Mr Peterson shakes his head almost imperceptibly, but his jowls wobble. ‘The burden of proof lies with the prosecution – we only need to challenge their evidence.’
‘But if we could prove that David did this, we could find Robert. I could get out of here . . .’
‘Jenna.’ Mr Peterson sounds sad but firm. ‘That isn’t how this works . . .’
‘But the police think I did it – they aren’t looking for Robert. They aren’t helping me. David is threatening to take my baby!’ Hysteria screams from my every word.
‘He has threatened you?’
‘Yes – well, no. He wants custody of the child.’ I dig my fingernails into my thighs.
‘Jenna, you’re upsetting yourself,’ Mr Peterson says. ‘Think of the baby.’
‘I am!’ He’s talking to me like I’m a child, or an idiot. I feel so powerless.
‘Look, you’ve got to trust in the justice system,’ he says. ‘We should hear about your trial date over the coming few weeks.’
My shoulders droop. I’m suddenly incredibly tired. Heavy. ‘We were going to get married on the seventeenth of June, but I’m going to be in here, aren’t I?’
‘I’m sorry, Jenna,’ Mr Peterson says, his eyes sad. ‘I really—’ And the screen goes blank.
What happened? Has the WiFi gone down again?
The lock turns in the door. And Ryan opens it. ‘Time’s up.’
‘But we haven’t finished.’ I point at the screen. I haven’t told Mr Peterson David must have been wearing gloves. How the perpetrator had to have had access to my laptop. That David had ample opportunity for that. I didn’t explain my evidence. I did it all backwards.
‘You booked a twenty-minute slot and your time’s up,’ Ryan says with a smirk. His hair gel glints in the strip lighting.
‘But the WiFi wasn’t working!’ I can’t believe this.
‘Life’s a bitch,’ Ryan says. ‘Now stop arguing, inmate, unless you want to go to seg?’
I close my mouth. In my mind, I hear David laugh. Entitled, confident, unbeatable.
Now
It’s another two days before we have Association, and another three until I can get out to call Ness. It’s a Thursday and perhaps Gould has visitors, because she doesn’t seem to be around. More inmates have rolled up their left sleeves, more whispering seems to be taking place in cells and in corners, the vibe has shifted. Or perhaps my nerves are just hypersensitive to any risk. I feel raw, prickling. My baby makes me vulnerable, and now everyone knows. I head for the nearest working phone as swiftly as possible. No point tempting fate.
A woman answers and after a tense sixty seconds where she’s not sure she can find Ness – and I have to listen to the thudding dance music and clang of free weights and shouting that echo through the cavernous gym my sister works at – she’s finally here.
‘How you doing? Sorry I can’t get away this week – if visiting was on any other days but Thursday to Sunday, you know? That’s our peak times.’
‘I know – it’s fine.’ It’s not. But what can I say? Ness works at one of those proper old-school gyms where professional bodybuilders train. It’s not a part-time thing for these guys. It’s spread over three floors, with a floor for weights machines, a floor for free weights and a boxing ring. She loves it. ‘Look, I haven’t got long – but I need to talk to you,’ I say, glancing around for any sign of Gould or her crew. Waiting to use the phone is a squat woman in her sixties, maybe older, her face a sag of defeat. She reminds me of a sad toad in her green prison jumper. I wonder what she did.
‘What’s wrong?’ Ness says, obviously cupping her hand over the phone, because the background noise her end dims slightly.
I can’t believe I’m having this conversation in front of a stranger, with Ness at work, over the telephone. ‘You know I said in the letter I sent that David and Judith came but it didn’t go well?’
‘Stuck-up cunts,’ Ness says.
‘Well, yes.’ I push on. I don’t know how to say this. Toad lady behind me clears her throat and starts pointedly tapping her foot. I cut to the chase. ‘He wants my baby.’ The words hurt.
‘What?’ Ness says, and I can tell she’s leapt up.
‘I’m gonna try – but – but . . .’ Oh god. I hug my stomach, my child. ‘Ness, I probably won’t be allowed to keep my baby. Not in here.’
‘Fuck,’ says Ness.
‘And David has said he is going to go for custody.’ My voice cracks. Tears blur my vision.
