Stories From The Heart

by Amanda Prowse

  ‘Do you know I’m feeling quite fed up tonight, Matthew!’ she shouted across her office, to where Matthew was sitting at his desk. It was unusual for her to utter anything negative, and even this she uttered with a vague hint of positivity.

  ‘Well, we are all allowed off days, you more so than most. You’ve got a difficult job, it can’t be easy.’

  ‘It’s not,’ she concurred, ‘but if it was easy, I wouldn’t be interested. I’m weird like that.’

  Matthew shook his head; he didn’t think she was weird at all, far from it. He placed a mug of camomile tea in front of her, with a little shortbread square, the perfect antidote for her flustered pulse and a low blood sugar. He liked to do little things for her to make her life easier. He liked looking after her.

  It was rare that she had days like this, days when everything felt a little overwhelming, leaving her wondering if she wouldn’t be better off activating plan B, the life that she and Alan had planned, a life that she promised him she would still seek. They had spent hours over the years on country walks or over the breakfast table, describing a little villa in the Italian countryside, where she would hike and forage during the day, wearing a raffia hat and a loose linen dress while he captured the sky in watercolour. In the evenings they would play Backgammon and drink red wine. The plan had changed since Alan’s death of course, but Edwina still envisaged sitting in her garden, watching the sun sink against the Tuscan horizon, eating fresh pasta with torn basil from her herb beds, topped off with a drizzle of her neighbour’s home-pressed olive oil. Chatting to Alan’s empty chair from the other side of a wicker table on the covered terrace, she would tell him all about the discoveries of her day, surrounded by sweet scented lemon trees, potted olives and a vibrant trumpet vine that wound its way around the wooden arbour overhead. A neat border of boxwood and miniature cypress would form a pretty boundary to her land. She breathed deeply, and could almost smell the intoxicating scent of this imaginary Mediterranean garden, which would be bursting with heady perfume and vibrant colours after a day of basking in the hot sun.

  She held the mug between her cupped palms. ‘Thank you for my tea, this is just what the doctor ordered. And I’m sorry to sound a bit defeated. I don’t know, Matthew, sometimes it gets to me; in fact most days recently, I think I’m tired.’

  ‘Of course you’re tired, it’s inevitable, you have a great deal of responsibility, more than any other governor I’ve known. It’s not like you have a team to shoulder the load, it’s just you.’

  ‘And you,’ she interrupted, ‘I don’t know what I’d do without you, apart from go stark staring bonkers.’

  Her acknowledgment caused Matthew’s heart to swell. ‘Well, yes, and me, but I’m more of the support act and you do an amazing job if you don’t mind me saying.’

  She smiled over the rim of her hot drink. ‘I don’t mind one bit.’

  He blushed; it was rare that their conversation strayed outside of the perfunctory or garden matters, and it lifted his day. ‘I worked at Belmarsh for three years before I came here and even though they weren’t all lifers, it was far more depressing. It felt like a conveyor belt, the same faces in and out—and if not the same faces then the same type, they could have been the same person. Similar expressions, attitudes, it often felt pointless. It’s different here. It feels hopeful.’

  ‘Really?’

  ‘Yes, really, you care about these blokes and I suspect that for many it’s the first time in their life that anyone has. That’s enough to make a huge difference you know. You are governor and mother all rolled into one.’

  ‘Oh I don’t know about that.’ Edwina dusted shortbread crumbs from her shirt, glad of the task, awkward at the compliment.

  ‘No, I do think that.’ He was insistent. ‘You would have been an amazing mother—’

  Her sob came quickly and without warning. It strangled the breath in her throat and caused her eyes to redden as fat tears inched down her face. ‘Oh goodness, look at me, silly old thing!’ She grabbed the paper napkin on which her biscuit had been delivered and swiped at her eyes and nose. This was not the first time she had experienced this. There had been countless times over the last couple of decades when the new babies of family, friends and colleagues had been thrust under her nose and into her arms, their mothers standing and watching with acute embarrassment as Edwina cried wordlessly and noiselessly into their white cotton suits. It didn’t matter what the occasion or environment, it was an almost instant reflex.

