She couldn’t remember when she had last had a meal and she ate the sandwiches in quick bites. The bread was dry but she helped it down with gulps of her tea. She tipped the cereal into the bowl and poured the milk over it. The milk was warm and had a sour under-taste. It almost made her gag, but she ate it all and when she was finished she tipped the bowl to drink the last of the milk. She still felt hungry.
She sat on the lavatory behind the thin curtain. She felt like an animal. As she sat there, her trousers around her ankles, she felt as if lights were flashing and there was a ringing in her ears. She suddenly thought of smashing her face into the wall, over and over again, something that might bring relief, that might make all of this stop.
Instead, she wiped herself, pulled up her trousers, washed her hands and sat back on her bed against the wall. She didn’t have anything to read and she didn’t have anything to do. The day felt shapeless and vast. Anyway, if she had sat there reading, that would feel like this was now her life instead of a nightmarish mistake, a mistake that would be corrected when everyone realised that she didn’t belong here and let her go.
Michaela was leaning over the sink, brushing her teeth. She was taking a long time over it. She spat into the sink, bent down and drank straight from the tap. She stood up, leaned her head back and gargled noisily. Tabitha felt like everything was turned up too high: the noises, the smells, the physical proximity of the other woman. Michaela pulled her hair back in a ponytail, then walked out of the cell. A few seconds later she walked back in. She leaned back on the desk and looked down at Tabitha.
‘Don’t just sit there.’
Tabitha didn’t reply. It felt too much of an effort.
‘It’s worse if you do that. I know, I’ve been here for fourteen months.’
‘What did you do?’
Michaela stared at her, her face quite expressionless. ‘Did they give you the bit of paper with all the shit about exercise and showers and when the library’s open?’
‘I’ve got it somewhere,’ said Tabitha. ‘But I don’t care about all that. It’s just a mistake.’
‘Yeah? Well, don’t think you can just hide in here and get through without anyone noticing. It’s like a school playground. The little girl who stands in the corner wanting to be left alone, she’s the one who gets picked on. You need to get up. You need to get up and get a shower.’
‘I don’t feel like it. Not today.’
Michaela reached under the little table that was reserved for Tabitha.
‘Here.’ She tossed Tabitha the towel she’d been issued with on her arrival. ‘You take the towel and the soap and you have a shower.’
She went out of the cell, leaving the door open. Tabitha got to her feet. She was cold to her bones. She looked out of the little barred window again: the sky was white. It might snow, she thought. That would be something: feathery flakes falling thickly just a few inches from where she stood, covering everything in a blanket of unfamiliarity.
She took the towel and the soap from the side of the sink and walked into the central hall that was echoey with sounds: footfall and doors and voices raised, laughter, coughs, the slap of a mop. A very thin woman with long white hair and her face a muddle of wrinkles hobbled towards her. She wore a thick brown dress to her shins and her hands were swollen with arthritis. She was holding a bundle of papers clutched to her chest.
‘You’re here too,’ she said, smiling.
‘Yes, I’m here too,’ said Tabitha. She walked the length of the hall and into the little wing reserved for showers. The showers were in a row of stalls. Along the far wall was a wooden bench and hooks. Women were pulling clothes on and off. The tiled floor was wet and there was the smell of soap and sweat and bodies. She had a memory of school changing rooms that was so pungent it hurt. She slowly took her clothes off, looking at the wall so she didn’t catch anyone’s eye. Before she took off her knickers, she wrapped herself in the thin worn towel, like a shy teenager on a beach, and then eased them down.
Inside a free stall she pulled the curtain across and hung the towel from a hook. She turned the tap and a tiny trickle of water emerged from the shower head. She tried to twist the tap further but it wouldn’t go.
‘You need to bang it,’ said a voice. ‘Bang the pipe.’
She tapped the pipe. Nothing happened.
‘Harder,’ said the voice. ‘Really hard.’
She made a fist and hit the pipe. There was a little spluttering, coughing sound and the trickle became a faint stream, just enough to wet herself all over. But there was nothing good about it, nothing to lose herself in, nothing to comfort her.
TWO
‘This way.’ The warder was solid with a bored expression. When she walked, her feet slapped down, flat and hard.
‘What?’
‘Your brief’s waiting.’
‘My brief?’
‘Your lawyer. You were told about this yesterday.’
Tabitha couldn’t remember that. But then she couldn’t remember much of yesterday, nor of the days preceding it. Everything was a jumble of faces, eyes staring, questions she couldn’t answer, words she couldn’t make sense of, people saying her name over and over again – her name and her address and her date of birth and then pieces of paper pushed towards her, machines clicked on to record what she was saying, long corridors and strip lighting, doors and keys and bars.
‘In the visitors’ room,’ the woman was saying. Keys jangled at her waist. ‘It’s not a day for visiting.’
The visitors’ room was large and square and too brightly lit. There were small tables in rows with a chair on either side, two vending machines by the wall. The room was empty except for a middle-aged woman who was sitting at one of the tables with her laptop in front of her. She took off her glasses and rubbed her round face and then replaced them, frowning as she read. As Tabitha approached, she looked up and briefly smiled, then stood and held out her hand, which was strong and warm. She had peppery-grey hair and a steady gaze and Tabitha felt a surge of hope. This woman would sort everything out.
‘I’m Mora Piozzi,’ she said. ‘I’ve been asked to represent you.’
‘What happened to the other one?’ He’d been young and cheerful in a blustery, unreassuring way.
‘He was the duty solicitor. He referred your case to me.’
They both sat and faced each other, their chairs scratching across the lino.
‘How are you?’ asked Mora Piozzi.
‘How am I?’ Tabitha resisted the urge to shout at her. What kind of question was that? ‘I’m locked up in prison and I don’t know what’s happening.’
‘It’s my job to bring clarity to this and to help you.’
‘Right.’
‘First things first. You need to tell me if you agree to me representing you.’
‘Yes.’
‘Good. I’ve got your prison number, in case you haven’t been issued it yet.’
‘A prison number? But I’ll be out of here soon. Why do I need a number?’
‘Here.’
She pushed a card across to Tabitha, who read it out loud: ‘AO3573.’ She looked up. ‘So I’m a number now.’