Nightmare or not, she knows what she heard. The words of the call last night go through her mind.Why won’t anyone help me?Anna could have helped; she slept instead. But she didn’t harm her. She stares down at the bloody mess that was the woman’s throat.
Of course it wasn’t Anna. She knows well enough what she’s capable of – it’s not this, not even in her worst state. She can be aggressive when she needs to be, like when she punched a woman who attacked her in the canteen. But Anna doesn’t seek out trouble.
Her head’s sore where she’s been hitting it against the wall, blood trickling down her forehead. She brushes it away, red on the dark dried smears of blood from the dead woman that stick still to her fingers.
The prison’s waking up. Shouts from the cells, the banging of doors. Footsteps along the concrete corridors. It won’t be long before they come to her cell.Think. She’s doesn’t have long.
She hasn’t called for help yet. That may count against her, when they review the evidence. Evidence that all seems to point to her – the sole other occupant of the cell, covered in blood. Means, motive . . .
The means – yes, sure. She’s staring straight at the blade, though she knows it’s not hers. But motive?
A fugue state. A night terror turned into a living nightmare. She wouldn’t need a motive. She turns her hands over again, looking at the blood-encrusted nails, flexing the fingers in and out.
If she’d slit this poor woman’s throat, there’d be some mark on her. The woman would have struggled, put up a fight. There’s nothing, though. No stiffness, no pain. Her hands are chilled, sticky with dried blood. But they feel completely normal.
Anna’s scalp is tingling. She flexes her fingers again, closes them into a fist which pulsates to the beats of her heart, strong and insistent.
Alive. It’s too late for this poor woman. But it’s not too late for Anna. She looks at the body for a moment more, emblazoning the image into her mind. Another emotion is playing through her, stronger than guilt, stronger than fear, too. It’s anger. This is not how anyone should die.
Fragments of the woman’s conversation floating round her head.It’ll break her. She’s my mother. My poor Louise . . .Who was the woman talking to? What happened to her mother?
Anna closes her eyes again. She’s so tired, so fucking tired. She climbs back on to her bunk, wrapping the blanket around her, over her head, wanting to make it all go away. But she can’t settle, thrashing her legs around under the cover and thrusting her hands under the thin pillow. There’s something in the way, something small, hard. She takes it, rolling over on to her back. It wasn’t there the night before.
Without even looking, she knows exactly what it is, the tiny object encased in a tacky, rubbery cover. She can feel buttons under the surface – a miniature phone, wrapped in a condom, smuggled in inside the woman like so much contraband Anna has seen before.
I’m begging you. Help me.Anna knows how it feels to be helpless. There must be a reason that the phone was left in her bed. It was deliberate, of course. The last act of a woman resolved to die.
However, Anna’s got her plan. She’s out, she’s going to the sea. She’s not coming back. She can’t help anyone else.
Any minute now they’re going to come and open the door for her release. Then all hell will break loose – the phone will be the first item they seize. Without thinking, she rolls out of bed, throws on her clothes, and tucks the phone into the foot of her right trainer, where she curls her toes over it, gripped by an urgency she can’t ignore.
Phone safely stowed, Anna turns her attention back to the dead woman. She hasn’t done any basic checks – is the woman still breathing, even if only slightly? Is there a heartbeat? She squats next to the corpse, half-wondering if she’s hallucinating. But there’s the gaping wound across the windpipe – she’s dead all right.
A bang on the door. Tears well up in her eyes. She brushes them aside with the back of her hand.
No time for tears.
6
The key grinds in the lock. The door bangs open. Before Anna can even stand up, a prison officer files in. He stands quiet for a moment, taking in the scene. Anna watches the expression change on his face from one of professional calm to sheer panic before he slaps the mask back on again, calling immediately for back-up. Two other officers come in so fast that as she starts to get up, they knock her to the floor. They yell at her to stand back while one of them leans over the body in the bed, putting his fingers to the dead woman’s neck.
They all turn and look at Anna. She’s scooted to the side of the cell to get out of the way.
‘What the fuck’s been going on here?’ one of them asks.
Before Anna can open her mouth to speak, the other two officers, one woman, one man, have hauled her to her feet so she’s face to face with the officer by the bed.
He looks her up and down. It’s not even a lack of kindness in his eyes – he doesn’t see her as human, his gaze is as cold as that. Anna lowers her head. He reaches out and grabs hold of her right wrist, gripping so hard he could crush the bones with only a little more pressure.
‘What’s this?’ he says, forcing her arm upwards so that her hand is in front of her face.
‘What’s what?’ Anna says, though she knows perfectly well what he means.
‘This, you stupid bitch.’ He waves her hand back and forth. ‘What’s all over your hands?’
The blood drains out of Anna’s face. She feels it happen, a chill from within. She knew what was going to happen to her, she’s known all along, but now it’s real. Her fingers clench into a fist, loosen again, weak. He pushes her backwards against the wall, so hard that she hits the back of her head and collapses to the ground once more.
‘Get the fuck up,’ he says.
