She knows the rules. Suspected homicide, police must be called. She leans back in the seat, shifting to take the pressure off her cuffed arm again, her body sore from the aggressive search they’d carried out before they locked her in here. At least they didn’t make her take off her shoes. They’d found the razorblade immediately, so it’s not like the murder weapon was missing. They have all they need.
No one is rushing, now that she’s secured. It’s hardly an emergency – the suspected killer isn’t going anywhere. There’s no clock in the cell and she has no way of finding out what time it is, but it sounds as if everyone is now awake. The bangs have subsided but there’s still shouting, crying, an ululation from a stranger with something left to shout about. Anna remembers the first night she spent inside, the terror that froze her to the bunk. It didn’t last, that fear for her own wellbeing. She knew that whatever happened to her was less than what was due.
Despite the three years inside, it’s hard for her to take a different view now. The guilt hasn’t subsided. There’s no sentence harsh enough. This might be unfair, that she’s found herself suspected of something she hasn’t done, but her original offence was so bad that it doesn’t matter. No number of years would be enough – at least this way, she’ll be properly punished. Does it matter if it’s not for the right crime? Backwards and forwards it goes in her head. What Anna deserves, what she might get.
It’s not about that, though. There’s something bigger here. Someone else has died, a young woman, in the most horrific of circumstances. Anna can’t do a thing to change that.
All she can do is wait. She might as well have handed over the phone. There’s nothing else she can do about it. She puts her head down on the table in front of her and closes her eyes.
Deep sleep evades her but she must have dropped off a little, because the slamming of the cell door brings Anna to herself with a snap, sitting up so fast that she hurts her wrist on the chain.
Prison officer number one is standing in front of her, two uniformed police officers behind him. They’re all men, the prison officer short, but built like a brick shithouse, his face red, his hair receding. She’s never spoken to him before today, though she’s seen him in the distance. She also knows his reputation.
‘What the fuck are you staring at?’ he says.
She bows her head.
The police officers take their time sitting down. There’s a big one and a small one, like Little and Large, the latter as wide as he is tall, his body poured into the uniform for just a moment too long so it looks overfilled, ready to burst at the seams. Little is wiry, hungry-looking, his tongue darting out to the corner of his mouth every few seconds. They seem nervous.
Maybe they haven’t been inside a prison before – that’s always a possibility. Large keeps looking over at the door as if to check that it’s locked. Maybe he’s imagining that any minute a riot’s going to break out, or an inmate’s going to rush in and pot him. Anna pictures his face with rivulets of liquidised shit running down it, suppressing a shudder at the thought of the smell.
Not quickly enough. ‘What are you twitching about?’ Large says. She curls her fingers into a fist.
Little interrupts. ‘Anna Flyn, we are arresting you on suspicion of the murder of Kelly Green. You do not have to say anything. But it may harm your defence if you do not mention when questioned something which you later rely on in court. Anything you do say may be given in evidence.’ He rushes through it, his lack of interest in the formality evident.
Kelly Green. So that’s the woman’s name. Anna has never heard of her. A thought strikes her. ‘What about my legal rights?’
‘What legal rights?’ Large says, sneering.
‘My right to a solicitor. I am entitled to legal representation.’
The prison officer lurches forward from the door where he’s been leaning, his face twisted with rage. ‘You’re bang to fucking rights. That’s all the rights you need,’ he snaps, as if unable to control himself anymore. ‘Caught red-fucking-handed. What do you need a solicitor for?’
Little sighs, shaking his head. His hair is neatly slicked down with gel, the teeth marks from the comb almost perpendicular to the parting that’s so straight it could have been done with a ruler. ‘We need to follow due process, lads. That’s the way of it. You know what they can be like.’Theyis hissed with some venom, though Anna isn’t sure who in particular incurred it.
‘You’re only putting off the inevitable,’ Large says. ‘Solicitor or not, you’re staying right where you are.’
They turn to the prison officer and nod at him. ‘Let’s get theladya solicitor, shall we? Since it’s so important to her. Not like there’s much of a rush. Custody time limits aren’t exactly an issue here.’ It’s Large speaking. Little laughs, but without humour. He must be subordinate.
The prison officer nods. ‘We’ll get it sorted.’ Turning to Anna, he affects a tone of civility. ‘Does madam have a preferred legal representative, or will the duty solicitor suffice?’ He bows. Anna clenches her fist even harder. She needs to stay in control.
‘Duty is fine,’ she says. She never wants to see the solicitor who represented her last time again.
‘As madam requires,’ he says, sneering even more, his face contorted with contempt. With that, he and the police officers leave the room, the door slamming shut behind them.
CCTV
There are two women, one young, one old, inside the kitchen – let’s call the young one Scylla, the old Charybdis. Their real names don’t matter. They’re monsters, after all.
It’s a dark room with a low roof, two small windows set deep into a stone wall. Scylla stands at a Rayburn stove, stirring a pot. Charybdis sits at a table made from rough wood. She is weeping, her face contorted, picking at the skin on her arms. They are both very thin.
Scylla brings the pot to the table and ladles out its steaming contents. Plant matter sticks out from the top of the bowls, which looks like nettles. The liquid slops over the sides of the bowl as she pours it.
She puts her hand on Charybdis’s arm, strokes it. She then picks up her spoon and brings it to her lips, which pucker as if the contents are sour. She gestures to Charybdis, bringing her spoon up and down to her face as if to say,Eat up.
Charybdis pushes the bowl away, hard enough to spill the contents on to the table. She starts banging her head on the table, a rhythmic movement. Scylla stands up and attempts to restrain her, but Charybdis slaps her in the face. Scylla’s head snaps back and forward.
She sits down. Scylla is crying now too. There is a dark mark on her cheek.
