by Jane Corry
72
December 2017
Alison
The routine here is strangely soothing. I like being told what to do. It means I don’t have to make decisions for myself. In fact, I’ve become even more fanatical about my toilet duties. The staff say they’ve never seen them look so nice.
Last week, someone left faeces on the floor.
I suspect it was the woman who wanted to be more than friends with me. ‘I’m straight,’ I’d explained when she tried to get in the shower with me but she’d clearly been livid. Hence the poo.
So I carefully lifted the turd with a sheet of loo paper and gave it to Angela, who was on kitchen duties, and she put it on the woman’s plate for Christmas lunch. Angela got sent to Solitary for that but she didn’t split. Like she said, she owed me one for the stationery cupboard. And more.
Prison life works like that. You do something for someone, they do something for you. Even if it takes years. I’m learning the rules of the game.
After Lead Man’s visit, I earned a certain amount of kudos. Not because he’s undeniably good looking. But because I told him to leave.
The poo incident sealed this. Even though Angela hadn’t given me away, the woman with the gruff voice knew I was behind it. For once I’m learning to stand up for myself.
No, I tell myself, as I chuck the visiting request forms. I won’t see Robin. I won’t appeal.
I don’t even want to see Mum out of guilt. But her last letter had begged me to allow her to visit.
Eventually, I give in. It is Christmas, after all.
When I am led into the visiting room, I spot her immediately waiting at one of the tables. My first thought is that she is thinner. Mum stands up to give me a warm hug – under close scrutiny from one of the women guards nearby – but I force myself to turn away. How I want to breathe her in! Yet, at the same time, I know I don’t deserve it.
Instead, I sit down and appraise her. There is a certain jauntiness about her which is new.
‘Your sister liked the card you sent.’
Her voice is nervous after my rebuff.
I did that in our arts-and-crafts lesson. It’s run by a well-meaning woman who draws sticks for figures. Yet I don’t tell Mum that. If I say too much, I might break down.
My mother tries again. ‘Johnny’s filing for divorce. He wants to get married to someone else.’
My nails start to bite into the heel of my hand. My poor sister.
‘She’s living with me now. You’ll have gathered that from my letters. It’s lovely having a baby around.’
So that explains the jauntiness.
‘But your sister … well, she blows hot and cold with little Vanessa. I think she’s out of her depth. It’s hard enough for any new mum but Kitty – well, she just doesn’t know how to cope.’
What does she want me to say? It’s not like I can do anything to help while I’m in here.
‘There’s something else too.’
Mum is like that detective on TV. The one who seems to finish a conversation but then poses a killer question or statement just as he’s about to leave.
‘The neurologist at the hospital thinks Kitty might be suitable for a different assistive communication device from the States. It’s had success with patients who didn’t respond to the previous prototypes. Apparently, the person with brain damage looks at an image and the machine comes out with a sentence that describes his or her feelings about the picture. It sounds unbelievable but it’s getting great results.’
Mum’s voice is becoming even more excited. ‘There was this teenage girl who was knocked off her bike by a van and hasn’t been able to speak for years. But she looked at a picture of her parents on the screen and said that she loved them. Isn’t that amazing! There are loads of stories like that – or so I’m told. In fact –’
‘Who do you love best?’ I hear myself say.
‘What do you mean?’
‘Before … before the accident, you always told me that I was special because I was the eldest. But one night I heard you telling Kitty that she was special because she was the youngest.’
My mother’s eyes are moist. Guilty. ‘Darling, all mothers love their children in different ways. It’s true there is something special about the eldest. And the youngest too. But that doesn’t mean that I love either of you more than the other. One day, when you have children yourself, you’ll realize that.’
‘How am I ever going to have children?’ My voice rises with fury. ‘I’m in prison. When I get out, I’ll probably be too old – and anyway, no one will want me. Not with my history.’
‘That’s not necessarily true, love. Don’t you think I blame myself too for letting Kitty be so spoilt? If she hadn’t, you might not have … well … you know …’ Mum looks at me pleadingly.
After she’s gone, I go into the toilets and move the loose tile behind one of the loos. It’s still there. The toothbrush I have melted down thanks to a box of matches which Angela found me. (‘Don’t ask how I got it, love. Just take it.’) Bit by bit, I have shaped the end of the toothbrush so it is nice and sharp.
Then I cut myself. A nice clean score line. Not enough to do real damage. But enough to make my skin sing with pain.
It’s the least I can do. Especially after what Mum has told me.
Because if this machine works and Kitty ‘talks’, the real truth will be out.
73
January 2018
Kitty
The new machine was an advanced version of her picture board, apparently. Or so Dr White had explained. ‘Some people find it works better when there is an external stimulus such as a picture of a familiar object or a photograph. We’ve incorporated a screen that can display personal images or videos from a flash drive. So, for example, we might show a picture of someone you know and your brain will be able to say what you think of that person.’
She laughed. ‘We had one little boy who – when a picture of his mum came up – said that she talked too much and that it gave him a headache! So we must all prepare ourselves for some home truths!’
Kitty had wet herself with fear. There was so much pee that it went straight through her pad.
