Stories From The Heart

by Amanda Prowse

  ‘Coffee?’

  ‘Please.’ She nodded.

  Matthew placed the stack of mail in the wire basket on the corner of her desk. He avoided touching the bulky green filing cabinet that sat against the wall. Once, he had placed the mail basket on top of it and Edwina had been so furious that he had thought he might get the sack. She was clearly a woman that liked things kept just so. She obviously had a system, and he was not about interfere with a woman and her system, especially a woman like the formidable Edwina Justice, who was rumoured to have left her last job as head warden at HMP Marlham because she refused to work within the guidelines for prisoner punishment.

  He popped an espresso in a little china cup in front of her and folded his arms over his chest. As usual he took up only the minimum of space; he was, in every detail, neat.

  ‘We have three new inmates that arrived late afternoon yesterday. CCTV report shows that one of them, Warren Binns, spent a large part of the night pacing, but the other two seem to have slept straight through. The induction room is booked for nine-fifteen. I’ve emailed you their files and I’ve notified Angelo.’

  ‘Thank you, Matthew.’ She smiled at him for the second time that morning and gratefully sipped the strong coffee.

  Edwina clicked open her desktop and entered today’s password. This daily rotation of letters and numbers, issued by Whitehall, was the only contact she had with the Ministry of Justice, other than her annual report. She rather liked the autonomy, though it had taken her a while to digest the reality of the job when it had first been offered four years ago, in a dimly lit basement beneath the Royal Courts of Justice. It had been a lot to absorb and she had been more than a little distracted by her future employer’s brash manner.

  ‘So let me get this straight, you are saying that I wouldn’t come under any jurisdiction?’ she asked quizzically.

  The Minister for Penal Reform smiled and loosened his tie. ‘Exactly right, you’d be invisible. You’d be the boss, answerable to no-one. No-one. There’s an election looming and the PM wants to get tough and remove these little shits from the streets, so we are throwing the rule book out and giving you complete free reign to do as you see fit. Not that we’ll be phrasing it exactly like that you understand, heaven forbid we offend the PC brigade.’ He laughed and winked at the IT guy on the computer. Edwina felt excluded; did he think she was the PC brigade? He continued, ‘This place does not exist if you get my drift. What happens up there really will be up to you. Reform them, kill them, whichever. You’ll be God. Imagine that.’

  The minister leant forward, placing his elbows on his thighs and forming a pyramid with his fingers, through which he spoke. ‘Now, I expect you’re wondering about finances. Well, this is one of those problems we believe can be solved by throwing money at it. We give you a handsome budget, a very handsome budget, and what you do with it is up to you. No questions asked. You could get yourself a hot-tub, a chocolate fountain and a lifelong subscription to your favourite magazine; let the little fuckers eat dust for all we care. We are running out of ideas and it’s time to get radical or sink.’

  Edwina smiled at the simple clarity of the man’s suggestions. It was clear from his expression that he genuinely considered this to be the route to happiness for her—probably for all women—after all, what more could she possibly want other than a hot-tub, chocolate and a magazine full of pretty pictures? At least she was used to it; operating in a man’s world where she was at the top of her game was full of challenges like this. She chose, as ever, to ignore his asinine suggestions.

  ‘So I’m to be your guinea pig?’

  ‘We prefer the term “pilot project.”’

  Her next question seemed naive in retrospect, ‘If this place doesn’t exist and there is no monitoring of data, no quotas, no KPIs or benchmarks for improvement, and no departmental visits, how will you know if it’s working?’

  ‘You will tell us.’

  Edwina had hardened a great deal since then. Now, scanning the list of new inmates, she registered only the first line of each case note, no longer tutting at the horror of their crimes. Warren Binns, seventeen—Murder. Keegan Lomax, sixteen—Murder. Henry McFarlane-Hunter, seventeen—Multiple Murder. She didn’t even register surprise at their young ages, or sadness at the waste of their lives. It was all quite routine at Glenculloch, and she had learned in the four years that she had been running the site that it was not always advisable to be too forewarned. Too much information might mean she ignored that gut feeling, gave in to a preconceived idea based on the facts. There was a danger that the details of a case might skew her judgement and Edwina relied very heavily on her instinct, the feeling in her stomach, a little voice on her shoulder.

