Poison

by Jacqui Rose

  With her heart pounding, and her eyes fixed on the shank, Franny stood working out what she was going to do. She was outnumbered and right now she wouldn’t have placed her money on getting out unscathed.

  She glanced over to the small group of women who gazed back at her curiously and seeing Franny on the back foot, Christine cackled again, spinning the shank in her hand. ‘Seems like our Franny’s going to lose that pretty face of hers. Howay, man, never mind!’

  ‘Screws are coming, screws are coming!’ Suddenly, the blonde-haired woman who’d been keeping guard rushed in, shouting out her warning.

  There was an immediate scramble as the women darted out of the shower room but not before Christine, with the quickest of flicks, nicked Franny on her neck with the razor blade.

  Flinching, Franny’s hand shot to her neck. She could feel it was only superficial but the pain was still sharp and she felt the warmth of her blood beginning to flow through her fingers.

  Christine hurried towards the door. As she was about to exit, she turned back and said, ‘Take that as a warning. Next time, pet, you’ll look more like her.’

  She laughed as she nodded towards where the young woman was lying in a pool of her own blood, her face torn and carved up, and with that Christine disappeared out of the room.

  12

  Rushing over to the woman on the floor, Franny bent down. She spoke quietly to her. ‘Hey, you’re okay now. They’ve gone. Can you get up at all?’

  Through half-closed eyes the woman – barely being able to move her head – looked at Franny, who stared curiously back at her. Or rather who stared curiously at what was in her mouth. She had something stuffed into it. Carefully, Franny opened the woman’s mouth, prising her fingers between her teeth to pull out the soggy mess. The minute she did so, the woman began to cough and splutter.

  ‘Take a deep breath, that’s it.’ Fearfully, the woman glanced at Franny and even though she didn’t say anything, Franny could see the gratitude in her eyes.

  Chucking the paper on the floor, Franny suddenly saw that it had something written on it. Intrigued, she picked it up, but immediately her attention was drawn back to the woman, who started to vomit violently. Shoving the paper in her pocket for later, Franny gently rubbed the woman’s back whilst she retched noisily.

  Wincing slightly as she watched, Franny spoke warmly, ‘That’s it, doll. Get it all out, sweetheart.’

  It was after a couple of minutes – and after Franny herself began to feel sick – that the woman actually did get it all out. She turned to Franny, her voice trembling and so quiet that Franny had to crane forward to hear what she was saying.

  ‘Thank you, I dunno what I would’ve done if you hadn’t come along. I think she would’ve killed me …’

  Franny had no doubt that’s exactly what would’ve happened. She really wanted to ask the woman a lot of questions but it was clear she was in no fit state, so instead she simply asked, ‘What’s your name?’

  ‘Jessie.’

  Giving a small smile, Franny nodded. ‘Well it’s good to meet you. I’m Franny by the way. Look, let’s get you under the shower shall we? And then you need to get looked at. The cuts are deep, but I reckon they’ll be able to fix you up.’

  Before Franny had time to say anything else, the door of the shower room was abruptly opened. Standing in the doorway were four prison officers and on seeing them Franny muttered under her breath, ‘Shit.’

  The stockier, more masculine-looking screw stared at Franny. She spoke in a Scottish accent. ‘What’s happened here, Doyle?’

  Standing up, Franny said nothing as the prison officers walked over to her and Jessie.

  ‘I asked you a question, what happened here?’

  Again, Franny didn’t answer. There was an unwritten rule in prison. It was simple: never say anything. Not unless you wanted the whole prison on your back. Even when the governor would promise the women a safe transfer to another prison to grass someone up, word would travel to the place you were going and life would be a living hell. Franny knew only too well that there was no room in prison for a grass: no matter what, it was still a question of the screws on one side, and the women on another.

  ‘The cat got your tongue? Because if it hasn’t you better have a good reason for not answering me. Not that I can’t see for myself.’

  Franny spoke evenly. ‘Then why ask?’