  Matthew sank into the chair on the opposite side of her desk as if physically weakened. His hand flew to his mouth, as if trying to recall the words that had flown from his mouth and swallow them whole.

  ‘Edwina, I am so sorry. I would not upset you for the world. I don’t know what to say apart from sorry, I’m sorry if my words have offended you. I didn’t think, I...’

  She waved her free hand in front of him, trying to halt the flow of his apology as the other continued to mop at her tears. ‘Oh God, Matthew, no, no.’ She blew her nose noisily on the crumb-laden sheet. ‘Offend me?’ she shook her head, ‘It’s probably the nicest thing that anyone could ever say to me. Do you really think I would have made a good mum?’

  He smiled at her across the desk. ‘Yes. I really do.’

  3

  Edwina read and re-read the notes on the screen in front of her, using her thumb and forefinger to circle her mouth as she did so. It was one of the habits that Alan used to tease her about as she studied the Sundays, lying at the end of the sofa with her feet on his lap. Today, as then, it helped her concentrate as she studied the facts and dissected the language, looking for an inconsistency, a reason. There was neither. She swallowed the bile that threatened to leap from her throat and took a sip of water from the glass that sat a fingertip away. This had happened under this very roof only last night, what had she been doing, sleeping? Feeding her plants? She shuddered.

  She clicked the file shut and lifted the telephone receiver. ‘Do you have a minute?’ she asked before replacing the phone in its cradle. Minutes later, Angelo appeared in her doorway.

  ‘Sit down, please, Angelo.’ Her tone was weary.

  He lowered his bulk into the narrow chair, reminding her of an adult visiting a primary school, trying to get comfortable on an unfeasibly small piece of furniture.

  She pointed at her computer screen, which had, until minutes ago, given her all the facts. ‘Thank you and your team for the report. I can see you’ve all worked hard to bring it together so quickly. It seems quite straightforward, sadly. What do you make of it?’ She leant back in her chair.

  Angelo shook his head. ‘In my opinion, he did it, no question.’

  She sighed and nodded; it was what she had expected to hear. ‘It certainly looks that way. Why were events in the boy’s room not detected last night?’

  He raised his palms up to the ceiling in a gesture of open admission; he had nothing to hide. ‘I’ve checked back over the footage, it looked like he was sleeping, his back was to the camera and he was lying still with his head under the top sheet—not unusual, and certainly nothing to arouse suspicion. As I say, the wardens thought he was sleeping. We can’t go around waking everyone every hour; we’d have a mutiny on our hands.’ Angelo shook his head again. The poor kid.

  She nodded; she got that, ‘Is there any supporting footage for what he claimed?’

  Angelo looked at the floor and nodded. ‘Yes.’ He grimaced as he recalled the images that had forced their way into his consciousness.

  ‘Then I don’t think we really have a choice do we?’

  ‘I’d say not, Ma’am, not in this instance.’

  The two sat in silence, contemplating the weight of the words that flew around the room as light as air.

  ‘Bring him down to 2D. I’ll meet you there.’

  Angelo nodded and left. Edwina Justice removed her earrings and necklace, and placed them in a little box inside her desk drawer. She pulled the heel of first one shoe and
then the other, easing her feet from their leather confines. She flexed her toes and rubbed at the arch of her foot before slipping her stockinged feet into flat black pumps. Pulling a tissue from the box on her shelf, she wiped away the residue of her lipstick and ran a corner over her eyelids to blot up any eye shadow. She used her palm to flatten the spiky tendrils of her short hair. It was all part of the ritual, she felt it humanised her and gave the exchange a level of reverence that she felt was necessary.

  She took her time, not stalling exactly, but certainly in no great hurry to arrive. She placed her finger on the pad that read her biometrics, and the steel security door of room 2D slid open along its runners. Angelo stood in front of a small table with his hands clasped in front of him. There was a barely perceptible twitch in his left eye. Behind the table, with his legs shackled and his hands cuffed to his belt sat Robert ‘Bo’ Greene. His chest heaved inside his tracksuit top. The Principal cut to the chase, wasting time on preliminaries only caused unnecessary anxiety.

