Chapter Six
I lay in my tiny bed in my tiny room listening to the regular breathing of Rosie next door. It was comforting hearing her snuffles and the musical plucking of bedsprings whenever she turned over. Being able to reach out and touch all four walls at the same time. Womblike. Safe.
Rosie couldn’t understand how I could bear to sleep in such a small space. ‘You’ll only have to put on half a stone and we’ll need special equipment to get you in and out.’ I hadn’t told her, compared to a cell, this cosy little room, with its bulgy plastered walls and the ceiling with the suspicious dip in one corner, was a palace. Everything in it, from the daisy-embroidered duvet to the collection of shells on the wonky window ledge, was mine . And I didn’t have to fight to keep it. Didn’t have to sleep with a wary eye open in case my random cellmate took a fancy to something and backed up her desires with some sharp edges collected earlier from the prison workshop.
A faint memory crept through. A room like this. A trail of perfume, a soft hand under my chin, a whispered conversation about — something. The anticipation-filled weight of a Christmas stocking pushing a pony-patterned eiderdown onto my feet, and a pink night-light showing me exciting shadows against a papered wall. A memory that hurt, despite its benevolence. There was so much more underneath than that one Christmas morning, but I was afraid to look too far back, and the pain made sure I never did.
The psychiatrists had a name for it, this deliberate blocking of all memory. It had gone on so long, and become so effective that I’d probably rate my own chapter in any given psychology text book. In fact, one of the prison doctors had written some kind of thesis based on me, a fact which made me quietly proud, in a horrible sort of way, an acknowledgement that at least I could do something, even if that something meant cutting dead any memory of anything that had once been good.
But, just sometimes, the urge to have some of it back forced me to let a little remembrance seep through, with a blinding snatch of pain as payment.
In the shapes made by the bizarre arrangement of cracks in the paintwork I could see faces. One reminded me of my brother Randall. The way the crack curved as it met the plaster looked just like the way his nose hooked round to the left, or had ever since he’d had that run-in with a guy who’d turned out to be a better fighter. I shook my head into a more comfortable position and forced my body to relax. Remembering my family always made me tense. Made me smaller, reduced the target.
And as for Chris — I wouldn’t remember him. Not now.