On My Life

by Angela Clarke

  ‘I’m not so sure about that,’ I say, meekly. Plenty of people accept I killed Emily. I think they have no issue believing I drove Kelly to harm herself too.

  Sara sighs. ‘If you won’t do it for you, do it for your baby.’

  That’s a low blow.

  ‘You need exercise, pump those nutrients round. You need a bit of comfort and conversation. It’s not good for you cooped up in here all the time.’ She sounds like Deb telling her kids to stop playing computer games.

  ‘I am in prison, in case you’d forgotten,’ I say. It’s the longest sentence I’ve said in days. But I meet her eyes for the first time.

  She smiles. ‘I’ll escort you from the wing to the visitors’ room and back. Nothing is going to happen to you.’

  And I nod. Because I do want to see Ness. To hug her. To have her hug me back. To tell me it’s all going to be okay. I blink back tears.

  ‘I’ll see you five minutes before Free Flow,’ she says briskly, bracing her hand against her own knee to right herself.

  Even the visitors’ room feels different today, as if the strain of the grief that’s running like a vein through the prison has soured the sunshine-yellow walls too. Though the other prisoners aren’t talking to me, some not even looking at me, I can feel we all carry it. The air is brittle. Kelly’s death has shocked everyone. Rhianna’s mum glares at Sara as she deposits me at the back of the line.

  There’s a murmur up the line as they see me.

  ‘She shouldn’t be here.’

  ‘Not right.’

  ‘Are they taking the piss?’

  It reaches the woman at the front, her red tracksuit shining like wet plastic under the strip lighting. Gould. A ripple of panic passes through me. But she doesn’t turn. Stays talking to Annie, who has seemingly arranged for someone to visit her at the same time. Is this how they’re getting the stuff in? Passed under the table at visiting? In the last embrace? But I doubt Gould would be doing her own dirty work. She likes the sharp end of the business only when it’s something she can poke people with.

  I wonder who is visiting her? It can’t be her husband, because he’s banged up too. But it could be her children, siblings, a parent. It’s odd to imagine her with family, to think of her in any kind of loving home, and perhaps that isn’t the case. But everyone has someone that loves them, right? Everyone has people who care about them, who they care about. Even Gould. My heart twinges.

  I head for my favoured table, in the furthest corner from the door the visitors enter through. Now more than ever I need to keep an eye on the whole room.

  I stare pointedly ahead, as a shiny red-track-suited figure takes the table next to mine. It’s coincidence, that’s all. Of course Gould would want the best vantage point for the room.

  She clears her throat.

  I flinch.

  ‘Jumpy, Blondie?’ Her high-pitched laugh peals out as they unlock the door, letting the visitors in.

  Don’t look. Don’t rise to it. I force myself to smile as I see Ness, my skin tight like a drying face mask. She looks tired, but she’s done her hair and make-up today. That must be a good sign. A muscular man with a faint silvery scar on his cheek overtakes Ness and joins Gould. She doesn’t stand to greet him but stays relaxed in her chair as he fidgets like a boy summoned to the head teacher’s office. I cling to Ness. She smells of the gym, fruity shower gel, hairspray.

  ‘You okay?’ she says, quietly.

  I keep holding her. I’ve written to her over the last week. She knows.

  A child starts to wail by the tuck-shop counter. I look up to see his screwed-up little face and in his pudgy hands a squashed plastic cup which presumably used to contain tea. There’s a flurry of activity as the cafe lady and Sara rush to get wet tissues.

  ‘I’m sorry about your friend,’ Ness says.

  She doesn’t know about Kelly’s parents, or the others, or what everyone is saying though. Doesn’t know how I feel. I force another smile. ‘Thanks for coming.’

  Ness arranges her puffa coat, the chrysalis leaves of padded brown fabric peeling away to reveal her black and orange activewear underneath.

  ‘Looking good,’ I say.

  She grins. ‘Oh yeah, three hours on an air-filtered Megabus will do that for a girl. I reckon that Gwyneth Paltrow should give it a try.’

  And it’s almost like it was before, except of course it never will be again.

  The man at Gould’s table explodes in a violent hacking cough. His body jerking with each wheeze and splutter.

  Gould doesn’t move. ‘What you staring at?’ She eyeballs Ness.

