To add to the rest of the thoughts that have been gnawing away at me these past two days is Valdemar’s warning about not printing his story. I’m unsure whether to honour this request or to print it anyway just to spite him. Either way, I told Captain I wouldn’t be available on Thursday afternoons for the next few weeks. He began to enquire as to why, but the mention of my gynaecologist stopped him in his tracks.
Once scanned and searched, we’re ushered by The Gatekeeper towards the main door, two large prison guards flanking each side of it, one male and one female in appearance who holds a clipboard in her meaty hand.
“As you’re probably aware, we’re running late due to unforeseen circumstances,” the female officer says, and I wonder what “unforeseen circumstances” could mean in a prison such as this. An attempted escape? A mass brawl? A security breach? The possibilities are endless. “So, I regret to inform you that visiting time will be cut short today.” She glares at us, the sarcasm rolling off her face like the mist off the lake.
No one protests. No one argues. No one demands their time back with their precious loved ones. In fact, most of the visitors look relieved.
The guard smirks before scanning the list she holds in her hand. She stops, looks up, eyes the black-haired woman, then returns to her list before stepping forwards.
“Jacinta, you’re not down for a visit today.” The prison guard’s voice is deep, her tone matching her stern look and the severity of her brown hair, which is pulled into an eye-wateringly tight bun sitting obediently on top of her head like a doughnut glazed in dark chocolate ganache.
“What?” The black-haired lady who I now know is Jacinta still appears to be chewing invisible gum as she eyes the prisonguard whom I’ve aptly named Trunchbull, as she reminds me of the headmistress fromMatilda, one of my favourite childhood books. After reading the book, I’d practised for weeks, trying to move a pencil with my eyes and contemplating the things I could do with magic like that instead of being able to see the dead.
“You’re not on the list,” Trunchbull repeats, tapping the paper with a chunky finger.
“There must be some mistake.” Jacinta bristles. “He’s expecting me.”
“Not today, he isn’t.” There’s a hint of satisfaction in Trunchbull’s voice.
“Well, I’m here, so just add me to the list. It’s not like I haven’t visited him before.”
Trunchbull shakes her head. “No can do.”
“Of course you can,” Jacinta argues. “Just get a pen and write my name down.”
“I can’t do that, as he has another visitor booked in.” Trunchbull glares at Jacinta as this revelation settles on her, wrinkling Jacinta’s perfectly drawn brow before she eyes the rest of us.
“Who?” Jacinta murmurs. Then she points an elongated finger at me. “It’s her.”
It isn’t a question, and it strikes me as odd that she knows I’m the one who’s visiting Valdemar. Has there been a mix-up? No, Jacinta isn’t on the list, but obviously, she thought she was; otherwise, she wouldn’t be here.
I stare at Trunchbull as I realise what’s happened. Jacinta is a regular visitor of Valdemar. God, she could be his girlfriend, and he’s replaced her with me.
Heat prickles up my back. My worries have always been about how safe it is to visit Valdemar Montresor, a notoriously dangerous criminal, and how damaging these interactions could be for my already precarious mental health, yet I’m more afraidnow of what might go down in the reception area. Jacinta’s nails look sharp; maybe they aren’t just for vanity’s sake.
Trunchbull seems to pick up on my pleading look, as she says to Jacinta, “I’m not at liberty to say.”
“Like fuck you aren’t,” Jacinta spits as she eyes me up and down like I’m a vagrant who’s just asked her for some money. “Who the hell are you, and why are you visiting Valdemar?”
“I’m not here to see him.” It’s weak, but the last thing I need right now is to be tangling with a disgruntled girlfriend.
“Liar.” Jacinta steps forwards as the two guards flank her. “I’ve been here before and seen the same bunch of people, but I ain’t never seen you here. Who the fuck are you?”
“That’s enough.” One of the guards positions himself between me and Jacinta as Trunchbull tells them to get her out of here. Wasting no time, they flank her and march her back through the main doors.
There’s no time to consider who Jacinta is, or what this could mean for me when I leave the prison, as Trunchbull swings back into action.
“Okay, show’s over, folks,” she barks as The Gatekeeper unlocks the door, and we’re ushered through it.
“I don’t need to remind you of the rules, but I will anyway for those of you who are new to this.” Trunchbull leads us down the same corridor I walked down on Monday. “Take the seat facing the rear wall as you enter the room. No leaning over the table. No shouting. Do not leave your seat for anything or anyone. If an alarm sounds, remain seated until I or another guard tells you to move, and absolutely no touching. Is that clear?” She turns quickly to face us, the murmurs from the others telling me they’ve heard this speech a thousand times. Checking her watch, she tells us, “You have forty-two minutes.”
After flashing her fob against the scanner of a different door to the one I went through three days ago, she opens it and tellsus all to find a seat and sit down. The room is sterile, with grey walls and a matching floor that seem to bleed into each other, making it feel like an enclosure. There are no posters, no smell of brewing coffee, no sound of laughter, just emptiness.
The rest of the group shuffle in and take their seats, like commuters who sit in the same seat on the bus every day.
I take the only seat remaining at a table at the back of the room.
It’s a little surreal when the door opens and the inmates are led in. They’re all cuffed, but as they spot the person who’s waiting for them, the cuffs are removed.
