ‘My mum set me up a subscription.’ She leans against the metal door frame, seeming to balance her bulk with the backwards slant. ‘The local newsagent does it if you give them your prison number.’

  ‘All right, what about if I get her to set up another of those?’

  ‘Really?’ Her face lights up.

  And it feels wonderful to make someone happy. ‘Well you’ve already given me so much.’

  ‘Yeah.’ Her eyes shine. ‘I was gonna ask for some mascara when your canteen came in, but this is way better. I’m gonna ask Lillie – she gets Take A Break. See if she wants to set up a library: lend ’em out when we’re done. For a small compensation, obvs.’ Her belly jiggles, as she climbs the ladder.

  My grin falls from my face as soon as my thoughts return to the list.

  I tear the pages from Kelly’s pad as neatly as I can. And I bring them onto my bunk. The bed above gives the sense of cover, a canopy. It makes me feel hidden, protected. I don’t want anyone seeing this. I spread open the paper Mr Peterson let me have. My hastily written notes. The words wobbly where my pen shook. The evidence against me.

  Evidence I can’t argue with.

  Now

  These are the things I know about Wednesday, 1st March, Emily’s birthday. The day she died:

  1. I was forensically covered in Emily’s blood and hair.

  I held her. I tried to save her. Of course she was on me.

  2. Emily’s fob triggered the alarm. Her blood is on it.

  This I can explain. I pressed her alarm. My keys were in the hallway, too far away. The phone was broken. Her blood was on me.

  The paper shakes in my hand. Words like ‘forensics’ and ‘blood’ are raw, visceral stings on my heart. I force myself to read on.

  This is where it goes awry. Where it doesn’t make sense.

  3. I sent a text to Sally saying: I’ve done something terrible. God forgive me.

  Except I didn’t. I have no recollection of that. Am I going mad? No. The message has got to be part of it: part of the fit up. Someone made it look like I sent it.

  4. My sweatshirt, covered in Emily’s blood, was found inside the washing machine – halfway thro
ugh a cycle.

  That must have been when I felt Salinsky’s attitude shift toward me on the night of the murder. It must have been the jumper they brought out of the house in an evidence bag. It was then that Salinsky believed that I was guilty. He thinks that I was wearing it when I attacked Emily, and then tried to hide it by putting it in the machine.

  When Mr Peterson said that, my heart had leapt into my mouth. Surely the jumper in the machine proves I didn’t do it? Why would I take one bloody top off, and then cover myself in Emily’s blood again? But Mr Peterson explained it’s about the blood spatter on the top. He’s going to get our own expert to look at it, but the police believe I took it off to try to alter the implications of the blood pattern by holding it against Emily, and wiping the floor with it. That I then tried to wash away the evidence, and hugged her to cover up my actions and give me a new story. At that point I’d had to take a few minutes because all I could see was Emily and red and I couldn’t breathe.

  I think of DI Langton’s blunt fringe. Her penetrating eyes. Her composure next to her angry colleague. The creases from where she’d pushed her sleeves up to work. If I was assessing her as a candidate for a job I would say she was shrewd, intelligent, organised, in control. There’s a touch of the alpha about her. Has she really made this fit? If I were DI Langton, I’d look at this damning list and draw the same conclusions. The enormity of the task ahead of me looms up and threatens to engulf me. I don’t know enough about law, about evidence, about how this all works.

  Mr Peterson said it was a blue Sweaty Betty jumper. My Pilates top. Where was it when I left that morning? I’d last been at class on Saturday. I’d done a wash the day before – was it in that? Was it on the dryer, or in the basket in the utility room, or upstairs? It’s such a mundane thing – I can’t remember if my memory of it is from that week or the last. Why would someone else use it? Why that top? And why put it in the wash?

  5. Only my fingerprints (and a few trace smudges) were on the washing machine.