by Helen Black
They said their goodbyes and Liberty turned off the motorway. As she slowed at the roundabout, an orange Fiat Uno stalled in front of her. She pressed her hand to the horn and a flock of rooks rose as one from a telegraph pole. The glossy black birds immediately headed south. They passed overhead, like a thunderous cloud, then disappeared, leaving only the splat of a shit on Liberty’s windscreen.
Sol Connolly stood in the hospital room, hands in his pockets, looking at the young woman, still and pale on the bed, each eyelid held shut with a piece of tape. Only the rhythmic sigh of the ventilator punctuated the silence as it forced air into useless lungs.
He shook his head sadly and went to the window. In the courtyard below, patients, nurses and visitors huddled together to smoke. One man was still in his theatre gown, attached to a drip, which he pulled along like a dog on a lead. In different circumstances Sol would have admired his commitment to the cause.
The door opened, and he turned to find a doctor in the room, a mop of wild curls held in a ponytail with an elastic band. He flashed her his warrant card.
She crossed the room, her Crocs making a polystyrene squeak, took the card, checked it carefully and handed it back to him. ‘Detective Inspector Connolly,’ she said. ‘What can I do for you?’
‘I’m just here for an update,’ he said.
The doctor gave a cool smile. ‘I’m afraid there’s nothing much to tell you. We’re keeping her under until the swelling in her brain reduces.’ She held up both hands, palms towards him. ‘And I don’t know how long that will take.’
Sol let out a breath that rattled his lips. She’d been brought in three days ago and immediately placed in a medically induced coma. Who could guess when he’d finally get to speak to her?
‘Do you know her?’ the doctor asked.
Sol nodded. ‘Kyla Anderson.’ He’d first met her twenty years ago. She’d been six years old and he’d been in uniform, green as you like. Sol had gone to the Andersons’ flat to nick Kyla’s dad for supply of class A. The stupid bastard had been caught on CCTV openly dealing outside the railway station. The pictures had been grainy back in those days, but he could have picked out Dale Anderson anywhere, all five foot six of him and two front teeth missing. He might as well have worn a T-shirt with his name and address printed on it. Even then, Kyla had been a cheeky sod, one minute telling Sol to fuck off, the next asking for sweets. Over the years he’d tried to keep an eye out for her, but what could you do?
The doctor picked up the chart at the end of the bed. ‘A prostitute, right?’
‘Yeah,’ said Sol. Kyla had never really stood a chance, had she? With the parents she had and the place she grew up, it was a done deal. ‘How did you know?’
The doctor shrugged. ‘Vaginal and anal fissures. Plus we had to cut her out of a red PVC cat suit.’
Sol laughed.
‘Though she wasn’t using,’ said the doctor.
‘Really?’ asked Sol, his surprise genuine.
The doctor held out the chart to him, as if she expected him to understand the medical jargon scribbled across the page in illegible handwriting. ‘Her bloods were clear and there are no injection sites – well, no fresh ones,’ she told him.
Sol moved to the bed and looked at Kyla’s arms, laid by her sides on top of the blue blanket. The crooks of both elbows were a mass of old needle marks and her wrists were liberally layered with long, thin scars from her various ‘cries for help’. But the doc was right. No new tracks.
She scrawled something across the notes then scratched her scalp with the end of the biro. ‘You weren’t expecting her to be clean?’ she asked.
‘You could say that,’ Sol replied. Kyla had started smoking weed at twelve, skag at fourteen. For the last five years she’d been living on four digs of brown a day and ice cream. ‘Has anyone visited?’ he asked.
The doctor shook her head.
He pulled out his card and pressed it into her hand. Her palm was hot but not sticky. ‘If there’s any change.’
‘I’ll call you,’ said the doctor, pocketing the card.
‘And if there’s any chance of her waking up . . .’
‘You’ll be the first to know.’ The doctor turned to leave. ‘Frankly, there’s no one else to tell.’
* * *
Liberty slowed to a halt in the car park at number five Love Lane. ‘You have arrived,’ the satnav informed her.
She exhaled audibly. If she’d been a smoker, now would have been exactly the right time to spark up. But she wasn’t. Growing up, everyone around her had smoked. Dad endlessly puffing away on the Embassy Regal, Mum on the Benson & Hedges. Beagles had inhaled less nicotine than she had.
