SHADOWS OF REGRET: If your life was ruined, would you seek redemption or take revenge?

by Ross Greenwood

3

  Holding Cell

  Rada surprises me by appearing in front of me. It’s so unexpected that I jump a little in my seat. I’ve been so away with the past that her movements went unnoticed. I don’t let people creep up on me. Radar, or Rada, as I guess I should call her now, maintains eye contact, and I see her pale green eyes for the first time.

  ‘You leave today?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘Me, too. I am pleased. This is bad hotel.’

  I uncross my legs and smile. Comments like that have kept me sane in here. It’s easy to change someone’s day if you try. ‘You’re telling me. My room was freezing, and the towels were very hard.’

  ‘The menu was poor also, but hotels like this back in Ukraine much worse. Sometimes no food.’

  ‘Were the other guests as badly behaved?’

  ‘Yes, rude people. Extremely noisy. Steal fork out of your mouth while eating.’

  This time we both laugh. It’s a necessary release. I keep the conversation going. ‘I liked the gym.’

  It was the only place that made sense. You could train your body, improve it, and you never finished. There was always a new target. Obviously, girls messed around, but most treated it the same. There was an atmosphere of kinship. You could have conversations without negative implications. It was where I learned to become human again.

  She sits beside me. ‘Are you also scared?’

  ‘Yes.’ I’ve never admitted that to anyone, but we are alone.

  ‘I am the same.’

  We sit in peace for many minutes. There’s no clock and neither of us have a watch. She tenses before forcing herself to talk. ‘I want to tell you something. I need to explain properly what happened to one person here. Then, someone at least won’t imagine the worst.’

  A conversation like this isn’t needed today, so I attempt a joke. ‘I think they prefer you to confess on the way in.’

  Rada doesn’t reply.

  ‘Why me?’

  ‘Because you have been here longer than I have. And something dreadful must have happened to you too.’

  ‘Go on then. Explain away.’

  She takes an enormous breath. ‘I killed my daughter.’

  ‘I know.’

  She doesn’t break stride. It’s as if she’s reciting a well-practised speech. ‘I arrive in your country after terrible experiences, and have many more afterwards. I end up pregnant, and it gives me strength to escape. They put me in a hostel for broken women but forget to fix me. I return to heroin even though I take methadone. I keep my methadone in an unsafe bottle. My daughter drink it and it stopped her heart.’

  Time stalls between us.

  Rada’s haunted, tearful grimace shows her mind has returned to the moment she found the body.

  My hand raises to reach hers, but you’re careful who you touch here, and I place it back on my lap. There are few appropriate words. I don’t have any of them. All I have is honesty. She shudders and I let her whimpers subside before I reply. ‘I know. I think everyone did.’

  ‘Then why were you not rude like the others?’

  ‘Because it was an accident.’

  ‘How can something so evil be a mistake?’

  ‘There are worse things. Believe me.’

  She rises and sits back in the corner but continues to talk. ‘You saved my life.’

  ‘Really, how?’

  ‘They had me cornered in the laundry room. One had a home-made knife. Someone knocked on the door many times and worried them. They left because of it. I followed and saw it was you.’

  ‘Perhaps I was the lookout.’

  She grins and wipes away the last tear. ‘I do not think so.’ The smile stays on her face. ‘You have a place to go now?’

  ‘Yes, they don’t let prisoners like me just leave.’

  ‘Peterborough?’

  ‘Cambridge.’

  ‘Is it close? Will you come back here?’

  ‘Cambridge is an hour away. I grew up in Peterborough, but I doubt I’ll return. I only want to think about today, or the future overwhelms me.’

  Those feelings are hers too, and she returns to my side. Her hand was in her coat all this time. Does she have a weapon? She slowly removes it.

  ‘Here, take this. If you need to, find me. Then you can tell me the real reason why you were here.’ She hands me a small folded note which I accept, feel how worn it is, but don’t read.

  ‘Why?’ I ask.