  ‘I wonder why were you up all night pacing Mr Binns, what have you got on your mind?’ She voiced her thoughts, and then shook them away. Better to get the induction over with first.

  Turning away from the screen, she savoured her coffee and looked up at the cork board. It had been lovely to hear from Nicholas.

  Angelo the Italian man-mountain collected the new inmates and marched them in single file to the induction room—although, thanks to the shackles of hand-cuffs and leg restraints, each attached to another inmate via a looped belt chain, it was more of a shuffle than a march. It was a chance for all three to take in further details about their environment, and Warren tried to drink it all in. To his left were what looked like the accommodation cells—identical seven-foot cabins consisting of a bed, sink, urinal and a small mirror, as well as a door-less cubby for storage under the sink. Warren thought longingly off all his stuff crowding the cupboard under the stairs at home, but personalising your room with posters and knickknacks was clearly forbidden. All the cell doors were open—obviously privacy was not a consideration here—and looked like they were on some sort of automatic timer system. He hoped the doors closed at night.

  Grey was the interior design colour of choice, the walls were pale dove-coloured moulded panels and the whole structure was without windows. He craned his neck, and looked up into a high, angular ceiling, as tall as a cathedral, where three square panels cut into the roof let in some natural light. These were covered with a gauzy film meaning that sunlight was dappled, leaving marbled white pools reflected on the opposite walls. A shiny chrome walkway ran around the outside top of the main area, which reminded Warren of the fire escape in the tenement opposite his terrace. Along this walkway, behind darkened glass walls, were the administrative offices and meeting rooms, the clockwork heart of Glenculloch.

  Warren gazed in all directions at his new home, overawed by the enormity of the proportions; it was part warehouse, part bunker. Unlike the house in Weavers Row, there was nothing soft, every object and surface was hard and angular, functional and monochrome. The floor, coated with a white rubber matting that curved in a lip up the first four inches of every wall and door, was clinical in its cleanliness. There was not a speck of dust nor twist of litter, nor a whiff of cigarette smoke nor odour of food; it was sterile, hygienic and soulless. With the exception of a few oversized potted palms that sat in huge steel containers which were bolted to the floor, there was not a splash of colour anywhere. In their regulation electric blue tracksuits, the inmates would find it very hard to hide.

  Angelo stopped at a door on the ground floor beyond the recreation area and ushered them inside a small lecture theatre containing a whiteboard and twelve desks. Like the cells, the room was windowless with harsh strip lighting that was an inadequate substitute for sunshine. He released them from their belts, but left their handcuffs on, and the boys took their seats centrally, behind three of the desks.

  Henry laughed loudly. ‘This is like prep school for baddies!’

  ‘I swear to God if you start with your bollocks again, I will not be responsible for my actions. Do you hear me, posh boy?’ Keegan feared what a loose cannon like Henry might mean for the group. He had heard some bad things about Glenculloch and didn’t want to blight his time so ear
ly on.

  ‘Are you always this grumpy?’ Henry looked genuinely offended.

  ‘Shut the fuck up!’ Keegan growled in Henry’s direction.

  Angelo stood in front of the trio, his voice barely more than a whisper. ‘If I were you, I’d pipe down, all of you. The Principal is on her way and you don’t want to start off on the wrong side of her. Trust me.’

  ‘Yeah of course I’ll trust you, why wouldn’t I, Bro?’ Keegan raised his cuffed wrists in the guard’s direction. But when he turned to Warren he looked genuinely scared. ‘I’ve never seen the Governor before in any nick I’ve been in.’

  ‘Lordy do, how many have you been in?’ Henry smirked.

  Keegan ignored him.

  Angelo leant closer to Keegan. ‘This is unlike any other correctional facility. And whether you trust me or not, Bro, doesn’t really matter, so take it as a warning. Do not get on the wrong side of the Principal.’

  ‘This is like lesson 101, scaring the new kids!’ Henry smirked again.

