Page 47 of The Stranger in Room Six

Computer class is full.

‘Course it is,’ sniffs Mouse. ‘Everyone wants to get in touch with their dealer or arrange for someone on the outside to take someone else out. We’re not meant to use the internet unless we’re supervised, but guards can be bribed like anyone else.’

‘Can I do that to skip the queue?’

‘You could but, Belinda, imagine if you’re caught? Your parole might get refused and you’ll be in for even longer. Is it worth the risk?’

Maybe not. Meanwhile winter is settling in.

It’s freezing at night. The blankets are thin and scratchy.

There’s ice on the windows and often we can’t shower because the pipes are frozen.

When it’s really cold, Mouse and I have an unspoken agreement that she joins me in my bed and we put our arms around each other. It’s pure survival.

Sometimes I worry that I’m too heavily under her influence. But at the same time, she’s the only person here who seems to understand me.

‘This is against our bloody human rights,’ calls out the woman in the cell next to ours. Another set of voices takes it up further down the corridor and then another, until it becomes a chant with fists thumping on the wall. Hu-man rights! Hu-man rights!

Yet I can’t help thinking that each one of us is in here for a reason.

We’ve all hurt someone in some way. Non-violent crimes don’t exist – the act always causes injury, whether it’s physical or emotional.

What about the victims’ human rights? This irony appears to be lost on my fellow prisoners.

I think about Gerald all the time. Of course, he shouldn’t have had an affair. But he didn’t deserve to die.

Meanwhile, I’ve started my training to be a Listener. I can’t tell anyone because the whole point is that it’s meant to be confidential. ‘Gone all religious, have you?’ asks Mouse when I get permission to see the chaplain once a week.

‘Maybe,’ I say.

Mouse purses her lips. She knows me well enough to realize there’s more to it, but I won’t let on.

‘So how does the listening programme work?’ I ask the chaplain at our first session.

We’re sitting in his office, on comfortable chairs opposite each other. There’s a table between us, with coffee and plain digestive biscuits on it. If it weren’t for the bars on the windows and the alarm button on the wall, I could almost pretend I was somewhere else.

‘It’s what it sounds like,’ he says. ‘You listen. They talk. It’s all anonymous. There’s a screen between you and the person who comes in. I’ll be there as well in case you need me.’

‘So why don’t they just talk to you instead?’

‘Because you’re one of them, Belinda. That’s the whole point. They get feedback from someone who really understands what it’s like to be a prisoner.’

‘But what if they recognize my voice, and hate me?’ I venture.

‘It happens sometimes. They can then ask for another Listener, although we don’t have any other volunteers at the moment. It’s not for everyone. You’ll find yourself taking on others’ emotional baggage. Can you cope with that, Belinda?’

‘I don’t know,’ I say truthfully.

‘I appreciate your honesty. We’ve had Listeners in the past who are too sure of themselves. The truth is that you’ll only know if it’s for you once you’ve got going.’

There are six weeks of training and I’m on week four now. We’ve done a lot of role-play. The chaplain pretends to be a prisoner and I … well, I listen.

‘You’re not meant to be judgemental,’ he tells me. ‘Or too forceful in telling them what you would do if you were them. Often the person asking the question will come to some kind of resolution herself. It’s amazing how talking out loud can do that.’

I only wish that would work for me.

Prisoners who want to register are invited to sign up. Then, one afternoon when I’m on my laundry duty, one of the guards comes in to say that the chaplain would like to see me.

‘I have someone who needs to talk,’ he says when I arrive at his office.

‘But I haven’t finished my training.’

‘I think you’re ready,’ he says. ‘In fact, she needs to talk right now. She’s new and isn’t coping very well.’

Can I really do this? I follow the chaplain to his office and sit behind the screen.

I hear footsteps coming towards me on the other side.

The woman is sobbing. I try to remember what the chaplain has taught me.

I know he’s here too, but I’m nervous. What if I say something that makes her even more distressed?

‘Would you like to tell me what’s upsetting you?’ I ask, conscious that this is a daft question. Being locked up is enough to upset anyone.