  ‘Your shadow is heavier than mine. I have a sense we’ll see each other again. I hope so. Sometimes, you smiled as you walked past, and I would keep those smiles with me. I’d like to help if I can.’

  I can’t remember being that person. Perhaps I wandered around with an inane grin on my face all the time. I open the piece of paper. The message says: Polish Porsche Garage, Fengate.

  ‘Are you going to be a mechanic?’

  She giggles and I catch a glimpse of an innocent child long missing.

  ‘I hope not. No, a friend runs the business. He’ll support me.’ She takes my wrist and closes my fingers around the note. ‘Keep it. I will remember. I looked at that writing for four years. It gave me a reason to continue. We both still have lives to live.’

  This time she stays next to me. I rest the paper on my leg, then place it in my pocket for safekeeping, and finally hold her hand. It seems natural and we sit quietly.

  My thoughts focus on her words. Do I have a life left? It felt like mine was over before it began. When they sentenced me, I understood so little of the world. I hadn’t been in a taxi or on a plane. In fact, I had barely been out of the county, never mind the country. Back then though, I wasn’t aware people remembered their first sip of champagne, and I didn’t know love. Well, not the kind I’ve since seen in films or listened to on the radio. I think I want those experiences, even for a while, or maybe just once.

  A female officer opens the door and shouts, ‘Radar.’

  Rada stands and grins.

  ‘It is good that we sit here. It’s lucky before a long trip.’

  ‘I’m only catching the train to Cambridge.’

  ‘Perhaps in this case it’s a spiritual journey.’

  ‘You’re actually very talkative now you are about to leave.’

  ‘Don’t give in, Katie. Best of luck.’

  I watch her disappear and send her off with a small prayer. On my own, I’m lonelier and more afraid. My hand checks the paper she gave me is still there. The same officer returns.

  ‘Time’s up, so let’s get going before we change our minds.’

  Her joke adds to my worries. That thought had crowded my dreams.

  I carry my things to the final desk and sign for my discharge grant — £46 — and the £85 I’ve saved. It seems a lot, all folded up in an envelope. Television has taught me it isn’t. They pass me a warrant to exchange for a ticket at the railway station. The reception gates bang shut behind me and I’m marched to the visitors’ entrance from where we depart. I encourage my trembling heart to stay strong and pray my legs don’t fail.

  I step through more doors and see the exit.

  A last officer bars my way. She is from resettlement and wants the best for those who leave. ‘Do you know the directions to where you’re going, Katie? Are you okay?’

  ‘The railway station, please. I’d just like to get out of here.’

  ‘There’s a taxi outside.’

  I’m confused. ‘It’s fine, I’ll walk.’

  Now she smiles. ‘We pay for the taxi, sweetie. Go to the station, hand them your warrant and catch the next service to Cambridge. The house is only a few hundred metres from there. Here’s my number. Ring me for anything. Anything, Katie.’

  I force a grin after she puts the small card in my box, but there’s too much noise in my head. My life resumes now because it has been suspended. I step towards an uncertain future.

  4

  Discharged

  I’m not sure what to expect when I stride from the jail — a drama
or a thunderclap — but nothing happens. It’s cold and miserable, and that’s appropriate. The sun went down on my life long ago. Of course, there’s no family to meet me. To my surprise, I think of Tommy and wonder where he is. Looking around at the stark buildings, I consider my earlier words to Grant and decide I was wrong. If I got sent back, I’d kill myself.

  I realise I don’t know where the car park is. The officer is still peering through the glass at me. She pushes open the door, points and shouts.

  ‘The taxi is that way. A-2-B. He knows what he’s doing.’

  A sea of vehicles greets me and one flashes its lights. I was expecting a black cab. The drizzle picks up as I approach the saloon. This rain is different. As though each splash on my forehead washes away a piece of the prisoner I became.

  A short old man with a bald head gets out of his car and puts his newspaper above him.

  ‘Come on, luv. Stick your stuff in the boot quick, or I’ll catch my death.’

