Page 32 of Two Kinds of Stranger (Eddie Flynn #9)

Elly

‘Hey, bitch, you done on that fuckin’ call yet?’ said the woman standing behind Elly.

It was difficult to tell the woman’s age.

She had been standing behind Elly in the line for the payphones for only a minute, but patience clearly wasn’t one of her virtues.

Elly had turned round only once, when the woman first came up and stood behind her.

She had her arms folded across her chest, a comb stuck in matted hair, lips pursed tightly together.

Tattoos, some animals, some indistinguishable words and letters, crisscrossed her chest and throat and crept up onto her cheeks and pock-marked face.

Perhaps some of the tattoos were there in an effort to hide some scarring, but they were so poorly done it was hard to tell.

It looked as if she had fallen into a printing press.

The woman had hungry, fierce eyes and scars on her knuckles and hands.

Elly listened to Kate, and the woman behind her tapped her foot.

‘Bitch, you better hurry the fuck up or I’m gonna beat your ass.’

As Elly listened, she understood the subtext of what Kate was saying. She couldn’t spell it out, but the advice and the path ahead were clear.

‘Kate, I-I understand. I’m scared. I’m so fucking scared,’ whispered Elly.

‘You have every right to be scared. But I know how strong you are,’ said Kate.

Elly’s heart hammered in her chest. Her fingers trembled as she raised them to wipe the tears from her face. Her legs were shaking, and she held the phone to her ear with one hand, and the other hugged her belly.

The woman behind her sighed and cursed and tapped her foot impatiently.

‘I don’t know if I can do this,’ said Elly.

‘You have to survive in there,’ said Kate. ‘Don’t forget who you are. You’ve been through hell, but you’re still here. We’re going to fight for you when you get out. We’ll be standing right with you, but now you’ve got to do whatever it takes.’

‘Thank you,’ said Elly.

Elly hung up the phone.

Fear shuddered through her entire body.

She had felt like this before.

At college, in class one day, when a cop walked into the lecture hall. He interrupted the lecturer, Mr. Connors, and he had looked at the class until his eyes settled on Elly. And he pointed at her and then gestured for her to come down.

She had followed the cop and Mr. Connors into the hallway, at first afraid in case the police had made some kind of mistake and thought maybe Elly had done something wrong. Elly had her parents’ conscientious nature – she never did anything wrong – not even a parking ticket.

The cop told her that her mother, Susan, had died in a car wreck.

That she should go see her father, Stewart, who was at the hospital.

Mr. Connors asked if she had a friend who could drive her.

She didn’t. Mr. Connors drove, and Elly spent the entire journey in total fear.

The shock was taking care of any sense of loss at her mother’s death – that crushing grief would come later.

She remembered her father sitting on a metal chair in the waiting room of the hospital, consumed by loss and sorrow.

Her fear disappeared when she saw him. She felt his pain.

After the funeral, she had stayed home for a while, and they comforted each other.

At that point in her life, Elly was almost out of money anyway – college was a struggle; she had to work jobs most nights and her credit cards were still maxed.

But she didn’t care, she had to be with her father for a while.

Until he sent her back to college, back to her life, because that would be what her mother wanted.

Her father died a year later. A massive coronary at home, while he slept.

But Elly knew otherwise. It wasn’t heart disease that killed her father.

His heart broke when he buried his wife.

Even after he was gone, he still looked after Elly.

She inherited their house, and sold it to pay her debts and find a place in the city.

Elly had to stand on her own two feet. She couldn’t rely on anyone else. She had learned that through her husband’s betrayal with her so-called best friend.

Elly couldn’t let loss kill her like it had her father.

She had to stand.

She had to listen to Kate.

She had to fight.

‘Move your bitch-ass—’ said the woman behind her.

Elly swung round and punched the woman, hard, in the face.

Her momentum sent her off balance. She had never hit anyone before. A shooting pain bit into her wrist, she fell on top of the woman and they both ended up on the ground.

Cries and howls and whoops went up from the other women in the house. The woman began to claw at Elly’s back and grabbed her hair just as the doors banged open and the COs rushed in.

One moment Elly was on top of this woman and, the next, two men, either side of her, had picked her up by the arms and legs and were hauling her out of there.

Elly was panting, the adrenalin coursing through her veins robbing her of breath.

‘Solitary twelve,’ she heard one of them say as they slammed the house door closed behind her.

It was the only way.

Outside the house, in the corridor, the COs placed Elly on the ground.

One of them flipped her over, face down on the cold painted concrete floor.

Their hands were hard and strong on her wrists as she was shackled, and she knew there would be bruising, but she also knew that she was out of that cell for tonight.

Kate’s words echoed in her mind.

Elly, the communal areas of your detainment house are constantly monitored by security cameras.

If one inmate launches a violent attack on another, then that inmate is removed from the house and placed into solitary confinement .

. . It is unlikely that the victim of the assault will co-operate with authorities, because they don’t want to be seen as a snitch.

Elly would spend the next twenty-four hours, at least, in solitary. A small bare cell with a bed and a toilet, and nothing and no one else.

For some, it was torture.

For Elly, committing that assault had probably saved her life.