The woman looks at her more closely. The suspicion starts to fade from the faces around Anna. ‘How long were you in for?’
‘Three years.’
A nod. Anna seems to have passed some test. She’s not a tourist – she’s been through it, too. ‘I’m going to check with someone,’ the woman says, picking up her phone.
A few moments later and Anna is in possession of a scrawled phone number. She holds the paper in her hand, reeling at the shock of it. She never thought it would be so easy.
‘Kelly’s sister. Fern. My mate was at school with her. She was talking about her the other day, how the family haven’t seen her in months. Fern asked for her number to be given to anyone who might have information.’
If the sister is Kelly’s next of kin, she’ll know about the death by now. At least, Anna hopes so. She doesn’t want to be the one to break that news. ‘Thanks,’ she says, ‘I can’t tell you how grateful I am. I really can’t believe this.’
‘Don’t mention prison if you want her to talk to you.’
It shouldn’t have been this easy. The information she needed has simply fallen into her lap, a small miracle in a world bereft of hope. It’s not surprising though that she’s found her so easily. Once she had the hostel name, the rest was almost bound to follow. It’s a small, tight society this, these women brought together by poverty and addiction, falling through the same cracks. They’re as hollow-eyed and gaunt as the ones Anna saw in prison, shunted in for a few weeks of custody for something petty, the sentence wildly disproportionate to the devastation caused. Nothing learned, no help given for the outside, only a lesson in cruelty.
All such a fucking waste.
She nods her thanks and leaves the building, the phone number clutched tightly in her hand.
She walks back towards Merton Street, heading down the side of her old college again, looking for a quiet bench on Deadman’s Walk overlooking the green expanse of Merton Field, Christ Church Meadows beyond. The juxtaposition of town and gown has never felt so real to her before, and shame at the unthinking privilege of her student years eats away at her insides. But now is not the time for this.
Sitting down, she rummages back in her bag for the miniature phone. She still feels uneasy about switching it back on just in case someone is looking for a signal from it, but she dismisses the fears. She’s got no choice, no other way of calling the number she’s been given.
As soon as the phone powers up, she dials the number, struggling to hit the right numbers because the keypad is so small. At last she manages to enter it accurately, and taking in a deep breath, she presses the green call button.
It rings three times.
‘Yes? Who is this?’ The voice is anxious, impatient. Angry. The muscle at Anna’s jaw twitches, she’s clenching it so tightly.
‘Is this Fern? Someone gave me your number.’
‘Who is this?’
‘My name’s Anna. I’m calling about your sister Kelly.’
‘Too late for that now,’ the woman says flatly.
The family does know, then.
‘I know,’ Anna says. ‘I was there.’Don’t mention prison, the woman at the shelter had said, but she can’t see any other way through it.
‘I don’t want to hear it.’
‘But . . .’
‘No. She disappeared on us for months, over a year. Mum at death’s door after all she’s put us through, and the next thing we heard, she’s killed herself inside. I can’t talk to you right now.’
There is more than anger in her voice. Sadness, leaking out of her. Anna hunches over on the bench. ‘I’m sorry.’
‘That doesn’t help.’
‘I know. My mum died, too.’ She pauses. Fern hasn’t hung up yet, but any minute she will. ‘Look, there is one thing. Who’s Louise?’
A harsh noise from the other end of the phone, a bitter laugh. ‘Louise is my mum.’ Silence for a moment. ‘Who is this? Why are you asking these questions?’
Anna opens her mouth, shuts it. This woman can’t help. Anna needs someone who’s been in contact with Kelly in the last few months.
‘Who are you?’ Fern growls again. Anna lowers the phone from her ear, looks at it for a second before ending the call and pushing the phone back into her bag.
