One of the guards handed her a large brown paper bag, its top closed with blue and white custody tape.
‘His things.’
Jem was allowed a small number of items – books, toiletries, photos – in his cell but the contents of this bag – the clothes he’d been wearing and any objects he had on his person when he’d been arrested – would only be released to him once his sentence was complete. The bag was light but when she placed it on the table something clinked in the bottom. Jem’s head shot up. He looked from the paper bag to Hannah, eyes narrowed, as though she’d just trashed something precious. This was the first time he’d looked directly at her. It was like having a torch shone in her face. She turned away, but then she was wired with another shot of rage. You murdered my husband, she thought. When it comes to your stuff, I don’t give a shit. Staring right at him, she lifted the bag back into the air, as if to reposition it, and this time she made sure to bring it down even harder. There was a splintering crack, like the sound of a mug breaking, and the tinkle of broken pieces settling.
Jem flinched and Mr Dalgleish looked up, distracted by the noise. Unable to find an explanation, he was about to return to his paperwork when he clocked something outside.
‘Is she OK?’ he asked, pointing next door.
Hannah followed his gaze.
An elderly lady wearing a cerise Chanel skirt suit was shouting and swearing while waving a draught excluder toward the branches of a plum tree. Having managed to knock a number of plums to the ground, she then set about weaponising the fruit, hurling them toward the people in the rowing boat. The missiles plopped in the water, well short of their target, but the woman was undeterred and, in search of more ammo, grabbed the draught excluder again and went back to swinging at the tree.
‘Pru,’ said Hannah, by way of explanation. ‘She’s harmless.’
Mr Dalgleish seemed unconvinced.
‘Not all prisons have bars.’ He pointed a pen toward the cell door. ‘Would you like to do the honours?’
A guard removed Jem’s handcuffs and he rubbed at his wrists, soothing the red marks left behind. His hands were strong, the veins and tendons fanning toward his fingers like exposed tree roots.
I am safe, she told herself, he can’t hurt me.
She pressed the black button on her device and opened the door.
Slowly, Jem stepped inside.
‘Against the wall,’ said Mr Dalgleish. His tone was brisk but Hannah had never seen him so relaxed. Following protocol seemed to be a comfort to him, like sliding into a pair of well-worn shoes.
The prisoner did as he was told and went and stood against the wall furthest from the door. He moved with fluidity and held himself with such poise – spine erect, neck elongated, chest and abdomen open – that Hannah was sure he must have once been a dancer.
She pressed the black button for a second time, locking the cell, and Jem nodded respectfully. Now for the fail-safe. She lined the key up next to the hole and was about to put it in when she fumbled. It dropped to the floor, bounced through the bars and skidded across the cell toward the prisoner’s feet.
In one balletic movement he reached down to pick it up, took a step forward and passed it to her. She reached for it without thinking. He flattened his palm against hers, his skin warm, and as he slid his hand away she felt his forefinger press hard against her wrist.
Mr Dalgleish was on his feet in an instant.
‘Inmate, step away.’ He placed his thumb over the red button on his device. Hold it down for five seconds and, as well as sounding the alarm, he would administer an electric shock via the corresponding chip in Jem’s spine.
Jem held up his hands, mea culpa, and retook his place by the wall.
Rattled, Hannah began to sweat. She’d failed to react and had left herself vulnerable. Mr Dalgleish had been there to back her up, but next time she might not be so lucky.
‘Try again,’ said Mr Dalgleish.
She took a breath to compose herself. Through the doors she could see the people in the rowing boat. They’d made it to the other side of the pond. Hopping into the shallows, they dragged the vessel to the shore.
She blocked out Jem as best she could and put the key in the lock. After hooking it up to the right, she waited until it was pushing against the underside of the mechanism and turned. A thunk, the feel of something solid dropping, and it was done. She removed the key and placed it on its hook by the sink.
‘The spare?’ said Mr Dalgleish, nodding at the key.
Hannah picked up an old green and gold Fry’s chocolate tin from the windowsill.
‘In here.’ She gave the tin a shake and the second key clanged inside.
Mr Dalgleish nodded his approval, then he signed the last form with a flourish, tugged the paper from the clipboard and handed it to her.
‘We’ll leave you to it.’
I am safe, Hannah told herself again. He can’t get out.
She went to see Mr Dalgleish and the guards to the door.
Jem stayed where he was by the wall.
His eyes followed her every move.
Hannah should have spent the afternoon icing and decorating the sponge cakes from last night but after the guards and Mr Dalgleish had gone, terrified of facing Jem alone, she’d fled to her room. Now, the sun was starting to set, and with time running out (the christening was tomorrow) she had no choice but to return to the kitchen.
She made her way onto the landing and stopped. The house was stifling, and this combined with the hours lying in bed had left her fingers puffy. She pushed her thumb against her wedding rings, trying to relieve the pressure on her swollen flesh, and realised she could only feel her gold band. She looked to check. She was sure she’d put both rings back on after washing up, but maybe she’d got distracted. Her engagement ring, an oval ruby haloed by diamonds, must still be by the sink.
