The Prison Read online

  The Prison

  Title Page

  Prologue

  Part One

  Part Two

  Part Three

  Part Four

  Part Five

  Part Six

  Part Seven

  Part Eight

  Epilogue

  The Prison

  by Amy Cross

  Copyright Amy Cross, All Rights Reserved

  Published by ACBT Books

  First published: November 2014

  This edition first published: March 2016

  http://amycrossbooks.wordpress.com

  This ebook is licensed for your personal enjoyment. If you enjoy it and wish to share it with others, please consider buying them their own copy. Feedback is always welcome. The author reserves all rights in respect of this work.

  The Prison

  Prologue

  December 25th, 1901

  Slipping her hand into the man's pocket, she quickly pulled out his wallet before turning and hurrying through the crowd. Her heart was racing, but after just a couple of paces she already knew she'd managed to get away. Even as she heard the man shouting about a thief, she couldn't help but smile. If there was one thing Ellie Cottingham was good at, it was pickpocketing. She'd long considered herself to be the best in London.

  Crouching behind one of the market stalls, she opened the wallet with her mud-stained fingers and tipped a paltry collection of coins into her palm. She'd been watching the man for a while and he'd looked pretty well-to-do, but she couldn't help wrinkling her nose up as she saw the extent of her haul.

  “Two shillings and threepence,” she muttered, tossing the wallet away before getting to her feet and slipping the coins into her leather pouch. “Not even enough to get a -”

  Before she could finish, she spotted movement over on the other side of the market square. For a moment she stood and watched as the large, black gate of Hartstone Prison began to open. That, in itself, was something of a rarity: not many people were ever allowed out of Hardstone once they'd been sent away, so Ellie was curious as she slipped through the crowd and stopped by the old fountain, waiting to see if the person coming out might be someone she knew. After all, plenty of her former associates had ended up being tossed into that cursed place to rot: there was Jo Muir, who'd been caught stealing from the church fund, and who had been put away earlier in the year; Ellie figured there was a chance she might be coming out already.

  Once the gate was fully open, however, she realized that there was no sign of anyone. She looked over at one of the nearby stalls and saw that the Begatty Sisters had also noticed what was happening, as had Harry Eltham the butcher. In fact, almost everyone was now looking toward the gate, waiting to see who or what would emerge.

  Ellie, however, wasn't one for waiting.

  Slipping between two nearby stalls, she made her way to the front of the crowd and finally spotted a lone figure walking out through the gate. To her surprise, she realized that the figure was a child, just a little girl wearing a scruffy white dress under a dirty gray coat, and with an expression of innocent shock in her eyes, blinking as if she was emerging into full sunlight for the first time.

  “They don't keep kids in Hardstone, do they?” muttered someone nearby.

  “Never 'ave done before,” came the reply. “I pity any poor little bugger who's spent even a second in that place, though. It must've got into her head already.”

  Realizing she needed to strike quickly, Ellie hurried across the cobbles and grabbed the little girl's hand, yanking her past the nearby stalls and finally pushing her back against a wall. Several onlookers called after her, but she ignored them as she knelt down and looked the girl in the eye. Her mind was already racing as she thought of all the ways she could profit from the little girl: there were men in South London, after all, who'd pay a fair price for a virgin, no questions asked.

  “Alright,” she said with a smile. “What's your name, sweetheart?”

  The little girl stared up at her.

  “You got a name?” Ellie continued. “Yes? No? What about money? Did anyone give you some coins to help you on your way? I can look after 'em for you if you like. You need to be careful around here, there's some real thieving types.” Reaching into the girl's coat pockets, she searched in vain for anything worth taking.

  Slowly, the little girl's lips parted a little, as if she was on the verge of saying something. For the most part, however, she simply looked shocked by the attention.

  “What were you doing in Hardstone?” Ellie asked, glancing over her shoulder at the prison just as the gates began to swing shut. After a moment, she looked back at the girl and forced a broad smile. “You don't look more than nine or ten, and they don't send kids in there anyway. They don't 'ave visitors, either, so...” She paused for a few seconds. “Are you alright, love? What's wrong, cat got your tongue? Come on, at least tell me your name.”

  She waited, but the little girl just stared unblinkingly back at her. After a moment, however, she reached a hand under her coat, as if she was feeling for something.

  “What you got in there, eh?” Ellie asked. “Whatever it is, you should give it to me for safe-keeping. Don't want anyone nicking it off you, do you? Listen, I know a man in South London you should meet. If you've got nowhere else to go, that is. Wanna come with me?”

  Smiling, Ellie waited for an answer. Slowly, however, she realized that the little girl was trembling, as if she her fear was building and building.

  “I'll look after you,” Ellie told her. “Why don't you let me see what you've got there? Maybe I can help you get a fair price for it. Can't know until we've tried, eh?”

  The little girl paused, before finally pulling a large, clean knife from under her coat.

