by John Nicholl
Why do I find myself in solitary in the first place? It’s a fair question that deserves an honest answer. I was seriously considering glossing over the reason for a time, but after an hour or two’s soul-searching, I decided to come clean. If I started censoring my writing, what would be the point of continuing? That’s a rhetorical question by the way. Honesty is everything. I would make one plea, however, before throwing myself at your mercy. I implore you to take my exceptional circumstances into consideration when judging my actions. Picture the worst of childhood bullying, the vilification of weakness or dissimilarity, and then magnify it a hundredfold in your mind. Picture it and inhabit that reality. That may give you a flavour of how unpleasant life here can become for those who choose not to, or are unable to stand their ground when such a response is demanded. It’s survival of the fittest in prison world. Sink or swim. Do or die. I don’t think that’s overdramatising the case.
Right! I’ve set the scene as best I can. My statement of mitigation is at an end, for what it’s worth. And so I’ll tell you what happened in my own words, no holds barred, as I said previously.
At about 8:15 p.m. on Thursday evening, I was lying on my bottom bunk trying to relax, when Sheila leant down from above with her greasy brown hair dangling around her face, angry, sullen and hating everything and everyone. She demanded some toothpaste. Not in the spirit of mutual sharing; she didn’t ask without expectation, as Gloria would have. She demanded in that hateful way of hers: ‘Where’s your fucking toothpaste, bitch?’ Bitch! Now that’s a label I detest with a blazing intensity. Bitch! It resonates from the past like no other word. I’ve heard that withering label a thousand times or more and hoped never to again.
I lay there unmoving at first, frozen on the unforgiving mattress by my fear and indecision, hoping the moment would pass quickly. I tried to placate her, I tried to reason with the unreasonable, I tried to diffuse the tension as best I could. And it’s something I’m good at. I’ve had a great deal of practice, after all. But she just smiled sardonically, and fed on my weakness as he used to in that sadistic, patronising way of his, and I hated her for it.
Sheila lowered herself to the grey floor with a manufactured sigh, and stared at me with unblinking eyes, relishing her perceived dominance. I looked down, avoiding her gleeful gaze, expecting the situation to deteriorate at any second, but desperately hoping it wouldn’t. And it did, it really did, in an explosion of hostility. She bent forwards at the waist, and reached towards me with her filthy, jagged fingernails, clutching the front of my powder-blue blouse six inches or so below its lace collar. I was startled, and urgently pulled away towards the cell wall at the very edge of my mattress, but she tightened her steely grip with those bony hands of hers and dragged me off the bunk and onto the cold hard floor, which I hit with a painful dull thud as a stab of pain exploded in my coccyx. She suddenly released her grip, stood upright and loomed over me, menacing, threatening, spiteful and triumphant. ‘Toothpaste, bitch! Now!’
I decided, when I first arrived in prison world, never to be a victim again, if there was anything at all I could do to prevent it. A personal promise I fully intended to keep to the very best of my ability. I’d already been victim enough for one lifetime. I did anything and everything to please that man. The monster! I strove to meet his every whim to the umpteenth degree. But nothing worked. Nothing helped. Nothing was ever good enough. He never failed to identify my failings, and punish them, again and again and again. Never again! His profile appeared before me as Sheila’s face distorted and took on his features in my mind’s eye. Not this time, Cynthia, there’d be no running, not this time.
I grabbed her lower leg as she kicked out at me, lifted it sharply, causing her to lose her balance, stumble backwards, and collide with the wall directly behind her. I utilised the bedframe to lift myself unsteadily to my feet, very close to panic, sweating, and with tears running down my face, as her face took on an animalistic snarl of the type I’d seen many times before. I took a step or two backwards on unsteady legs, searching for the right words, desperate to appease her, with both hands held out in front of me in cautionary acknowledgement of her capacity for evil. ‘There’s no need for this, Sheila. Surely we can talk like reasonable people. There’s no need for violence.’