Liberty was way out of her depth, terrified, cursing Ronald for insisting she come here. Why the hell had she agreed? Why hadn’t she just told him she couldn’t do it? Why could she never admit to any form of weakness? She locked the car and looked up at the prison. Built in 1594 as a House of Corrections, HMP Wakefield was now a high-security unit, housing prisoners serving life, predominantly for sex offences. Known locally as Monster Mansion, the names of its inmates read like a Who’s Who of the mad, the bad and the absolutely fucking sick. The concrete walls blocked out the sun and it was cold in the gloom.
Ten feet away, an ancient BMW pulled in. The private registration read RAJ 23S. The bolts on either side of the S made it look like a dollar sign. Almost. The driver’s door flew open and a cheap slip-on shoe appeared, the edge of the plastic sole flapping away from the toe. It hovered in mid-air for at least a minute, making Liberty wonder if anyone was attached. At last, its owner followed, and Liberty saw a short fat man in a suit and turban. He dragged a briefcase after him, the clasp open, papers spilling out. He tried to shut the car door but the end of his seatbelt was caught outside, making the unmistakable crunch of metal on metal. The man swore. His words were in a language Liberty didn’t understand, but the meaning was clear.
When he finally managed to lock his door, he looked over to her. ‘Nice motor,’ he said. His accent was pure West Yorkshire.
‘Thanks.’ Liberty gestured to his rust-eaten BMW. ‘You too.’
‘Can’t beat German engineering.’ He patted the roof of his car. ‘You’re new.’
It wasn’t a question.
‘Is it that obvious?’ Liberty asked.
The man seesawed his hand. ‘All the solicitors in these parts know one another.’
‘What makes you so sure I’m a solicitor?’
The man laughed. His teeth were white, but a hint of gold flashed from a crown at the back of his mouth. ‘Smart clothes, expensive wheels, you’re not likely to be a wife or girlfriend to one of this lot.’ He jerked his head towards the prison wall, topped with razor wire. ‘Not that many of our friends in here have wives or girlfriends. Most of ’em have been abandoned by their own mothers.’
He turned to the main entrance and gestured for Liberty to join him. She fell in beside him and they walked together, the loose sole of the man’s shoe giving a tap after each step. ‘Raj Singh.’ He held out his hand, a dull gold band sliding down his wrist and wobbling against the base of his thumb.
His palm was surprisingly smooth and cool. The sort of hand you’d want on your forehead if you felt under the weather. ‘Liberty Chapman,’ she said.
‘And where are you from, Liberty?’ he asked.
‘London,’ she said. ‘Hampstead.’
Raj knitted his brow, making his turban bob. ‘Really? I could swear I detect a local twang.’
Liberty took a deep breath in through her nose. All those years down south and all that cash spent on elocution lessons. ‘I moved away a long time ago,’ she said.
He nodded, as if he was satisfied. ‘And who’re you here to see?’
‘I don’t think I should say.’
Raj gave a bark of a laugh. ‘You are new, aren’t you?’
‘Client confidentiality and all that,’ Liberty replied, with a raised eyebrow.
Raj
patted her arm, still chuckling. ‘Quite right too, love.’
Christ, it was like the Wild West up here. She was relieved when they reached the door and were greeted by a prison officer slumped at a long counter behind a Perspex window, one buttock taking up his stool, the other oozing slowly down the side. ‘Morning, Reg,’ he said.
If Raj was offended by the Anglicizing of his name, he certainly didn’t show it. ‘Morning, John,’ he said. ‘How’s the back?’
John put one hand to his spine. ‘Killing me.’ The other reached over to a family bag of Cheesy Wotsits. ‘What can I do? It’s my trial.’
Raj slid his visiting order into the security slot and nodded for Liberty to do the same. John shovelled a fistful of Wotsits into his mouth and checked the paperwork. When he was satisfied, he sent it back through, and Raj returned Liberty’s visiting order to her. There was a dusty orange thumbprint in the left-hand corner, which she avoided touching.
‘Time for the technology,’ said John. ‘Eyes on the prize, Miss Chapman.’