‘No way,’ says Ness. ‘No way are they having it.’ Her voice is rising, she’s gonna blow.
‘Ness, listen to me. You know the social won’t let Mum have her with her record . . .’
‘Her?’ Ness’s voice is suddenly awestruck.
Tears are coursing down my cheeks now, but I can’t help smiling. ‘I’m having a girl. A little girl.’
‘Oh my god – a little girl! We’re having a little girl!’ she shouts as if to the gym behind her. Someone cheers.
I laugh. I didn’t know how Ness would take this; she’s never shown any real interest in kids. Maybe she doesn’t realise the enormity of this. If I go down for murder . . . I could go down for years. The floor shakes. That won’t happen. I will find out who did this. I will find out if David did this. I think of Ness plaiting my hair for school, of her barricading us into her room when Carl or Mum’s other waster mates came over, snacks at the ready, helping me with my homework. How she has always been there for me. ‘Ness, will you look after her?’
‘Oh Jenna,’ she says.
‘I know it’s a huge thing . . . it’s just I can’t let him have her, and she can’t go into care.’ I feel like a knife is twisting in my gut. ‘Ness, I think he did this. I think David did this. He’s controlling, dangerous.’ My voice cracks.
‘Christ. The sick fuck.’ Ness exhales.
She believes me. She knows David. She’s met him. She recognises he’s capable of this. A racking sob escapes my mouth.
‘Don’t cry. It’s going to be okay,’ Ness says, soothingly. ‘Of course I’ll look after her. You’re my sister. We’re family, yeah?’
‘Family.’ I nod and swallow the painful lump in my throat. My shoulders shaking. My face wet, crinkled.
Toad lady coughs again.
‘All right!’ I snap at her. ‘Sorry,’ I say into the phone.
‘We got this, Jenna. We got her. A baby girl!’ Ness says. ‘Fuck – I better clear out the flat.’
I laugh despite myself. ‘We’ll need to win the social over,’ I say. It’s going to be hard convincing them that Ness, a single woman in a one-bed flat, is a better option than David and Judith in their fifty-acre parkland mansion.
‘Don’t you worry about that,’ Ness says. ‘I don’t drink, I don’t smoke, I don’t do drugs, I’ve got my own place, a proper job, I’m not Mum.’
‘I know,’ I say.
Toad lady loudly clears her throat and I glare at her. ‘I’m gonna have to go, Ness. I’ll write – I’ll give you all the details.’
‘Listen, Jenna, don’t let the bastards get you down, yeah?’
‘Yeah,’ I manage.
‘I’ve been asking around – seeing if anyone knows anyone that can help. There’s a barrister who comes here – and I’ve been setting up one of them FundMe pages to raise funds for legal costs. I’m on it, okay? Don’t worry.’
‘Thank you, thank you, Ness,’ I manage.
‘I love you,’ she says.
‘Love you too,’ I whisper.
I run past toad lady and back into our cell. Kelly is still out in the yard, doing Pilates with Abi in the late April sun. This time last year Robert and I had just started dating. We were supposed to be getting married. Emily was supposed to be our bridesmaid. How has everything gone so horribly wrong in such a short amount of time? I flop onto my bed, pull the blanket round me and cry for Emily, for Robert, for my baby, for Ness, for Mum, for everything that might have been.
Now
&
nbsp; Time slows down when you’re inside. Hundreds of grains of sand falling through an hourglass, weighing you down with the hopelessness of it all. I daren’t venture out the cell unless I have to, because of Gould. Instead I watch the light on the wall stretch and grow like my stomach. The days are lengthening, first the May light filling our tiny box cell, then the heat of June. The building is no longer cold, but dripping with sweat. Each un-openable window a magnifier of the sun’s heat. It’s like living inside a greenhouse. We are both counting now. Kelly is due on the 21st of June. Four days after I was due to get married. And I still haven’t had any contact from my so-called friends. I torture myself with that when I can’t sleep – which is most of the time. I’m just driving myself crazy thinking about it all. It’s as if I’m dead. That’s what I’ve realised. I’m dead to those on the outside. Worse than that. Because if I were dead they could mourn. And this way I guess they are ashamed. I feel their embarrassment like a scald. I have tainted everyone’s lives. I wrap my hands round my bump. But my child is innocent. I am innocent.
