‘Get some sleep now,’ the officer says, her voice almost kind. ‘It’ll seem better in the morning.’
‘There’s someone else in here already.’ The woman’s voice is soft, emerging through the sobs.
‘She’s being released first thing. She won’t bother you.’
‘When will I get my methadone? I need the prescription.’
‘In the morning. The doctor will definitely be in then.’
‘They should have been there tonight.’
‘I know, but there it is,’ the officer says.
No reply. The light goes off and the door slams behind the officer, the click of the lock loud, echoing throughout the cell. Silence descends, a moment of calm before the noises of the wing start up again.
Are you all right? What’s your name? Were you waiting in reception long before they processed you?The questions Anna could ask rise half-formed in her mind but she can’t speak them. She’s trapped somewhere under warm waves lulling her to sleep, spinning her in their riptide. She can’t offer any help, any comfort to this poor woman. The tranquilliser is working its magic. It doesn’t matter what’s going on around her now, how much pain there is. Anna is floating off away from it, out of any control.
Another sob; a long, broken breath. The air in the cell calms, less prickly than it was before. It sounds like the woman is unpacking, getting her stuff in order as much as she can in the twilight of the cell.
A long sniff, then, ‘Is there a toilet?’
Anna opens her mouth to reply but the words don’t come out. She can’t make her tongue work, can’t form the words. She wants to say,It’s at the end of the cell, or at least to roll over and point to the metal toilet bolted to the floor. She can’t. It’ll be obvious soon enough, though, behind its inadequate screen. The reek of bleach and ammonia cuts through even the depths of Anna’s torpor.
The woman stands up, the bunk beds shifting with the movement, and for a moment Anna senses her presence beside the top bunk, her eyes burning through the blanket that’s covers Anna’s head. Then footsteps, slow and heavy, to the back of the cell. There’s the sound of the removal of clothes. And something else. A rustling noise.
Water hitting water now, the flush, and the steps shuffle back to the bunk before she subsides on to it heavily. She’s not sobbing anymore, but her breathing is laboured, the harsh inhalations reverberating around the cell.
‘It’s me. I’m on remand. I’ve been staying at the Jericho hostel but I got nicked in the Westgate Shopping Centre. I guess it was always going to happen.’ A hoarse whisper. Her voice is so bleak that it cuts through Anna’s haze. Freezing cold water floods through the warm waves.
She’s not talking to Anna. She’s talking to someone else. The rustling. She must have brought something in, contraband hidden up inside herself that the strip search didn’t find.
A phone.
Crying again, smaller sobs, broken as she struggles for breath.
‘I know what you said,’ the woman says. ‘But I can’t bear it. I need to know she’s OK.’ Her voice rises. Anna tries to stay motionless. There’s a clicking noise coming from the phone, the distant sound of someone speaking, though Anna can’t make out the words.
‘Someone in the hostel gave it to me. What does it matter how I got the phone in here? Is everything all right?’
More crying. More clicking.
‘What do you mean, never again? You can’t do that. It’ll break her. She’s my mother.’
The clicks rise in volume, sharp staccatos of sound.
‘So I can’t even contact you? I thought I could trust you.’
A long pause. More indistinct words in reply.
‘I won’t let you do this.’
Silence. No clicking.
‘Leave her alone. I’m begging you. Help me . . . Why won’t anyone help me?’
Clicking. A pause. Then a thump, the phone hitting the concrete floor.
‘I’ve lost everything now. My poor Louise . . .’ Her voice trails into nothing.