  ‘What you looking at—’ Ness starts to retort.

  ‘Leave it,’ I hiss. ‘It’s fine.’ She doesn’t know who this is, doesn’t know the danger she’s in.

  The child by the counter is still crying, but is now being gathered up into the arms of the adult accompanying it. Sara is sorting through her keys.

  ‘Who’s this then, Blondie?’ Gould says.

  I will Ness not to reply. ‘No one,’ I say. I still don’t turn and look at Gould full on. We’re not supposed to talk to other people’s visitors. We’re not supposed to interact. But Kev and Sara are both occupied with the screaming child, Sara preparing to take them out.

  The man visiting Gould is still now, looking at me and Ness, a quizzical look in his eyes. Almost like he’s seen something he recognises. He has: fear. At least that’s what I’m radiating. I want to curl in on myself and Ness, shield us both from Gould’s relentless gaze. Ness is still brazening it out, her chest puffed, her hands flat on the table.

  ‘You better have good news, Stan.’ Gould switches her attention back to the guy, and he immediately returns to jiggling his knees. This is a disorientating tactic of hers. With a bit of luck she was only using me and Ness to wrong-foot him.

  ‘Who is that?’ Ness’s shoulders are still back, but she’s got enough street smarts to sense threat and speak quietly.

  ‘It doesn’t matter.’ I won’t say Gould’s name, I won’t risk attracting her attention again. I need to get this out. I need Ness to help me. ‘Listen, I’ve been doing a lot of thinking, and it has to be someone I know.’

  ‘What does?’ Ness says, confused by my change of direction.

  ‘The person that did this to Emily, that did this to me.’

  Ness’s pencilled eyebrows rise. She sits back. ‘David?’

  ‘Yeah, maybe.’ Can I voice my concerns about Robert? I still haven’t told Ness about Erica. She might think I’m losing it. I need proof. ‘I just keep going over it – changing my mind.’

  ‘I don’t think you should be stressing yourself out like this in your condition,’ Ness says, concern in her face.

  Sara is unlocking the far door to take the poor screaming kiddie out.

  ‘What else have I got to think about? Since Kelly . . .’ I can’t say the words.

  Ness closes her hands over mine. They’re warm, the callouses from where she lifts weights press against my skin. ‘I know, sweetheart, I know.’

  Next to me Gould’s voice cuts through into my thoughts.

  ‘. . . you better not be,’ she snarls at coughing Stan.

  I shake my head, try to get rid of the intrusion. Ness glances at Gould.

  My thoughts lurch back to Robert. ‘The more I think about it, the more I think it was someone else, not David.’

  Ness leans toward me, her eyes wide, but what she’s about to say gets lost when two things happen.

  A woman toward the front grabs for her young daughter, who, wriggling and crying out, tries to run back to the toy corner. The woman cries herself, a horrid, painful yelp at the rejection of this three-year-old who doesn’t understand why Mummy wants to hold on to her.

  And Gould slams her fist down on the table, shouts, ‘You better be fucking kidding me!’ and jumps up.

  Ness starts back, as do the couple beside us. Gould’s voice is so venomous it sends shockwaves through the room, only dented by the screamin
g child and wailing mother at the front. Anger and love and loss ripple through us.

  Kev, alone in the hall, clearly doesn’t know which way to go. The little girl has almost broken free of her distraught mother, who stumbles out of her chair to hold on to her.

  ‘Back in your seat!’ the officer shouts, clearly deciding this shrieking noise is the one to focus on.

  Gould leaves her table and strides toward him. ‘Leave the poor fucker alone,’ she shouts. ‘You lot not done taking kiddies away from their mums?’

  Stan, the guy she just shouted at, looks confused. But something billows through the room. A clarion call to Kelly’s loss.

  ‘Yeah!’ Rhianna’s mum stands up.

  ‘Sit down!’ barks Kev. There are now three prisoners out of their seats. His eyes flit around the room. Where’s Sara?

  ‘We got rights too!’ Gould shouts. Stan stands nervously.

  I can’t believe she cares about this woman and her kid. She’s reading the room.

  ‘Tobacco! It makes us happy!’ someone starts to sing. Half the room erupts in laughter.

