Page 7 of Good Bad Girl

A good book can cure loneliness, change minds, or even change the world.

A good book is nothing less than magic.

Books sheltered her from the reality of an unhappy childhood, letting her hide between the pages of a story whenever real life got too loud. In an adulthood that proved to be no less problematic, books provided her with work, money, and purpose. Books kept a roof over her head and books put food on her table. She owes whatever happiness she has in the real world to fiction.

Which is one of the many reasons why Frankie believes that everyone should have access to books. The memories of her time working at the prison play on a loop inside her mind as she drives. When she accepted the role as head librarian at the city’s only women’s prison, she did so with a mix of anxiety and optimism. Her fear of the unknown was almost neutralized by the idea of teaching others how stories could save them. She spent her first few days keeping to herself, everything about the prison was intimidating and it wasn’t pretty. The slate gray brick buildings had once been home to a mental asylum, and the Victorian exterior was bleak and uninviting. Even the sounds of the place scared her. There were hourly bells, the banging of doors, the slamming of gates, the jangle of keys, and the occasional scream. Counting was the only thing that kept Frankie calm. The regular herd of footsteps and chatter below the library window, when inmates were moved from one part of the prison to another, reminded her of a school. One where all the girls were bad.

She missed the quiet and calm of the local library where sheused to work. And the books. So she sat at her lonely desk, fired up the old computer, and started writing to anyone she could think of who might be willing or able to help. She wrote to publishers, sometimes to authors direct if she could find their contact details and was feeling brave. Every letter was the same—asking if anyone might have some books they could donate.

When she had more books than she knew what to do with, she persuaded the prison workshop manager to build her some bookcases. Frankie knew that other people thought she was pretty back then. At thirty-eight she can still turn heads now, and men have always seemed only too happy to help her. It’s as though they can sense that she needs rescuing—albeit from herself—and for once she took advantage of that fact. One week later, the library walls were lined with beautiful bespoke pine shelves, handcrafted by the workshop manager and his all-female team of trainee carpenters.

She tells herself it was all worth it but doesn’t always believe that. Life seems better at punishing bad deeds than it is at rewarding good ones. Frankie knows she’s helped a lot of women in the prison over the years—she even taught some inmates to read. It felt good to help other people to help themselves, but the job was draining and often thankless. She won’t miss any of her colleagues, but she will miss some of the prisoners. Like a young girl called Liberty who volunteers in the library. She’s the same age as Frankie’s daughter and reminds Frankie of her a little bit. Made her miss her little girl even more than she already did.

There was too much red tape when she started the job—still is—and too small a budget to redecorate. So Frankie baked brownies for the head caretaker, who gave her some spare paint in return. She used it to transform the dark space she had been given into a bright and airy sanctuary for the inmates. And for herself. Nobody would believe her if she confessed that a prison library felt more like home than home these days. It’s hard to feel at home in ahaunted house. Even one that floats. Frankie has lived on a narrow boat on the River Thames for most of her life.

The journey from South to West London takes even longer than it should, due to an unscheduled stop. But Frankie needs to visit someone she hasn’t seen for a long time—someone she feels she really ought to say goodbye to before she does what she is planning to do. Her footsteps feel heavy with dread as she makes her way toward the entrance; counting them doesn’t help. She’s here because she thinks she should be, not because she wants to be. It is Mother’s Day after all.

Frankie notices that all of the other visitors appear to have brought flowers, and tries to ignore the familiar feelings of guilt as she sits down.

“Hello, Mum,” she whispers.

There is no reply. There never is. Her mother was a woman whose grudges had grudges.

When the other visitors have moved far enough away that they won’t overhear, Frankie tries again.

“I know it has been a while since I last came to see you. Sorry about that.”

Frankie stares down at her shoes, sees that her shoelace is still untied and worries she must look a mess. Her mum could always make her feelings known without speaking them out loud. With just a look. Normally one of disappointment. Frankie can feel all her past hurt and resentment bubbling to the surface; she should probably leave before saying something she might regret. A mother’s least favorite child always knows that’s what they are. And when a least favorite child is an only child it leaves a scar.

“I always tried to make you proud, but it was never enough, was it?” Frankie whispers, looking over her shoulder to make sure nobody can hear.

Sometimes silence is an answer in itself.

Frankie persists, determined to say what she came here to say.

“But maybe you were right to think so little of me. I did something terrible, Mum. Something I can’t tell anyone else about. And now I have to do something even worse. I don’t know if I can go through with it. I don’t know what’s right anymore. I feel so broken and lost and alone and I—”

Frankie starts to cry and reaches for a hankie hidden in her sleeve. She doesn’t know why she came here today. She may as well talk to a wall.

“Anyway, I can’t stay long. I just wanted to say hello. And goodbye.”

She stands up and looks around the cemetery. When she is sure that nobody is looking, she takes a bunch of white roses from a nearby grave and puts them on the one she has been sitting in front of. The one she sometimes comes here to talk to. She kisses her fingertips then touches the name engraved on the white marble headstone. The one-way conversations aren’t so different from the ones they shared when her mother was alive and in the care home. Her mum hated that place so much that a wooden box six feet under probably came as a relief.

“Happy Mother’s Day,” Frankie whispers, before saying goodbye for the last time.

Edith

The knock on the door of room thirteen makes Edith jump. She has never been fond of visitors. It was the same when she lived in her own house, not just here at the Windsor Care Home. Edith has always been very wary ofpeople. Dogs are considerably more loyal and trustworthy. She holds Dickens and covers his mouth to stop him from barking.

“Who is it?” she asks.

“It’s me,” says a familiar voice on the other side of the door.

Edith hesitates. Regrets asking the question. Wishes she had kept quiet.

She misses her daughter but no longer recognizes the woman she has turned into.

“Please open the door, Mum. We need to talk.”

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