Chapter 6
CHAPTER SIX
It’s been two days since I was last at the prison, yet it feels like longer. Valdemar’s parting words have stewed in my brain, bubbled with possibilities, and boiled over into an unhealthy obsession with what he could have meant by them.
“Regret for the things we did can be tempered by time; it is regret for the things we did not do that is inconsolable.”
Seeing Ed standing behind Valdemar, his pale hand with its raven tattoo resting on Valdemar’s shoulder, how he looked so haunted even though he’s the one who is dead, has kept me awake every single night.
After the visit, I’d stormed out of the room and marched back to the ferry, my anger at Valdemar coiled into a spitting viper that I would have loved to have unleashed on him.
Blue Raincoat Guy hadn’t been on the return ferry, and I was glad I didn’t have to make idle chitchat about my first meeting with the notorious madman Montresor, because I would have only spat poison. But I’ve found it hard not having anyone to talk to. My one-way conversations with my mother are a sounding board only.
“I’m not going back there,” I’d told her on Wednesday morning as I’d made coffee. But as I’d gone back into my bedroom, a frame had been placed on my bed, the first school photo taken of Ed and me together, our uniforms crisp and stiff, my hair braided tightly in pigtails, Ed’s silver hair slicked to the side with glossy gel, our smiles as fake as the skylike background behind us. I’ve never seen my mother move things, never seen her touch objects, but somehow, she manages to make them appear as if by magic, her way of silently telling me what I need to do.
When I got up this morning, my mother had been waiting for me in the kitchen, a knowing look on her face over the fact that today I was due to visit Valdemar.
So, I’m back at the prison, and after a long wait, I’m now being patted down by a different prison guard to the one who searched me on Tuesday, her hands just as ruthless as the last one’s had been. Blue Raincoat Guy isn’t here. Instead, I’m surrounded by a handful of haunted-looking friends and family who’ve made the dismal ferry ride over to see their criminals without the bars—like petting time at a human zoo.
It’s an eclectic mix of people. A young man with a fresh crop of acne is accompanied by an older man with a receding hairline and a beer belly that doesn’t want to be restrained under his zipped-up jacket. Then there’s a middle-aged lady who looks like she used to be tall but has shrunk, possibly worn down by these visits. And then there’s a young woman with jet-black hair, unnaturally long acrylic nails, and glossy lips. She was chewing gum when we arrived, and the guards immediately asked her to get rid of it. She seemed to take great pleasure in spitting it out into the plastic bin they held up for her. Unlike the rest of us, she doesn’t look afraid. She looks like she wants to be here, like it’s part of her weekly routine along with sunbeds and a pedicure.
And then there’s me. I’ve dressed in skinny jeans and black Converse, not wanting to stand out as a reporter. I wonder what the rest of the people must be thinking when they look at me, wondering which criminal I’ve been coerced into visiting.
To add to the rest of the thoughts that have been gnawing away at me these past two days is Valdemar’s warning about not printing his story. I’m unsure whether to honour this request or to print it anyway just to spite him. Either way, I told Captain I wouldn’t be available on Thursday afternoons for the next few weeks. He began to enquire as to why, but the mention of my gynaecologist stopped him in his tracks.
Once scanned and searched, we’re ushered by The Gatekeeper towards the main door, two large prison guards flanking each side of it, one male and one female in appearance who holds a clipboard in her meaty hand.
“As you’re probably aware, we’re running late due to unforeseen circumstances,” the female officer says, and I wonder what “unforeseen circumstances” could mean in a prison such as this. An attempted escape? A mass brawl? A security breach? The possibilities are endless. “So, I regret to inform you that visiting time will be cut short today.” She glares at us, the sarcasm rolling off her face like the mist off the lake.
No one protests. No one argues. No one demands their time back with their precious loved ones. In fact, most of the visitors look relieved.
The guard smirks before scanning the list she holds in her hand. She stops, looks up, eyes the black-haired woman, then returns to her list before stepping forwards.
“Jacinta, you’re not down for a visit today.” The prison guard’s voice is deep, her tone matching her stern look and the severity of her brown hair, which is pulled into an eye-wateringly tight bun sitting obediently on top of her head like a doughnut glazed in dark chocolate ganache.