  Realising she wasn’t going to get anything from Franny, Officer Brown crouched down to give Jessie an icy glare. ‘So who did this to you? Come on, Jessie, look at the state of you. Even when they fix you up, your face is going to look like a game of criss-cross. You need to tell me the name of whoever it was so I can deal with them … Come on, Jess, you can’t go around protecting the scum that did this.’

  Jessie’s eyes glanced up to Franny who gave a quick, small shake of her head, warning Jessie not to say a word. If Christine got one sniff that Jessie had said anything – which she would, especially as some of the prison officers liked to wind up and cause trouble amongst the women – it was doubtful Jess would make it back home alive.

  Frustrated by both Franny and Jess, Officer Brown pushed slightly harder. ‘You better tell me, Jess, because I don’t like the fact that someone around here thinks they can do this and get away with it. Is that what you want? You want someone to slice you up and not answer for it? Just say the name for God’s sake and we can get you transferred out of here, or at least to another wing.’

  Without saying anything, Jessie put her head down and stared at the floor as Officer Brown gave a rueful smile. She stood back up, brushing down her prison uniform and absentmindedly playing with the chain fixed to her security belt. She glared at Franny. ‘You bitches don’t do yourself any favours do you? You’re a bunch of animals and deserve …’

  Suddenly, Officer Brown stopped what she was saying as her gaze came to rest on Franny’s washbag. Thrown by the side of it was her homemade shank.

  Franny’s heart sank as she listened to Brown say, ‘Well, well, well, is that yours, Doyle?’

  Feeling the dried blood on her nose and cheeks, Franny shook her head. She spoke ruefully. ‘If I say no, will you believe me?’

  ‘Not a chance and if you or Jessie won’t give me a name, whether you did this to Jessie or not – which just between you and I – I don’t think you did, I’m going to hold you responsible.’

  ‘Now why doesn’t that surprise me?’ said Franny, laughing bitterly.

  The officer shrugged. ‘It’s your call, Doyle. Are you going to tell me who did this?’

  Franny leant towards Officer Brown. ‘Go to hell.’

  ‘Fine, have it your way, Doyle … So here’s how it’s going to work: I’m going to tell the governor that I’ve got the culprit and that we found the weapon. Easy really. Job done. I can get off home early. I mean, if you lot don’t want to help yourselves, why should I care what happens to you?’

  Full of hostility, Franny stared back. Knowing what was coming she listened as Officer Brown spoke to the other members of staff. ‘Take Jessie down to the medical wing and I’ll take Doyle to seg, give her some time to think about the error of her ways.’

  And as Franny was dragged off to segregation by Officer Brown, the only feeling she had was of revenge, but it wasn’t Christine Lucas she was out for. She had two other people on her mind: Vaughn Sadler and Detective Balantyne.

  13

  On the other side of London, Detective Balantyne gazed in the mirror of his office bathroom. He felt terrible and looked even worse. After the argument with Emma, he’d wanted to get out of the house – away from her and away from her drinking – so he’d pulled up in a lay-by near work on the north side of Woolwich and made his car his bed for the night.

  It wasn’t the first time he’d done that, and he knew it certainly wouldn’t be the last. He wanted out so badly; he wanted to get as far away from Emma as it was physically possible. But how the hell could he get out when the guilt over what had happened al
ways ate him up, and the memory of that day was literally burnt on her face?

  On the odd occasions he’d packed his bags to go, when the situation had become too intolerable to take any more, she’d screamed and cried, threatening to take her own life if he left. And every part of him had wanted to keep on walking and not turn around, but the problem was he knew that it wasn’t an empty promise. Emma would be prepared to die just so she could punish him – and God, how he fucking despised her for it.

  He despised every part of her but especially her drinking, which had been a problem even before the day in question. From the beginning of their marriage she’d been drinking but she’d hidden it well. And then as time went by he’d either turned a blind eye to it or he’d been too busy with work to notice or to care. Then by the time he had realised, it was too late.