I have sent a letter to Mr Peterson listing my concerns about David and Judith. Documenting examples of David’s controlling nature. Listing how I unpacked the knife from the dishwasher, and how our cleaner Michelle had been the day before, so the lack of other fingerprints must mean the person who did this wore gloves. I’ve listed everyone else who had access to my laptop. Explained that I didn’t send the text message to Sally. Walked him through how my phone could have been synced to another device and any message sent would have still looked like it was from me. I’ve asked if they can check which device the incriminating message was sent from. I told him David and Judith have masses of land, follies, outbuildings – they could be hiding Robert, keeping him captive. How the police have to keep looking for him. My baby needs her father. I know he isn’t dead, he can’t be. I have asked Mr Peterson to pass it on to DI Langton. I have kept a separate list about David for the Mother and Baby Unit board. I cannot allow him to take her.
I run through it all over and over. Again and again. Looking for the loose thread that will unravel the secret. I feel it’s close. I can almost touch it.
As the time drips closer to our wedding day, I don’t know if I can cope. I spend more and more time in bed, though I know I should be exercising. I should be having dress fittings, deciding the table plan, having a hen do, spending time with friends and family. Has someone cancelled the church? And the caterers? I picture Judith sobbing into the phone as she tells guests not to come. This should be the happiest day of my life. I dream of confetti that turns into hail, bridesmaids with their left sleeves rolled, and me standing alone in the cold dark church in my dress.
On the 17th of June, the day of the wedding, I stay in bed all day. Kelly sits on the floor next to me, stroking my hair.
And then I get up.
Because I can’t wallow. I am part of this world now. I have learnt the rules and I know how to play. Now I just have to learn to win.
My trial date comes through. The 3rd of August. I have a new deadline. I have six weeks to prove that David did this. I have six weeks to prove that I didn’t. I have to keep going.
I’m fighting for my and my daughter’s life.
Now
I hear the guard below yell: ‘Free Flow!’
This is it. Every venture out from our cell starts with a scope to check Gould’s not in sight. I’ve managed to stay below her radar for months now. Since the obstetrician had a go at Ryan, the guards are being a bit more understanding about the pregnancy. Kelly tells them I’ve got pubic pain, and fetches my food for me. We’ve occasionally even got an extra apple. We’ve also had some antenatal classes with a midwife. She does us and a handful of other scared-looking expectant mothers in here. There’s enough turnover inside that Kelly and I are the only ones who’ve been to every class. Most memorable was Kelly’s ‘Hell no way, motherfucker!’ at the sight of forceps. But most classes just leave me more anxious. How can we develop a birth plan in here? We’re not even allowed to pack a bag for the hospital. Some of the other mothers have been transferred out to other prisons far away from their families, but with available Mother and Baby Unit places. Transferring, as a rule, seems to happen quickly, with little warning. We were woken last week by the screws waking the sixty-year-old lifer in the next cell and telling her she was being moved to another prison. She had ten minutes to pack her stuff and go. Her mate came looking for her in Association. They’d had a cup of tea and put the world to rights every day for the last six years. There’d been no goodbye.
Sitting alone in our cell, I fantasise about Gould getting transferred out and being free again. How stupid is that? I’m in a prison inside a prison. But she’s still here. Her claws dug deep into Fallenbrook.
During yesterday’s evening roll-call I watched six women come out of Gould’s room. It’s against the rules to have that many inmates in one cell, but Kev didn’t seem to notice. I think he’s frightened of her. I don’t blame him. Everyone knows she has things: cigarettes, chocolate-covered biscuits, good tea bags, a radio, a television, a hi-fi, fresh milk, make-up, hooch. And that’s just the soft stuff. The screws don’t even have pepper spray. She has all the power. Abi pops in to see me every now and then, helps me with some Pilates moves. And she says the rumour is Gould’s stockpiling tobacco, so when the ban comes into effect she will have the only supply. Two-thirds of the prison smoke, and though being smoke-free will be good for my baby girl, I can’t see how it’s going to work. Seven hundred and fifty tobacco addicts – some with severe anger management issues – all going cold turkey at once. Not smart. Gould is just playing the market. Because everyone in here wants something. And more and more people are getting themselves in debt, doing favours, being recruited, rolling their left sleeves up. I’ve lost count now.