  Gould isn’t laughing though. Her eyes are taking in everything: the doors, the lack of Sara, the number of rolled left sleeves. I grab Ness’s hand.

  ‘We demand respect!’ Gould shouts.

  I open my mouth to shout a warning to Kev, but my words are buried under the noise. Women around the room are shouting their support of Gould.

  ‘Respect! Respect! Respect!’

  ‘Tobacco! It makes us happy!’

  ‘You can’t take our kids!’

  Another child starts to cry. Several of the visitors look scared. Ness’s face is unreadable.

  Kev blows his whistle. The noise slices through the chanting. ‘End of session. All prisoners to the wall. All visitors out!’ he bellows. For a split second it looks like it’s worked.

  Then all hell breaks loose.

  Now

  Everything happens at once. A number of visitors rush toward the exit. Prisoners shout their dissent. And Gould jumps up onto a table.

  ‘They can’t treat us like animals!’ she bellows.

  ‘Move!’ I drag Ness backwards as a wave of support carries women toward Gould. The wriggling child is screaming in its mother’s arms. The woman who brought her in, presumably her gran, is holding her arms out for her, crying.

  Kev, boggle-eyed, is still blowing his whistle. He releases the door through which he’s herding visitors out and makes toward Gould. There’s no sign of Sara.

  Someone sticks out a foot and Kev trips, clattering down between chairs. Someone screams. People laugh. Gould, with the agility of a cat, springs down from the table and grabs at him.

  I turn away, expecting violence, but no: Gould holds up her hand. In it are his keys.

  He looks up at her, mouth opening and closing like a fish, as she holds the circle of metal in her hand, the long chain extending back to his belt.

  ‘Back-up required in the visitors’ room.’ Ryan appears behind us, screaming into his radio. He punches the alarm on the wall.

  Ness and I cover our ears as the sound pours into the high-ceilinged room. Heads swivel to look backwards. Women swarm. People fall. Chairs shake on their metal tethers.

  ‘Respect! Respect! Respect!’ continues the chant.

  Kev has staggered to his feet. Gould yanks hard on his chain, and Kev, distracted by Ryan’s attempts at pulling back prisoners, lurches forward belly first.

  Ryan barrels past us, and makes a grab for Kev. Ness is torn away from me. I’m thrust sideways, bashing my hip into a table. Ooof. I cup my stomach.

  ‘Jenna!’ Ness screams.

  The room fills with shouting: ‘Respect! Respect! Respect!’

  Gould’s hand smacks into Kev’s nose. Ryan’s face a snapshot of shock before Annie’s bulk obscures him from view. Stan is hightailing it toward the exit. Gould pulls at a chair, snapping off an arm, which she hurls toward him.

  Missiles. Weapons.

  ‘Go, go, go!’ Ryan screams at the remaining visitors. Some of the women are helping them toward the door. The gran of the screaming child has her in her arms, head down, running between the chairs.

  Ness finds me, hauls me up. Behind us is the locked door back to the wing. In front of us is the brawling mass. ‘Go!’ I scream. She has to get out.

  ‘Not without you!’ Her arm snakes round my side. Pulling.

  Someone tips the display of flapjacks on the counter. A ride-on toy truck flies up in the air and smashes into the window. Glass rains down. There are screams. And cheers. The brittle air has snapped. They’re destroying the place.

  My stomach contracts, like a belt’s being pulled tight around my waist. I have to get out.

  Two prisoners are helping Kev, who has blood spilling down his face and his white shirt. They are almost at the visitors’ door. Ryan has it open, waving them onwards manically with one arm.

  Only two people without tabards are in the room now. Ness, and a woman who’s still sitting, seemingly frozen in fear, at a table on the right.

  Annie’s kicking at the tether of a chair and it breaks free. She hurls it toward Kev and those supporting him.

  They duck and it splinters against the wall, inches from the door.

  Ryan looks up. Catches my eye. A look of horror. Sympathy.

  ‘No! Wait!’ I scream.

  But as Kev staggers through, Ryan pulls the door closed after him. I imagine I hear the key turn but I can’t have.

  Several women reach the door seconds after, tugging it. But it doesn’t budge. They hammer on it.

  ‘No!’ I say.

  Ness’s face is frantic. My heart is racing. My baby’s heart is racing.