“What?” The black-haired lady who I now know is Jacinta still appears to be chewing invisible gum as she eyes the prison guard whom I’ve aptly named Trunchbull, as she reminds me of the headmistress from Matilda , one of my favourite childhood books. After reading the book, I’d practised for weeks, trying to move a pencil with my eyes and contemplating the things I could do with magic like that instead of being able to see the dead.
“You’re not on the list,” Trunchbull repeats, tapping the paper with a chunky finger.
“There must be some mistake.” Jacinta bristles. “He’s expecting me.”
“Not today, he isn’t.” There’s a hint of satisfaction in Trunchbull’s voice.
“Well, I’m here, so just add me to the list. It’s not like I haven’t visited him before.”
Trunchbull shakes her head. “No can do.”
“Of course you can,” Jacinta argues. “Just get a pen and write my name down.”
“I can’t do that, as he has another visitor booked in.” Trunchbull glares at Jacinta as this revelation settles on her, wrinkling Jacinta’s perfectly drawn brow before she eyes the rest of us.
“Who?” Jacinta murmurs. Then she points an elongated finger at me. “It’s her.”
It isn’t a question, and it strikes me as odd that she knows I’m the one who’s visiting Valdemar. Has there been a mix-up? No, Jacinta isn’t on the list, but obviously, she thought she was; otherwise, she wouldn’t be here.
I stare at Trunchbull as I realise what’s happened. Jacinta is a regular visitor of Valdemar. God, she could be his girlfriend, and he’s replaced her with me.
Heat prickles up my back. My worries have always been about how safe it is to visit Valdemar Montresor, a notoriously dangerous criminal, and how damaging these interactions could be for my already precarious mental health, yet I’m more afraid now of what might go down in the reception area. Jacinta’s nails look sharp; maybe they aren’t just for vanity’s sake.
Trunchbull seems to pick up on my pleading look, as she says to Jacinta, “I’m not at liberty to say.”
“Like fuck you aren’t,” Jacinta spits as she eyes me up and down like I’m a vagrant who’s just asked her for some money. “Who the hell are you, and why are you visiting Valdemar?”
“I’m not here to see him.” It’s weak, but the last thing I need right now is to be tangling with a disgruntled girlfriend.
“Liar.” Jacinta steps forwards as the two guards flank her. “I’ve been here before and seen the same bunch of people, but I ain’t never seen you here. Who the fuck are you?”
“That’s enough.” One of the guards positions himself between me and Jacinta as Trunchbull tells them to get her out of here. Wasting no time, they flank her and march her back through the main doors.
There’s no time to consider who Jacinta is, or what this could mean for me when I leave the prison, as Trunchbull swings back into action.
“Okay, show’s over, folks,” she barks as The Gatekeeper unlocks the door, and we’re ushered through it.
“I don’t need to remind you of the rules, but I will anyway for those of you who are new to this.” Trunchbull leads us down the same corridor I walked down on Monday. “Take the seat facing the rear wall as you enter the room. No leaning over the table. No shouting. Do not leave your seat for anything or anyone. If an alarm sounds, remain seated until I or another guard tells you to move, and absolutely no touching. Is that clear?” She turns quickly to face us, the murmurs from the others telling me they’ve heard this speech a thousand times. Checking her watch, she tells us, “You have forty-two minutes.”
After flashing her fob against the scanner of a different door to the one I went through three days ago, she opens it and tells us all to find a seat and sit down. The room is sterile, with grey walls and a matching floor that seem to bleed into each other, making it feel like an enclosure. There are no posters, no smell of brewing coffee, no sound of laughter, just emptiness.
The rest of the group shuffle in and take their seats, like commuters who sit in the same seat on the bus every day.
I take the only seat remaining at a table at the back of the room.
It’s a little surreal when the door opens and the inmates are led in. They’re all cuffed, but as they spot the person who’s waiting for them, the cuffs are removed.
My heart leaps into my throat.
Their cuffs are removed.
Shit. I hadn’t realised they wouldn’t be cuffed during visits. I’d felt safe during our last meeting, knowing Valdemar was shackled to the table, but this feels different.
Nervousness ripples through me.
Is this the reason he asked me to return, so he could have his hands free? Does he know I’ve pictured him dead a thousand times over, and now with his release imminent, he thinks I’m going to be seeking my revenge? Does he want to get to me before I get to him?
Maybe this wasn’t such a good idea after all.