  Honed instincts tell me to keep my things beside me in the car. I realise straightaway that I need to start again. Maybe in this world if you put something down, someone won’t steal it. He grins at me — it’s a look of relaxed pleasure. He chooses to be happy, and I must do the same. I sense no malice or agenda.

  Prison taught me almost everything I know. I passed my English and Maths exams before I arrived there but improved my grades over the years. I chanted Spanish in my cell and learned computing in the technology room. There were business studies classes, programming, and creative writing. I started many and persevered despite them making little sense. My head struggled with the concept of the wider world. That’s not surprising if you’ve been in jail since you were eighteen.

  What do youngsters know of how everything works? Have they divorced, been made redundant, cared for sick children or relatives, fought for school places, coped with a serious illness, or buried their parents? Generally, of course not. I attended a rough comprehensive where the main motivation of the teachers was to make sure everyone arrived and departed in the same condition. There were few field trips and no work experience placements.

  As for comprehending budgeting and advertising? Those things aren’t needed when pool balls enter pillow cases and sharpened broom handles appear from beneath beds. I can smell bullshit from three wings away and spot liars in seconds. I experienced little of joy and commitment and less of innocence, patience and understanding.

  ‘Sit in the front if you want.’

  I believed I’d have to walk to the station, and an unexpected rising tide of excitement lifts my cheeks. Conscious of false dawns, I double-check.

  ‘This is a free ride?’

  He gets in and chuckles. ‘Free to you. I hope the prison will pay me for my efforts. Is it your first day out for a while?’

  ‘Yes. Well, in a car. I had a few trips in the meat wagons.’

  He reverses out of his space and drives away. I can’t stop myself turning around in my seat to watch the gate house through the back window recede into the distance. My spirit soars of its own accord.

  The driver laughs again. ‘I’ve been doing this for years. I love observing youngsters’ faces when they get out. They’re often the same. Excited and hopeful.’

  ‘Is thirty-four still young?’

  ‘It is. Hell, fifty-four is young to me.’

  I notice the car’s interior for the first time. The instrument panel looks strange yet familiar. Cars weren’t like this when I was little, and they were noisier. However, the media kept me up to date. It’s a weightless sensation to understand the world second-hand. As we progress, the roads are full of similar flashy vehicles. My spirit descends, and my nerves return.

  ‘You been in for much of a stretch?’

  ‘Sixteen years, a bit more.’

  It’s an impulse response because inside a long sentence is kudos. Outside, the driver stiffens beside me. He’ll know you don’t get bird like that for white-collar crimes and he’s uncomfortable. He glances down at my hands and looks away from the prison tattoos. We continue in silence.

  I’ve been to railway stations before but never on my own. It’s busy, really busy. My lips purse at the streams of people.

  He pulls into a bay marked for taxis and gets out. I take a deep breath, and another. Normal folk do this every day, it isn’t a big deal.

  By the time I’m standing next to him, he has my box on the floor and the bag in his hand.

  ‘I guess this must be pretty daunting for you.’

  ‘A little.’

  ‘You want me to come in, help exchange the warrant for your ticket, and point out where to wait for your train?’

  Fighting back tears, I simply nod. I love the resilience of old people. Don’t they care what others think? Perhaps experience has taught them the worst you imagine is unlikely to occur, so it’s best to just get on with it. I grab my box and shuffle after him. It’s crazy. The sensation is identical to the long walk down the young offenders’ wing when I first arrived all those years ago. I kept close to the man showing me the way that day, too.

  I look nobody in the face. Focus on his back. He tells me rush hour is nearly over, and we go straight to the front at a desk. The teenage assistant passes my ticket to the taxi driver but she can’t resist a sneaky glance at me. We both shift our eyes away when they meet.

  ‘Watch that screen. There’s your train. The 10:18. Get on that one and you won’t have to change. Platform four, over the concourse. Relax, you have plenty of time. Don’t be afraid to ask someone if you’re not sure. Got it?’

  It’s too much information. I know he’s going to leave when I reply, so I say nothing…

  He considers giving me a hug. His feet shuffle, but instead he places the bag he carries next to my trainers. ‘Good luck.’