  ‘Lockdown!’ shouts someone near us.

  ‘Respect! Respect! Respect!’

  Someone lights a cigarette as a huge cheer goes up.

  I still have hold of Ness’s hand. She’s shaking. I’m shaking.

  ‘We’re locked in.’

  And Gould has the keys.

  Now

  This can’t be happening. Can’t.

  Rhianna’s mum pulls over the tea urn with a mighty crash.

  It’s happening. Gould is in here. People are losing their minds. I can no longer tell who has a rolled left sleeve and who hasn’t.

  ‘We need to find cover,’ I shout in Ness’s ear. We get behind the pinboard that shields the small number of tables used for over-spill legal visits in the corner. I can’t see the other civilian who was in here. If we just stay put someone will come. They have to.

  The room is in chaos. Leaflets and posters are being ripped from the wall and shredded into confetti. Anything that isn’t tied down is thrown. Another window smashes to a loud cheer.

  Gould is leading a group of chanting protestors, waving the stolen keys in the air. Oh god. She’s unlocking the door back to the wing. Surely back-up will arrive now?

  ‘Respect! Respect! Respect!’

  ‘What the fuck is going on?’ Ness looks as shocked as I feel. My heart racing in my chest, the blood drumming a warning beat in my ears.

  ‘It’s . . . it’s been coming for a while.’ Because it has. ‘They’re angry.’ There were staffing issues, lockdowns, cancelled classes, the smoking ban, the repeated searches, and Kelly. But it might not have tipped if it weren’t for Gould. A ringmaster of chaos.

  Gould finally finds the right key and pulls the door into the wing open.

  ‘Open fucking sesame!’ she shouts.

  Half the women swarm through the door. The other half are still joyfully trashing the room. Weeks of frustration and grief rent chairs from the ground, free metal legs from seats.

  ‘What do we do?’ Ness asks.

  ‘I can’t believe they locked us in.’

  A woman, her face twisted with rage, holds a lighter to the posters on the wall. They smoulder, then flare, the flames climbing the artwork and streamers like tiny red monkeys.

  ‘Oh my god,’ says Ness.

  Someo
ne screams. The flames lick the polystyrene ceiling tiles. Flicker. Flicker. I daren’t breathe. Then they ignite. Black smoke billows down. Thoughts of Grenfell Tower flash through my mind. This place is government-owned. Last renovated god knows when. For god knows how little money. No one wants to spend money on prisoners, do they?

  One of the tiles breaks free and floats down, a balloon of flames. The woman with the lighter still in her hand begins to cough.

  What have you done?

  Then everyone is screaming.

  The cushions of the tethered chairs light like tiki torches.

  There’s only one way out. Ness’s fingers are rigid, cold in my hand. We’re running. Arms over mouths.

  Pandemonium blocks the doorway, as women pull frantically at each other, swing punches to get out.

  ‘Go, go, go!’ I scream as more flaming tiles fall.

  Rhianna’s mum has the chair Annie broke free and is throwing it up again and again at the windows. I drop Ness’s hand. Run for her.

  ‘The bars!’ I shout. ‘You can’t get out that way.’

  ‘I got to get out!’ Her face a horror-film still.

  The glass shatters above us, and oxygen pours into the room. The flames lurch toward us. The heat builds. It takes minutes. Minutes.

  Get out.

  Gould is nowhere to be seen. Long gone with her goons back to the wing. And what will happen there? I’ve seen prison riots on the news. The realisation catches me fresh in the chest as I cough. This is a riot. We are in a prison riot. Why is no one coming? Why have they not opened up the other door?

  Looking behind me, the flames curl around the wall, as the felt pinboards burn. There’s no way out that way.

  Ness runs at the pile of people in front of the door.

  ‘Calm down,’ she barks. ‘One at a time. One at a time or we all fucking die.’ Her voice carries over them all.

  People aren’t listening though. She begins pulling back those who are pushing forward, those who are bottlenecking the door. It seems to work. The pressure on the front end gives, and four or five women disappear through.

  Rhianna’s mum throws herself at the wall, clawing with her hands, trying to gain purchase to get to the window. It is never going to work. She’s stuck in a broken, desperate pattern, a misfire in her fight-or-flight biology.