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Almost.
CHAPTER 65
CONNIE
Looking around the room, I realise I have spent far too much of my life in buildings like this. I vowed after leaving the last time that I’d never return. Little did I know that less than a year later, here I would be again, back in prison. Only today, I’m not an inmate.
I didn’t have the opportunity to experience the inside of a visitors’ room during my two-and-a-half-year punishment for hiding Caz’s drugs and weapon, or more recently, during my stint for credit card fraud. I used to put a brave face on it, but I remember how much it stung knowing that of the billions of people out there in the big wide world, there wasn’t one single person who wanted to come check on me. The pain has dulled and settled, but it remains.
This room reminds of a school gym, with scuffed wooden floors and high windows. Only there are bars on the glass, and instead of being surrounded by pommel horses and crash mats, I have tables and plastic chairs in rows of three. It stinks of stale air, cleaning supplies, cooking meat and floor polish. I’m surprised a Category A prisoner would be allowed visitors in an open spacelike this just a couple of months after sentencing, but apparently so.
Coming here to face Paul one last time felt like a good idea at first. I am sick of him living rent-free in my head and this was going to be my turning point. But now an ever-growing part of me wants to get the hell out of this building. I’m kidding myself if I think I can get on with the rest of my life without formally closing this chapter. And once I do, I hope I can find a way to start making the right decisions instead of selfish, stupid ones. It won’t be easy, but nothing ever is when you’re me.
I was the first person allowed inside the room this morning, probably because I’m the only one in the waiting room who walks with the help of a frame. The prison officer who guided me to my table apologised as he took it away with him. Apparently, it’s ‘a potential weapon’. It’s only now I’m without it that I’m aware of how much I’ve come to depend on it psychologically as well as physically. But if Paul can’t see the frame, he won’t be able to gloat at the ongoing extent of my injuries, ten months on.
The room gradually fills with wives, girlfriends, grandparents, teens and toddlers. More minutes pass before a second door opens and the inmates file in. Men of all ages scan the room, searching for familiar faces. There are excited yelps from children and tears from partners. And all of a sudden, Paul appears in the doorway after everyone else – more psychological games, I assume, making me wait, keeping me on my toes, wondering if he’s changed his mind after accepting my request to meet him. He refused the first one three weeks ago, but then sent me an invitation for an alternate date days later. Even behind bars he’s trying to control the narrative.
His lips are moving, ever so slightly, as if he is talking to someone. But he’s the only one standing there. I remember him doing the same thing a few times at Gwen’s house. Talking to himself. Hestops suddenly and enters the room. His eyes widen when he clocks me and a familiar wry smile spreads across his face. In an instant, I’m taken back to the railway bridge and the moment he lifted me up and hurled me over the side. Even in the light of a partial moon and solitary street light, his smile was every inch as sinister as it is now. The memory is brief but powerful enough to make a breath snag in my throat. I wish I’d brought a bottle of water with me.You’re in the driving seat here, I remind myself.Not him. You are free, Paul is not. He will not intimidate you.
He takes a seat opposite me, arms folded and legs spread. Defiant yet proud. Marking his territory. Telling me who is running this show. He looks me up and down. I’ve made sure my own arms and legs are covered so he can’t see the scars of where metal once protruded from my bones, helping them to fuse. I give him the once-over as well. We are like two scorpions circling one another, each waiting for the other to strike first. He has clearly been making the most of his time as he awaits his sentence. His biceps are more pronounced than before and his chest protrudes from under his grey sweatshirt. The casual uniform that is baggy on other inmates clings to him.
‘Well, isn’t this nice?’ he begins. ‘My stepdaughter coming to visit her old man. How have you been, Rachel?’
‘Very good, actually,’ I lie.
‘Managing well with your walker?’
I’m unsure how he knows about it but I don’t ask. ‘Perfectly, thank you.’
‘Do I detect a slight lisp when you speak?’
‘I have no idea, do you?’
‘A shattered jaw can cause a speech impediment. Makes you hiss your esses like a snake. Kind of fitting, isn’t it?’
‘You might want to consider getting your ears syringed while you’re here,’ I reply. ‘I’m sure you can find the time.’
‘I’ll add it to my to-do list. You’ve not asked me how I am.’
‘You haven’t given me the chance to. Or perhaps you have and I missed it. Or maybe I just don’t care.’
‘Let’s not kid ourselves. If you didn’t care, you wouldn’t be here. Remember, you practically begged me to allow you to visit.’
‘Begged isn’t the word I’d—’
‘I’m settling in very well, thanks very much,’ he interrupts. ‘You know what the lads are calling me?’ I shake my head. ‘The Old Dear Hunter,’ he laughs. ‘And apparently there’s also memes online of me, my head stuck on Robert De Niro’s body from the movie poster. I’m a bit of a celebrity.’ I don’t respond. ‘So what brings you to HMP Manchester? That must’ve taken a lot of busses.’
‘Two trains, actually.’
‘So you’re still using trains? Interesting. I wasn’t sure if I’d scared you off them. You never know who’s sitting in the rear carriage, do you?’
For a second, I can taste blood in my mouth, but I know it’s not real. He’s triggering me. I won’t allow him to see I’m flustered. ‘Perhaps I should’ve brought you a housewarming card,’ I continue. ‘Do they make them for cells?’
‘I’d assumed you’d know. You have more experience of these places than I do.’ Touché. ‘So what really brings you here?’
I don’t waste any more time. ‘Why did you plead guilty at the last minute?’
He yawns and stretches his arms above his head. ‘It wasn’t last-minute.’
