The Prison, Page 2
Amy Cross
Amanda shook her head, while staring straight ahead. She was aware that Chris was watching her, but she didn't want to encourage the conversation to continue.
“You want some advice?” Chris said finally, leaning closer. “Don't let 'em see when you cry.”
“I'm not crying.”
“You're gonna, though. I can see it in your face. You're a crier and -”
“I'm not going to cry,” Amanda said firmly, although she reached up and dabbed at her right eye, just to check.
“Alright,” Chris replied with a sigh, as the van came to a halt. “Sorry, didn't mean to offend, I just... It's okay to cry, everyone does, just for God's sake don't do it where anyone can see you. That's what matters. If people know they can make you cry, they'll start doing it on purpose and turning it into a sport. Before too long, you'll be the punch-bag on whatever wing you end up on. You want my advice, make sure you cry just after lights out, and do it real quiet so your bunk-mate doesn't hear. It's hard to really sob without making a noise, but it can be done. Also, that way, your eyes'll have time to stop looking red before morning. Thank me later for that little tip.”
Amanda turned to her.
“Alright, ladies,” the guard muttered as he set his newspaper down, “wait here a moment.” Opening the back door, he climbed out and moments later he could be heard talking to someone.
“You heard about this place?” Chris asked.
Amanda shook her head.
“It's got a bit of a reputation. Only been open for a couple of weeks. Well, this time around, anyway. It was boarded up for, like, a hundred years after being shut down back in the old days. We're some of the first to be sent here. Lucky us, eh? We're the fucking guinea pigs.”
Amanda forced a faint smile as she focused on holding back the tears. After a moment, she realized she was tapping her right foot involuntarily; she forced herself to stop, but it started again as soon as she stopped thinking about it.
“So at the risk of sounding like a broken record,” Chris said after a moment, “what exactly did you do to get yourself sent here? Come on, we might get sent to separate wings, so this could be your last chance to tell me.”
“I don't want to talk about it.”
“Do you wanna know what I did?”
“Not really.”
“I stole a car.”
“Okay.”
“And then I set fire to it.”
“Okay.”
“And then I drove it through the window of this wine shop and stole, like, a lot of alcohol.”
Amanda turned to her.
“Seriously,” Chris continued with a smile. “Impressed? To be fair, though, I had a perfectly good excuse.”
“What was your excuse?”
“I was extremely fucked-up on heroin at the time.” She leaned closer and lowered her voice to a conspiratorial whisper. “Extremely fucked-up. Of course, that might be more of an explanation than an excuse.”
“Hey!” a voice shouted from outside, “watch your language in there!”
“Fucking...” Chris whispered. “Who do they think they are? Anyway, they'd better give me the right detox drugs, 'cause there's no way I'm gonna just go cold turkey this time. Some places think they can cut you off and eventually you'll be okay, but they don't understand how the human body works outside of fucking textbooks, they...” She paused for a moment. “Have you ever taken heroin?” she asked finally.
Amanda shook her head.
“It's like...” Again Chris paused, as if she was remembering the good times. “I'm not gonna lie to you, it's amazing. But it's also, like, really bad, and I definitely wouldn't be here right now if I hadn't started on it. Plus -” She held out her arm so that Amanda could see the needle marks. “Not exactly pretty, is it?”she continued with a grin. “How am I ever gonna find myself a prison wife, looking like this?”
“Prison wife?”
“You are so new to this, aren't you?”
“But -”
“Out of the truck!” the guard shouted suddenly, pulling the door open all the way. “Ladies, I'm pleased to inform you that you have reached your final destination. I'd like to remind you that you should keep your language respectful at all times, and that here at Hardstone we have a zero tolerance policy when it comes to violence and intimidation, so I'd strongly advise you to be polite with everyone you encounter. Treat the staff right and the staff, in return, will do their best by you. Treat us like we're the enemy, though, and you'll be setting yourself up for a fall. Now out you come, we haven't got all day.”
“Chin up,” Chris whispered, climbing past and jumping out into the yard. “Stiff upper lip and all that.”
Taking a deep breath, Amanda felt herself coming close to tears again.
“Come on,” the guard said to her, “you've got to go through processing.” He paused for a moment, waiting for her to get out. “It'll be okay,” he added, as if he was trying to reassure her, “there's nothing to be scared about, you just need to get out and follow me for your processing interview. It's boring more than anything.”
“Sorry,” Amanda muttered, feeling the tears recede again as she climbed out of the van and found herself in an open yard in front of a large old building.
“Welcome to Hardstone Women's Prison,” Chris said, with a hint of awe in her voice as she stared up at the imposing edifice. “I've heard stories about this place. Not good stories, either. Like, stories about ghosts. I can't believe I'm actually here, though. It's like... If I have to be in prison, it might as well be spooky old Hardstone.” She turned to Amanda. “Have you heard the stories? Do you know about Leonora Blake and what she did here? It's mental!”
