Maybe she’s being too complacent. Maybe they’ll search her again before she leaves, just to make sure. It’s a chance she’ll have to take.
After she leaves the cubicle, she goes to the sink. There’s a mirror of sorts above it, reflective plastic glued to the wall, and she glares at herself, her pallid reflection, as she washes her hands. She’s grateful to finally have the chance to get the blood off, soaping them repeatedly under the water, even as it becomes too hot to bear.
11
The way out is the same as the way in, all that time ago. Anna remembers it like it was yesterday, the newness of it, the smell hitting her for the first time. The noise. Now she barely notices it, the occasional screams and cries nothing more than background buzz.
She’s given a quick pat down, nothing more thorough, to her relief.
‘Sign here,’ an officer says, and thrusts a holdall at her, the one that she handed over on the day she first checked in. She remembers packing the tatty old thing the night before sentence – she’d had a choice of this or a smarter one that her sister had given to her as a birthday present only a few weeks before the accident, tags still on. Taking it into prison just hadn’t seemed right.
It’s half full of the clothes that she wasn’t allowed to bring into jail, though she can’t remember now what was wrong with them – too smart, too short, too fitted, most likely. Her corporate uniform, a skin she shed years ago. She looks down at the regulation grey tracksuit bottoms she’s worn virtually every day since being inside, the fresh blood spatters encrusted now into the tired fabric.
‘Can I get changed?’ she says, looking at the officer behind the desk.
‘Toilet’s that way,’ the woman replies, gesturing to her left.
Anna hoists the bag on to her right shoulder and picks up the clear bin bag containing the rest of her belongings with her left hand. She hadn’t planned for this, for needing anything – she’d only packed her clothes to allay any suspicions from Naomi that she might not be planning a life on the outside. No one was meant to know what she was going to do next. But now? Now she doesn’t have any idea what to do. This collision with death has broken her resolve, thrown everything into disarray. She could walk away now, stick to the plan. But the image of the dead woman persists. Kelly had put the phone under her pillow for a reason – the least Anna can do is attempt to find out what that reason was. Maybe it was just to hide it, but maybe there’s more to it. Maybe there is something Kelly wanted her to do with it, something Kelly wanted her to find out.
On the other hand, she could get clear. The moment she’s out, there’s nothing to stop her from doing exactly what she wants, whether that means ending it all, or making a new start. Kelly Green is just a name to her. She doesn’t owe her anything.
The memory is still there. The glassy stare of the dead eyes, the bloodstains on the wall. The pain in the woman’s voice as she pleaded on the phone. Pity surges through Anna.
She’s too tired to think straight. She’ll sleep one more night. Then she’ll work out what comes next.
Locking herself into a cubicle, she rummages through the holdall, holding up skirts and blouses that she remembers wearing in a different world. What was she thinking when she picked them for prison? She’ll never need to wear anything like this again. She pulls out a pair of jeans and a stripy top and changes into them. She quickly sorts through the remaining clothes, keeping one blouse and skirt and scraping everything else into the bin bag before leaving it in the corner of the bathroom, the stained tracksuit rammed in along with them.
She sits down on the toilet seat and tips the phone from her trainer, looking at it properly for the first time. It’s tiny. The logo under the screen says ‘Zenca’, and it fits easily into the palm of her hand. She locates the power button and presses it on, hoping that it still has power.
She’s seen phones like this before, kicking round the prison. They’re so small that they’re easy to smuggle in – she heard about a man who was able to squeeze four up his arse. Anna winces at the thought. She’s never tried to get hold of an illicit phone. She has no one to talk to, after all.
The screen lights up just as sadness is threatening to overwhelm her. She shakes the feeling off with relief, navigating her way through the limited menu. The absence of any security code surprises her slightly, but less so when she sees there’s only one number stored. She looks at it for a moment, trying to commit it to memory. Just then, someone comes into the toilets and locks themselves in the other cubicle, sniffing and coughing as they pee. Anna stays silent, holding her breath until the flush goes and she’s finally alone again.
She’s about to explore the phone further when there’s a thump on the door into the corridor. A voice calls. ‘What you doing in there? Get a move on!’
Anna turns the phone off, pushes it deep into the holdall before going back out into reception.
The officer looks her up and down. ‘I was expecting you in a ballgown, you took so long about it.’
‘Sorry. Got distracted looking at my stuff.’
‘Hmm. Well. You need to get going. There’s only one more bus tonight. Or are you being picked up?’
Anna shakes her head. The officer doesn’t ask further.
A few more signatures, nodded agreement to the probation appointment she’ll need to keep in the afternoon. ‘Make sure you’re on time.’
‘Thank you.’
Bus, train, probation office. Back to the beginning again.
It’s a short step to freedom. The gate clangs shut behind her, and for a moment it’s just her and the sky, the trees. She looks over at the dual carriageway, the cars rushing along at speed. She takes a step towards the road, then another, wondering if it might be simpler just to step out in front of one of the cars, throwing herself into the hands of fate.
She takes a deep breath, picks up her bag. That would be the easy way out, she knows it. So tempting, to cast off all the guilt and self-loathing. One step, two, that’s all it would take.
It would satisfy the author of those hate-filled notes, the family to whom she’s already dead. Something’s changed, though. She’d convinced herself that an eye for an eye was the only reasonable response to her guilt, the debt to them payable only in blood, but Anna owes more than that now. The dead woman in the cell, begging for her help. Anna’s not going to turn away.
She turns, walks along the pavement towards the bus stop. With any luck, she hasn’t missed the last one into town.
