Greyfriars Reformatory

by Frazer Lee

  I dive for cover under the largest nearby tree I can find. For a little while I just sit there, arms around my knees, listening to the rain. There is a loud splosh as a particularly large raindrop penetrates my shelter and lands on a leaf beside me. The leaf bounces up as the raindrop falls to earth and I notice something clinging to its underside. I pull the leaf gently toward me so I can take a better look and see that the object is a chrysalis. Its light brown fabric makes the little cylinder look rather like a cigar.

  I stroke the surface of the chrysalis. It’s incredibly fragile, and yet it looks so strong, as though it could survive anything nature can throw at it. Thunder rumbles and I swear I can feel it vibrate the earth beneath me. The wind picks up, and there’s a sharp scent of electricity in the air. A flash goes off with all the intensity of a lightbulb, and momentarily the chrysalis looks as though it is glowing orange with a spark of life burning from deep inside of it. There’s a thunderclap, incredibly loud and much too close for comfort this time. The wind blows more ferociously, bringing horizontal rain with it. My already-quite-wet clothes begin to stick to my arms and legs. I take the chrysalis in my hand and then pull the leaf away from its branch. Folding the chrysalis up inside the leaf, I tuck the little bundle inside my clothing next to my breast. The rain is blowing in all directions now, so I walk away from the tree, intent on outrunning the thunder and lightning.

  No such luck.

  With some effort I make it to the tree line, but the storm continues gathering in strength all around me. As I pass through the trees, the land drops away into a steep and muddy slope. I slip and slide in the stuff as my feet try to gain purchase on the sodden terrain. I decide to try to circle the perimeter of trees, to see if the ground levels out further along. The howling wind and rain lash unforgivingly at my limbs as I try my utmost to push onward. My face stings from the icy rain and my clothes are plastered to my legs. I swear I could just lean forward and find myself supported by the wind, it’s that strong. I’m being battered by the elements. Maybe leaving the dubious shelter of the tree was a mistake after all. And then, as if to prove my thesis, a gust of wind knocks me off balance. My feet slip from under me in the wet mud and I take a tumble down the slope. At the bottom, I fall headlong into a cold, muddy puddle of rainwater.

  Kneeling on all fours with the murky water directly below me I see my reflection, dark and indistinct. The wind moves the surface of the puddle’s dark mirror, distorting my facial features. Ripples form with each raindrop, furthering the effect. I dislike the way my strands of hair take on the aspect of water weeds. I can’t see who I am anymore. The lashing rain beats against my back, willing me to just give up the ghost and fall headfirst into the water. I look up and see an impassible quagmire stretching out before me. Placing a hand at my breast I feel the little chrysalis there, still swaddled in its leaf. My skin is so numb from the pummeling rain that I can’t tell if I should feel cold or not. I smash the water with my right hand, shattering my muddied reflection.

  A ringing in my ears begins. It starts to drown out even the sound of the rain.

  I glance over my shoulder, back the way I came.

  * * *

  Night is falling by the time I get back to Greyfriars Reformatory. The relentless rain falls in cold sheets. My drenched clothing sticks to my skin. Quick was right, there is nowhere to run to beyond the reformatory gates, only harsh wilderness. I kind of wish that Quick had a guard detail that could have hunted me down and then carried me back. I would have gone willingly. I’m tired and my body aches. Energy all but gone, I trudge over wet mud and stones to the main gate. It’s shut, so I try a shoulder against it, to see if it will open just enough for me to slip through. But it won’t budge. I peer between the bars of the gate and see lights from windows casting a sickly yellow glow on the surfaces of puddles in the forecourt. The gate is really high, with sharp points here and there in the ironwork. I decide to look for a place where I can climb the wall.

  Rainwater squelches in my shoes with every step I take. My right sock has sprung a leak and I can feel a blister forming between two of my toes from the constant rubbing.