‘Sometimes,’ the doctor had continued, ‘pregnancy and birth can stimulate the brain. Your mother says you’ve been faster with the picture board than usual since your baby. Do you think you can remember more things now, Kitty?’
Nod your head, she told herself fiercely. Then it might go from side to side.
Yes! She made it say a No!
‘That’s not always very reliable,’ said Friday Mum.
‘Never mind,’ Dr White had said. ‘It’s definitely worth a go.’
They didn’t have to wait long for the appointment. ‘Johnny’s family are still paying,’ said Friday Mum, sniffing. ‘Feeling guilty, as well they might. After all, Kitty is their grandchild’s mother.’
The only good thing was that it meant a whole day away from little Vanessa’s screams. One of Friday Mum’s neighbours was going to look after her. Ever since they’d left the hospital and moved into Friday Mum’s little cottage, Kitty had been finding the baby more and more annoying. She thought her daughter was quite sweet when she was asleep. But when she woke, all she did was yell. And there weren’t any nurses to come and take her away. Only her and Friday Mum. So a day out would be good. Rather like the trips they used to have from the home. Except that she had to be careful when she saw those pictures. Very careful.
The special van which Call Me Jeannie had bought when Kitty and Johnny married was coming to get her. It had arrived now. Up the ramp. ‘Here we go. Isn’t this fun!’
Why did everyone always treat her like a fucking child?
There was something else too that was nagging away in her head. Where exactly was Half a Sister Ali? Was she all right?
Dr White from the hospital was there. She had a very wide mouth that sang as it spoke. She also talked as if Kitty was a real person. ‘Did you have a good j
ourney? How is your lovely little baby? Do you like living with your mother by the sea now?’
But she didn’t seem to expect any answers. She talked while someone else wheeled her in front of this really cool machine that looked like a portable TV. Perhaps they were going to watch EastEnders. This time she didn’t have to take off her helmet, thank goodness.
‘I know you used to play the violin,’ said the doctor brightly. ‘So I thought we’d start with this.’
A picture of a violin flashed up in front of her.
Surprised, Kitty banged her good hand against her chair. She’d hated playing that fucking violin.
‘She does that sometimes,’ said Friday Mum. ‘Usually when she’s cross.’
‘Violin fuck off.’
Bloody hell, where had that voice come from? It didn’t sound like her. It was all tinny and like a robot. But it said what was in her head all right.
‘Kitty!’ Friday Mum’s voice was horrified.
But Dr White laughed. ‘It’s all right. We see this all the time with brain injuries. Swearing is quite common. So is the rather odd grammar. Over time, the thought-recognition software will learn Kitty’s brain patterns and reproduce her thoughts more accurately.’ She returned her attention to her patient. ‘OK, Kitty, so you hated the violin. What about this?’
There was a picture of a shop with nice clothes in the window. How she wished she could wear them rather than the horrible baggy tops and trousers they put her in. ‘Pretty clothes. Mmmmmm. My clothes crap.’
‘Kitty!’ said Friday Mum again. ‘I mean … well, it’s amazing to hear you talk but you’re so … so different. And you sound so … aware, considering … well, considering the damage.’
‘This can happen.’ The doctor was clearly excited. ‘Many people with brain injuries are lucid at times and not at others. Each person is different. What about this little girl in the next picture, Kitty? Do you recognize her?’
Of course she did. ‘Me! It’s me!’ Kitty began to feel her heart racing as the tinny voice jumped out of her mouth. ‘School.’
‘You’re wearing your uniform, yes. Very good. And who are you with in this picture?’
‘Half a Sister.’
‘I’m sorry?’
‘It’s my other daughter,’ butted in Friday Mum. She gave a strange laugh. ‘I didn’t realize Kitty thought of Alison as “half a sister”.’
Kitty looked closer. Something wasn’t right here. That thing round her neck. Her locket. Another flash of memory.
‘Stole it!’ Kitty banged her arm on the chair. ‘My locket. Glass box.’ Half a Sister had been wearing it.
Mum frowned. ‘What glass box, love? It’s true that after your accident they said it wasn’t safe for you to wear things round your neck in case it got caught up. So I gave it to Alison. I thought it would be nice for her to have something of yours.’
Well, now she fucking wanted it back. She banged the side of her chair again. ‘Mine! Mine! Get it!’
‘The prison has got it now, darling.’ Friday Mum sounded as though she was trying to hold back tears. ‘They’ll give it back when she’s … if she’s …’
Then she stopped. Dr White gave a laugh. It sounded slightly nervous. ‘Amazing, isn’t it, to hear what someone is really thinking? Let’s get on, shall we? What about this person in the photograph? Who is she, Kitty?’
A girl with long blonde hair smirked at her. She was wearing a locket round her neck. Just like hers. ‘Vanessa,’ said the voice.
‘Very good. You were best friends, weren’t you?’
‘Yes. No. Sometimes.’
Kitty had a sudden flashback. Someone else coming closer to her. A long time ago. Someone who was angry. Very angry.
Vanessa. On the way to school on the day of the concert.
‘Jealous of Ali. Wanted to be my sister. Made me spill the coffee.’
Friday Mum looked confused.