She forced herself down the stairs and made it all the way to the hall before she stopped again. Her body had started to shake. It was as though her blood was moving too fast through her veins, racing around her organs in search of safety.
If she’d had any say in the matter she would have asked for Jem’s cell to be constructed in the living room or spare bedroom; both were spaces that she would have been easily able to avoid. But the kitchen. She worked there; she ate there. It was her only access to the back garden. And that, said Mr Dalgleish, was the whole point.
When it came to deciding where to install a cell in someone’s home the prison service were guided by three things: available space, enough pre-existing plumbing infrastructure to support a toilet and sink and, most important of all, where would have the most foot traffic. The new system took restorative justice to its logical conclusion. They wanted to make seeing and talking to Jem unavoidable.
She could call the client, tell them she was sick and wouldn’t be able to make their christening cake after all? Or maybe she should return to her room, and sneak back down in the dead of night to do the construction while Jem was asleep?
No. She grabbed her amber pendant for courage. She couldn’t disappoint the client, she wouldn’t, and working in the middle of the night was a stupid idea. This was her kitchen, her house. Jem was behind bars with no way out. She needed to finish the cake and so she would.
Still shaking, she made her final descent and turned the corner to see Jem standing by his basin in a pair of jeans, top off. He was halfway through a strip wash and his wet skin shone in the evening light. He was strong, his body lean, but there was something about the pouched muscle crowding his upper arms that reminded Hannah of a puppy’s belly, vulnerable and pink.
Seeing her, he startled and, after rinsing the last of the soap from his neck, grabbed a towel. Hannah blushed and turned away but not before she saw the ladder of scars on his back, the keloided flesh rumpled and thick.
It was even hotter down here, the air treacly, and Hannah realised that although she’d left the fan on, it was useless, pointing as it was away from th
e cell. She redirected it toward Jem and as the breeze hit his face he closed his eyes.
‘Thank you,’ he said quietly, like he was whispering a secret.
At the sink she searched the area around the taps for her engagement ring but there was no sign of it. Trying not to panic, she checked the other work surfaces and patted the pockets in her dungarees. Had it fallen down the plughole or worse, into the waste disposal?
Since John had died she got upset whenever she misplaced the silliest of things – she’d spent weeks searching for the Paddington Bear travel-card holder he’d got her for Christmas – but if she lost this . . . She didn’t want to finish the thought.
She was about to get down on her hands and knees and scour the floor when she realised she was being watched. She turned round, only for Jem to look away, a moment too late.
She decided to search for the ring again later. If it didn’t turn up she’d call out a plumber. The waste disposal had been playing up for months, gargling and spitting; if her ring had fallen down there hopefully it wouldn’t have got far.
After putting on her daisy apron, she washed her hands and lined up the sponge cakes. The client was a Dartmouth Park couple who’d conceived twin girls after years of trying. Tomorrow they’d christen them at St Michael’s on South Grove.
Hannah had never intended to be a baker. As a teenager she’d harboured dreams of graphic design and after completing her course at Falmouth she’d moved to the city, hoping to find work. But staff jobs were non-existent and the freelance gigs she won were paltry and sporadic. She started temping to make ends meet and at weekends would bake the odd birthday or anniversary cake for friends and family, using her love of design to create fantastical, geometric sponges that she populated with tiny, perfectly sculpted animals and people. Word spread and soon friends of friends were commissioning her for jobs that grew in size and ambition. She continued temping and kept at it with the cakes until the demand for her work became such that she could quit the office job and make a go of it with the baking full time.
These days she catered for a north London clientele who paid handsomely for her kooky, out-there aesthetic. She averaged two to three cakes a week, more during wedding season, and although she tried to work Monday to Friday only, she often found herself up to her eyes in fondant of a Saturday night.
The Dartmouth Park couple had had their first date at London Zoo and wanted their daughters’ cake to be a replica of the famous Lubetkin Pool, decorated with individualised penguin characters. The girls’ names – Isla and Florence – would be spelled out on the interlocking spiral ramps. Taking even more care than usual – Hannah knew what it was to long for a child and wanted to make their celebration extra special – she set about cutting the sponge to size, sliced each section in half and layered on the buttercream and strawberry jam filling. This would form the base or swimming pool part of the structure.
As she worked she was aware of Jem behind her, unpacking. He unrolled a poster and began Blu-tacking it to the wall. It was a picture of a thin strip of beach, edged by trees. The sea a clear turquoise. Her jaw clenched. Don’t get too comfortable, she thought, you’re not going to be here long.
Again, she sensed Jem’s eyes on her and turned round hoping to catch him out, but when she looked she realised he wasn’t staring at her but at the sealed paper bag containing his things. She’d yet to lock it away – she planned on storing it in the old airing cupboard at the top of the stairs; that way it would be secure and out of sight – and had left it on the side next to the bread bin.
Bread.
She’d forgotten to make him lunch.
She made a mental note to be more careful. Prisoner neglect or abuse was a serious offence and, if proven, resulted in a hefty fine.
‘You must be starving,’ she said, her words high and tight. And then, on reflex, ‘Sorry.’
She cringed. Why should she apologise to him for anything?
‘It’s OK,’ he said, looking to the floor. ‘Feeding me must have been the last thing on your mind.’
