On My Life Page 6

  ‘Robert?’ My voice echoes over the silent piano in the lounge. Comes back to greet me, tight. A fine net of tension pulls at my shoulders. The cushions are undisturbed on the sofa, the coasters on the coffee table, my iPad next to them. Did I leave it there? Everything looks as it did this morning. But I can sense it. Something’s wrong.

  The kitchen door is open. The glass is smashed. The glass is smashed. My brain jolts. The glass is smashed. Jump starts.

  Oh my god.

  A flash of red on the frame. Blood on the wall. ‘Robert!’ I scream.

  My foot slides on something. My heart is drumming against my ribs. It’s liquid. Red. Blood. A scream punches out of me.

  ‘Emily! Emily! Oh my god! Emily!’

  She’s lying on the floor, curled. Her pastel-pink hoodie blooming red. So much blood. Her fine blonde hair dyed dark with it.

  The cake falls from my hands. Everything slows. I’m struggling to get to her. The cake hits the floor. Icing explodes into the air. I grab her, pull her to me.

  ‘Emily? Can you hear me? Emily?’ Must help her. Is she breathing? She’s wet. Warm. There’s so much blood. One of our knives is crimson beside her – I pick it up. Drop it. Oh my god. What happened? An accident.

  ‘Robert! Call an ambulance! Robert!’ My voice echoes back at me.

  Tears blur my vision. Blink. Blink. Find a pulse. My fingers slip. So much blood. Is she breathing? Please, god, let her be breathing. Pull her face against my cheek. No breath. I can’t feel breath. What do I do? ‘Hold on, my love, hold on.’ The knife glistens. Must get help. What do I do? Drag her to the phone. She’s so tiny, but so heavy. Fingers slip. ‘Stay with me, baby girl, stay with me.’

  The phone hangs from the wall. The socket clean out. Ripped. Who did this? An intruder? A thief? Protect Emily. Help Emily. My brain is stuttering.

  ‘Robert! Robert!’ My tears bounce into the blood on Emily’s face, run new rivulets. Where is he? Red splashes cover the room, the walls, the table, my laptop, the post, a mug.

  Must find Robert. Must get help.

  My mind swims, surges, drowns. I feel like I’m turning underwater, everything is upside down. I scrabble for my mobile, pressing 999, before my mind catches up. There’s no signal inside the house, only WiFi. Shit. Shit. Shit. Where are my keys? Emily’s bag lies to the side of her, blood creeping up it like the tide. My hand searches inside. Books. A hair scrunchie. Metal. Keys.

  With one arm I rock Emily. ‘Shhhh, shhhhh,’ I soothe. ‘It’s going to be okay.’ My tears wash into her hair. I pull her close, as if I could breathe her in, as if I could hold her together, as I press the panic alarm on her keys.

  Now

  ‘All right, honey. Try to breathe.’ The female guard with the mismatched earrings is crouching in front of me.

  The police have left. And I’m shaking. Crying. Someone killed Emily. Someone hurt Robert. Someone has him. Then they set me up so it looks like I did this. Why? Who could be that evil?

  ‘Bad news, was it?’ The woman gives my shoulder a squeeze.

  Understatement. I manage to nod. My head hurts. I want to curl into a ball and be left alone.

  ‘Have you had anything to eat?’ she says.

  I shake my head. I want her to go away. I want everything to go away.

  ‘Okay,’ she says, patting my knee. ‘Let’s get you some grub and some water. Follow me. You can’t go onto the wing in this state. And trust me, you don’t want to spend your first night in seg.’

  Segregation? This isn’t fair. I try to swallow my sobs. It’s getting harder to breathe with my nose like this. ‘I thought they’d found him.’

  ‘Who, honey?’ she says.

  ‘Robert. My fiancé. He’s missing.’ What if he saw those horrible images on my laptop, what if he thought they were mine? He wouldn’t have believed it. He knows me. He loves me.

  The guard purses her lips. ‘I’m sure he’ll turn up – men always come back with their tail between their legs eventually.’

  She makes it sound like he’s ducked out for a cheeky pint. I want this woman to see me. Not the thing they’re trying to make me out to be. ‘I’m Jenna.’ I wipe my eyes as I follow her back through the rabbit warren of corridors.

  ‘We’re not supposed to give our first names,’ she says.

  A watery sob catches in my throat. It’s like we’re not human.

  ‘But it seems to me you be needing a friend right now, honey. I’m Sara.’

