games weplay: Believing in our Rehabilitation; Engaging in the Recovery Process; Role-Playing the Victim, and the other exercises they dream up to justify the idea of a justice system.
‘Today,’ Lyn says, ‘I’d like to talk about your exit strategy, yes?’
To every statement she appends this imperious ‘Yes?’ as if to imply that only the hard-of-hearing or the foolhardy could fail to see her point. Like a politician’s ‘Look’ at the front of whatever statement they’re trying to shove down the throats of the voting public: ‘Look at my empirical evidence, my emperor’s robes . . .’
I’d like to talk about your exit strategy, yes?
No, I want to say. Let’s not talk about exits. Let all doors be shut to me for ever. The way that manhole is shut over their little heads.
I say, ‘Yes please.’
Because, forgive me, I do want to get out.
Note that I do not say I want to be free .
I do not believe in my freedom. I do not believe it exists, but if it does? I know that I do not deserve it. I think the giving of it to the likes of me and Esther is risky, arrogant and fucking irresponsible, yes?
Lyn’s hair is tightly permed and she’s skinny but muscular. Her skin is thin over her bones. You can see the veins everywhere on her body. She’s an X-ray. She tries to make her face look open, but it doesn’t work. It’s screwed as tight shut as the rest of her.
She hates us. I truly believe that. She hates every single one of the women in here, because we’re weak. Because we fell, we slipped, and worse, we let ourselves down.
Lyn would never let herself down. She’s far too wound up for that. She says, ‘You’ve started the process of the outside visits, yes?’ Her voice is like this: rat-a-tat-tat. She’s a one-woman watchtower, gunned, against the barbed wire.
‘Yes,’ I say meekly. ‘Yes.’
The process of the outside visits – she means sitting in the hospital the other night, to see if anyone recognised Esther or, less likely, me.
Alison Oliver, one-time maximum security prisoner, shortly to be on remand because the world isn’t full enough of crazy people, child killers, because there’s always room for one more, yes? How can this possibly go wrong?
‘I think,’ Lyn says, ‘that the next thing we need to talk about is your accommodation. You say that your mother . . .’
I tune out. She doesn’t need me for this bit, her plans for my new place in society. She has a whole life mapped out for me. A bedroom in my mother’s place, complete with flowery curtains and a new bedspread, a Gideon bible in the drawer of the cabinet . . .
‘. . . mobile home, yes?’
‘What?’
Lyn wrings a look of patience from her face. ‘Alison, we’re talking about your mother, Connie. She’s living in a mobile home now. You know this. You’ve had letters from her.’
Oh yes, the letters. Esther sometimes reads a line or two to me. I don’t read them myself. I’m afraid I’ll read the word ‘forgiven’ – or, worse, that I won’t.
My mother is a mystery to me. Two small boys died. She loved them. I know that for a fact. She loved them second-best of anyone in the world. If there’s anyone who should hate me more than I hate myself, who should be campaigning for me never to be released, it’s my mother. Instead, she’s offering me a hiding place.
She’s told Lyn that she has a room in her mobile home for me. It’s one of the reasons they’ve put a date on my release, because I have somewhere to go when I get out of here.
Esther doesn’t have that yet. But she will.
If I’m getting out, there’s no way she will stay here.
It’s unimaginable.
If I’m getting out, she’s coming with me.
That’s what scares me the worst.
Esther’s coming too.
21
London
No sign of Marnie on Blackthorn Road. Her car was parked at a short distance, under the trees. Noah was about to call her mobile when he saw her coming from the direction of the housing estate; she
‘Today,’ Lyn says, ‘I’d like to talk about your exit strategy, yes?’
To every statement she appends this imperious ‘Yes?’ as if to imply that only the hard-of-hearing or the foolhardy could fail to see her point. Like a politician’s ‘Look’ at the front of whatever statement they’re trying to shove down the throats of the voting public: ‘Look at my empirical evidence, my emperor’s robes . . .’
I’d like to talk about your exit strategy, yes?
No, I want to say. Let’s not talk about exits. Let all doors be shut to me for ever. The way that manhole is shut over their little heads.
I say, ‘Yes please.’
Because, forgive me, I do want to get out.
Note that I do not say I want to be free .
I do not believe in my freedom. I do not believe it exists, but if it does? I know that I do not deserve it. I think the giving of it to the likes of me and Esther is risky, arrogant and fucking irresponsible, yes?
Lyn’s hair is tightly permed and she’s skinny but muscular. Her skin is thin over her bones. You can see the veins everywhere on her body. She’s an X-ray. She tries to make her face look open, but it doesn’t work. It’s screwed as tight shut as the rest of her.
She hates us. I truly believe that. She hates every single one of the women in here, because we’re weak. Because we fell, we slipped, and worse, we let ourselves down.
Lyn would never let herself down. She’s far too wound up for that. She says, ‘You’ve started the process of the outside visits, yes?’ Her voice is like this: rat-a-tat-tat. She’s a one-woman watchtower, gunned, against the barbed wire.
‘Yes,’ I say meekly. ‘Yes.’
The process of the outside visits – she means sitting in the hospital the other night, to see if anyone recognised Esther or, less likely, me.
Alison Oliver, one-time maximum security prisoner, shortly to be on remand because the world isn’t full enough of crazy people, child killers, because there’s always room for one more, yes? How can this possibly go wrong?
‘I think,’ Lyn says, ‘that the next thing we need to talk about is your accommodation. You say that your mother . . .’
I tune out. She doesn’t need me for this bit, her plans for my new place in society. She has a whole life mapped out for me. A bedroom in my mother’s place, complete with flowery curtains and a new bedspread, a Gideon bible in the drawer of the cabinet . . .
‘. . . mobile home, yes?’
‘What?’
Lyn wrings a look of patience from her face. ‘Alison, we’re talking about your mother, Connie. She’s living in a mobile home now. You know this. You’ve had letters from her.’
Oh yes, the letters. Esther sometimes reads a line or two to me. I don’t read them myself. I’m afraid I’ll read the word ‘forgiven’ – or, worse, that I won’t.
My mother is a mystery to me. Two small boys died. She loved them. I know that for a fact. She loved them second-best of anyone in the world. If there’s anyone who should hate me more than I hate myself, who should be campaigning for me never to be released, it’s my mother. Instead, she’s offering me a hiding place.
She’s told Lyn that she has a room in her mobile home for me. It’s one of the reasons they’ve put a date on my release, because I have somewhere to go when I get out of here.
Esther doesn’t have that yet. But she will.
If I’m getting out, there’s no way she will stay here.
It’s unimaginable.
If I’m getting out, she’s coming with me.
That’s what scares me the worst.
Esther’s coming too.
21
London
No sign of Marnie on Blackthorn Road. Her car was parked at a short distance, under the trees. Noah was about to call her mobile when he saw her coming from the direction of the housing estate; she
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