  ‘When you came here, Bo, I explained the rules to you.’

  ‘I ain’t never broken any of the rules. Never. I never have,’ he lied as he shook his head.

  Edwina continued as though he hadn’t spoken.

  ‘The rules that we have in place are designed to keep everyone safe. I think it should be every inmate’s right to expect others to respect them and to respect their safety. Every man and boy under this roof should be able to live within these walls without experiencing harm, regardless of the crime that they have committed before they arrived.’

  ‘And I agree with you, Ma’am, I’m grateful that you keep me safe here.’ Bo flicked his head to remove the sweat that streaked his brow. She watched as two fat droplets fell onto the tabletop.

  She stood in front of the table and looked into Bo’s face. ‘I am not referring to you, Bo, I am in fact referring to Marcus. You know who I mean don’t you?’

  ‘No, I don’t know anyone called Marcus. I just keep myself to myself, keep my head down and do my time and follow the rules. I don’t know anyone called Marcus.’ He stared wide-eyed and stuck out his bottom lip; if he was aiming at an expression of innocence, it didn’t work.

  ‘I am going to ask you one last time. Is there anything that you would like to tell me about Marcus? Or, more specifically, about Marcus and you?’

  Bo shook his head and remained silent. He attempted to shrug but his ironware made it nigh impossible.

  Edwina placed one arm across her stomach and with the other propped on it she cupped her chin. ‘Angelo, would you mind.’

  Angelo stepped forward and held a photograph up, inches from Bo’s face. It was a still, taken from the footage that had been captured a week earlier by the bathroom camera. The main security ops team had found it after combing through hours of footage. Bo swallowed. ‘That... that’s not me, I swear!’ he stuttered. ‘Well, it might be me, but I don’t remember anything... we is mates, more than mates. If you get my drift.’

  It was a few seconds before anyone spoke. The silence bore down on the trio like a stifling blanket.

  ‘Have you seen Marcus today, Bo?’

  Bo shook his head vehemently, indicating that what was to follow was probably the truth, ‘no, I never saw him today. I didn’t.’

  Edwina Justice rested her knuckles on the small, square table. ‘I have. I saw him just after breakfast.’

  Bo shook his head again. ‘No, I never saw him today, I didn’t.’

  Edwina ignored him. ‘Or rather, when I say I saw him just after breakfast, I should clarify, I saw his body.’

  Bo stared wide-eyed, his mouth fell open, his shoulders sagged as the breath left his body, he looked deflated as though punched in the gut. ‘Oh man! Nah, nah, nah. You are fucking with me man! That ain’t so, no way. No way!’ He was shaking his head furiously now.

  ‘I was called to his room at a little after seven-thirty. It was distressing for us all and certainly not something I shall forget in a hurry. Marcus had taken the bed sheet from his mattress and shredded it; he then stuffed those shreds into his throat until he suffocated. He left a note for me, explaining that you had raped him, on four separate occasions over the last fortnight and that you had promised to rape him again and that if he told, he could expect worse. He pointed out that he could not envisage worse. He was not prepared to let you control him and so he killed himself.’

  ‘I never... I... swear I would never do that!’ Bo could not think fast enough to utter the words that might have helped.

  ‘You swear to a lot of things and yet if you didn’t do it, why would Marcus say you did? Why would he kill himself?’

  ‘He was crazy! You can ask anyone, he was proper mad! He has stitched me up, I ain’t done nothing I swear!’

  ‘We have the footage, Bo, captured on tape, of you doing exactly what Marcus said you did, right before he killed himself.’

  ‘You fucking bitch! You nasty dyke! I want my Brief and I want him here now, do you hear me? I want him here now!’ Bo was screaming now, though the quiver of fear in his voice was unmistakeable.

  ‘I wonder who Marcus called out for, I wonder who he wanted?’ Edwina turned to Angelo and gave an almost imperceptible nod. ‘You have no right to stay here and moreover I do not want you here. I can only keep the people in my charge safe by dealing with people like you, Bo.’

  ‘I never did nothing! I’m sorry! He was up for it, I’m telling you, man! I never did nothing!’

