Page 44 of The Stranger in Room Six

The funny thing is, I always liked to think of myself as a good person.

I used to be on a committee that raised money for the homeless.

I had been on the PTA at school, fundraising for books and playground equipment.

But it’s hard to do good in prison when most of us are here for doing bad; constantly terrified of being attacked.

It’s Christmas Day and some of the women are claiming they’re sick.

We all know they’re just trying to get out of their work parties.

But we still have to do our usual jobs like cleaning and cooking and wiping down toilets.

I’m doing the latter when I find my head being pushed down a bowl.

When I’m released I look up to find the woman from the cell opposite mine staring down at me. Her name is Linda.

‘What did you do that for?’

‘Because you’re full of airs and graces. Think you’re too good for this place, don’t you?’

Actually I don’t but she’s gone before I can say so, leaving me with wet hair that stinks of urine. I manage to rinse it in the sink and then move on to the next toilet. There’s no point in complaining and getting her into trouble. I’ve seen women doing that before and they only get hurt.

‘Wall,’ says a guard, coming in. I presume she is using my surname to rile me since we are usually called by our first names. ‘You’re on the MBU today. We’re short staffed.’

The MBU stands for the mother and baby unit, which is for mothers with babies under eighteen months. I didn’t even know it existed until I came here, nor that, after eighteen months, these babies are taken away again and given to a relative or fostered or adopted.

At least I got to bring up my girls – or almost – before they went to my brother-in-law.

‘This way,’ says the guard sharply, leading me out of the wing and along a corridor I’ve never been down before.

It’s as though we’ve entered a different world. There are murals on the wall in lemon yellow, strawberry pink and apple green. There are toys in varying conditions. In the corner is a Christmas tree, though there are no presents underneath.

Around me, women are sitting and playing with their babies.

Teenagers gathered in groups while their toddlers play on their own.

Some breastfeeding. Some bottle feeding.

Others lying on bean bags, eyes closed while little ones crawl past. Toddlers climbing mini-slides before gliding down, beaming – blissfully unaware that they are enjoying the hospitality of one of Her Majesty’s Prisons.

‘Get cleaning then,’ orders the guard. So I do, but I can’t help stopping every now and then to look at this extraordinary family scene around me. It reminds me of the days when our girls were little and Gerald and I were all right. Not in love. But all right.

There’s one little boy who keeps coming to me and stretching out his hand as if expecting me to give him something. I carry on dusting, but I can’t ignore him. He keeps tapping me on my leg.

‘Hello,’ I say. ‘What’s your name?’

‘Don’t you dare go anywhere near my Bradley,’ yells one of the girls who’s sitting with a gang on the far side of the room. ‘I know about you.’ She gets up and pulls the little boy towards her.

I glance down at him. He has glorious blond curls. Elspeth had curls when she was little; she still has a bit of a natural kink. Gillian’s hair had always been dead straight.

‘It can’t be easy for you both here in prison,’ I try.

‘Are you kidding? It’s better than being beaten up at home.’

‘Is that why you’re here?’ I can’t help asking. ‘Did you fight back and get done for it?’

It was a common enough story inside.

Her mouth tightens. ‘I bloody should have. Nah, I was dumb enough be a drugs mule for the no-good father of my kid.’

‘I’m sorry to hear that,’ I say.

The little boy has toddled off and returned with a battered-looking boardbook, which he brandishes in front of his mother’s face.

‘He wants you to read to him,’ I say.

The girl flushes.

‘I can’t.’

‘Why not?’

‘I can’t read.’

I hadn’t thought of that.

‘If I didn’t have to clean, I would read to him,’ I say.

‘No way.’ She puts her arms around her little boy. ‘I’m not letting my Bradley near a murderer.’

I can’t blame her. I’d feel the same myself.

The following day, Boxing Day, I’m instructed to report to MBU once more. The little boy toddles up to me again with the same book in his hand.

His mother comes striding across the room. ‘I told you to leave him alone.’

‘He approached me!’

The same thing happens on the third day, but on the fourth, when I come to clean, Bradley is lying in his mother’s lap, pale and listless.

‘He doesn’t look well,’ I say. ‘Have you asked to go to the San?’

‘The nurse ain’t here, is she? It’s her Christmas break.’

I don’t like the look of this. The child’s breathing is shallow. He’s pale. ‘Lift up his vest,’ I command.

‘What are you talking about?’

‘Just lift it up.’

I can’t do it myself or I might be accused of fiddling.

It’s as I feared; there’s a rash. I rush down to the office to find a guard and bring him back with me.

‘This child needs to see someone.’

‘What are you now, Lady Belinda? A bleeding nurse as well as a husband killer?’

‘I’m telling you he needs looking at,’ I hiss.

‘My youngest daughter had a rash like that when she was small. It turned out to be sepsis. It can be life-threatening. He’s pale too and his breathing is shallow.

The nurse might be off but there’s got to be someone you can call.

Unless, of course, you want to risk being splashed across the headlines as the prison guard who wouldn’t get treatment for a dying child. ’

The ambulance comes within an hour.

No one will tell me what has happened to Bradley, even though I keep asking. I am moved away from the MBU and put back on toilets. I find myself saying prayers I haven’t said for years.

On New Year’s Day, I am told by a grim-faced guard to report to the same governor I saw before.

‘Belinda. Sit down. I’ve got something to tell you.’

‘Please don’t tell me he’s died,’ I cry out.

‘Who?’

‘Bradley on the MBU. I told the guard to call an ambulance. He had sepsis. I was sure of it.’

‘So it was you? Well done. You saved his life, by all accounts. If the guard hadn’t acted so quickly, the outcome would have been very different.’

I am crying with relief, even though it’s clear the guard has taken the credit.

The governor’s voice softens. ‘Belinda, that’s not why I called you here. I’m afraid I’ve got some bad news.’

A cold knife flashes through me. I know what she’s going to say before she says it. In a way, I’ve been expecting something like this all my life. I’m the kind of person who needs to fear the worst so she can prepare herself for it.

But nothing has prepared me for this.

‘I’ve had a message to say your daughter has been seriously injured in a traffic accident.’

‘My daughter?’ I am staring at her; my mouth goes dry. I feel sick. ‘Which one?’

Am I wrong in desperately hoping it won’t be my kind sweet Elspeth? But if it’s Gillian, my clever studious daddy’s girl of a daughter, it might be too late for us to make up.

‘Which one?’ I repeat, stamping my feet.

The governor looks nervous. ‘I’m afraid I don’t know. The message didn’t stipulate. I wasn’t aware you had more than one daughter. We’ll try to find out. It may take some time owing to the Christmas staff shortages but –’

‘THEN FIND OUT!’ I scream, leaping to my feet and sweeping the papers off the governor’s table. ‘NOW!’