  “Jesus,” Ellie said nervously, “who went and gave you something like -”

  Before she could finish, the girl thrust the knife straight up toward her, driving the blade under chin and directly into her brain with such force that Ellie didn't even have time to scream as the tip of the blade emerged through her left eyeball. She opened her mouth and gasped, and moments later blood began to trickle down her chin as her horrified eyes blinked furiously. The little girl kept hold of the knife and stared as more blood ran down onto her hand, even as shocked onlookers stared at the scene. Finally, she let go as Ellie's dead body slumped to the floor.

  Reaching down, the little girl grabbed the bloodied knife handle and slid it out of Ellie's head. She stared at the blade for a moment, before turning and looking at one of the market-women who was watching from her stall with a horrified look on her face. With a preternaturally calm look in her eyes, the girl walked toward the woman, paused for a moment, and then drove the knife straight into her gut.

  Finally, as if it had taken them several seconds to process the fact that a little girl could be responsible for such evil, people started to scream and run.

  ***

  Six months ago

  “This is a good, solid British building,” the Minister said as he tapped the black wall. “It's a tragedy for a place like this to be left unused. No, worse than that... It's a disgrace!”

  “Absolutely, Sir,” replied his assistant, Graham Downing-Jones, “but... Sir, there is a very good reason why Hardstone Prison has been abandoned for the past century. It's -”

  “I don't want to hear excuses,” the Minister replied, marching onward as he made his way past the side door and back around to the front of the building. “This place is an asset, that's what it is, it's a bloody asset and I'm determined to press it back into service for the good of the nation. We're struggling with an expanding prison population and a declining budget, every year the Chancellor demands more and more cuts, and yet Hardstone has stood completely unused for a
ll these years. Opening it up again will solve our budget crisis overnight! For at least six months!”

  “But Sir -”

  “This is one of my absolute best ideas!” the Minister insisted, turning and making his way across the yard that ran from the main building over to the gate. Once he got a few meters away, he stopped and turned back to get a better view of the entrance. “Just look at that,” he said with awe in his voice. “Isn't it beautiful?”

  “Um...” Graham hurried after him and then stopped to look up at the rows of broken windows. “Yes, Sir, it's lovely, but -”

  “Are you aware,” the Minister continued, “that for most of its life, Hardstone was recognized as Britain's finest prison? And quite right, too! Some of the most notorious female criminals in this country's history were locked up here. Of course, things were easier back then. There were no whingers in Brussels going on about the need to rehabilitate or educate these people. The dregs of society were simply locked up where they could no longer harm anyone, and in most cases they were put to work.” He took a deep breath, as if he was trying to absorb some of the prison's Victorian grandeur. “Oh yes,” he marveled, “such a wonderful monument to British values.”

  “I couldn't agree with you more,” Graham replied, “it's just -”

  “I don't want problem-makers,” the Minister told him. “I want problem-solvers, people who know how to seize the day. We live in times of austerity, and every decision we make is scrutinized by the media. I'm sure there'll be a few lone voices complaining about us reopening Hardstone, mostly in the liberal media, but those people can go hang themselves as far as I'm concerned.” He paused, as if he was almost overcome by the brilliance of his own idea. “I could never say this in public, of course,” he added finally, “but if you ask me, it wouldn't be a bad thing at all to instill some good old Victorian values in twenty-first century Britain. We've lost our backbone, boy. We treat our criminals better than we treat our grandparents! If you ask me, we need to be more like our fine Victorian ancestors!”

  “But -”

  “This current mess is all the fault of the European Union, I might add, and their insistence on labyrinthine human rights directives. The paperwork alone is enough to give a man a migraine.”

  “Yes, Sir, of course, but -”

  “And I won't have anyone telling me that Hardstone is unfit for use,” he continued, “or that it's squalid or dirty. This place is going to be reopened and put back into service as soon as we can manage. I'm sure it needs a lick of paint and some work here and there, but the prisoners themselves can do most of it once they've moved in. Make 'em work for their board and lodgings. The rest of the project should be fairly cheap, we just need to install a few modern security touches, cameras and whatnot. They say no-one ever broke out of Hardstone and I can understand why. It's built to keep the scum inside.”

  “But Sir...” Graham paused for a moment. “It's just... You are aware of the history of Hardstone, aren't you? I mean... You do know what happened here and, well, why it was closed down?”

  “You mean the Blake girl and all that fuss?”

  “It was a bit more than a fuss, Sir,” he pointed out. “Over five hundred women died.”

  “I know, I know,” the Minister blustered, “but that was more than a century ago!”

  “Still, it's very...” Looking up at the facade of the building, Graham couldn't help feeling as if he was being watched from one of the dark windows. “There's an atmosphere here, Sir,” he continued after a moment, “and there have been stories over the years about... noises that people here from the street. Even squatters have never touched the place. People talk about voices whispering nearby, and cries at night.”

  “Don't be weak-minded,” the Minister told him. “What are you worried about? Things that go bump?”

  “No, Sir, but -”

  Spotting movement in the corner of his eye, Graham looked over at one of the broken windows on the upper floor. He was certain there'd been a figure standing there a moment ago, but now it was gone. After a moment, he looked over at the next window, and for a fraction of a second he felt the hairs on the back of his neck start to rise as he saw a young girl's face staring out at him. Before he could say anything, however, she stepped back into the shadows and was gone.

