Page 6 of Good Bad Girl

We both turn to stare at the star-covered backpack on the floor. It is moving, all by itself.

“Did you bring him today?” Edith whispers.

I nod. I did something bad, but it was a good thing to do. Good and bad aren’t as different as some people seem to think. Mother’s Day is as difficult for Edith as it is for me—I doubt she’ll get any visitors—and I wanted to cheer her up.

Edith’s first day as a resident at the Windsor Care Home was also my first day here as an employee. It could have been a coincidence, if coincidences were real, which they are not. We met in this room a year ago, where I found her sobbing in an armchair. There are endless rules and regulations at the Windsor Care Home. One of them is no pets. Not content with tricking Edith into coming here, her daughter took Edith’s beloved dog and dumped him at an animal rescue center. So I found him, spent all of my savings, and adopted the dog. I secretly bring him to see Edith whenever I can, then take him home with me again at the end of my shift. Nobody else knows that I do this. I’d lose my job if anyone found out, but seeing them reunited makes the risk worthwhile.

Dickens is an eight-year-old border terrier and my only other friend. I love him almost as much as I have grown to love his owner. I unzip my backpack and he runs out, leaps onto the bed, and licks Edith’s face, wagging his little tail so fast his whole body wiggles with it. Dickens has got very good at being still and silent when he’s in the backpack—he spends most of his time sleeping these days—which makes smuggling him in that much easier. He’s also a little bit deaf—though I sometimes wonder if it is a case of selective hearing—but the rest of him is in full working order. There is something quite magical about the bond between a dog and their human. Seeing the two of them together makes me so happy.

“Look, I’ve got a new toy for you,” Edith says to Dickens, throwing a black-and-white cuddly bear for him to fetch. “It was a gift sent in the post from my daughter, for Mother’s Day. What amIgoing to do with a teddy bear at my age?” Dickens fetches and returns the bear. “But at least you can get some enjoyment out of it,” she says, throwing the toy for him to fetch again, which he does, gripping it in his teeth and giving it a shake for good measure.

I take the toy from Dickens. “Why don’t we put this away for now? We don’t want anyone downstairs to hear him running about.” I place the teddy bear on the dressing table. “And before I forget, I managed to get everything you wanted.”

Once a week, Edith gives me her bank card to buy her aRadio Timesmagazine, a book, a packet of custard creams, a large bar of Dairy Milk, three cans of ready-mixed Pimm’s and lemonade, and two lottery scratch cards. We always scratch one card each, but the most we’ve ever won was a pound. I take all the items from my bag and put them on the bed.

“You should hide this somewhere safe,” I say, trying to give the bank card back. “Valuable things have a habit of going missing around here.” Residents are not allowed to leave the care home alone, it’s against the rules, but Edith does still have some money tucked away that her family didn’t manage to get their hands on, and I don’t mind getting her things she wants from the outside world.

“Keep the card for now, there are a few more items I need you to get for me. I’ve made a list,” she says, ripping a page from her favorite notebook. She keeps it by her bed at all times and calls it her “List of Regrets and Good Ideas.” She writes her regrets at the front and her good ideas at the back. The only spare pages are toward the end.

“It looks like a lovely day out there. I wish I could take Dickens for a walk instead of being locked away in here,” she says.

“You’re not locked away. You could at least leave your room. This isn’t a prison.”

“Isn’t it?” she asks. “Prisons come in all shapes and sizes, and sometimes we build our own without realizing. But you’ll be pleased to learn I am planning an escape!”

I sit down on the edge of the bed. I spend all day every day on my feet and they permanently ache. “That doesn’t sound like a good idea.”

“It isn’t a good idea, it’s a great one. I’ve got myself a lawyer who is going to help me.”

“What? How?”

“The letter I asked you to post for me last week was to a law firm. I found them in the back of theRadio Times, and their slogan is ‘No win, no fee,’ so they must be good. They think they can help get my house back. I reckon my daughter must have rented it out and I can’t stand the thought of strangers living in my home. If the ‘no win, no fee’ chaps can reverse the power of attorney, then Dickens could live with me again, and maybe you could come and work for us? Care for me at home?”

“That sounds nice,” I say, unsure whether to believe anything Edith just said. The lawyers sound dodgy and—like a lot of the residents—her memories sometimes get muddled. The only way I have seen any of them leave the Windsor Care Home is in a hearse.

“Excellent! Then we have a plan. And here is the list of those extra few things I need you to get for me with my card. If you don’t mind?”

“I don’t,” I say and stand up, aware that I can’t stay much longer.

“And why don’t you withdraw a little cash for yourself? I’d like to repay you in some small way if you’ll let me.”

“I’ve told you before, I’m happy to help. I don’t want your money, but I do need to start work or I’ll never get all the rooms done. I’ll come see you both at the end of my shift. Remember to keep quiet. It’s against the rules, so don’t let anyone see or hear Dickens—”

“I know, I know. You don’t need to worry about us,” Edithsays, stroking the dog. “We’ll be good. I always stick to the rules, unless I don’t agree with them, then I break them all. But thank you, again. For everything. I’d be dead already without you.” Something about the way she says it makes me shiver, and Edith looks sadder than normal when she sees that I am leaving.

I feel a bit unsettled as I exit room thirteen but I’m not sure why. Sometimes my mind plots against me in secret, like a meddling mother who always thinks they know best. I have grown very fond of Edith, and I feel bad for lying to her about so many things. But I doubt she’ll ever find out. And I’m certain she’ll never escape from this place.

I’ve lied to Edith Elliot about almost everything since the day we met.

Frankie

Frankie slots the key into the ignition of the van. It is a relief when it splutters to life on the first attempt. It doesn’t always. She thinks this is a sign that she is doing the right thing, but still feels an overwhelming sense of sadness as she drives away from the prison for the last time.

Frankie Fletcher has been the head librarian at HMP Crossroads for almost ten years. The so-called library was just an empty storage room when she started, with a sad stack of dusty old novels in the corner. She has always loved books, so that was never going to do. Her first ever job was working in a beautiful little bookshop by the sea in St. Ives. She was sixteen, couldn’t believe she was getting paid to do something she loved so much, and has been working with books in one way or another ever since. Before working at HMP Crossroads, she worked as a librarian in a small town called Blackdown. When budget cuts forced the council to close the library, Frankie worried she’d never find another job—especially one which fitted around being a single mum—but thenshe spotted an advert for a prison librarian. Given that she had plenty of experience but no real qualifications, it was the only position she could get an interview for. She took the job because she needed to and stayed because she wanted to.

Books matter more to her than who is reading them or where they are being read.

A good book can be a light in the darkness.

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