  I find a section of wall that has crumbled away at the top and use the fallen bricks as a platform from which to mount my bid for renewed incarceration. The hammering rain does little to aid my ascent, but on my second attempt I manage to get up and over. Half-falling and half-rolling to earth on the other side, I disentangle myself from the hedgerow that has broken my fall and take stock of my surroundings. I’ve entered the grounds to the right of the building, which stands indomitably alone in the landscape. Rain gushes from overflowing gutters beneath the clock tower, soaking me further, and it feels as though I’m being punished for trying to escape from this place. This is the second cold shower I’ve been subjected to for my indolence today.

  But what did I really expect, I wonder? That I’d find the road, hitch a ride with some understanding, forward-thinking individual who was not averse to giving rides to convicts before living my best life on a beautiful island with my faithful animal sidekick? I reach for the chrysalis at my breast, reassured somehow by its presence. It has a vague warmth to it. Or maybe my fingers are just numb from the rain and the cold. It doesn’t matter which. All that matters are those few moments in the forest, when I felt like I was free. I try to hold on to that feeling but it is, even now, leaving me.

  The rain from the gutters skitters in my ears and trickles down my back. I walk up the steps and try the main door. It, too, is locked. I lean against it for a few seconds, feeling tired to my bones all of a sudden. Exhausted now, I bang my head against the door.

  Once. Twice. Three times….

  My head is still against the cold, unyielding surface of the main door when I hear, and feel through the door, a key turning in the lock mechanism. The door opens and I almost tumble inside, reaching for the doorframe to halt my fall. My clothes and hair drip rainwater onto the doorstep. I peer through the soggy strands of my fringe at Principal Quick. Her face is an impenetrable mask. She does not exude any sympathy, let me tell you. If anything, she looks like she has been begrudgingly expecting me. A parent or guardian staying up late to berate a drunken teenaged daughter back from her revels.

  Principal Quick stands back from the door and I trudge inside, wet through. I hear the jangling of keys and turn to watch as the principal locks, and then bolts, the door.

  “Come with me,” she says.

  * * *

  Principal Quick’s office smells of a peculiar and unpleasant blend of cigarette smoke and bleach. There’s an empty seat opposite her desk, but she doesn’t invite me to sit in it. So, I stand adrift on the periphery of her personal-slash-professional space.

  The walls are drab and largely featureless, the paintwork old and discolored save for an unstained oblong area where a picture frame used to hang – but doesn’t anymore. Principal Quick’s desk is uncluttered, playing host to only a landline telephone, a pot of pens and pencils, and a stack of paperwork. In the corner, behind the desk, is a tall cabinet.

  Principal Quick crosses to the cabinet and unlocks it using a small key from her bunch. The cabinet door creaks open and the principal takes a towel and some fresh nightclothes from the shelves. She walks over to her desk and leans across it to hand them to me. I approach her cautiously, wondering if she will snatch the items away when I try to take them before giving full vent to her fury at my behavior. But there are no such power games at play with Principal Quick. She is in charge, and we both know it. She allows me to take the towel and the clothes.

  “Not the first time you’ve attempted a breakout, Emily,” she says, casual as anything.

  My eyes are drawn to the empty space on the wall. I wonder what kind of picture used to hang there. Then I catch the expression on Quick’s face and realize she is expecting some kind of response from me.

  “Is that a question?” I ask.

 
“You don’t remember?”

  “No.”

  I don’t.

  I get the sense that the learned principal doesn’t believe me. I look down at the pile of paperwork on the desk. There’s a thick manuscript on the top of the pile. The title is upside down from where I’m looking at it. I peer at it, deciphering what it says. ‘GIRL A: A CASE STUDY’ by Dr. Mina Quick’.

  Then I realize she’s been talking to me. And I haven’t been listening to a word she’s been saying.

  “The same old memory problems,” she says. Then, she raises an eyebrow. “Or selective memory problems?”

  “I don’t remember,” I reply. Well, at least I’m consistent, and it does seem apt.

  “You know why you’re here, though. Surely you remember that?”

  Something about Principal Quick’s tone suggests an urgency, like she just expects me to rifle through my brain and pull out what she wants to hear. But my brain is a bowl of swirling fog right now. Her intent expression is freaking me out a bit to be honest, so I try.

