He stared as a couple of women went past pushing babies in chairs. No jackets, just light T-shirts, jeans. They were young, looking better than he remembered. Talking and laughing like the world was a joke.
He watched them go, saw the sway of their hips in their jeans, felt something stir within him. Deep and primal, long-suppressed. Something he had ignored for years. Something else he had told himself didn’t exist. But watching those two women walk up the street, something within him connected.
He kept looking at them. And noticed something odd about their skin …
Tattoos. On their bare shoulders, their arms. The sight of them killed whatever was rising inside him. Loads of prisoners had tattoos. Done to kill boredom. Crudely formed and badly spelled. But these women’s were different. Elaborate swirls. Pictures. Florid, curling writing. Deliberate marking. How much had the world changed that young women needed to mark themselves like that? They couldn’t be as bored as those on the inside. Not with the whole of life around them.
He watched them walk on. Stayed where he was, reluctant to step away from the prison. Not knowing where to go.
Before he left, he had been given an address. A halfway house, a hostel. Somewhere to stay while he got on his feet again, they said. He had the address in his pocket, together with his discharge grant and his travel warrant. He had told them he would go there. He was expected to.
But now, standing there, he didn’t know what to do. Where to go.
The world outside might not be silent and empty. But his head and his heart were. Time had slipped again, twisted. He could have stood there for a few seconds or a few years. He had no way of knowing.
He looked behind him once more. Sixteen years of his life that place had taken. That and others like it. The factory gate was back in position, like it had never moved. Someone else would take his cell, his books, his clothes and toiletries. And he would be gone. Forgotten about. Like the ripples in a pond after a stone hits it. Dying away to nothing.
He shivered, despite the morning’s warmth. The thought depressed him.
Dying away to nothing.
While he was trying to decide where to go, a car pulled up at the side of the road. Tooted its horn. The sudden noise made him jump, but he didn’t move. The horn tooted again, accompanied by a hand waving from inside the car.
Puzzled, he looked behind him, wondering who they were waving at.
The hand beckoned towards the car. He realised the person was gesturing to him.
He took one step forward. The driver nodded in encouragement, beckoned him further. While he was thinking, another car honked its horn. Was that for him too? He looked at the driver. No. He was just frustrated that the first car had parked and that oncoming traffic had stopped his journey from continuing. A line of cars began to appear behind the first one. The driver kept beckoning, insistent now.
Not wanting to be responsible for a traffic jam or for any anger, he walked towards the car.
The driver leaned across, opened the passenger door. He got inside.
‘Well close it, then.’
He did so. Looked at the driver. The driver laughed.
‘Remember me?’
He said nothing.
‘The recognition of friends is not always easy, Doctor … ’ Another laugh. Why had he spoken those words in a terrible Chinese accent?
‘Know where that’s from? Yeah? No. Course you don’t. Never mind.’ The driver looked him over. ‘That all you got?’
He nodded. ‘Yes.’
‘Suit yourself.’
He put the car in gear, flicked a V sign at the driver behind, his eyes flashing angrily, and pulled away from the kerb.
‘I know you. You’re … ’ He struggled to find the name. ‘Jiminy Cricket.’
Jiminy Cricket smiled. ‘Guilty as charged.’
‘Where are we going?’
He laughed. ‘We got a lot to do. But let’s get you sorted first. Don’t worry. Today is the first day of the rest of your life.’ Another laugh. ‘Plenty more where that came from.’
Marina’s head spun with more than pain. She listened to the voice, forced herself to understand what it was saying, let the words cut through the white noise in her mind.
‘Josephina … ’ Her daughter’s name gasped out. ‘Where is she? Is she hurt? Where—’
‘Be quiet and listen.’ The voice was sharp, authoritative.
Marina said nothing. Listened. But all she could hear was the rushing of blood in her ears, her breath in her chest, like Niagara Falls had exploded inside her head, gushing and rushing.
‘You have to do something for me. Then you’ll get to see your daughter.’
Marina couldn’t speak. She didn’t trust herself with words.
‘Understand?’
‘Yuh-yes … ’
‘Good.’
‘Why?’
Silence.
‘Why … who—’
‘I told you. Be quiet. Listen.’
She did so. Tried to scan the voice to see if she recognised it. She didn’t. Couldn’t. Didn’t even know if it was male or female.
The voice continued. ‘You’ve got to go somewhere, and do something when you get there. Understand?’
‘Yes … ’
‘Good. In your bag is a book of maps.’
The voice stopped talking. Marina took that as her cue to look for it. She grabbed for the bag on the floor at her side. Rifled through it. There it was. An atlas of Essex.
‘One of the pages is marked,’ said the voice. ‘Open it.’
The book was brand new. One deliberate crease down the spine. She picked it up and it fell open at the marked page. A circle had been drawn in one of the grids. Underneath, a name.
‘Go there.’
‘And … and do what?’
‘Ask for … ’ There was a pause. ‘Tyrell.’
‘And then what? Will Josephina be there? Is she—’
‘Do as you’re told.’ The voice had been neutral until now. But those words were edged with ugly emotion. A sick thrill of control.
‘Where’s my daughter? I want to hear my daughter … ’
‘Just do what you’ve been told.’
Marina searched for words but didn’t know how to respond. She was a criminal psychologist, trained to deal with these kinds of people, an expert on what to say in such situations. But she had only ever dealt with this in an abstract sense, come at it from a position of professionalism. This was happening to her. It was real. Her emotional state was already fractured, her head like a junkyard. And all her training had dissipated like steam off a hotplate.
She had to get a grip, not give in to hysteria. Find a still point somewhere deep within her chaotic mind. Respond like a professional.
‘Why are you doing this?’ She tried to tamp down her emotions, speak in as rational a voice as she could find. ‘To me. Why are you doing this to me?’
There was a pause on the line. Marina could hear the zing of electrostatic, of dead air. She thought the call had been ended and felt helplessness creep up on her once more.
‘Punishment. For the guilty.’
She fought down the rising hysteria and listened. Here was something. Just a small phrase, but something to work with.
‘Guilty? What am I guilty of?’
Nothing. She could hear the person breathing. The breath sounded angry. Much less controlled than the voice itself.
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