Page 41 of Good Bad Girl

Patience

So far, I’ve been arrested, charged, driven from a police station to a courthouse, and assigned a “duty lawyer” who spent more time checking his phone than listening to anything I had to say. I was made to stand in front of a judge who looked like he was going to fall asleep while my case was being read out, and I’ve been “put on remand,” which apparently means I’m not going home any time soon. Not that I have a home to go to anymore. I’m now being driven to prison. Whenever I think things can’t get worse, they do. The lawyer said I’ll be in prison until my trial, but nobody can tell me when that will be.

The text said, Don’t say a word, and I haven’t, but maybe that was a mistake.

My one phone call was a complete waste of time too. It was the only number I knew by heart, but nobody answered. Now I am in a van with nine other women. They are all older than me, and while I don’t wish to sound judgmental, they all look as though they probably did whatever they have been accused of. But maybeI look guilty too? I must, because everyone seems to believe that I am. Nobody speaks and I try to avoid eye contact, because every time I get caught staring at someone, the way they glare back terrifies me.

The van parks and everyone else gets out as though this is a familiar routine for them. I follow but stop on the bus steps when I see where we are.

“HMP Crossroads?” I say.

“I’m sorry, did you think we were going to Disneyland?” the driver replies. She has gray hair and blue glasses, and looks like she should be driving a school bus instead. “Go on, hurry up and get off,” she says. I do and the van door slams shut behind me.

This prison is where my mum works. Or at least it used to be where she worked the last time I spoke to her. I know she always liked to park in the same spot but I can’t see her camper van. It’s been nearly a year so I suppose she might have gotten a new job. She might have moved away. She might have changed her number. I take in the intimidating sight of the tall prison walls with barbed wire on top and try to hide my fear.

An angry-looking guard tells us to line up—like children—while we wait to go inside. There we are greeted—I use the term loosely—by a short fat man with curly white hair and matching eyebrows. He stares at us all, tuts, shakes his head as though very disappointed by what he sees. Then he grunts before reading our names off a list. I wait to be called to the front.

“Patience Liddell?”

“Yes,” I say, stepping up to the desk.

“Face forward,” he barks, and he reminds me a little of Dickens, barking and snapping at strangers. I wonder where Edith and Dickens are now, I hope they’re okay. The guard growls in my direction again and I get a whiff of bad breath. “Place your right hand on the screen—”

“I already did this at the police station,” I interrupt without thinking.

“Oh, I’m sorry. Are we taking up too much of your precious time? Are you in a desperate hurry to get to your cell for some urgent business that can’t possibly wait?” he says and the rest of the new arrivals snicker. I shake my head. “Well, in that case I strongly suggest you just do as you’re told while you’re with us. And maybe keep your thoughts to yourself. Nobody is interested in you or anything you have to say, especially me. Got that? Right hand, then the left, then stare straight ahead at the camera.”

I have met men like him before, so I do as I’m told.

Next we are all taken to a room full of scanners. There are three uniformed prison guards—one male, two female—and none of them look friendly. My pockets are empty—the police took everything I had, they said it was evidence—so when I remove my shoes and walk through the scanner it doesn’t make a sound. One of the other women sets off the machine three times.

“Underwire bra?” one of the female guards asks. “They’ve been causing us problems today.”

The woman triggering all the beeping is escorted behind a curtain where I hear her being asked to strip. Thankfully I am herded through another door and out into an open courtyard, where we wait an excruciatingly long time for the others to catch up. When they do, we are marched in a line toward another building, with one guard in front of us and one behind. The first guard is wearing a name badge that says Taylor.

I can see several large buildings, and they are all surrounded by extremely tall walls with barbed wire on top. Everything is gray: the ground, the buildings, the sky, the mood, the uniforms of everyone we pass. I follow the guard named Taylor to a large building with the letterCpainted on the side of it. She pulls a key from her belt and, once inside, locks the door behind us. We walkup some stairs, then she takes another key to open another door, which opens to reveal a huge warehouse-type space, with cells on either side and a metal staircase in the middle.

I am not imagining it, everyone stops and stares at us. The guard stops walking abruptly outside a cell and I nearly walk into the back of her. Taylor tuts, then looks down to check the clipboard she is carrying.

“Patience Liddell?”

“Yes,” I reply.

“This is your stop. You’ll have your prison interview first thing tomorrow, and will be given your prison number and identity card then. Everything about this place and your time here will be explained during that meeting. For now, you’ll find a prison uniform—which you are to change into straightaway—and clean bedding in your cell, along with a plastic cup, plate, and cutlery. There is also a wash kit, toothbrush, and a towel. You’ve missed the cutoff for dinner orders, but you should receive breakfast in the morning. Any issues, contact your case officer.”

“Who is my case officer?” I ask.

“You’ll be assigned one tomorrow.”

I know the woman is speaking English, but she spoke so quickly that I don’t understand half of what she just said.

“What if I have any issues tonight?” I ask.

“I suggest you don’t.” She holds the door open, stares at me as though I am causing an inconvenient delay, and I reluctantly step into the cell. “Besides, you’ll have your cellmate for company. I’m sure she’ll give you a warm welcome and make you feel right at home,” she adds, before closing the door. I hear the already familiar jingle of keys as she locks me inside, and watch her walk away before I turn around to take in my surroundings.

The cell is tiny. There are two beds, one on either side of the cell, with a small table and an even smaller window between them. To the right of the door is a dirty-looking curtain barely hiding thestained toilet bowl and sink behind it. On the left is a desk, with what looks like a computer, which surprises me. One bed has a plain white sheet, with some bedding and clothes neatly piled at the end. The other bed has a She-Ra duvet and is covered with colorful cushions and cuddly toys. There is a young woman with curly blond hair sitting on that bed with an open book in her lap.

“Hello, I’m Liberty.”

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