Dr White glanced at Friday Mum. Kitty could suddenly feel an air of tension. ‘Shall I go on?’
‘I suppose so. Except that she hasn’t seen him for a long time. And when she does, he always seems to upset her.’
Him? Who’s him?
‘I’d like to try, if you don’t mind. There could be a reason for that. It might help unblock the rest of her memories.’
And then a photograph of Flabby Face jumped up in front of a pretty little girl with blonde plaits on the screen. He was holding her hand and smiling. There was an older girl too, standing a little further away. They were both wearing school uniform. Kitty’s arm thumped the side of her chair again. ‘Fuck. No. Fuck off. Take him fuck off.’
‘It’s all right, Kitty,’ said Friday Mum, wrapping her arms around her.
‘Can you say why you don’t like your father?’ said the doctor.
‘His fault.’
‘What was his fault?’
‘Ali’s dad. He told. His fault.’
‘What do you mean, Kitty?’
Don’t say, Kitty told herself fiercely. Don’t let the machine bully you.
‘You know.’ She pushed Friday Mum away with her good hand. ‘You bloody know.’
‘Stop.’ Friday Mum was crying. ‘I don’t want her to do this any more. She’s too upset. Turn it off.’
It was Flabby Face’s picture that did it.
Brought it all back.
Squeaky-clean school shoes.
Shoulder bags bobbing.
Blonde plaits flapping.
Three pairs of feet.
‘Don’t you dare!’
She pushes me.
I push her.
The earth spins.
A scream.
‘Don’t die. Don’t die.’
A silence.
Blood.
My sister Ali. Vanessa. Crispin’s car.
Shit. Now I remember.
Everything.
I just can’t tell.
74
February 2018
Alison
I expect to be moved to Solitary after they find the toothbrush and the marks on my arms. But instead they bring in Sarah Holliday. She’s the new psychologist. We have a couple of sessions together in what’s known as the ‘psycho room’. It’s got a squashy dark-purple sofa and watercolours on the wall. ‘Meant to make you feel safe,’ warns Angela. ‘But remember what I told you. You don’t trust anyone in this place.’
At first, Sarah and I talk about ordinary stuff. What it feels like to be in prison. The food. Whether I am sleeping. And then, one morning, she suddenly takes me by surprise.
‘Why do you feel the need to hurt yourself?’ she asks.
‘Because of me, two people died and I nearly killed my sister.’
She doesn’t flinch. ‘It wasn’t just your fault, you know. I’ve read the notes. The car was going too fast.’
Sarah puts down her pen. ‘Do you hate Kitty?’
‘No! I’d do anything for her. All I want is for her to love me. To be a proper sister.’
The words escape through my mouth before I can take them back.
Sarah looks at me for a very long time. ‘That’s interesting,’ she says. ‘And how would you define a proper sister?’
‘She’s always there for you,’ I say. ‘You’re best friends. You can depend on her whatever happens. And she’ll help you when you’re in trouble.’
Sarah goes very quiet. ‘Let’s hold that thought until the next session, shall we?’
I’m on the gardening team now. Bliss! It means I get out in the air. Never had I thought I’d get so much pleasure from planting spinach and purple sprouting broccoli.
Then I get a note through internal mail. Sarah wants to see me again.
She’s got a new poster on the wall. It’s purple with TRUTH written at the top and PEACE at the bottom. In the middle is a picture of a woman smiling.
‘I’d like to talk more about your family,’ she says.
So we sit and chat on her sofa with tea (real cups instead of plastic)
and wafer biscuits. We talk about what it was like to lose a father. To be really close to your mother. To protect her even though you’re only young yourself and then lose her to a man who takes your place. To be jealous of your mother’s new baby. To love your sister – even a half-sister – but feel rejected when she pushes you away. To forgive her when she’s nice for a bit. Even forget how nasty she’s been. And then get horribly hurt when it starts all over again.
‘Older sisters are meant to boss younger sisters around,’ I say. ‘Not the other way round.’
‘How did you feel when Kitty bossed you about?’
‘Stupid. And embarrassed. Also angry.’
‘Who with?’
‘David.’ I hesitate. ‘Mum too.’
‘But you’ve always told me you have a close relationship with her.’
‘I do. But you can love someone and be angry with them. It’s how I felt about my sister as well.’
‘Do you think she felt the same way?’
I nod. ‘It’s why it happened.’
‘What happened, Alison?’
I stand up. ‘I don’t want to discuss this any more.’
The following week, I go into Sarah’s room. It’s in my wing and I’m allowed now to make my own way there. After our last conversation, I almost cancelled our appointment. But I need to talk to her about Stefan. The man I’m slowly learning to think of as my father. He’s been troubling me in my dreams.
‘Come on in,’ she says when I tap on the door.
And then I stop.
My mother is sitting there. So is my barrister.
And so is Kitty.
75
February 2018
Kitty
Kitty had a bad feeling about this. Especially after that bloody machine had brought back the memories.
‘We’re going to visit your sister.’ That’s what Friday Mum had said. But she didn’t seem like she wanted to. ‘The people looking after her think that it might be a good idea,’ she’d added.