And then she stopped, rather than hurl herself at me as I’d expected. I thought for a glorious irrational second or two that reason had prevailed. But then, she stared at me with a dismissive sneer, turned and looked pointedly at my photos, proudly displayed on the cell wall next to the bunk, reached out with those filthy fingers of hers, peeled off my favourite photo of my beautiful daughters, and tore it into tiny pieces. She held it out in front of her at arm’s length, and tore it slowly and deliberately, obviously savouring the moment. The cow, the absolute cow! How dare she do such a thing?
As I stood, incredulous, horrified, with both distress and anger rising within me, she threw the pieces to the floor, cleared her throat, spat on them, and ground them into the concrete with the sole of her shoe.
And then it happened. I lost control, leapt forwards and bit her. I lunged at her with all the speed and power I could muster, sank my front teeth deep into her right tricep, and worried at the flesh like a dog gnawing at a favourite bone. I didn’t enjoy it, I want to make that perfectly clear. I didn’t like the salty taste of her blood in my mouth, or the metallic stink of it in my nostrils. It was a far from pleasant experience. The assault was born of enforced necessity, rather than pleasure, an instinctive reaction to extreme adversity. Winning or losing can be the difference between life and death in this dog-eat-dog world of ours. I actually considered snapping at her face and biting her nose, very briefly. What an awful thought. But I stopped myself. I took control, and I’m proud of myself for that. None of us truly know what we’re capable of, until faced with life’s extremes. I found that out on the day that led me here. It’s fight or flight, and flight isn’t always possible. Don’t fight unless you have to, but if you have to, win. That’s my advice born of experience. Where do you run to when you’re locked in a cell with your antagonist or in a cellar deep below your home? And so please, don’t be too quick to judge. If anyone had told my student self what I would later do, I would have found it impossible to believe. You may learn similar painful lessons yourself, one fine day. That’s assuming you haven’t already, of course.
Sheila required twenty-two stitches, or at least that’s what I’ve been told by one of the long-serving guards, who actually seemed quite chuffed by what I’d done. I’m expecting a visit from the local police sometime soon, but that doesn’t really concern me a great deal, to be honest. What’s the worst they can do? I’m already locked up here. That’s not going to change. And Sheila’s not going to provide a statement or press charges, or anything as ill-advised as that. It’s not the done thing in prison world. Being a grass is considered the lowest of the low, and so she’ll keep her filthy mouth shut for fear of punishment by the mob. Of that I’m entirely confident. I’ll have to watch my back for a while, of course, but I don’t think she’ll be keeping my top bunk, borrowing my toothpaste or tearing up any more of my treasured photos anytime soon. Well, you wouldn’t, would you? The mouse has turned and become a roaring lioness again.
That’s it, enough said. I’m going to leave it there and beg your mercy. I’ve got nothing more to say on the matter. If the police do turn up, I may provide you with a brief update. But don’t hold your breath on my account. They’re busy people. It may well be a very long wait. I think I’m ready to write about Steven’s funeral now that I’ve got that unpleasantness out of the way, and so I very much hope that you’re ready to read on. I’ve given it a great deal of thought, and I need you to understand just how pivotal the events of that day were to the incessant downward spiral of my life that followed. It was a swirling whirlpool dragging me down, a black hole from which I could never hope to escape. But, of course, I didn’t know that at the time. I was focussed on my loss, and nothin
g more. That terrible realisation would come much later in my tale.
Steven’s mum and dad decided to hold the funeral service at the Pembrokeshire crematorium, in the green rolling hills near the small town of Narberth, just a few miles from our home, rather than transport his body back to the West Country of his birth. He’d told them he had grown to love Wales, and so it seemed appropriate. I was grateful for their decision.
It was early December by the time the legalities related to a suspicious death were finally concluded. The surprisingly temperate weather of the previous month had been replaced by freezing Siberian temperatures and a dusting of scenic snow that covered the countryside in a blanket of white, creating a beautiful chocolate-box vista that seemed at odds with the unrelenting solemnity of the day. The circle of life can be very hard to accept when you’re on the receiving end. Anyone who has faced the death of a loved one, will no doubt know exactly what I’m talking about. I wouldn’t wish it on my worst enemy.
