Page 107 of The Dead Ex

‘But we’re not an item, are we? Come on, Helen. I know you’re only here for one thing.’

My throat goes dry in terror. Somehow he’s sussed me out.

Then he drapes an arm alongthe back of the sofa behind me and kisses me so hard that it hurts.

‘Hey,’ I say, trying to push him away. But he doesn’t apologize. Instead, he moves away and is now studying me closely.

‘You weren’t really in my office to hide a birthday present for me, were you?’

‘Yes!’ Fear makes me sound indignantly righteous. ‘OK. I know that pen was crap. But it was all I could afford. That’s why I’vemade you something else. It’s not great but …’

I hold out the package. ‘Sorry – I didn’t have any wrapping paper.’

He pulls the photograph from the supermarket carrier bag and examines it. ‘You have a certain knack for capturing the ordinary things in life from an unusual angle.’

The next bit happens so fast that, at first, I barely realize what’s going on. One minute we’re looking at my pictureand the next I find myself being yanked up and pushed against a wall, face first. My hands automaticallygo up against the cold surface, palms flat, like one of those films where the heroine is about to be shot and knows it. Except that there is a hot body behind me. David’s. Pulling down my knickers and pressing me into the wall even harder.

‘You’re hurting me,’ I gasp but he puts a hand overmy mouth. Presumably it’s to stop me making any noise in case someone hears us, but for a few minutes (though it feels far longer) I am genuinely scared. His urgent movements and the animal-like grunts are so very different from the other, gentle side of David that I’ve seen in the last few weeks. This one is out of control. Dangerous. To my shame, I find myself coming harder than I’ve ever donebefore.

Then it’s over. Just as abruptly as it had begun.

I sink to the floor, trying to gather myself. When I look up, he is gone.

41

Vicki

26 June 2018

I’m on the cleaning work party today. This can mean anything from scrubbing floors to wiping excrement off bathroom walls like I’m doing now. I wish I could wipe away my memories too. It’s five months since the night David went missing. I remember the last words he spoke to me all too well. Of course, I shouldn’t have done it. But it was too hard not to.

I rub harder nowon a dried brown lump to try and block out the thought. The action makes a hole in the rubber gloves. They’re the cheap, thin variety. I could lodge a complaint but I’m not sure it will do any good. They all hate me here.

Indeed, the staff take pleasure in belittling me at every opportunity. ‘Don’t fancy the food then?’ asked one last week when she saw me picking through ‘vegetarian pasta’, whichtasted of cardboard with tomato ketchup on top. ‘Not like the governor’s posh dining room, then.’

‘Actually,’ I retorted, ‘I used to eat in the staff café, like everyone else.’

‘How very democratic of you.’

The other women on my wing regard me with a mixture of disdain and interest. ‘Heard you killed your ex-husband,’ says my new padmate.

‘Actually –’ I start to say.

But she continues beforeI can make a denial. ‘Reckon they’ll make an example of you because you used to be a prison guv?’

I’ve wondered that myself. And now my biggest fear has come to pass. I’ve been told to report at the MBU with my cleaning trolley. Please no. The thought of facing all those poor mothers on countdown to losing their babies is too upsetting. ‘Couldn’t I go somewhere else?’ I ask.

The prison officerfixes me with a glare. ‘What do you think this is? Multiple choice at the bleeding Ritz? You’ll go where I say.’

My heart thuds as I press the security button next to the MBU sign. One of the officers lets me in and then checks my trolley. A previous cleaner had smuggled in drugs that way. ‘You can start in the nursery,’ I am told.

I walk past the huge, hand-painted murals on the walls depictingfarmyard animals and a smiley sun. There’s a sign to say that this is the work of inmates. In my old life, I sometimes attended the Koestler Awards, a national competition for prison art and writing.

A little voice now comes floating out of the room on the right. ‘Mummy!’ it sings. My stomach feels as if it is plummeting out through my body and into the ground.

Then there’s a furious screech.‘Mine! Mine!’

I push my trolley in. Before me are two women arguing over a push-along toy, each fiercely clutching a child as if brandishing a shield. ‘My son had that first,’ snarls one.