I can hear Annie’s grunting laugh coming from a cell underneath. She never leaves Gould’s side. I can’t see them, but now’s as good a time as any to risk it. Because this visiting order could be the first good news I’ve had in months.
Despite the heat I’ve got my hoodie on, and I pull my hood up, shove the paper into my pocket, and walk as quickly as possible. A woman’s yellowed hand claws round a door as I pass, her dead eyes peering out. She wavers like a zombie. Spice. I’ve had a crash course in the artificial weed since I’ve been in here. More powerful, and more addictive. Abi explained people were spraying it onto children’s paintings and either posting them or bringing them in, crumbling it, and smoking it. Everyone seems to know someone who died of a heart attack the first time they smoked it. But they still do it. It’s an escape from the boredom, the fear, the self-loathing that comes when you spend twenty-three hours locked in a cell. I have to stay positive for my baby – bathe her in happy hormones. But I can see why so many are tempted to obliterate themselves. It seems to be getting worse. More prevalent. I pull the fabric of my hoodie up over my mouth and nose, to stop inhaling it. I see another woman, slumped in a stiff, crooked position against her bed as I pass. Someone has upped the supply in here. And I bet I know who it is. But if Gould’s busy with that, perhaps she’s grown tired of tormenting me.
I manoeuvre my bump past the couple sitting, holding hands, on the top of the landing steps. The guard on duty, a new one I haven’t seen before, is at the other end of the wing. He either doesn’t know about those high in their cells, or he doesn’t care. What is one guy going to do anyway?
A woman, pretty, surprisingly young, freckles decorating her neckline like beads, stops on her way up so I can pass. Watching me go, her unlined face impassive. Her left sleeve rolled. I hurry on.
When I reach the ground floor there’s still no sign of Gould. A few women are playing pool. I nod at Abi, who is showing a woman with long black hair how to stretch her hamstrings.
‘Thought you’d left?’
Vina’s voice makes me jump. She’s holding her books. Just stepped out her cell. It’s bathed in white light from the sun behind her
. It must be hotter than ours.
‘No.’ I try to smile without lifting my head up too much. I don’t want everyone to see my face. ‘Been unwell,’ I say.
‘Oh yeah.’ Vina nods knowingly.
Behind us someone laughs uproariously and I jump again, remembering the last time I stood here. The lipstick pushing into my cheek. All the eyes on me. My baby kicks in my stomach, urging me to keep moving. I wave my phone card. ‘I’ve got to get going. Before I miss the phone.’ I can see the nearest one, the one furthest away from Gould’s cell, is currently free.
I go to step away, but Vina grabs hold of my arm. ‘Hell is empty and all the devils are here.’
‘What?’ I stare at her.
‘Shakespeare,’ she says. ‘Look after your baby.’
I watch for a second as she disappears into the white light of her cell. What was that about? But bickering breaks out over a pool shot and the cacophony of the wing rises around me again; I haven’t got time to dwell.
‘Star Gym,’ the gruff voice on the other end shouts. I can hear the familiar boom of base from the music and the clang of free weights in the background.
‘Is Ness there please?’ I look at the piece of paper in my hand. I didn’t recognise the name on the visitor request. E. Matthews. Ness had said she’d been talking to people about my case, trying to find someone to help. Maybe this was them – and they were coming to see me? This could be my chance to expose David. But I have to get hold of her to check.
‘Who’s calling?’ the man at the gym shouts. The times I’ve called before, no one’s asked that.
I swallowed. ‘Err, it’s her sister.’
‘Jenna?’ he replies.
‘Yeah.’ I brace myself for abuse. Ness has persuaded the gym owner to put the gym on my cleared-caller list – but they can’t have been thrilled with an alleged child killer ringing in.
‘How you doing, love?’ the guy says. ‘Ness keeps us all up-to-date with your news. We’re all rooting for you. I’ve given her my sister’s little one’s old cot – it’s a nice one, Ikea.’
On My Life Page 20