Page 30 of The Stranger in Room Six

‘What’s up with you?’ asks a guard when she watches me folding the sheets the next day, deep in thought about Penny’s question. How am I going to find her?

‘If you don’t get a move on,’ continues the guard, ‘I’ll give you a strike. Think you’re too posh to be working, do you?’

Someone titters. ‘Look at Lady Belinda with all her airs and graces.’

‘Don’t take any notice of them,’ says a woman with a ring in her nose. ‘They’re just jealous. My name’s Jac, by the way, short for Jacqueline.’

She might not be the kind of woman I’d have socialized with before prison. But right now, it’s nice to hear some comforting words.

At lunch, Jac waves me over. She’s saved a space beside her. I take it gratefully. When I ask the woman opposite to pass the salt, and I’m ignored, my new friend reaches over and passes it to me. ‘Thank you,’ I say to her.

‘Thank you,’ mimics someone else.

‘That’s enough,’ snaps Jac. ‘Give the woman a chance, will you?’

They listen to my new friend. ‘Thank you,’ I whisper.

‘Never thank anyone,’ she replies. ‘Makes you look weak.’

The next day, someone pushes me out of the queue for the bathroom. Jac, who is coming back in the opposite direction, sees it. ‘Fuck off,’ she growls. ‘Or I’ll report you.’

My pusher looks suitably reprimanded. Jac clearly carries weight here. I wonder how I’ve never met her before.

‘Come in with me,’ she says when she finds me hovering at the door of the communal lounge, wondering whether to brave the cold stares and those snide ‘Lady Belinda’ comments. ‘We could play table tennis. There are a couple of others who’ll join in too. Lifers, like me. I’ll introduce you.’

Playing table tennis with three lifers? Before that dreadful day when Gerald died, I’d never in a month of Sundays have thought I’d be doing that.

‘Sorry,’ I say, feeling the panic rising in my chest. ‘I think I should go back to my cell.’

‘That’s OK.’ She places a hand briefly on my arm. ‘I remember my first time in prison. Bloody awful. But I’m here if you need a friend.’

A few days after that, Jac comes into the laundry where I’ve been sent to work.

There are all kinds of horrible things inside the sheets.

Used tampons. Turds. Skid marks. I gag, thinking of laundry back home, when on Sundays I’d change everyone’s linen, comforted by the sense of order, and the lavender water I’d iron with.

‘Here,’ says Jac. ‘Let me do that. You take a minute – go to the toilet and blow your nose.’

This time I accept her offer.

The following week, I’m sorting out the dirty pile of laundry. So far I haven’t found any tampons or excrement. But what’s this? A small parcel with what looks like white powder inside.

A flash of unease zips through me. I’ve never actually seen cocaine before, but I have seen pictures online. In fact, I’d printed out some facts about drugs to give to the girls when they were doing a project at school.

As I turn the packet over in my hand, I can hear a guard’s footsteps coming down the corridor. What if they think these drugs are mine?

‘Inspection time,’ comes a yell. My body freezes. I need to think fast. Hand it in and not be believed or hide it. But where?

The footsteps are getting closer. Sweat runs down my neck. Swiftly I throw the packet into the washing machine along with the soap powder and turn it on. I can feel my face burning, my heart pounding.

The guard puts her face round the door. ‘Everything all right here?’

I nod, fear leaving me unable to speak.

The guard gives the room a cursory look, then marches out. When the washing-machine cycle finishes, I take out the sheets. There’s no sign of the plastic bag. Maybe it’s melted. Thank God! I’m off the hook.

At lunch, everyone at my table is talking about one of the girls who’d been strip-searched that morning in the drugs check. ‘Bloody invasion of human rights,’ snorts one.

Jac slides onto the chair next to me with an extra roll of bread. She passes it to me under the table, placing it in my lap. ‘Thanks for hiding it,’ she whispers.

‘Hiding what?’ I whisper back.

‘My stuff. I wrapped it up in my bedsheet. Someone told me the inspection was happening, and I knew it would be safe with you.’

A cold horror shoots through me. ‘But I put it in the washing machine,’ I stutter. ‘I think it melted.’

‘You what?’

Jac raises her voice so high that everyone stares at us.

‘Your girlfriend giving you problems, is she?’ titters a woman with a purple crewcut.

Girlfriend?

‘Fuck off and mind your own business.’

This is a side of Jac I haven’t seen before.

‘I’m sorry,’ I whisper. ‘I thought someone might blame me.’

Jac’s spit flies into my face. ‘Do you know how much that was fucking worth? I was meant to pass it to someone else. Now they’re going to get me – and you when I tell them you’re responsible.’

The bread sticks in my throat, making me choke until I wash it down with water.

Jac gives me a look that chills me to my bones. ‘You’re in trouble now. Better watch out, Lady Belinda.’

Then she stands up, tips my plate of pasta upside down on the table and walks out. The guards don’t seem to have noticed.

My teeth are chattering so hard that I can feel the bottom jaw clashing against the top.

What can I do? If I report Jac, she’ll deny it and maybe say I was hiding my own ‘gear’, as they call it.

Then it occurs to me that I could go to the chaplain – I’ve seen the notice outside his door, inviting people to make an appointment.

I’ve never really been a church person apart from at Christmas when we’d go to Midnight Mass.

The very thought of us all being together, not that long ago, physically hurts.

For a couple of minutes, I hover outside the chaplaincy door. Finally summoning up the nerve, I knock. There’s no answer. That’s that then. God doesn’t want to help me either. I’m in this alone.

For the next few days, I keep my head down, watching out for everyone who comes near in case I’m attacked. Thursday passes. Friday. Saturday. Then Sunday, which is always the quietest day, with limited staff available.

Jac has been ignoring me but at least there haven’t been any more outbursts. Maybe it will be all right after all.

That afternoon, I go into the canteen for tea. No one greets me. Most of the others are huddled together in groups, casting hostile looks at anyone who’s on their own or whom they’ve taken against for whatever reason.

As I queue, I wonder what my daughters are doing now. In Elspeth’s last letter, she said that Uncle Derek was being very kind. Perhaps they’ve just had Sunday lunch round the table together like we all used to do?

‘Take that,’ mutters someone, cutting through my thoughts.

Looking back, I don’t know how I acted so quickly. Yet in that split-second, seeing the woman with the tray of steaming tea, I realized she was going to throw it at me.

Instinctively, I push the tray back, in mid-air, towards my attacker.

There’s a terrible scream as the contents fall on her. ‘Christ! It’s fucking boiling! Help me someone. HELP ME!’

I watch in horror as the woman’s skin begins to bubble.

‘GET IT OFF ME!’ she yells, screeching like a pig in the slaughter.

‘No chance of that,’ mutters someone. ‘Sugar sticks to the skin.’

I don’t know what to do. The woman’s face is melting like a candle before my eyes. A deafening alarm is ringing. People are screaming and rushing around in confusion.

‘Who did this?’ demands a guard storming in.

Jac stands up. She’s pointing to me. ‘Her. Lady bloody Belinda.’