‘Sorry?’
Raj pointed up at a camera mounted above the window. ‘Retinal recognition,’ he told her. ‘It lets John here check that the person coming out of the nick is the same one who went in.’
Liberty could hardly contain her laughter. ‘Don’t you think someone might spot an inmate trying to pass himself off as a woman?’
‘You’d be surprised, love,’ said Raj, and moved her to a small black X marked on the floor. ‘Say cheese.’
When they had both had their eyes recorded, he grinned at her. ‘Now for the locker room. This way.’
Liberty followed him into a square, windowless room to the left, the four walls banked by metal lockers, every door bearing the same notice:
Only approved paperwork, pens and pencils allowed beyond this point.
No other items may be taken into HMP Wakefield, including money, keys, mobile phones and other electronic equipment.
Persons found in possession of unacceptable items will be detained and charged. No exceptions.
‘They don’t exactly trust us, do they?’ said Liberty.
‘To be honest, it’s as much for us as them,’ said Raj, making for the nearest locker.
‘How’s that?’ Liberty asked.
‘You can make a real mess of someone’s face with a paperclip, love.’
Liberty chose a locker on the other side of the room to hide her face, which she knew would show horror and panic in every pore. When she opened it, she found a ball of used tissue nestled at the back. Checking her gag reflex, she decided against removing it. Her bag might have cost the best part of two grand in Prada, but it couldn’t contract hep C, could it?
‘Ready?’ Raj asked.
Liberty slammed the locker door and followed him out of the room, back to John.
‘Sorted?’ asked John.
Raj nodded and placed his hand on the entrance door. As a low buzzer sounded, he pushed it open and a smell unfurled around him. It moved towards Liberty. Sweat, urine and disinfectant. ‘Welcome to the ninth circle of Hell,’ said Raj.
Chapter 2
May 1985
I take the tray of buns out of the oven. A couple are a bit burned but not too bad.
‘They’re nice,’ says Mam, not taking her eyes off the mirror.
She had a bubble perm yesterday and is trying to comb it over the bald spot above her ear. Frankie sits on the chair next to her, grizzling. ‘Give him a bottle, would you, Lib?’ she says.
I reach into the cupboard for a baby bottle and fill it with pop. ‘He’s too old for these, Mam. The health visitor says they’ll ruin his teeth.’
‘Yeah, well, that stuck-up bitch doesn’t have to live with him, does she?’ Mam replies.
I hold the drink out to Frankie and he grabs it, sucking at it for all he’s worth, making these funny little noises in his throat.
Mam gives her hair a last spray with lacquer and smiles at me. ‘You’re pleased your dad’s coming home, aren’t you?’
‘Yeah,’ I say.
‘So why the long face?’
I start turning the buns out of their tin. It’s not that I don’t want Dad to come home. He’s my dad and that’s that. I mean, when he first got sent down I was glad. The mess he made of Mam during that last hiding he gave her! Broken nose, two teeth knocked out and a gash on the side of her head where he smashed her against the wall. There’s still a bit of plaster missing on that spot above the radiator and her hair’s never grown back properly over the scar. He deserved to go to jail.
Then she met some bloke down the Turk’s Head. ‘Call me Uncle Alan,’ he said, and brought us all chips and gravy whenever he came round. Mam seemed happy until she caught him helping to wash Jay’s arse when he was in the bath. We never mentioned Uncle Alan again.
Next thing we know, Mam’s had a letter from Dad saying he’s sorry, he’s changed. Can people change?
There’s a loud knock at the door and Mam jumps off the stool. ‘That’ll be him,’ she says. ‘You stay here.’
She clacks down the hall and opens the door. There are muffled voices and the tinkling giggle I only ever hear when Dad’s around. When he sticks his head round the kitchen door, I can see he’s a lot thinner and his hair’s cut close to his scalp. ‘Something smells grand,’ he says.
‘I made you some buns,’ I reply. ‘Do you want one?’
He looks at them on the cooling rack. ‘Where’s Crystal and Jay?’
‘Playing outside.’ I jump up. ‘Shall I get ’em?’