  Angelo walked over to the desk at which Henry sat. ‘If I wanted to scare you, I could, believe me. I’d give you some basic statistics that might make you very scared.’

  ‘Well I’m not so sure about that, I’ve heard that seventy-nine percent of all statistics are made up on the spot!’ It was as if Henry couldn’t help himself.

  Angelo licked his lips and leant closer to Henry. ‘Here’s one that isn’t made up. Of the three hundred and thirty inmates that have entered Glenculloch in the last four years, we’ve had no recorded deaths, and none have been released. And yet we are now down to two hundred and eighty-eight. Now I aint no Vorderman, but that don’t add up. So as I say, don’t get on the wrong side of the Principal. In here, she makes the law, she is the law. You could do a lot worse than listen to your friend.’ Angelo nodded his head in Keegan’s direction.

  ‘He is not my fucking friend!’ Keegan grimaced.

  ‘Good morning, gentlemen.’ Edwina Justice strolled into the theatre as if it were a boardroom, her heels clicking on the shiny floor. The four stared at her, in silence. She looked immaculate in a navy skirt that sat just below her knee. Warren noted her cropped greying hair, the pearls that sat on her earlobes, her smart white cotton shirt and navy blazer. She looked rich.

  ‘Morning, Angelo.’

  ‘Morning, Ma’am.’

  Edwina stood with her hands on her slender hips and addressed them. ‘Gentlemen, do we need these handcuffs? Are any of you going to threaten violence? Or can we ask Angelo to remove the offending articles?’

  The three looked at one another. What was the catch?

  ‘You,’ Edwina pointed at Warren, ‘are you able to control yourself if we remove your ironware?’

  Warren nodded.

  ‘And you, Mr...?’

  ‘Lomax, Keegan Lomax.’

  ‘Thank you, Mr Lomax; can I trust you have enough self-control not to behave in an unruly fashion if released?’

  Keegan nodded.

  ‘That’s excellent. Angelo, do the honours please.’

  Angelo made his way along the desks; one by one he released the boys from their restraints. Each rubbed at the skin on their wrists and flexed their fingers to restore feeling. Angelo took his place at the back of the room.

  ‘My name is Edwina Justice and I am the Principal here at Glenculloch. I trust that your first night was comfortable. I can imagine that you are all feeling slightly unsettled by the journey, it’s a long way and not the most luxurious of transport.’ There was a pause while she surveyed each boy and they studied her in return. ‘The purpose of this meeting is to teach you the ground rules for your time here. I think it would be most unfair to expect you to operate within a system that you do not fully understand. This morning I will explain the house rules and you will be permitted to ask me a question each. Just one.’ She raised her index finger to emphasis the point. ‘It can be anything, on any topic, but I would advise you to ask wisely as the chance to ask a question again might not occur for a very long time, maybe years. Is that clear so far?’

  ‘Yep.’ Keegan answered.

  ‘Crystal.’ Henry responded as he drummed the desk with his fingers.

  ‘For the record, gentlemen, if ever I speak to you or ask you a question, you will respond in full sentences followed by Principal or Ma’am and without finger drumming or other distraction. So ‘crystal’ and ‘yep’ would not be acceptable. You weren’t to know, but now you do. Please sit up straight.’

  Warren Binns was the only one not to have to readjust his posture. The Principal picked up a marker pen and approached the white board.

  ‘Glenculloch is run on sound principles. The system is straight forward, designed to punish those that deserve it and rehabilitate those that don’t. It’s quite simple really. There are six rules and only six rules. I expect you to learn and live by them. No more, no less. By following the rules, you will carve a path of discovery for yourself, break them and you will find that pathway blocked by a whole heap of trouble. Is that clear?’

  She scanned the three and pointed at Warren. ‘Is that clear?’

  Warren remembered the earlier instruction, ‘Yes, that’s clear, Ma’am.’

  The Principal nodded, satisfied. She removed the lid from the marker pen and starting writing on the white board.