  “I remember something about a disorder. I remember doctors. Meds. Tests….”

  I realize I’m holding the towel and the fresh clothing tight to my chest. I ease off, concerned about the fate of the little chrysalis concealed at my breast.

  “It is called acute dissociative disorder, Emily. It causes a disconnection in your emotional responses, lapses in concentration, self-imposed memory gaps which become plugged by flights of fancy. The root cause of your diminished responsibility.”

  She frowns at me. I gaze once more at the manuscript on her desk. Principal Quick moves closer to the desk and removes the manuscript. She then carries it over to the tall cupboard in the corner.

  “In short, you keep making the same mistakes. Over and over, it seems. That is why you are here,” she says, “again.” Then, unlocking the cupboard, she files the manuscript away. She closes and locks the door once more. “The path to true rehabilitation is to learn diligence.”

  Returning to her desk, the principal slides open a drawer, and takes out a box of matches and a pack of cigarettes. She selects a cigarette, and puts it in her mouth before sparking it up. I like the sound that the tip of the match makes when it scrapes across the matchbox and erupts into flame. It sounds vibrant and alive, when everything else in this room feels stale, and dead.

  “You will keep an eye on the other girls, Emily,” the principal says. “You will keep me informed about what they are up to.”

  She holds the pack of cigarettes and the box of matches out for me to take.

  (What the hell?)

  She smiles slyly. “Tell them you stole these when I had my back turned.”

  I hesitate for just a moment, and then step forward to take the smokes and the matches. I do it quickly, in case she changes her mind. Or in case this is some kind of mind game after all. The principal watches with an approving smirk as I tuck the contraband items inside the neatly folded towel.

  “Earn their trust,” Quick says, exhaling smoke. She brightens, becoming the efficient matron once more. “Now, go and get cleaned up, then off to bed with you.”

  I’m at the door when I pause for thought. There’s a shadow in my mind’s eye that I just can’t seem to shake. I turn to face Principal Quick. I have to ask her. I can’t leave the room without doing so.

  “Is there another inmate here?” I ask. “Another girl?”

  The principal’s expression is one of impenetrable stoicism again. “Whatever gave you that idea?”

  “The others said they saw someone.”

  “Where? When?”

  “In the clock tower. Shortly after we arrived here.”

  “I assure you it is just you and me,” Principal Quick replies, before fixing me with a level gaze. “I remind you that the clock tower is out of bounds. It is dangerous. You and the other girls would do well to remember that. Close the door after you.”

  I turn my back but I can almost feel Principal Quick’s eyes burrowing into me, before I slip through the door. I pull it shut behind me and take deep breaths, relieved to be out of Principal Quick’s claustrophobic office and its bad atmosphere. I stand there in the lonely corridor and check that the cigarettes and matches are still tucked safely inside the towel. Reassured that they are, I start walking back to the dormitory. Earn their trust, the principal had said to me, and I begin to wonder if that’s even possible.

  * * *

  The dry clothes feel good against my skin. I have moved the reassuring little lump of the chrysalis that I found in the woods into the waistband of my underwear.

  I’m warmer now, even in the slight damp of the dingy bathroom with its cracked tiles and dripping taps. I cross to the sinks, toweling my hair dry. As I pass by the toilet stalls I’m surprised to hear a sharp retching sound coming from inside one of them. Only a couple of the doors are closed. The noise of more retching, followed by the unmistakable sound of vomit hitting the water in a toilet bowl, reveals that it’s the center stall that’s occupied.

  “Hello?”

  I hear a faint sob from behind the toilet door. Maybe I should just leave whoever is in there alone. But they really don’t sound too well. I approach the door, and reach out my hand cautiously to test if it’s locked. As my fingers brush the surface of the door, it swings open on its hinges and bangs against the interior of the stall.