We joined Steven’s mum, dad, younger sister, and maternal and paternal grandparents at their hotel at about 10:30 a.m. on the morning of the funeral. The grief was almost palpable as we stood together in a black-clad depressed huddle on the icy seafront pavement, as a gleaming black hearse, and a second funeral car I couldn’t identify, arrived to transport the immediate family to the crematorium. I clearly recall that my first sight of Steven’s light-oak coffin, adorned with polished brass handles and vibrant green and red winter wreaths, made a profound emotional impact on me, as if I were being told of his death for the first time. He was so very young, as was I, and death up close was extremely hard to bear.
I chose to accompany Mum and Dad on the short journey to the crematorium, after declining Steven senior’s offer for me to travel in the relatives’ car. I made an excuse to the effect that the car was already full, but in reality, I needed the constant support of my parents, and particularly my lovely mum, to navigate the entire dreadful experience.
There were about twenty people in the crematorium when I entered the room and sat at the front. Several of Steven’s university friends had made the trip from Cardiff, and I was grateful for that. He’d have wanted them there. I’m certain of that much. One suggested I join them that evening for a drink to honour Steven’s memory, but I politely declined. They were fond of him, I loved him dearly, and that’s a significant difference. It may seem harsh, but I didn’t want or need their company.
The service, which only lasted about half an hour or so, passed surprisingly quickly, with the usual inevitable mix of hymns, prayers, eulogies and tears, culminating in the coffin slowly disappearing through a red velvet curtain on automated rollers to the melodic sound of A Whiter Shade Of Pale, one of Steven’s favourite songs. Dad squeezed my hand as Steven made his final journey in this material world of ours, and reminded me that his spirit had long since moved on to a better place. I welcomed his well-intentioned words of reassurance at the time, and I still find comfort in the thought of an omnipotent creative life force and an afterlife to come. It has to be better than this one. I like to think that one day I’ll see Steven again, despite my conviction, and that we’ll continue where we left off. I think I hear his voice sometimes, whispering words of encouragement and timeless love in my ear. I’ve sought his advice more than once, before choosing my words carefully and committing them to paper for posterity. Does that sound ridiculous to you? I’m in no doubt that some of you will think so. Maybe it is absurd, or maybe it isn’t. At the end of the day, we live on a tiny rock travelling through space, with apparent infinity stretching in every conceivable direction. How much do we really know of reality? If we were as clever as we like to think we are, encyclopaedias wouldn’t be constantly revised, would they?
What on earth is wrong with me? I was telling you about the funeral before delving off in another direction. I really need to control my thoughts and focus if I’m to stay on track and get this finished within a reasonable timescale.
As I was leaving the service, and receiving various well-meaning words of regret from friends and relatives, a man I didn’t know approached me. His slightly greying black hair, neatly trimmed sideburns and gun-metal aviator glasses seemed strangely familiar somehow, but I couldn’t think why at the time. It was one of those slightly awkward moments when the other person clearly knows you, but you just can’t place them, however hard you try. I’m sure you know what I mean.
Anyway, he smiled engagingly, met my inquisitive gaze with piercing steel-blue eyes moist with tears, and said, ‘Please forgive my impertinence.’ He reached out a hand to shake mine gently, holding it for just a fraction of a second longer than was comfortable, and continued speaking in a soft, erudite South-of-England accent, that led me to conclude that he was privately educated. Isn’t it strange the things that cross our troubled minds at times of stress? Why on earth would I consider such inconsequences at such a moment? I can’t begin to explain it.
There I go again. I should simply have told you what he said and left it at that, rather than picturing the scene and magnifying it in my mind. I’ll try and be more succinct, but I can’t promise success. And maybe it doesn’t matter anyway, given the primary purpose of my discourse. Back to the story. For goodness’ sake, girl, get back to the story…
As I was saying a second or two ago, he smiled, and then said, ‘My name is Dr David Galbraith. I had the privilege of being one of Steven’s Psychology lecturers. He was a truly wonderful student, and more to the point, a wonderful person. But I don’t need to tell you that. I am so very sorry for your loss. If there is anything I can do to help facilitate your return to student life, please don’t hesitate to let me know.’ He placed a comforting hand on my right shoulder and smiled again, before turning and walking away.
