Page 83 of The Dead Ex

I squat in the corner. Somehow I’ve got to survive.

I remember those early days of my training. When they taught us exactly how to do that. Once more my mind goes back.

Attacks on staff were ‘not unknown’, apparently. Itwas why the self-defence course had been included in our training.

‘Nice work, Smith,’ one of the officers had said when I’d twisted a colleague’s arm behind his back. I was surprised to find how good that felt – even though my ‘victim’ was yelling in agony. At least it meant I could defend myself.

Then there was the survival week on Dartmoor, to show ‘your mettle’, as one officer had put it.We’d been sent out there with basic equipment (torch, tent and thermals) to see how we got on. I was selected as the leader of the group: encouraging everyone on, even when we walked for two whole days without finding the next spot on our map. Rations were running low, and the rain was teeming down. I found us shelter near Haytor. When we finally reached our destination, one of the other traineesthrew in the towel and said he’d had enough. I didn’t admit that part of me felt the same.

We were also taught how to put on handcuffs and deal with a hostage situation. (Stay calm. Reason with your captor. Don’t do anything which might endanger your safety.) Another crucial part of the training was to ‘put yourself in the minds of your prisoners’. So I spent a night in a cell on a hard narrowbed with a pot underneath.

By the end, only twelve of us were left out of a group of fifty. I felt a sense of exhilaration which surpassed my graduation. But if I expected congratulations from Dad, I was mistaken.

‘Can’t believe you’re still going ahead with this,’ he said gruffly on the phone. ‘Thought you’d have seen sense by now. And how are you going to find a decent man to marry in oneof those places?’

I decided not to repeat the warning we’d already been given. ‘The divorce rate amongst staff is high due to stress and the unsociable hours,’ one of the instructors had said.

So what? Marriage seemed far too big a commitment to think about. The right man would come along at some point. What I wanted now was an adventure.

‘Where are you going to live, any road?’ Dad had continued.‘Some kind of Nissen hut?’

‘There’s a modern staff accommodation block in the prison grounds,’ I’d reassured him. ‘I’ll be fine. I promise.’

‘Reckon you’ll rue the day you stepped foot in that place,’ he snorted. ‘Mark my words.’

The only saving grace is that Dad isn’t here to see he was right.

28

Helen

30 November 2017

‘Lift your chin to the right more,’ I instruct. ‘No. Not so much. That’s better. And your eyes need to be looking up more.’

Is this really David Goudman I’m talking to? Speaking to him as if he’s my equal instead of my boss? When Posh Perdita said she’d get me a slot, I didn’t actually believe her. But she was as good as her word. And here we are. In his office. JustDavid and me.

‘Think of something nice,’ I urge. ‘What do you like to do when you’re not working?’

He shoots me one of his looks. I’ve already learned that there are several. This one is mixed. It tells me that he is interested, which is encouraging. Not that I’m flattering myself. I’ve already heard the odd office remark which indicates that David Goudman ‘can’t keep his hands off anythingwith breasts’. But the same look also tells me to keep the hell out of his space. This is a man of contradictions. He would eat me up if he knew why I was really here. Or he might praise me for my initiative.

‘Very curious, aren’t you?’

I shrug. ‘It’s part of a photographer’s job to know the subject.’

My eyes deliberately turn to a picture on his desk. Itshows a pretty young woman with longdark hair, leaning confidently against a doorway, oozing with confidence.

‘Is that your wife?’ I ask, even though I know it’s not.

‘That’s a bit of a presumption.’ His face returns to me. Sharp and keen. ‘Actually, that’s my daughter.’

I hold my breath. ‘By your previous wife?’

Instantly I know I’ve gone too far. His mouth tightens. Eyes harden. ‘Thought you were a photographer. Not a journalist.’

‘I am,’ I say quickly. ‘But our tutor says that we need to know about our subjects in order to capture their souls.’

He puts his head to one side as if considering this. ‘What an intriguing concept.’