  ‘Thank you,’ I whisper. I unwrap this small act of trust and hold it to me. Sara. A friend.

  She leads me to a room just off reception. I gaze longingly at the door outside before it disappears from view.

  ‘You vegetarian?’ Sara says. Robert asked me that once. It feels like an age ago. Like it was another world. Part of a magical night. A dream. I shake my head. ‘Any religious or dietary restrictions?’ I shake my head again. ‘Right. Give me two minutes.’ She closes the door as she leaves.

  I’m in what looks like another small interview room, it’s bare apart from tiny flecks of paper strewn over the floor. The last person in here must have shredded whatever paper they were given. Destroyed it.

  Sara returns holding a moulded plastic tray like the ones we used to have at school. The smell of hot food hits me. My stomach growls. I didn’t realise how hungry I was. I take it. One compartment contains something brown and liquid, lumps of meat and carrots in it. I snatch up the plastic fork and shovel it into my mouth. Beef stew, I think. It scorches the top of my mouth. It’s been microwaved, but I don’t care. In the other compartment is a small dry bread roll, cold as if it’s been in the fridge. It reminds me of airline food. I dunk it into the gloop and scoop it into my mouth. The bandage over my nose makes it difficult to eat without chewing with my mouth open. But I’m so hungry I don’t care. Instinct has taken over.

  ‘That’ll make you feel better,’ Sara nods.

  ‘Thank you,’ I manage between mouthfuls. The food hits my empty stomach. It gurgles a response.

  Sara is leaning against the door frame. ‘Listen, honey, I’m about to go off shift.’

  My fork freezes mid-air. She’s going to leave me.

  Sara checks behind her. I can see Kev still at the reception desk. She lowers her voice. ‘You a smoker?’

  ‘No.’ Is she offering me a cigarette?

  ‘Say you are anyway,’ she says.

  ‘Officer!’ Kev’s voice rings out across the reception. Sara flinches. ‘Is the prisoner ready yet?’

  I scrape the remaining liquid off the tray with my fork. ‘Done.’

  She smiles at me gratefully. ‘Yes, sir,’ she calls.

  Kev is not happy that I’m interrupting his Sudoku. He takes me through more forms. Sara says good night and I wistfully watch her go. She can leave. The envy I feel is physical.

  When Kev asks if I’m a smoker I remember what she said and nod. He hands me a packet. Through the plastic I can see it’s Rizlas, some loose-leaf tobacco and a lighter. Why do I want this?

  ‘That’s £3.60 off your £5 canteen,’ he says.

  ‘My canteen?’

  ‘You had no money on you when you arrived,’ he says. ‘You are loaned an emergency £5, on your card.’ Why have I paid for something I don’t want? Was Sara lying to me?

  He looks at his watch. ‘Legally you’re entitled to one phone call.’ He glances at the camera. I get the distinct feeling Kev has got in trouble for denying this in the past.

  Someone has set me up. I should call my lawyer. It’s gone nine. Mr Peterson will be home with his family right now. Lucky sod. I want to speak to Mum. ‘Thank you.’ I can’t help but gush.

  Kev doesn’t smile. He passes me a card, with a startled photo of me printed on the front. Like the worst passport photo you can imagine. ‘This is your ID. Enter your prisoner number to dial out.’

  ‘Thank you.’ I don’t care that he doesn’t seem bothered.

  Standing in front of the phone on the wall, my hand automati
cally reaches for my mobile. But of course it’s not there. With pooling dread I realise I don’t know anyone’s numbers. I know Robert’s. My heart twists. I would give anything to speak to him. And I know our old landline at the flat we grew up in. But I never learnt Mum’s new one by heart when she moved. I close my eyes and try to visualise my mum’s mobile. Or my sister’s. Zero, seven, something. I think there’s a three toward the end of Mum’s, and then a six. ‘Excuse me?’ I say to Kev, who is back consulting his puzzle. ‘Can I Google numbers somewhere?’

  He scoffs. ‘Inmates are not permitted access to the Internet.’

  ‘What, never? But how do you look things up?’ How do you find anything out? My mind swims with all the questions I have about prison. What do I do? What should I expect? What are my rights? What should I be doing about my case? What legal help am I entitled to? My fingers itch for my smartphone. Anxiety laps toward me like flood water.

  ‘Try reading a book,’ he says. Then adds with a sneer. ‘Though you better behave, only those with privileges are allowed library access.’

