Page 60 of The Stranger in Room Six
‘I’ll be fine,’ I say firmly, determined that she mustn’t carry my pain of a solitary December 25th in my cell: a far better option than sitting with my companions in front of the communal lounge TV.
After Elspeth has left, I am filled with such despondency that I allow myself the luxury of opening Imran’s latest letter.
Dear Belinda,
I know you have my address because I put it on the last letter, but I still haven’t received a reply. You can’t get rid of me that easily. I’m going to keep writing because I can’t bear to think that I found you again and then instantly lost you. We’ve been through that once before. Do you remember the Magdalen Ball? You looked beautiful, Belinda. That was the night when I said I wanted to spend the rest of my life with you. All right, I know I wasn’t completely honest with you then, but I meant what I said. I just didn’t explain my personal circumstances. You were right to get upset when I told you the truth. I was sorry then and I’m even more sorry now. Give me another chance, Belinda, please. I will wait for you, no matter how long it takes.
Love, Imran.
I’d thrown all of Imran’s previous letters away, but this one I put under my pillow for one night only and then, in the morning, I tear it up into narrow strips. As I do so, I feel Mouse’s eyes on me, leaning over from the top bunk. ‘Good girl,’ she says. ‘Remember what I’ve told you. Put up a barrier and then the bastards can’t hurt you.’
‘Imran isn’t a bastard,’ I retort.
Her eyes glint. ‘So that’s his name, is it?’
I curse myself for having let that slip out.
‘Is that why you murdered your husband? So you could go off with lover boy?’
‘No,’ I snap back. ‘It was because Gerald was having an affair and Ididn’tallow myself to go off with the only man I’ve ever loved.’
Mouse, hanging upside down from her bunk like a bat, shakes her head. ‘I’m not sure I get you but either way, Belinda,you’re doing well. You’re stronger than you think. The women respect you, but you need to work more on the staff. I’ll tell you this for free. The only way to get through this hell is to make the bastards think you’re on their side. Do a good deed that makes them respect you.’
‘But what?’
Mouse’s head is going up. She’s retreated to her top bunk, out of sight. But her voice floats down.
‘You’ll think of something. And if you don’t, you’d better start making plans for your own funeral. ’Cos sooner or later, someone will try and top you. Jac might be gone, but some of her friends are still here – and they have long memories.’
39
The funny thing is, I always liked to think of myself as a good person. I used to be on a committee that raised money for the homeless. I had been on the PTA at school, fundraising for books and playground equipment. But it’s hard to do good in prison when most of us are here for doing bad; constantly terrified of being attacked.
It’s Christmas Day and some of the women are claiming they’re sick. We all know they’re just trying to get out of their work parties. But we still have to do our usual jobs like cleaning and cooking and wiping down toilets. I’m doing the latter when I find my head being pushed down a bowl. When I’m released I look up to find the woman from the cell opposite mine staring down at me. Her name is Linda.
‘What did you do that for?’
‘Because you’re full of airs and graces. Think you’re too good for this place, don’t you?’
Actually I don’t but she’s gone before I can say so, leaving me with wet hair that stinks of urine. I manage to rinse it in the sink and then move on to the next toilet. There’s no point in complaining and getting her into trouble. I’ve seen women doing that before and they only get hurt.
‘Wall,’ says a guard, coming in. I presume she is using my surname to rile me since we are usually called by our first names. ‘You’re on the MBU today. We’re short staffed.’
The MBU stands for the mother and baby unit, which is for mothers with babies under eighteen months. I didn’t even know it existed until I came here, nor that, after eighteenmonths, these babies are taken away again and given to a relative or fostered or adopted.
At least I got to bring up my girls – or almost – before they went to my brother-in-law.
‘This way,’ says the guard sharply, leading me out of the wing and along a corridor I’ve never been down before.
It’s as though we’ve entered a different world. There are murals on the wall in lemon yellow, strawberry pink and apple green. There are toys in varying conditions. In the corner is a Christmas tree, though there are no presents underneath.
Around me, women are sitting and playing with their babies. Teenagers gathered in groups while their toddlers play on their own. Some breastfeeding. Some bottle feeding. Others lying on bean bags, eyes closed while little ones crawl past. Toddlers climbing mini-slides before gliding down, beaming – blissfully unaware that they are enjoying the hospitality of one of Her Majesty’s Prisons.
‘Get cleaning then,’ orders the guard. So I do, but I can’t help stopping every now and then to look at this extraordinary family scene around me. It reminds me of the days when our girls were little and Gerald and I were all right. Not in love. But all right.
There’s one little boy who keeps coming to me and stretching out his hand as if expecting me to give him something. I carry on dusting, but I can’t ignore him. He keeps tapping me on my leg.
‘Hello,’ I say. ‘What’s your name?’