  Getting through the barriers is a disaster as my coat gets caught when I lift over my box, but someone releases it with a cautious smile. Head down, I make it to my platform and stand apart from the others. My breathing slows. I could do with a cigarette but gave my tobacco away to the needy I left behind. There’s twenty-five minutes to my train, but I daren’t leave to buy more.

  The platform opposite fills up fast with busy unfamiliar people. Where did all these suited types come from and to where do they rush? There are ladies who must be models in towering heels and skin-tight trousers. Clothes are different now. Hairstyles, too. Even amongst all this madness, I stick out. There are few females with loose jeans, and less without make-up. No one wears a zip-up tracksuit top like mine.

  A sleek train whisks them away to London and my platform fills. I’m left alone as if there’s an exclusion zone around me. Can they see what I’ve done? It probably doesn’t register that my clothes shout prison, but they are aware I’m different. An unkempt man with a scruffy dog stands near me. Our eyes meet and he winks. We are the same, him and me. To everyone else, we are invisible.

  My pulse quickens as the large clock ticks down. They announce the Cambridge service and in it glides. The reflection of a nervous, pasty woman with mid-length mousey hair flickers past. I board last and am relieved to find the carriage is only half-full. I sit on my own in a window seat and allow my scowl to lift — mission accomplished. Out of jail for less than an hour and I’ve negotiated a taxi ride and a train journey.

  It’s easy to focus on the negatives, so I resolve to change. Distant memories surface, and I recall there were happier times after the devastating day I lost my parents. I sink into my seat and remember a little girl at Christmas.

  5

  The Second Memory - Age Seven

  When I moved, plastic crinkled. I didn’t want to get out of bed and look as I had no idea of the time. Gwyn and Jack reckoned if you saw Father Christmas when he was delivering presents, he'd feed you to his reindeer. Someone had explained what drunk meant, so I suspected they were joking. Fate had made me cautious, though, and he might have been telling the truth.

  The darkness faded, so I knew it must be morni
ng. I held my breath as I slipped from the sheets, and eased on the light switch. Blinking, I scanned the bottom of the bed, but there was only another white pillow there.

  Stifling a snigger, I noticed my name written on it in messy pen: To Katie, love Santa. I stroked it. Every touch of my hand caused the pillow to crackle. I saw bright colours underneath thin cotton and then I laughed as I thought of who I was being quiet for.

  I tipped the contents out and marvelled at them. The selection box triggered nostalgia but of exactly when was out of my reach. It’s strange, but I couldn’t remember the next Christmas after I was left alone, or the following birthday. Although knowing who I lived with, they may have just forgotten.

  After a few minutes of placing everything side-by-side, I admired my stash. There were toys and games and more sweets. I was tempted to eat them, but if they were all I was going to get, I would savour them.

  I’d ended up calling my aunt and uncle by their first names. I barely knew Gwyn anyway, and Jack said uncle made him sound old. Jack had been different recently, like he’d emerged from a fog. He blackmailed me with ‘Santa’s watching’ every chance he got. I owned the cleanest teeth in England.

  When I stepped from my room, his echoing snores engulfed me. I poked my head around his door and he lay clothed and spread-eagled on the bed. As always, I considered going in, but it was as if a loud voice prevented me, saying he’s not your father.

  I trotted down the stairs and heard Gwyn’s rattling gasps as I edged into the lounge. She had slumped down in her usual chair with the oxygen mask around her chin. The Christmas tree lights glittered in the cold smoky air. And there were presents. Lots of them, and a special one.

  Trust Jack to have wrapped every single part of a bicycle. It must have taken him ages. I almost dared not touch it in case it vanished.

  I stifled a sob as my brain created an image of my brother, Billy, helping me to sort the gifts into piles. I pictured him as a small boy with messy hair, but he was only a baby when he died in his basket alongside my parents. I’m unsure why my mind dragged those images in as he’d disappeared from my thoughts. Maybe recognising his loss as well would have been the final blow that defeated me.