‘I never thought I was the kind of person to go to prison,’ she sobs. ‘I didn’t mean to do it. I just snapped.’

I know what that feels like, I almost say. Then I recall the chaplain’s advice: ‘Don’t tell them your story; they are here to tell you theirs. Repeat their words back at them. It makes them feel secure, and also shows that you’re listening.’

‘You just snapped? Why was that?’ I say to the woman.

Her voice is raw with grief. ‘I couldn’t cope with Alice any more. No one would help me. My husband often works away. And I just …’

I wait. ‘Don’t jump in’, the chaplain had advised.

But she’s sobbing and sobbing.

‘You don’t have to tell me what happened.’

‘But I want to,’ she says.

I’m not sure I want her to. I can’t bear to think what this woman might have done to Alice, whoever she was.

Suddenly she blurts it out. ‘I just walked out and slammed the door on her. Then I left the house and didn’t come back for an hour.’

‘How old was Alice?’ I ask.

‘Sixteen months,’ she sobs.

‘You left a one-year-old on her own?’

This is a question, not a statement. I can sense the chaplain stiffening.

‘I’d have to have been there to understand the situation,’ I add hastily.

‘You’re right,’ she replies. ‘If you had, you’d have understood how awful it was. I’d had enough. Alice would cry all the time and I couldn’t do anything about it. I was exhausted. I couldn’t sleep. When I was awake, I was a zombie.’

‘Did you ask for help?’

‘The doctor put me on a waiting list for counselling but I was told it could take months. I talked to my mum about it, but she lived miles away and then last year she died from a brain aneurism.’

Like my own mother had. My heart begins to soften. ‘That must have been a terrible shock.’

‘Yes,’ she manages through another sob. ‘But it got worse. I left Alice again and this time, she helped herself to a packet of tablets I’d left out. She nearly died.’

I gasp and then instantly reproach myself. Listeners aren’t meant to show judgement.

‘I know. It’s awful, isn’t it? It’s why I’m inside.’

‘Who’s looking after Alice now?’ I ask.

‘My mother-in-law. She’s the one who found Alice. She has her own key and visits without warning sometimes. She called the ambulance. Thank God she’d only taken one tablet and they managed to save her.’

‘How long have you got in here?’ I ask.

‘Eighteen months.’

‘Are you allowed to see Alice?’

‘I’ve asked my husband to bring her in. He says he’s thinking about it.’

‘That can’t be easy,’ I say.

She begins to cry harder now.

‘I have two grown-up girls,’ I say. The chaplain gives a loud cough, indicating disapproval. I ignore him. ‘One won’t visit me.’

‘How do you cope?’ she asks.

‘I tell myself that one day, she might change her mind. In the meantime, I try to take each day as it comes. Concentrate on a daily job. Keep communication going. Why don’t you send Alice some pictures or maybe do Storybook Mums with the education department?’

‘What’s that?’

‘It’s when the staff help you write a story with your child’s name in it and then they record you reading it aloud and send it to your children. You could ask to see the counsellor too. In fact, it seems to me that you should’ve had some help earlier on. Perhaps you could ask for that.’

‘That’s a good idea.’

‘Has this helped a bit?’ I can’t help asking.

‘I think so,’ she says. ‘Thank you.’

When she leaves, I know what the chaplain is going to say. ‘You deviated from the script, Belinda. And you gave too many personal details.’

‘So, I’m no good as a Listener.’

‘On the contrary. I think you helped a great deal, even if it was in an unorthodox manner.’

‘Would you want me to continue then?’

‘I do. However, you need to listen to me more, Belinda. I know I put you on the spot by bringing you in before you were ready, but you can’t share yourself like you did just then.

Apart from anything else, it makes you vulnerable.

The person you’re trying to help might tell people things that you don’t want revealed. ’

A cold shiver runs through me. ‘I understand.’

In the following weeks, when I’m asked to listen to others – including Alice’s mother – I keep thinking someone is going to tap me on the shoulder, tell me that they know what I’ve done.

After all, who would want advice from a murderer?

Then the chaplain is taken ill and I find myself Listening alone. I’m sure it’s against the rules but no one stops me.

And that’s when I make my mistake.