Page 85 of The Dead Ex
‘The car’s outside,’ he says, gently touching my elbow.Dirty old man. Doesn’t he care I am at least twenty-five years younger?
I’d expected a chauffeur but instead, he leads me to a two-seater red sports car parked round the corner. ‘I’ve never been in one of these before,’ I say. ‘Wow, the seats are low.’
He seems to find this funny. ‘Just what I thought when I bought my first.’
This man must be loaded. But it’s not his money I’m after. He drivescarefully, constantly checking his rear-view mirror, almost as if he’s expecting someone to be following him. I think of the security guards back at the office. Is this man scared of something?
I try to make conversation but he cuts me short. ‘I like to concentrate on the road.’
We pass Pimlico Tube station and then the Tate Britain. The river runs alongside us. It looks prettier in the dark,lit up like this. I usually walk in London or take buses but David drives through each street with a sureness that can only come from experience. This manknows what he is doing. That’s reassuring in one way but scary in another. We pull up on a corner. A man in uniform is waiting for us. David opens the passenger door for me (how gallant!) and then tosses him the car keys.
He touches my armbriefly, indicating a red brick house that, as we get closer, turns out to be a restaurant even though it doesn’t have any shiny signs outside. ‘Do you like steak?’
I shake my head. ‘I don’t eat meat, although I’m happy with fish.’
‘That’s OK. This place has a comprehensive gourmet menu. I used to take my …’
Then he stops. I have the distinct feeling he was going to say ‘wife’. But the sentencelies unfinished in the air between us, and my intuition tells me to leave it there.
Slowly, slowly, I warn myself as we go inside and someone takes my coat. I’ve waited a long time for this. I can’t afford any false moves.
29
Vicki
4 April 2018
The officer in the van doesn’t tell me which prison we are going to until we’ve been on the road for over an hour. I suspect from the frantic flurry of calls that I have caused a certain number of admin issues. As a former prison governor, I can’t be taken to a jail where I’ve worked before or where I might know one of the inmates. They might have a grudge. Even try to killme.
Eventually I’m informed that we are going to a brand-new prison which has recently opened in the West Country. How ironic that I am being taken back to the very area I have just left.
I’m stiff when they finally let us out. I want to stretch my legs so am quite relieved when I am marched through a wide courtyard and into a modern-looking room with ‘SAFETY FIRST’ posters on the walls. Afterbeing frisked, I am allowed to get back into my own clothes. Only if I am convicted will I have to wear prison uniform.
This particular prison is made up of what they call ‘houses’ – rather like a posh school. I’ve seen a few like this. There’s a huge hub at the centre of each with different corridors leading off like spokes from a cartwheel. Inthe middle of the hub is a glass office, or ‘watchtower’as it’s known, where the officers monitor activity.
Usually prisons are noisy with constant shouting. But right now, it’s silent. Everyone is looking at me. Staff and inmates. I see it all on their faces. Shock. Disbelief. Pleasure. Evil intent. Even though I’ve never worked here, prisons inhabit a small world. Word has clearly got round about my arrival. A prison governor – past or present –equals the enemy.
Then, like a play when an actor suddenly remembers his lines, the noise starts up again. A very pale-faced woman in prison green – indicating garden duty – yells at another woman who is pushing a massive kitchen trolley. ‘Get out of the fucking way. Look where you’re going.’
Someone else starts arguing with an officer about visiting privileges. A young woman with scraped-backhair and a weary expression begins to sweep the floor around my feet as if I am not there. I am escorted towards a double gate that forms the entrance to one of the houses. I can see through it. It’s the type with iron bars going vertically down. On the other side is a table. Women are eating lunch. There’s a smell of vinegar. They appraise me. One is chewing with her mouth open. Another holdsher knife and fork very precisely, as if to say, ‘I may be here but I’m not one of you lot.’ She catches my eye for a second and then looks away dismissively. Clearly I fall into the last category for her.
I’m led up a flight of stairs but have to stop halfway.
‘Move it,’ snaps the guard.
‘I can’t.’ I grip the handrail. ‘I feel dizzy.’
‘How convenient,’ says the other.
Are they testing me?Don’t they know what happened at my last place?
My cell is by the stairs, on the right. It has bars on the window and overlooks the mother-and-baby unit. Another deliberate act? Hard to know. I force my face to stay straight, as if this means nothing to me. But inside I am quivering.
There’s a shower in the corner and a loo. A narrow bed takes up one side, and there is a long shelf which lookslike it acts as a desk/dressing table. Lino rather than concrete. By some prison standards, this would be a palace.
‘You’re just in time for tea,’ says one of the officers. His voice has a sarcastic edge, as though I have dropped in to pay a courtesy visit.
I sit on the bed. It’s hard. ‘Not hungry,’ I say.