Dad shakes his head. ‘I’m knackered, love. Think I’ll get my head down for an hour or two.’ He ruffles Frankie’s hair. ‘Round everyone up at teatime. How about a Chinese? With your buns for afters?’
A Chinese. I can’t believe it. I bloody love sweet and sour, I do.
‘Right, then.’ Dad rubs his hands together. ‘Why don’t you come up with me, Mrs Greenwood? Show me what’s changed around here.’
Mam laughs again, like a little bell ringing, and I think that maybe, just maybe, everything’s going to be all right.
The inside of Monster Mansion was altogether different from the outside. Where the exterior had been a study in razor-wire-topped walls and retinal security checks, the inside was bland and quiet. Only the plastic farting of the loose sole of Raj’s shoe punctured the silence as they walked down a windowless and hourless corridor of concrete and strip lighting.
‘Where is everyone?’ Liberty asked.
‘On the wings,’ Raj replied.
‘Doing what?’
‘Smoking, talking, staring at the ceiling.’ Raj shrugged. ‘Twenty-two hours’ bang-up, most days.’ He gave her a sideways glance, his gold filling winking cheekily at her. ‘What were you expecting?’
Liberty didn’t have an answer to that. Or not one she was willing to share with someone she’d met less than ten minutes ago. Her main points of reference were the episodes of Porridge her parents had loved.
They reached the end of the corridor and waited at a door. The words ‘Legal Visits’ had been painted in blue. At last it swung open.
‘Here again, Reg?’ said the guard, a minimal amount of hair attempting to cover the maximum amount of pink scalp.
‘Where else would I be on a nice summer’s day?’ Raj said, with a smile.
‘He’s waiting for you.’ The guard jerked his head over his shoulder, dislodging a well-greased strand of hair that fell over his face, like a thick black arrow pointing to the floor. ‘Usual spot.’
‘Must be my natural charm,’ said Raj, and handed over his visiting order.
Liberty followed suit, pressing her own order into the guard’s hand.
He checked it, then looked at her for longer than was necessary, the stray strand of hair billowing gently in the air from his nostrils. ‘Take a seat, Miss,’ he said. ‘He’ll be brought out in a tick.’
‘Thank you,’ she answered coolly.
When they passed through the doorway, Raj gave her
a nudge. ‘Don’t mind the locals,’ he said. ‘They don’t get out much.’
She was about to point out that the staff might behave with manners if people like Raj pulled them up from time to time, but she lost her train of thought as she found herself on a walkway overlooking what appeared to be a school gymnasium, filled with tables and chairs.
As Liberty and Raj made their way down the staircase, the impression of being in a school gym was completed by the lurid yellow bibs that the prisoners were wearing. Liberty half expected a game of netball to break out.
As if reading her mind, like a spirit guide, Raj once again filled her in: ‘They make it easier for the guards to spot the inmates,’ he said. ‘Keep tabs on where everyone is.’
Liberty glanced behind her and saw that, up on the walkway, the guard who had let them in was scanning the hall.
‘Some of these people . . .’ Raj tailed off. ‘It’s not like other prisons.’
Liberty nodded, and cursed herself for agreeing to take on the case. Her bread and butter came from drafting contracts. Clauses, sub-clauses, definitions and criteria: these were her friends. ‘Don’t we get a private room to speak to our clients?’ she asked.
Raj shook his head. ‘That’s only in the purpose-built prisons. The Mansion’s ancient so there’s not enough space for such luxuries.’
Liberty was horrified. How could anyone conduct a confidential conversation surrounded by all these people?
‘To be honest, love, you don’t want to be in a room on your own with any of this little lot,’ he added.
They picked their way through the tables but Raj slowed as they approached one table where a man in a bib was already seated. He stared at them eagerly. He was small, almost child-like in stature, though his face was lined and pockmarked. He bore a silvery scar between lip and nose. Liberty gave a sharp intake of breath as recognition hit her, like a sucker punch, and the man clapped his hands together, as if delighted that she knew who he was.
‘Don’t say a word,’ Raj hissed at her. ‘Just keep walking.’
Liberty couldn’t have spoken if she’d wanted to: her throat had suddenly constricted. What could anyone say to a man who had raped and killed three little girls on their way home from Brownies?