I can remember thinking on first impression that he was a rather pleasant man, good-looking in a mature sort of way, and empathetic. Those had to be good things, but his use of the past tense when referring to Steven, distressed and angered me: ‘Steven was a wonderful student. Steven was a wonderful person.’ Was, was, was! Why did the word hit me so very hard? I’d just sat through his funeral. I’d stared at his coffin for almost forty toxic minutes, picturing him lying still, stiff and cold in his dark, satin-lined box. Why did a single word drive reality home so effectively when death was all around me?
I understand that the doctor’s offer of assistance was akin to something people say in such unfortunate circumstances, with absolutely no intention whatsoever of honouring their overture. But, and I can say this with absolute certainty, I gained the distinct impression that he was entirely sincere. I still can’t identify any single factor that gave me that unlikely impression, but sympathy and understanding appeared to ooze from his every pore. He was a complete stranger to me, and yet I felt instinctively that my wellbeing mattered to him, despite our unfamiliarity. I instantly believed he was one of those rare people who put the feelings of others ahead of their own. I fully appreciate that that’s a peculiar statement to make, particularly when he said so very little on our first meeting, but it’s undoubtedly true. I would happily swear to that on oath in any court in the land. Maybe I was overemotional at the time. Maybe I valued his status as Steven’s mentor. Maybe I was looking for comfort in what seemed a cruel world. But, whatever the reason, I welcomed his kind words, and thought he was the sort of man I would like as a friend, despite the glaring age gap between us. First impressions count. They’re often wrong, of course, but they count nonetheless. Steven once told me that psychological research suggests we take one-tenth of a second to form a first impression. That seems ridiculous when I think about it now. We reach them all too quickly to simplify our complex world. If only I’d taken more time.
9
Dad sat me down and spoke to me regarding my potential return to university on the morning after the funeral. He said, ‘Life has to go on,’ and argued passionately that Steven wouldn’t want me to give up my studies as a result of his leaving this world. Tired clich
és, I know, but he meant well, and it probably needed saying. If your loved ones can’t tell you what you need to hear, who can? I knew that Dad was correct on both counts, although I still think he would have been well advised to delay speaking to me for a few more days. It was far too soon for me to take what he said on board.
I fully appreciated that returning to Cardiff would have been the sensible thing to do, but I just couldn’t bring myself to do it, or at least not so very soon. After half an hour or more of talking and drinking seemingly endless mugs of sweet, black instant coffee, we reached a reluctant compromise that we could both live with. I would resume my studies sometime after the Christmas holiday. To be honest, the idea terrified me. Cardiff without Steven’s company wouldn’t be the happy place it had so recently been. His ghost would inevitably inhabit everywhere I went. I could all too easily have stayed at home indefinitely and hidden from the world. But, where would that have got me? Life had to go on.
Our preparations for Christmas were unusually muted, which I guess was inevitable given the circumstances. Mum and Dad made a half-hearted effort to go through the motions of turkey and all the trimmings, but what with my mourning and the painful reminders of Jack’s absence brought into sharp focus at a time of intended family reunion and celebration, our transparent lack of any real enthusiasm was blatantly obvious to anyone. Why wouldn’t it be? At times, I began to ponder if I should have delayed my return to Cardiff after all.
A few days prior to the great day, a Christmas card addressed to me arrived at the house in a high-quality pale-blue envelope. I can clearly recall Dad collecting the post from the hall, and commenting on the immaculate, slanted and looped copperplate handwriting, as he handed me the card. Even in my depressed state, I have to admit that my interest was sparked by its artistic flourish. As I opened the envelope and took out a card portraying a young and smiling Victorian boy playing in pristine white snow, a letter written in the same style as the address fell to the floor at my feet. I picked it up from the carpet, and looked at the name at the end of the letter before reading the contents. I was genuinely surprised to see that it was from Dr Galbraith, and signed, Best wishes, David. A card would have been thoughtful in itself, but he’d taken the trouble to write. That genuinely touched me.