Alexa’s Follow-up
They lay her things out on the counter. Souvenirs of a life. We stand back and let her look through it all. She signs it out.
We pull camera focus to the counter. A Nokia 6100, one of the first mobile phones to have Internet connectivity. It was 2002’s most desired phone; Alexa was an early adopter. But there’s no charger. God knows how she’ll ever find one for it now.
A Mulberry brown leather purse. She opens it. Obsolete Amex cards, notes, coins. I wonder if any of the notes are obsolete now too. The five-pound notes changed again last September; they’re always changing. I think of all those wallets back there, in the prison storeroom, with five-pound notes that are now, or soon will be, utterly worthless.
A black collapsible umbrella. Half a pack of Wrigley’s Extra chewing gum. A faded zone 1-2 travel card. And that is it. Alexa’s life.
“Thank you very much.” Alexa gives the Trinidadian warden a warm smile. They seem to be getting on well.
“My pleasure, darling. Now, you have a lovely day. And I hope I never have to see you again, if you know what I mean.” He gives a throaty laugh and grins back at the beautiful woman before him.
Alexa gathers up her belongings into a small cream canvas bag and makes her way toward the exit.
She pauses by the door while the final officer signs her out. Phil, Duncan, and I stand in a cluster behind her. This is the only actual release we’ve been given the go-ahead to film. Alexa is the only prisoner who has allowed us this much access. We all feel the intimacy of the gesture. We slip out past her, out into the rain, the camera trained back toward her on the doorway as she steps out into the damp autumn air and the door shuts behind her.
She’s outside.
She looks up, the rain misting her face, the breeze ruffling her hair. She breathes, her chest rising and falling gently. The muffled sound of traffic rumbling past down Camden Road. Wind in the trees.
When she finally looks down again, her eyes are wet with tears. She doesn’t speak. We all remain silent as we walk backward in convoy toward the road, filming her.
And as we reach the road a smile bursts bright across her face and the tears start to roll freely down her cheeks. She lifts her head and laughs.
It’s contagious. We’re all smiling now.
In the great gaping chasm of Alexa’s new freedom, our plan must come as a welcome guide rail. We’re off to Waterloo East Station, where Alexa will be getting the train down to Folkestone in Kent. Her new home. Her family home. We’re traveling down there together and we’ll be filming her on and off for the next two days. It’s a relief to be getting away from London for a night. I keep expecting Andy to burst through the door at any moment. It’s unbelievably exhausting, the diamonds burning a hole through our attic floor like Poe’s telltale heart. This trip will take my mind off that. It will focus me.
I’ve booked a car to take us to the station, but first Alexa wants to walk for a bit. So we walk in the light rain.
She stops at a café to buy a freshly squeezed orange juice. We all stand watching the bright orange crescents turn through the juicing machine and press into liquid. She sips it through a straw. She nods.
“It’s good.” She smiles.
She buys three more, one for each of us, using some of her fourteen-year-old legal tender, and we walk on.
We stop at Caledonian Park, where she finds a wet bench to sit on and we pull back, out of her sightline as she looks at the trees, the skyline, dog walkers, joggers. She takes it all in.
Finally she breaks the silence. She turns back towardus.
“Can we stop for a minute, guys? Come sit with me.” She pats the rain-darkened bench.
We’re an odd sight, the four of us, all side by side on the park bench: slender Alexa, stocky Glaswegian Duncan on sound, Steadicam operator Phil, and me. We alllook out ahead across the drizzly park, Phil still filming our view, the camera resting on his lap.
“Thank you for being here,” Alexa says as we stare out at a gray London. “This is the best day of my life.”
And, yes, we capture the audio.
—
Thankfully, our train’s not too busy. We catch moments where we can along the journey: Alexa’s first newspaper, Alexa’s first G&T, Alexa’s first bar of chocolate.
Then on to the quiet village of Hawkinge, where Alexa’s father, David, stands waiting in his driveway. She fumbles at the door handle of the taxi, finds it, and springs out into the Kent countryside. Father and daughter run to each other. The ruddy-faced seventy-year-old enveloping his daughter in a bear hug. They cling together.
“Home now,” he says, like a promise. “Home safe.” He squeezes her hard.
Finally David turns back toward us, Alexa’s head fitting perfectly in the crook of his arm. Both beaming.