  Jess emerges from the stall, her face wet with tears. She wipes her mouth with her hand. As she does so, I notice that Jess’s knuckles are red raw. I’ve seen abrasions like those before. They happen when a girl repeatedly makes herself sick. All that stomach acid leaves its mark. Jess has clearly been making herself vomit pretty regularly. Just as I’m considering all of this, Jess fixes me with a challenging glare of defiance.

  “What you looking at?” she asks, and it sounds much more like an accusation.

  I just stare at her blankly, and then at her knuckles. Just then, I hear the main door to the bathroom open and turn to see Victoria.

  Jess scowls at her, then glares back at me.

  “Freak. Robot fucking freak,” Jess says before storming out of the bathroom. She pushes past Victoria roughly, and then slams the door in her wake.

  “What’s eating her?” Victoria says, without realizing what a truly fantastic gift for comic timing she has.

  I shrug, deciding not to go there, and then grab my spare towel – with the cigarettes and matches still safely stowed inside – and head back into the dormitory.

  Jess is the first person I see, and she shoots me a loaded look. Her eyes are brimming with so much guilt that I think the only thing she can possibly do with it is to turn it into anger against me. Against anybody. I break eye contact.

  “Oh look, girls, the drowned rat returns,” Saffy sneers.

  She’s sitting cross-legged on her bed. Queen Bitch on her blanketed throne.

  As I walk closer to the foot of her bed she says, “Enjoy your jailbreak? Tell me, how is that bid for freedom working out for you?”

  I decide not to answer. Not in the way she might want me to, anyway. Some people thrive on chaos and confrontation. Saffy is one of them. And I’m all too aware of the delicate chrysalis I have hidden in my underwear. I don’t want it to come to any harm. It’s all I have of the outside world. So, I just stroll over to my bed, then sit down. Saffy watches me intently as I reach into my spare towel and take out the pack of cigarettes, followed by the matches. I light one up and kick back. Her face is an absolute picture.

  “Get. The fuck. Out,” Saffy says, incredulous.

  I purse my lips and blow a smoke ring. It floats above my bed, toward my feet. I think it looks like a little cloud. A pretty one, unlike the rain clouds that drenched me earlier.

  “The sun will be shining when I leave this place,” I say, as I watch the cloud dissipate.

  The other girls all whis
per and giggle, sounding astonished. Even Jess.

  Saffy laughs too. “Freak,” she says. Then her tone takes on that air of entitled authority that she does so well. “Gimme.”

  I take another drag, then I toss first the cigarettes, then the matches, to Saffy.

  “Help yourselves,” I say.

  She lights up and breathes the smoke so deep into her lungs it’s like she hasn’t enjoyed one for years. I watch Lena sidle over, on the make. Saffy keeps hold of the contraband, enjoying the power, but then allows Lena to take a smoke. Saffy strikes another match and Lena takes a drag before exhaling smoke around her grinning face.

  “You’re still on watch, remember?” Saffy tells Lena.

  Something silent passes between these two titans before Lena, cigarette poised between her lips, returns to keep watch beside the door. I think she could take Saffy, and I think Saffy knows that. But Lena is happy to play along for whatever her reasons are. She’s pretty impenetrable, that one.

  While they’re distracted, I slip the chrysalis from my underwear and hold it, unseen, in the palm of my hand. I tuck it beneath my pillow. Then, I see Victoria carrying her towel and toothbrush and I wonder if she saw me hiding it. If she did, she’s being discreet and for that I’m grateful. Victoria pads over to her bed and silence falls over the room as Saffy and her accomplices watch – and wait. Victoria pulls back her covers. I can see that her bed is completely soaked through. Water drips from the mattress onto the floor. They must have emptied an entire sink full in there, somehow, the cruel bitches.

  “Oh dear, dear,” Saffy says mockingly. “Soaked the bed again, crybaby?”

  She and the others burst into laughter as Victoria stands next to her bed, looking like she’s trying, and failing, not to cry.

  “Shit!” Lena exclaims. “She’s coming!”

  We each take urgent last drags of our cigarettes, then stub them out and hide the butts under our beds. And just in time as – only seconds after the last cigarette butt has been safely stowed away – Principal Quick arrives to turn out the lights.