  Tears prick my eyes. I just want to hear my mum’s voice. I want to speak to someone who loves me. Who believes me. Someone who’s going to tell me I’m all right. How could I have been so stupid as to not have remembered any numbers? They’ve just always been there, at hand.

  ‘I haven’t got all night.’ Kev taps his watch.

  I can’t tell if he’s being deliberately obtuse or just doesn’t understand that I’m massively out of my depth here. I shouldn’t be here. This is all wrong. Stay calm. Don’t panic. And then I think of it: Ness’s work. She’s a personal trainer at Star Gym. They have radio adverts with those little jingles to the same tune as ‘The Teddy Bears’ Picnic’. It includes the number. How does it go? I sing it quietly to myself. ‘If you go down to Star Gym today, you’re sure of admiring eyes . . .’ Kev glances at me. Block him out. ‘Zero, one, three, eight, six, duh- do, duh-do eight five . . .’ Got it!

  I lift the receiver and dial. It starts to ring. Would Ness have gone back to work? She often works nights. Please be there. Please. The ring stops. It clicks to connection.

  ‘You have reached Star Gym, we’re not available to answer your call . . .’

  Beep, beep, beep, sounds the phone in my ear and it cuts dead. ‘What happened?’ I stare at the receiver. I wanted to leave a message at least.

  ‘Credit’s up,’ Kev says.

  ‘What?’ I stare at him in disbelief. What credit?

  ‘After your smoker’s pack, you only had £1.40 left on your canteen.’

  ‘I paid for this call?’ I can’t believe he didn’t explain that.

  ‘Who else is gonna pay for it, Missy? You expect me to fork out of my own wages?’

  He didn’t say. ‘I didn’t even speak to anyone.’

  ‘Not my fault you called a mobile.’

  ‘I didn’t! It was a landline!’

  ‘Must have been a premium one,’ he says.

  ‘Can I borrow some more money?’ I look desperately at the phone. Ness might be there, she might have heard my voice. She might have picked up.

  ‘You’ve had your maximum loan already.’

  I’ve had five quid!

  ‘You can receive money from outside or earn more for your canteen,’ he reels off.

  If I can’t get hold of Ness how can I ask her for money? ‘There’s money in my bank account. If I could get online I could transfer some over . . .’ The words die in my mouth as his face clouds. Inmates are not permitted access to the Internet. He thinks I’m taking the piss. This is madness. Like stepping back in time. No mobile, no Internet. I am cut off from everything and everyone.

  Sara would have told me that. Would have explained the rules. I finger the smoker’s pack in my hand. Unless that was all a lie too.

  A gate off the reception room jangles, and I see another guard unlocking it for another prisoner. For a second I think it’s Gould, but this woman is smaller, more feminine, in black jogging bottoms and sweatshirt. Her hair wrapped up in a scarf tucked tight to her head. She doesn’t smile.

  Kev waves a dismissive hand. ‘This is Vina. Your Insider. She’s gonna take you to your cell.’

  My cell. I’m in prison for a crime I didn’t commit. Illegal images were found on my computer. My fingerprints are on the murder weapon. Someone set me up. ‘Can I see my lawyer – tomorrow?’ I add desperately.

  Kev grunts an acknowledgement.

  The Insider stares at me. Her eyes are empty dark pools. With a sharp gesture of her head she beckons me and I walk toward hell.

  Now

  The day it happened, the day I was arrested, I left work early to collect Emily’s birthday cake. Deb had left the key for me under the flowerpot out back. I let myself in and picked it up. I drove home. There were sheep on the lane to the hotel, so I went the back way. I let myself in. My brain stops there . . . I can’t think about this here, now. I force myself to think about after.

  When the police arrived, they kept going on about it being Emily’s panic alarm that had been activated. The paramedics had wrapped me in a silver blanket. They wouldn’t let me stay with Emily. They wouldn’t let me back in the house. All these people in white boilersuits were going in and out. There were tents. They kept asking where Robert was. Cars. Ambulances. Sally arrived, but they wouldn’t let me speak to her. They said I sent her a text. I don’t remember. Then there was a shout. Salinsky brought out a bag containing my wet sweatshirt. I didn’t understand why it was wet. They asked if it was mine. Then they took me to the police station. Took my clothes. The shock has shaken everything up in my mind. I need to speak to Mr Peterson. I need to go over this again. I thought it would be okay. I thought they’d realise their mistake. I didn’t know about the images on my computer.

