The CWA Debut Dagger 2005

The Woman Before Me

Ruth Dugdall

Chapter One

Rose; May 2001

Crossing the threshold I listen to the silence of the sleeping house. The quiet of the middle hours, between three and four in the early morning when the deepest sleep can be reached, makes the kitchen seem larger and emptierthan before. Different. Although the difference is inme; tonight I will be saying goodbye.

The smell of Emma is everywhere. I will never again watch her select a herbal tea from a wooden box. I will not see her hair fall as she bends to retrieve a toy. And Luke. She told me that I couldn't see him again.

There is a large picture on the wall. A scene from Provence - a place I know she has never been. On the counter are unwashed plates, remnants of the last meal encrusted on the cutlery. This surprises me. She is usually so neat. But then I do not really know her. Of course, she's had a shock, so the house will not be as spotless as before. As mine never is, but I do not encourage visitors, unlike Emma.

Through the kitchen into the large dining room, my progress is reverential; I don't want to miss a thing. I must capture the memory of it. This is where we have sat, opposite one another, cradling hot cups of tea. I absorb the red paint of the walls, the white pine of the window seat. And then I see myself, reflected back, in a small mirror positioned above the seat. I am shocked by what my face reveals. Flushed, red patches on my cheeks and forehead, my eyes dark. Curious, nearing the mirror, I see that my pupils are fully dilated. I look excited, aroused even. Momentarily my heart palpitates; my hands become instantaneously clammy with sweat. I now know the nervous thrill of the burglar, even though I'll take nothing. Nothing will be stolen.I have only ever taken one thing from this house - the key, secretly copied so I could return again and again.

Her home is the present I gave myself, its secrets to be unwrapped slowly. I climb quietly up the stairs, being careful to avoid places that would groan under my footsteps. Soft light illuminates the hall, over-bright now my eyes have become accustomed to the dark. Her bedroom door is slightly ajar. The curtains are open and the moon is full.

It is always the same. She sleeps facing the window, the duvet pulled high on her face. Tonight she sleeps alone; her husband is often away and I only visit when I know he's not there. I would not want to be discovered by a man. Women are weaker, more pliable. I can't see her face; I don't know if she's sleeping peacefully.

I step into the room, creeping up to her foetal shape. I can see her perfect ear, her cheek, her blonde hair turned ashen in the half-light. If I were careful, could I touch her hair? Would she wake? I step forward, only inches separate me from her sleeping body, my hand grazing the bunched-up duvet. Suddenly, she turns and my muscles tense; I am like an animal preparing for flight. But then I realise that she is moving to the rhythm of troubled dreams. She is half facing me and I observe the crease on her brow, the tightness of her mouth. Have I caused this, I wonder?

Further along the hall is the nursery. I snake in the half-closed door. Inside the small room a night-light illuminates my beautiful baby boy, asleep in his cot. He lies surrendered on his back, hands fisted against the blanket; his face peacefully fallen, soft skin and round fat cheeks. Usually I will sit and watch, but tonight I want to touch him. He is familiar with my touch, my smell. Lifting him, he stirs slightly and I pause, listening for any movement in the other room. There isn't any. His weight is so natural to me, I cradle him expertly, one arm along his body, my hand on his thigh. My other hand reaches in my pocket for the matches.

Fire is a forceful element. The flames lick the air as if they own it, their blue-white heart dressed in sunset hues. Watching them is hypnotic. In the old days families would gather around a fire before the hearth was vanquished by the television set. I learned its power young; I was just twelve when I burned down a disused beach hut with a group of friends, who ran away while I stood rooted to the spot, hooked by the leaping flames. They calmed me and brought the stillness I coveted. Maybe that's why I've always smoked. Being pregnant didn't even persuade me to stop that small habitual fire setting.

I strike a match and light the tiny fire of my cigarette.

Luke is still in my arms, his head nestled to my chest, and I wonder about the thin slip of nicotine seeping into his tiny lungs. I hope it brings him the pleasure it brings me. I waft the air; disperse the scent, as I would not want Emma to wake. If she discovered me, if she saw me now, she would understand that she couldn't take Luke from me. He has fed from me, slept in my arms, smiled for me. I calmly count my thoughts, listing the ways in which Luke is mine, as the cigarette drops from my fingers and lands on the thick rug. The orange disc glows on white sheepskin. It is now. In this moment I see the road of my future fork into two paths, and I face the choice that will determine my life's journey. I look at the beautiful boy in my arms and, as the fire begins to take hold, I make my decision.