  1. Always tell the truth.

  2. Always display good manners.

  3. Never swear.

  4. Work hard.

  5. Respect yourself.

  6. Respect others.

  She turned to the group and watched as the boys read each rule. ‘If anyone is unclear on what any of these rules mean, then please raise your hand now so that I may offer further explanation.’ No-one raised their hand. She waited for a further second, looking at each man in turn, before interpreting their silence as understanding.

  ‘Excellent. May I remind you that these are not optional, they are mandatory.’ She paused again, allowing this information to sink in as each one read and re-read the six rules by which they were expected to live. ‘I would now like to take your questions. You first, Mr Lomax.’

  Keegan coughed and shifted in his seat, he hadn’t wanted to go first; he felt embarrassed, awkward and didn’t want to be judged. This setting reminded him of school, an environment in which he had far from flourished. He tried to ask the question that was battering the inside of his lips as though he could care less about the answer. ‘I’m personally not fussed, but I’ve heard that we don’t get any visitors here, that no one gets any visitors, ever, and I was just wondering if that’s true, but as I say, I’m not really bothered about it, Ma’am?’

  ‘Thank you for that, Mr Lomax; it’s a source of great debate. The answer to your question is yes, that is true. There are no visitors to Glenculloch, we are an invisible site. I believe it’s for the best, no distractions and no disappointments. This is to allow a clear, focussed and uncomplicated rehabilitation programme that is open to all who reside here.’

  Keegan shook his head and wiped invisible sweat from his forehead. He raised his top lip and eyebrow simultaneously, a look that said whatever... An image of he and Joanna crept into his mind, sat side by side on the sofa, their thighs touching, her hand sat inside his, her beautiful fingers interlaced with his own and the feel of her nails against his palm. He would have to think very carefully about exactly how that felt and catalogue every minute detail storing it away for recollection whenever he needed it.

  Edwina Justice turned to Henry. ‘May I have your question please?’

  The boy was agitated, edgy; his tone antagonistic. ‘Hi, I was just wondering, what would happen if we did kick off? I mean, you’ve taken off our restraints, which is really cool, but there’s three of us and only two of you. And not being sexist or anything, but I fancy my chances against you, even on a bad day.’ Henry pointed at her and then Angelo as if trying to fathom the maths; maybe he was the only one aware of the odds.

  Henry laughed, and Edwina recalled
the first line of Henry’s report: Psychopathic tendencies—on the night in question, Mr McFarlane-Hunter blocked all exits and locked the doors before setting fire to the home of his ex-girlfriend, killing both of her parents, her grandmother and three siblings. Tests for narcotics and alcohol proved negative. Has shown no empathy or remorse. She fixed him with a stare before speaking. ‘Angelo, would you be as kind as to show the gentlemen our deterrents?’

  The guard stepped forward from the back of the room and stood next to the Principal. Facing them, he carefully lifted the hem of his shirt. Nestling against his hard, muscled stomach sat a snub nose revolver. Edwina continued as though Angelo had revealed something innocuous. ‘Every inch of this facility is under the watchful eye of cameras and in this case it is not merely an expression, I do mean every single inch. We carry state of the art integrated tracking and warning alarms, meaning that all staff are monitored by the main Ops room every second that they are on site. There is not one angle, one nook or one cranny, with the exception of my office, that is not monitored twenty-four hours a day, three hundred and sixty-five days of the year.’ She pointed to her own gun, hiding beneath her blazer and next to her tailored shirt; it sat snugly in a leather holster that ran across her back and under her arm. ‘This is the Smith and Wesson three five seven calibre Magnum. FBI studies show it to be fatal in ninety-eight-point-seven percent of cases if an adult male is hit in the head or torso. It is the weapon of choice for all guards and Glenculloch personnel who, incidentally, are all ex-military: expert snipers or Special Forces-trained, myself included. Everyone at Glenculloch may discharge their weapon as and when they see fit.’

  Henry visibly shrunk; he didn’t fancy his chances after all. The Principal turned to Warren.

  ‘May I have your question please?’

  Warren had several things he wanted to ask, but the words leapt from his mouth that had been swirling around his head since he had heard The Principle’s speech minutes earlier.