  I consider telling Vina that I think someone’s framed me, but I don’t think she’s the sharing kind. She doesn’t say anything, but walks, barely lifting her feet off the floor, with surprising pace, down the corridor. It gives the impression she’s gliding over tiny bumps. She stops at a table. It’s also bolted to the floor. Above it, sunk into the wall, are two huge cabinets.

  Making a moist sucking tut with her tongue, Vina opens the cabinets, releasing a musty varnish smell, and pulls things from the deep dark-brown shelves. ‘This ya clean underwear, yeah?’

  Two pairs of socks that were once white, but now nearer grey, are handed over. And two bras, a similar cloudy colour. The fabric feels soft between my fingers from over-washing.

  ‘Your bedding.’ Vina piles folded stiff scratchy sheets into my arms. ‘And ya blanket.’

  ‘Thank you,’ I manage.

  ‘This ya breakfast pack.’ She puts a box down on top.

  Breakfast? I’ve just had dinner. ‘What happened to porridge, hey?’ I try to sound upbeat. I meant it as a joke, like the TV show. Isn’t that what they used to call doing time?

  Vina sucks on her teeth again. ‘You done bird before?’

  I dig my fingers into the sheets. Is she asking if I’ve slept with a woman before? Kev has followed us, a few paces away, leaning against the wall, absorbed in his newspaper. ‘Err, I have a fiancé. A male one. It’s a very nice offer but I . . .’

  She tilts her head and her eyebrows meet. ‘Nah, I askin’ if you been inside before?’

  Oh my god. Did I just proposition her? Or worse, reject her? ‘I’m so sorry . . . I . . .’ I’m supposed to be making a good impression. I’m supposed to be channelling the male prisoners. I’m supposed to be acting hard. ‘I was kidding.’

  ‘Hmm,’ she says. She doesn’t look convinced.

  ‘Yeah, it’s my first time,’ I add.

  ‘You got bread, cereal, UHT, and jam in there.’ She taps the breakfast pack.

  There doesn’t appear to be a best-before date. I wonder how long it’s been in this cupboard.

  ‘Don’t get excited, it’s not up ta much. They only cost the guv twenty-seven pence.’ She makes the sucking tut noise aga
in. ‘You get cold?’ she asks.

  My hands feel icy already. ‘A bit, yeah.’

  ‘Okay.’ She checks Kev hasn’t looked up. ‘You get any burn?’

  Does she mean my surname? Something my mum’s mates used to say comes back to me. ‘Yeah, I got my smoker’s pack.’

  ‘Good. I’ll have the Amber Leaf, and you get an extra blanket.’ She holds her hand out.

  Thank you, Sara. I pass her the tobacco and she drops the blanket on top of my pile.

  ‘Hang on to your lighter, they’re worth a bob on eBay after,’ Vina says. ‘What size you?’

  ‘A ten – twelve?’ I say.

  ‘Medium,’ she sniffs and selects two white T-shirts, two pairs of bottle-green jogging bottoms, and two matching sweatshirts from the pile.

  Thank god: clean clothes. I resist the urge to bury my face in them. I’ll wear them tomorrow when I see Mr Peterson. Hopefully I can speak to him before the police do. Tell him someone has set me up.

  ‘An ya toiletries.’ She pops another pack on top. ‘Including toothbrush.’ She gives me a pointed look.

  Can she smell the sick from earlier? My cheeks burn. ‘Thanks.’ It comes out as barely a whisper.

  ‘Arr-right, and we done,’ she says, closing the cabinets. ‘Done now!’ she calls louder for Kev’s attention.

  The guard tucks his paper under his arm. It’s the one with my photo on the front. Did Vina see? She hasn’t reacted. ‘Now then, Princess.’ The word stings. ‘Let’s introduce you to your new cellmate.’

  What if it’s Gould? I’ll kill you! I’ll do what you did to that kiddie! What if it’s someone else who has seen the paper? What if they want to hurt me? I grip the blankets tight, using their bulk to hide my rising and falling chest. Vina is still beside me. I can hear her sucked breaths. Feel her eyes on me. Kev whistles in front of us, as I force myself to put one foot in front of the other. He stops at the gate. His keys are jangled and he selects the right one. I’m about to be locked up.

  I look behind me, desperate for a final glimpse of the outside, but all I see are small flakes of paper blowing across the reception floor. Tiny, torn pieces of something that was once whole.