  “Scaring yourself, are you?” the Minister asked with a smile.

  “I...”

  “Look, you don't have to set foot inside the place,” the Minister continued. “Not unless something goes very wrong and you have a sex-change, end up calling yourself Shirley and then get yourself banged up, eh?” He smiled, waiting for Graham to laugh at his joke. “This is happening,” he added finally. “I'm the Minister in charge and I've decided to reopen Hardstone, and when I make a decision, it bloody well stays made. In fact, I'm going to turn this into a personal project. There's no reason why we can't move the first prisoners in before Christmas if we really get on with the job.”

  “I...” Graham turned to him, and he realized that there was no way he could mention what he thought he'd just seen. He valued his job with the Minister, and he didn't want to see foolish; besides, he figured the Minister was right about one thing: he himself would never have to going into the building. If there were problems, they were for the staff and inmates to deal with. “Of course, Sir,” he said with a forced smile. “I'm sure you're making a very wise decision, as usual.”

  “Let's get back to the office,” the Minister replied, leading him across the yard, “and start working on the budget. I'm sure the Chancellor's going to kick up a stink if I ask him for money, but don't worry, I'll make that pompous ass see a little sense. How anyone could not be behind this proposal is beyond me. Quite frankly, I think reopening Hardstone is the perfect tonic for this country! It's a show of strength!”

  Graham glanced over his shoulder as they hurried away, taking one more quick look at the building, just in case.

  As the two men headed out through the gate, the yard was left quiet again. Up on the top floor, however, a pale face stared out through one of the broken windows. It was the face of a little girl, and she had the same calm expression that she'd worn on the day all those years ago when she'd claimed her first victim in the market square beyond the gate.

  Part One

  Today

  “What'd you do?”

  Ignoring the question, Amanda stared straight ahead as the prison van slowed for a turn.

  “Come on. What'd you do?”

  Glancing at the guard on the other seat, Amanda saw that he was busy reading a newspaper. She'd been hoping that he might tell the other prisoner to be quiet, but no such luck: as he nonchalantly turned to the next page, he seemed almost oblivious to anything around him.

  “Hey,” said the other girl, nudging Amanda's arm. “Come on, spill! What'd you -”

  “Nothing,” Amanda replied quietly, still not making eye contact.

  “Nothing?”

  “Nothing.”

  “They don't lock people away for nothing,” the girl replied. “Everyone's done something.”

  Finally Amanda turned to look at her, and was met with a broad grin. Her fellow prisoner was a little younger, maybe early twenties, with dark-ringed eyes and a little acne.

  “You murdered someone,” the girl continued. “Yeah, I can see it in your eyes. You're a murderer, aren't you? You've got that steely gaze of someone who's done the deed. What'd you use? Knife? Gun?”

  Amanda shook her head.

  “Huh. Well, at least I finally got you talking.” She reached out a hand. “I'm Chris. It's short for Christine, but if you use my full name I'll cut your throat. I only told it you so we could get it out the way.” She paused, before finally laughing. “That's a joke, I wouldn't really cut your throat. Well, no, it's not totally a joke. Kinda, let's not find out, huh? Come on, shake my hand, it's only polite.”

  “Amanda,” she replied, reluctantly shaking the outstretched hand, which was marked with several scars and cuts.


  “So what'd you do, Amanda?”

  “Nothing.”

  “That's weird. You're sitting in the back of a van being taken to prison, so I'm pretty sure you must've done something. Come on, if you didn't murder anyone, what did you do? Manslaugher? Theft? Violence? Terrorism? Something worse? It wasn't treason, was it?”

  “I don't want to...” Amanda paused for a moment, before looking down at her trembling hands. Focusing for a moment, she managed to get them to stay still. “I don't really want to talk about it.”

  “Scared?” Chris asked.

  “No.” It was a lie, though. She was managing to keep herself together most of the time, but every few minutes she felt a wave of panic and terror starting to wash through her body, and it was all she could do to keep from breaking down. The thought of arriving at the prison, of going inside, of having everyone staring at her and judging her and knowing what she'd done... It was too much for her to bear. As the van bumped along the road, she felt a kind of hot tightness tightening in her chest.

  “Must be at the gate,” Chris said as the van slowed again. “If we're where I think we are, we'll be going over cobbles in a minute. This your first time?”

  Amanda nodded as the van took another turn, and sure enough it began to bounce more than before as it drove slowly across a cobbled yard. This was the moment Amanda been dreading for months, and as she heard the gate being slammed shut, she felt another wave of panic. Part of her wanted to get up and try to run, but she forced herself to stay sitting.

  This was it.

  The prison.

  “Mine too,” Chris continued. “My first time, I mean. I've been in a few youth places, but this time they decided I was old enough for the big house, so here I am, breaking my prison virginity. I guess they think they're gonna scare me straight or something like that.” She waited for a reply. “So are you really not gonna tell me what you did?”