  Edwina Justice turned and made for the door. Bo’s tone changed instantly.

  ‘I know a little bit about you, you’re a widow right? Well your bloke had a lucky escape. And thank fuck no kids. You are a heartless bitch, do you hear me? A cold, heartless bitch!’

  Edwina chose not to respond to the succinct summary of her situation and character. The very word, widow, for her conjured elderly crones sat in the Mediterranean sun, clad in black and sweating over a rosary under smoky candlelight as their eyesight faded and their pulse grew weaker. She wasn’t like that, had never been like that. She surreptitiously rubbed her thumb along the underside of the thin gold band on the third finger of her left hand, proof of their commitment, she saw him wearing his best suit and reeking of lemony scent, mouthing the words ’til death do us part... Losing her husband, her love and her hope at the age of forty had shaped her, but not broken her. Not quite.

  More hurtful was the reference to her never having children, no kids, those two words offered so casually as though ticking a box. No kids. His cool delivery of the phrase suggested that it was by design, a blessing, a decision she had made, allowing her to focus on her career without the diversion of motherhood. This she knew was the most popular interpretation of her childless state, but was however so far from the truth. Not becoming a parent would always be her greatest sadness. When Alan died her hope of becoming a mother had died with him. She knew she had been pushing her luck leaving it that long to try for their much-wanted baby, but time seemed to have crept up on them. The years of grieving that followed his passing left no room for dating. She could not bear the idea of being in the company of any man that wasn’t him, let alone go looking for a suitable father. This didn’t stop her dreaming with alarming regularity of the baby that she would never have, allowing herself to picture a downy head and to feel the press of a tiny mouth against her cheek. Following this dream, despite her advancing years and redundant system, she would wake and feel the pull of her womb, the ache of longing for what she would never have.

  Without turning her head, she walked from the room. It would be over in seconds. This wasn’t the first and certainly wouldn’t be the last, but the sick feeling in the pit of her stomach was just the same as it had been that first time. She closed her office door, unusual in itself and watched as the swell of the water in her glass shook in time with the tremor of her hand.

  She never thought that she would appreciate the calm, unhurried manner in which Alan had died, slipping away with his hand inside hers, hearin
g her words of commitment and love whispered across his dented pillow. You are loved... I love you... always... she had coaxed, permitted, stroking his brow, wiping his mouth, performing small practical tasks to hide the fact that her heart was splitting like a ripe pomegranate, spilling and overflowing with pure and desperate sorrow. At the end, it had been peaceful and calm, quite lovely, and there for perfect recall before she fell asleep at night and when she woke in the morning. She shivered as she considered the confines of room 2D: the flat surfaces, the stark walls and the harsh lighting. For those who ended their days here, their experience would be the exact opposite.

  Warren sat opposite his friend and pushed his spoon into a pile of meat and vegetables, bound by a thick, grey gravy full of little bubbles which, on closer inspection, turned out to be globules of grease.

  Keegan toyed with the spoon and laughed, ‘You must have a cast-iron gut, mate, I don’t know how you can eat this crap.’

  ‘You eat it too!’ Warren countered.

  ‘Yes, but the difference is you seem to enjoy it.’

  Warren ignored his friend and piled his spoon high. ‘You should tuck in; one thing I can tell you is that it is much better hot than cold.’

  ‘I know. I’m just not that hungry. Something weird happened today...’

  ‘What?’ Warren barely lifted his eyes from his next mouthful of stew.

  ‘About midmorning, couple of Angelo’s thugs emptied Bo’s room. And I mean emptied, took everything, loaded all his stuff into a big black bag, clothes, toothbrush and all, why would they do that?’

  Warren shrugged. ‘Maybe he’s moved rooms?’

  Keegan smacked his forehead in mock realisation. ‘Oh yeah, silly me! He’s probably gone into the east wing so he’s got a better view of the pool!’

  ‘Ha ha, you know what I mean, another room, maybe his needs a repair or something.’

  ‘What other room, Binns? All the accommodation is on this one floor. No, he’s gone. Gone. If you get my drift.’

  ‘He’ll probably turn up; you know what they say about bad pennies...’