She decided to make pasta and salad and had just set a pan of water to boil when she heard a shriek from outside.
‘Your neighbour,’ said Jem. He nodded at the French doors. ‘She’s been out there a while.’
Hannah squinted into the twilight. Pru had changed out of her skirt suit into a bathing costume and cap and was scaling the fence at the bottom of her garden. Teetering on the top slat, she veered wildly back and forth, like a tulip that has grown too tall for its stem.
After plating up one of the cake offcuts Hannah made her way outside. Pru had been a keen swimmer and in her twenties had swum the Channel in a time of fifteen hours and twenty-three minutes. In recent years though she’d lost the ability to tread water, let alone do the front crawl, and so her children – all grown-up and moved away – had built the fence and raised it on both sides to stop her from venturing down the steps.
Hannah approached the barrier that divided their gardens and guided the saucer through the slats. Pru had turned sixty-two in April but her shoulders were still roped with muscle, her thighs taut and freckled.
‘Prudence?’
Pru peered through her glasses at the Heath beyond. The sky was splashed peach and red, the pond carpeted with the thick green algae that ran amok every summer.
‘There’s someone watching the house.’ She scanned the horizon from right to left. ‘They were there this afternoon. I’ve decided to keep an eye out until Ted comes home.’
Hannah looked back toward Pru’s open French doors. A picture of Ted, dead these last eight years, sat on the dresser.
‘And the swimming costume?’
Pru ignored the question and stuck out her chest, defiant. ‘You weren’t trying to get over the fence to the water?’ she asked gently. Pru tried to climb the barrier on a monthly basis. ‘That wasn’t what was happening here?’
Nothing.
Hannah decided to try a different tack.
‘Victoria sponge with wild strawberry jam,’ she said, waving the plate. ‘Your favourite.’
Pru lowered her glasses, torn between the cake and maintaining her lookout.
‘I saw Ted this morning, on his way to the station,’ said Hannah. ‘He mentioned something about having to work late.’
Pru let the specs fall against her chest. ‘Really?’
‘I’m sure he’ll be home soon.’
That did it. Knees wobbling, Pru clambered down from her perch and whipped the cake out of Hannah’s hand.
‘It’s getting dark,’ said Hannah brightly. ‘We should go in.’
Pru walked with her down the garden, Hannah waiting until her neighbour was indoors before venturing into her own kitchen.
At the cooker she turned off the gas and grabbed a sieve.
‘How long has she been like that?’ asked Jem.
‘A while.’ She drained the pasta. ‘Some days are worse than others.’
While she was outside he’d put on a T-shirt and a red and white baseball cap emblazoned with a rooster kneeling down to release what looked like a bowling ball. This plus the haircut made him look younger than his twenty-eight years.
‘It’s cruel, when your brain stops working the way it should.’ His hand went to the spot at the top of his spine where the chip had been implanted. ‘Like you’re walking around in a different world to everyone else.’ He pressed gently against the vertebrae, as if feeling for the device under the skin. ‘Like the rules have changed . . .’
‘But no one thought to tell you,’ said Hannah and Jem nodded and smiled sadly. She flushed and turned toward the counter. The words had come out of her mouth as a reflex – he’d voiced something she’d often ruminated on since Pru’s deterioration – but still, she was annoyed with herself. Agreeing with him felt like a concession of sorts, a weakening, as if she was already starting to forgive what he’d done.
She focused on preparing the food. Once the pasta was ready she divided it and
the salad onto two plates. She placed Jem’s portion along with the regulation blunt cutlery onto a tray and passed it to him through the hatch. He could draw his own water from the sink in the cell.
‘Smells great.’ As he took it from her his eyes slid out of focus, distracted by something over her shoulder. He nodded at the fridge. ‘Even Mr Claus makes mistakes,’ he said, reading the magnetic letters arranged there. ‘Reindeer burgers on me?’ He frowned. ‘What does that mean?’
Hannah considered telling him the words were a nonsense, but she was sick of playing down her loss in order to make other people more comfortable and anyway, wasn’t this the whole point of this terrible situation, for Jem to live and breathe the consequences of his crime?
‘It was our thing. John and I, I mean. I bought them to remind myself to buy milk and bread, stuff like that. John had other ideas. Before he left for work he’d often use the letters to leave me a message.’ Hannah smiled but in truth the memory was bittersweet. John had left these words as an apology after an argument. ‘That’s the last thing he spelled out. He wrote it a few weeks before he died.’
She expected Jem to cringe, shamed by this mention of the man he had killed, but instead he nodded slowly, as if to acknowledge her pain, then sat down and began to eat.
Hannah wanted to throw the pasta at him but instead she grabbed her kit bag and, after pricking her finger, she put the strip into the machine and waited. Once she had her reading she calculated the carbs in the food she was about to eat, loaded up the pen with insulin and pushed the front of her dungarees to one side. Lifting her vest, she squidged a section of belly fat together and injected.
All done, she picked up her plate and, holding it close, began shovelling in food. The sooner she was fed the sooner she could get on with the cake and get away from the kitchen, from Jem.
The Captive Page 2