  Emma was difficult at the best of times, but her drinking – which seemed to start almost from the moment she woke up – made her completely impossible to deal with. And it made an already difficult situation a whole lot worse, a whole lot nastier.

  And as much as he hated to admit it, over the last few months he’d found himself putting his hands on her more and more. Slapping her around a bit … Only a bit … Not hard, not like some of the men he used to arrest when he was a bobby on the beat, the ones who would knock their wives so senseless they’d look like they’d been in a road traffic accident … No, he wasn’t like that. Okay, he’d left a few marks, a few bruises, a few cuts … But Jesus, what did she expect if she was always pushing him, always pouncing on him the minute he walked through the door, always accusing him of sleeping with anything that moved? Testing him, pushing him to the limits – and the fact was the drinking, the accusations and her obsession with having a baby had turned his life into a living nightmare.

  So no, he didn’t want to be the kind of man who knocked his wife about, but she didn’t give him any choice.

  ‘Sir, the Chief’s waiting for you.’ A young officer – who for the life of him, Balantyne couldn’t remember the name of – popped his head around the men’s bathroom door. ‘She’s not very happy by the way … But when is she?’

  He nodded and answered half-heartedly as he continued to adjust his tie in the mirror.

  ‘Thanks, I’ll be there in a few minutes.’

  ‘I think she wants you now, sir. She was very adamant about that.’

  Balantyne swivelled around to stare at the young officer. His tone was as hard as his steely gaze. ‘I said, I’ll be there in a few minutes. Now if that isn’t fucking good enough for the Chief or you, then there’s nothing much I can do.’

  ‘It’s just that—’

  Before the officer could finish, Balantyne jumped at him, dragging and pulling him up against the wall. He pushed his forearm into the man’s neck, his eyes bulging. ‘What is it that you didn’t understand about what I just said? Didn’t I say I was coming? Didn’t I say that I’d be with her in a few minutes?’

  Spluttering and in shock, the officer nodded, unable to get his words out. Then suddenly, Balantyne dropped his hold, realising what he was doing. He shook his head at himself as he mumbled a half apology whilst attempting to straighten the startled officer’s uniform. ‘Jesus, I’m sorry, I’m sorry … I … I … Look, I’m just a bit tired. It’s no excuse I know, but … but … listen, can we just keep this between ourselves. No harm done, hey?’

  Flustered, the young officer nodded. When he spoke, his voice was quiet and strained. ‘No harm done, sir.’ And without saying anything else he disappeared quickly out of the bathroom, leaving Balantyne to stare at himself once again in the mirror. He thought about Franny Doyle and he thought about Emma. Two bitches that he could do without.

  As he continued to stare, rage surged through him and he smashed his fist against the glass. He watched the broken mirror fall into the sink before he took a deep breath, closed his eyes and felt the pricking of tears at the back of his throat. And not for the first time he realised how much he hated his life; it seemed he was going to be stuck with Emma forever if he didn’t think of a way out …

  14

  Half an hour later, Balantyne sat slumped, brooding and summoned, trying to keep his composure as he fought the temptation to give the Chief a piece of his mind. He wondered quite how it had come to this, and why it wasn’t him whose name was on the door of the office after he’d given his life to the service.

  So now he had to sit opposite the newly promoted Chief Inspector Claire Martin, being admonished like he was a school kid.

  He sighed as he gazed past her and out through the window, which looked over the River Thames.

  ‘Why am I getting the feeling I’m the only one in the room?’ Claire Martin’s voice cut through the air, jolting Balantyne out of the daze he found himself in.

  Irritated, Tony stared at the Chief. She was young for the position she held and apart from the tiniest of crow’s feet beginning to show around her blue eyes – no doubt from the strain of the job – her petite features, smooth pale skin and blonde pixie bob gave her a youthful, and attractive, appearance. Balantyne suspected that, dressed in civilian clothes, no one would guess she held the position she did.

  Suddenly needing a cigarette, Balantyne’s face looked like thunder. ‘I don’t know, ma’am, because I’m doing exactly what you want me to do. I’m sitting here listening. Anything else, I can’t help you with.’