Chapter Two

Cate; April 2005

How can we escape what other's have created? We all become what our pasts make us. Whether it is in replication or rejection, rebellion or duty, our life's journey is written on our skin like a tattoo, the map to the heart of us. What has the teacher learnt? What does the barrister wish to defend? Those who hold others under lock and key, what do they seek to control? And what of those who choose to work with the pariahs in society, those who understand the criminal? Is it Christian benevolence that drives them, a need to forgive and befriend?

For Cate Austin it was fear. She had spent most of her life from late childhood in a state of neurotic anxiety that she attempted perpetually to control, swatting bleak thoughts away like flies, but still they buzz. Not by nature courageous, she decided to choose a path that required a show of strength if she were to succeed. She was searching for answers. She needed to master the feelings that had plagued her since she was thirteen, the questions she dwelt on, not knowing if she was ready for the answers. This was her legacy; what her past created.

And so she worked with those who transgressed, closing in on those who had stolen or cheated, maimed or killed. She wanted to know what made them do it, and in doing so she wanted to understand her past, to bring some peace. And this search for peace took her to Bishop's Hill prison.

She threw her tally into the chute and waited. As usual the officers behind the reinforced glass continued talking to each other, ignoring her, even as the ring of keys was pushed under the grille. She said `thank you` to the back of a head, and clipped the set to the chain at her waist.

Then began the journey through several locked doors - open, remove key, go through, replace key and lock - to her office, if such a small, dark room befits the term; it's really just a cupboard housing a desk and filing cabinet. Even the computer is just a word processor, with no Internet access. Security was the prison's priority and as a civilian worker she would always be seen as a risk, so there could be no external e-mails or mobile `phones. The only communication she could have was within the custodial estate. From nine to five thirty this was her world, and she was as cut off as the inmates. Well, good, she thought, at least there will be no distractions. I can just do my job and go home.

Into the desk drawer went lunch - coke, a cheese sandwich from the garage and two chocolate bars. Not very healthy, but there wasn't much choice, and she would skip dinner to make up. The mess served hot food, but she didn't like to eat in front of people. Plus, she was still new and the idea of sitting alone while prison officers and other staff gossiped around her was not a tempting prospect. Maybe she would brave it when she had got to know people, she told herself. After all, it was only the start of her third week so she must be positive.

So far the only visitor to the room had been Governor Wright who stayed briefly but long enough to give a strong picture of how he thought a prison should be run; she got the impression he didn't value the women's side of the prison as much as the men's when he commented, "I've no time for these hysterics. All that weeping and wailing - most of `em are mental. At least with men you know where they're coming from."

The Governor was a large man, used to standing over people, and he stood over Cate as she sat at the desk, feeling like a schoolgirl, "My days of pounding the landing are long gone," he boomed, "In those days inmates were treated like the low life they are. It's all gone too far now, if you ask me. Prison's more like Center Parks." She gathered that he didn't have much truck with civilian staff whom he referred to as "the dayshift" and she guessed that he wouldn't be fond of probation officers. She tested the water by asking about the other probation officer in the prison. Surprisingly, he smiled with warmth, "Ah yes, Paul Chatham. He's on holiday at the moment, but I'll make sure he sees you as soon as he's back. If you copy his example you'll do OK, `though I won't pretend that I think women should work in prison. After all, what good are they when the shit hit the fan? No offence to you love, but I'd rather have a man around when it kicks off."

Although she had not yet met Paul Chatham, her equivalent on the men's side, the probation service is a small world and she knew him by reputation. Paul had been working in the place so long that he was almost part of the natural environment, managing that elusive shift from `outsider` to `one of us`, despite belonging to a profession with a low status among most uniformed staff. Whilst she was "sussing it out", as the Governor put it, Paul could meet with her regularly as a token of her induction. She was grateful for this, and looked at her watch to see that she only just had time to grab a coffee before their first meeting.

