Chapter 5
Anna can’t keep it up for long. Fucking hell, she’s pathetic. She can’t stand even the smallest amount of pain.
It’s brought her back to her senses, though.
Nightmare or not, she knows what she heard. The words of the call last night go through her mind. Why won’t anyone help me? Anna could have helped; she slept instead. But she didn’t harm her. She stares down at the bloody mess that was the woman’s throat.
Of course it wasn’t Anna. She knows well enough what she’s capable of – it’s not this, not even in her worst state. She can be aggressive when she needs to be, like when she punched a woman who attacked her in the canteen. But Anna doesn’t seek out trouble.
Her head’s sore where she’s been hitting it against the wall, blood trickling down her forehead. She brushes it away, red on the dark dried smears of blood from the dead woman that stick still to her fingers.
The prison’s waking up. Shouts from the cells, the banging of doors. Footsteps along the concrete corridors. It won’t be long before they come to her cell. Think. She’s doesn’t have long.
She hasn’t called for help yet. That may count against her, when they review the evidence. Evidence that all seems to point to her – the sole other occupant of the cell, covered in blood. Means, motive . . .
The means – yes, sure. She’s staring straight at the blade, though she knows it’s not hers. But motive?
A fugue state. A night terror turned into a living nightmare. She wouldn’t need a motive. She turns her hands over again, looking at the blood-encrusted nails, flexing the fingers in and out.
If she’d slit this poor woman’s throat, there’d be some mark on her. The woman would have struggled, put up a fight. There’s nothing, though. No stiffness, no pain. Her hands are chilled, sticky with dried blood. But they feel completely normal.
Anna’s scalp is tingling. She flexes her fingers again, closes them into a fist which pulsates to the beats of her heart, strong and insistent.
Alive. It’s too late for this poor woman. But it’s not too late for Anna. She looks at the body for a moment more, emblazoning the image into her mind. Another emotion is playing through her, stronger than guilt, stronger than fear, too. It’s anger. This is not how anyone should die.
Fragments of the woman’s conversation floating round her head. It’ll break her. She’s my mother. My poor Louise . . . Who was the woman talking to? What happened to her mother?
Anna closes her eyes again. She’s so tired, so fucking tired.
She climbs back on to her bunk, wrapping the blanket around her, over her head, wanting to make it all go away.
But she can’t settle, thrashing her legs around under the cover and thrusting her hands under the thin pillow.
There’s something in the way, something small, hard.
She takes it, rolling over on to her back. It wasn’t there the night before.
Without even looking, she knows exactly what it is, the tiny object encased in a tacky, rubbery cover. She can feel buttons under the surface – a miniature phone, wrapped in a condom, smuggled in inside the woman like so much contraband Anna has seen before.
I’m begging you. Help me. Anna knows how it feels to be helpless. There must be a reason that the phone was left in her bed. It was deliberate, of course. The last act of a woman resolved to die.
However, Anna’s got her plan. She’s out, she’s going to the sea. She’s not coming back. She can’t help anyone else.
Any minute now they’re going to come and open the door for her release.
Then all hell will break loose – the phone will be the first item they seize.
Without thinking, she rolls out of bed, throws on her clothes, and tucks the phone into the foot of her right trainer, where she curls her toes over it, gripped by an urgency she can’t ignore.
Phone safely stowed, Anna turns her attention back to the dead woman.
She hasn’t done any basic checks – is the woman still breathing, even if only slightly?
Is there a heartbeat? She squats next to the corpse, half-wondering if she’s hallucinating.
But there’s the gaping wound across the windpipe – she’s dead all right.
A bang on the door. Tears well up in her eyes. She brushes them aside with the back of her hand.
No time for tears.