  Chief Inspector Martin came around from behind her desk to perch herself on the edge of the table. She stared at Balantyne as she sat opposite him, tapping her pen against her leg. ‘I don’t like your attitude, Detective, and I know I’m not the only one around here who doesn’t.’

  Balantyne gave her a cutting stare and his voice dripped with bitterness. ‘I thought this conversation was about Franny Doyle, not about who does or doesn’t like me.’

  It was Claire’s turn to feel irritated. She pursed her lips before she spoke, keeping her tone even. ‘I’ll make this conversation about what the hell I like, do you understand that? In case you’ve forgotten, it’s my name on the door and you need to get over that fact, otherwise I suggest you put in for a transfer to another division.’

  Balantyne leant forward. ‘Don’t worry, ma’am, I haven’t forgotten. I can’t forget your name’s on the door especially as you seem to remind me at every opportunity you can.’

  The room fell silent and tension sat in the air before Claire said, ‘Anyway, tell me what’s happening with the Doyle case. Are you any further forward? The CPS have been on my back because they’ve been reviewing the evidence and they need more. If we’re going to get a conviction – which as you know everyone’s desperate for – you need to bring more to the table … But no shortcuts. Play by the book. That’s the only way we’ll be able to nail her, by you playing it straight. The last thing we want is the case collapsing before it’s begun.’

  ‘You need to trust me on this. I’ll get Doyle, but I have to be able to do it my way.’

  Chief Martin shook her head. Her voice verged on hostility. ‘No, and it’s not up for negotiation either. Play it by the book, Detective, or I’ll take you off the case.’

  Furiously, Balantyne pointed his finger, emphasising each word he uttered with a jab in the air.

  ‘Doyle’s mine. I’ve spent years trying to pin the likes of her and Alfie Jennings down, and you have no right to threaten to take me off this case.’

  ‘Then don’t give me a reason to.’

  Balantyne glared at Martin. He couldn’t understand her. She knew as well as anyone that to get Doyle, he had to play by their rules, which meant bending them. How the hell could she say that she wanted a conviction if he wasn’t allowed to do what was needed? But then again, what did he expect? She was a woman after all, and he’d never been able to understand women at the best of times, let alone in the male-dominated world of the police force – though even that balance was being challenged.

  He thought about the influx of women who were coming through the
doors, full of hormones and shouting out about having equal rights. But when you did treat them as an equal, Tony thought, with locker-room jokes and the traditional light-hearted initiations and innuendos, before you knew it they’d start making official complaints.

  Over the years he’d been told he was a chauvinist, a bigot and even a sexist, but he just liked to think of himself as a real man – and real men had real women around them, who knew their place. And their place certainly wasn’t in charge of a few hundred men, making their decisions based on what time of the month it was.

  Tony sighed. He knew it wasn’t the politically correct way to think but he also knew the truth; women’s decisions were first and foremost emotionally driven and he would be damned if he was going to listen and take orders from a woman whose idea of detective work was to find her lipstick in her oversized handbag.

  Not that he’d always thought that way about Detective Martin … At one point he’d respected her, but things happen. Shit happened; it felt like there was more shit raining down on him than he’d like – and in his opinion, it all started and ended with the women he had around him.

  ‘Detective, I haven’t had your answer … Do I have your word or not? Am I going to have to take you off now or …’ She paused and her voice dropped to a softer tone as she rubbed her temples, feeling the first signs of a headache coming on. ‘Why do you have to make this so damn difficult? I’m not the enemy here. I want to see Doyle put away as much as you do but I need you to do it the right way. And I don’t want anyone knowing about Vaughn Sadler giving a statement. If they did, it would put the cat amongst the pigeons; someone could get hurt. There’d be a lot of trouble.’

  ‘Well, they won’t hear it from me.’

  ‘I’m not saying they would … Please, Tony, I’m not having a go at you.’

  Detective Balantyne stood up. He straightened up his jacket and spoke coolly. ‘Will that be all, ma’am?’