The coffee machine was a locked door away, and the drink too weak. She reminded herself to buy a kettle for her room, to avoid this regular trip for caffeine. She was still blowing the heat off the drink when her colleague arrived.

Despite being old enough to be her father, Paul was a handsome man, with thick white-grey hair and a face lined from years of good-natured smiling. His eyes were an unusually warm blue, and he looked easy in his skin. He accepted the cooling coffee she proffered and, in the absence of a second chair, perched on the desk. In the cramped airless room she could smell the musky scent of him; it was the closest she had been to a man for a long time.

"Welcome to the institution. So, you've fallen from grace with the powers that be. What was your crime?" It is a recognised fact that the probation service rids itself of undesirable staff by seconding them into prison posts.

"What makes you think I didn't come here voluntarily?" She answered, warily, wondering what he had heard.

Paul laughed. "I didn't think things were that bad in the field! I guess you'll tell me when you're ready." He downed his coffee in a long swig, "Christ, what a dismal office. You should have opted to work on the men's side. At least I have a window."

She had already heard that he had far more than that. The guy who gave her a tour on her first day, Officer Dave Callahan, had told her that Paul had made himself invaluable to Governor Wright; he was a convert to the institution. Some are, whereas others find the conditions claustrophobic and serve their time as restlessly as an inmate. Dave was in his early forties, with suspiciously dark hair and a body that was muscle gone to fat. He had probably been attractive in his youth, and still held onto the illusion, flirting with Cate as he escorted her around the units, making a show of chivalry by opening every one of the doors they entered but not showing her the respect of addressing her by name. She had endured the tour, endured being called `love` and sweetheart`. When they saw that Paul's office was empty Dave had said, "Paul will never work in the community again. He's as institutionalised as the rest of us." But Cate could see instantly that Paul was far from regimented.

"Have you had your security talk?" When Cate nods, he grinned. "It's a hoot, no? All that guff about nail files and mobile phones. As if we don't keep them in our lockers, and the prisoners stuff them under their beds. Still, we have to go through the motions."

Cate grimaces, "The highlight was when the security bloke - Officer Holly - showed me the cabinet of weapons prisoners had made..."

"Ah yes! Razor blades wedged into toothbrushes..."

"...The wire garrotte from stripped computer cable..."

"...When it's the boiling water that does the most damage. And there's an urn of that on every landing." Paul laughed.

"I think he wanted to scare me."

"Well of course, pretty missy. Officer Holly wouldn't want you to think he's not macho. So, did he succeed?"

"Hell, no." And it was true. Cate had seen much in her life that terrified her, but not this. Despite his brawny build and gruffness, she found Officer Holly quite amusing and hadn't really taken his warnings seriously. He was an intense man, with his shirt buttoned to his scrawny neck, the creases in his trousers like knives. Black-rimmed glasses obscured his small features and he had peered out of them like a clerk or librarian, checking that all was in order. She shared her impression with Paul who nodded sagely. "Welcome to the madhouse; there's some funny folk work in prison. Just remember which side of the bars you're on and you'll be fine. And to help you along, here's your first assignment, Cagney."

He handed her a piece of paper briefly stating that a parole report was due. "She's been around the system a bit. This is her fourth prison in the last two years. And she's on the Rule."

Cate frowned, "I don't know what that means."

"It means she's on a special wing, a Rule 42 is for vulnerable prisoners. Some are there for protection from themselves, but I reckon this one's being protected from other prisoners. She's a child killer."

Cate took the single sheet of paper. "No case file?"

"Welcome to prison life. Files arrive late, if ever. We've got nothing on her but a number. She's in for six - quite a stretch - already served four, but could be out in sixteen weeks, depending on your report."

"When do I meet her?"

Paul looked at his watch. "No time like the present. I'll point you in the right direction, and then you're on your own."

Just like always, Cate thought.

Copyright © 2005 Ruth Dugdall

Reproduced here by permission of Ruth Dugdall, who asserts her moral right to be identified as the author of this work. No part of it is to be reproduced, stored in any sort of retrieval system or transmitted in any form or by any means, without the prior written permission of the author.