“Come on,” the guard said, heading to a nearby metal door. “You can gossip later.”
“We might get sent to different wings,” Chris explained as she and Amanda made their way toward the door, “so if I don't see you for a while, girl, let me give you one more bit of advice right now. Prison's not exactly a fun place, but if you keep your head down and don't do anything stupid, you can get through it just fine. Be polite, and don't get tricked into thinking you need to prove yourself. That's a load of bull, just keep out of the way and -”
“She doesn't need advice from you,” the guard said firmly, holding the door open. “Her processing supervisor can tell her what's what.”
“Good luck,” Chris added with a smile as she was led away along a corridor. She glanced over her shoulder at Amanda and winked, before being taken into a nearby room. “How long you in for, anyway?”
“Life,” Amanda replied coolly. “Without parole.”
“Life?” Chris's eyes almost popped out of her head. “What the fuck did you -”
Before she could finish, the door was slammed shut, cutting her off.
Amanda took a deep breath as she turned and looked along the bare white corridor. She couldn't help imagining all the other prisoners, and how they might react to a new arrival.
“And you're coming this way,” the guard told Amanda.
“Am I not going with the other girl?”
“Don't worry,” he added, grabbing her by the arm and pulling her through the door, “I'm sure you'll make plenty of friends soon.”
With that, he pulled the door shut and swiped his card against a sensor on the wall, causing a loud beep followed by the sound of the door's locking mechanism being engaged.
“You're in now,” he added with a faint smile. “Welcome to Hardstone.”
Six months ago
“Hello?”
He stood at the top of the stairs, listening to the dark house. Just a few minutes ago, he'd woken in bed and heard... something. Just a faint click, and then a creaking sound. He knew it could be the wind or just the house settling, but in the back of his mind there was another fear.
He waited.
Just as he was about to turn and go back to bed, he heard another creak, and this time there was no doubt: someone was downstairs, in the kitchen.
Making his way along the hallway, David Bradford kept the rifle raised until he could see the silhouette of a figure at the fridge door, picking through the various items as if he or she had just broken into the house for a sandwich. Reaching out for the light switch, David flicked it on and finally he could see the figure standing in a leather jacket and ripped jeans, still rooting through the contents of the fridge.
“Stop right there!” David shouted, aiming the rifle. “Whatever you want, you can just -”
“Hey Dad,” Chris said, turning to him and smiling, before trying to take a step forward and instead stumbling. She caught herself against the kitchen table just in time, wincing with pain as she inadvertently put too much weight on her damaged left foot. “Long time, no see.”
“What the hell are you doing here?” he asked, keeping the rifle raised.
“Put that thing down,” she told him, her speech sounding slightly slurred. “We both know it doesn't work.”
“What do you want, Chris?”
“I want...” She glanced back at the fridge, as if she was struggling to remember. “I want peace and love for all mankind.”
“Jesus, you're on something, aren't you?”
“I am not!” she replied, as if she was offended. “Oh, wait, maybe a smackerel of the good stuff, but you can't blame a girl for wanting to feel buzzy, right?” She stumbled toward him, but once against she lost her footing and this time she fell against a chair, which slipped out from under her and sent her crashing to the floor with a pained grunt.
“You can't even walk,” David said, with evident disgust in his voice as he took a step back, keeping the rifle aimed at her.
“I can walk,” she replied, rolling onto her back and smiling up at him, “I just... I'm trying to complete the journey to my next evolutionary form, and I'm taking a cue from the fishes.”
“You can't stay here,” he told her. “Your mother and I told you before -”
“Shut up!” she said suddenly, sitting up and looking over at the dark window. There was fear in her eyes now, as if she was deathly afraid of something outside. “Did you hear that?”
“Hear what, Chris?” he asked with a sigh. “Do we really have to go through all of this again?”
“It's the Devil,” she replied, turning to him. “I thought I'd given him the slip, but he's found me.”
“Chris, there's no -”
Before he could finish, he heard a faint bumping sound against the window. He turned to look over, but all he saw was the rose bush moving in the wind, scratching against the glass in the process.
“There's nothing out there,” he said, looking back down at Chris. “It's just -”
He paused, before sighing as he realized that she was out cold.
Today
“Two hundred and fifty-one,” Governor Windsor muttered to himself as he watched the prison van from his office window, “and two hundred and fifty-two. With these two new arrivals, we're officially past the point of half capacity.”
He turned to Grace as she sat taking notes by his desk.
“Not bad for a facility that has only been operational for nine weeks, eh? I must send a memo to the minister and remind him of our progress.”
“Should I type that memo up for you this afternoon?” Grace asked.
“Might as well,” he told her, heading back to his desk and picking up the first of the two files that had been delivered during the morning. Opening the cover, he read the first few lines. “Christina Bradford,” he muttered, “twenty-one years old, drug user, vandal, petty criminal who recently graduated to some rather more violent offenses...” He turned to the next page and scanned the rest of the notes. “Quite a career criminal, it seems. In and out of various institutions since the age of twelve. In other words, just another piece of human trash for the pile.”
“Maybe you could put her into the educational program,” Grace suggested.
“Why would I do something like that?”
“Well... To help her, you know? Maybe she just needs some encouragement. Maybe she needs to find what she's good at.”
“It's woolly thinking like that,” he replied darkly, “that'll get you stabbed in the eye with an arts and crafts scalpel. No, these people are far too dangerous to be trusted. They don't need kid gloves, they need to be put to work. I won't have them lounging around in this prison at the tax-payer's expense.”
“But -”
“Besides, it'd be a complete waste of time trying to educate her,” he continued, tossing the file down and picking up the other folder. “Girls like Christina Bradford never learn. It's unfashionable to say it, but some of these people are just doomed. In most cases, they're of very low intelligence. As I said, human trash, the lot of them.”
“If you say so,” Grace replied quietly.
“And this one...” He opened the second folder. “Amanda Weir, also twenty-one, convicted of...” He paused, his eyes scanning the page as a concerned expression crossed his face. After a moment, he muttered something inaudible under his breath.
“Convicted of what, Sir?” Grace asked.
“I...” He turned to the next page, clearly shocked by what he was reading. “Jesus,” he whispered, “this girl is... she's...”
Grace waited for him to continue.
“Is there a problem, Sir?”
“A problem?” He stared at the report for a moment longer before closing it and turning to her. “No, there's no problem. Just a little...” His voice trailed off, as if he was lost for words for the first time in his life. “Just a little reminder that the world can be a dark and wretched place sometimes.”
“Sir? You look a little pale...”
“I'm fine,” he replied, setting the folder down. “Grace, I want you to get Amanda Weir's contact supervisor to come to my office as soon as possible, there are some important matters I need to discuss with him. God knows why nobody thought to inform me about what we were going to have to deal with, a little heads up about Ms. Weir would have been useful but then I don't suppose we can expect the prison service to actually function properly, can we? God forbid that we might have the proper programs in place.”
“Is something wrong?” Grace asked, making a couple of notes before getting to her feet. She looked down at Amanda's file. “Should I take a look at that?”
“No need.”
“But just so that I -”
“Go and type something, won't you?” he said suddenly. “I'd like to be alone for a moment. I need call my wife, to let her know that I'll be thirty minutes late home tonight. She'll start to worry otherwise.”
“Sir -”
“Go and type!” he shouted, briefly losing his temper before taking a deep breath. “I'm sorry, Grace, but these incessant questions are rather unladylike. Go and type, and tell Mr. Dunne or whoever deals with Amanda Weir to come and see me as soon as the processing interview has been completed. I need to...” His voice trailed off again. “Well, just make sure he comes straight here, won't you? This situation needs to be handled with delicacy.”
“Of course,” Grace replied, heading to the door. As she was about to leave, she glanced back at the governor and saw that he was back over by the window. Something had rattled him, but she knew not to ask too many questions. After all, as his personal assistant, she'd get a chance to read the Amanda Weir file soon enough. Whatever was in there, it had clearly been enough to rattle a man who usually showed very little emotion at all.
***
“Hardstone isn't a scary place,” Andrew Dunne explained as he sat opposite Amanda in the interview room. “It's got this whole Victorian vibe going on, which I guess makes it seem a little spooky, but you need to see past that. I don't know if you've heard any stories about things that happened here in ye olden times, but if you have, you can ignore them completely. There's really no such thing as ghosts, okay? I thought we should just get that out of the way right from the off.”
He waited for Amanda to reply, but she simply stared at him.
Above them, the light flickered for a moment.
“That was well-timed,” Andrew added with a smile as he looked down at his notes. “I see from the comments made by your previous doctor that several different medications have been tried on you. Are there any that you feel were particularly successful in managing your symptoms?”
Again he waited for a response.
Again, nothing was forthcoming.
“I just want your input,” he continued. “It's important that this is a discussion rather than a lecture.”
Amanda opened her mouth, as if to answer him, but no words came out.
“So I should go ahead and keep you on the pills you've been taking recently?”
He waited.
“Amanda?”
“I guess,” she replied finally, keeping her voice so low that it was barely audible. “I don't think it matters too much. Not anymore.”
“When was the last time you had an episode?” he asked. “I'm talking mainly about anything that might have manifested as behavior that would be dangerous to other people, or of course to yourself. I'm sure you can understand why we need to keep an eye on that kind of thing in a place like this. After all, you'll be around other people twenty-four-seven, and I can imagine that for someone such as yourself that might be somewhat stressful.”
“Can't I go into isolation?”
“That's not really an option at this stage.”
