The Prison Page 12

  “I'm always right,” she continued, as the elevator's silver doors opened and she began to drag the body-bag inside. “A problem arose and we fixed it. Or rather, I fixed it, but I hope you were taking notes. If this is the first and only major problem we have here, we can count ourselves lucky.”

  “But -”

  “Go home,” she added, as the doors slid shut. “Have a nice evening with your lovely wife. Do give Ruth my regards, by the way. Such a lovely woman.”

  “Oh, I -”

  Before he could finish, the silver doors closed. Faced with his own hulking reflection, the governor sighed, but just as he was about to turn and walk away he saw something else reflected in the metal: a little girl, standing a little further back and staring straight at him. Blinking a couple of times, he told himself that he was imagining everything, that somehow he was wrong, but the girl remained resolutely in place, her gaze fixed on him.

  Slowly, he turned and looked across the room, only to find that it was empty.

  Five years ago

  “Hey, I saved pizza for you!” Claire called out from the front room. “Robin! You hungry?”

  Pushing the door shut, Robin dropped her backpack by the chair and then made her way across the hallway.

  “Hey,” Claire said with a smile, looking over at her from the sofa, “there's -” She stopped suddenly, clearly recognizing that something was wrong. “Robin? Honey? What is it?”

  “I need you to tell me something,” Robin replied, her voice trembling with fear. She was still wearing her coat, with her hands conspicuously tucked inside.

  “What?”

  Getting to her feet, Claire headed over to her.

  “I'm not sure if... I suddenly started getting all these bad thoughts in my head tonight,” Robin explained. “I don't know where they came from, but they just burst into my mind like bullets, and...”

  “And what?” Claire asked cautiously. “What happened?”

  “I don't even know what's real,” Robin replied, slipping her hands out from under her coat to reveal the blood-stained knife. “You have to come with me to the restaurant. I need you to tell me if I've really killed someone.”

  Today

  The front door had warped a little over the course of the past year, so James had to use his shoulder to force it open all the way. Finally, stepping into the hallway, he was met by the fusty stench of a house that had been left undisturbed ever since the forensic crime scene investigators had last visited. Unanswered bills and junk mail had piled up on the mat, and dust was drifting through the air.

  He'd sworn to never return to the house, but now he had no choice. He had to find a new angle for his investigation. Somewhere, there had to be something that could prove Amanda's innocence.

  He couldn't even contemplate the possibility that he might fail.

  Making his way through to the kitchen, he was shocked to find that all the blood had been cleared up. Then he remember: his brother had arranged for a bio-hazard team to give the place a once-over shortly after the police had formally relinquished the scene. Still, as he made his way over to the sink, he realized there were faint reddish stains running through the grouting between the tiles.

  Looking over at the kitchen table, he couldn't help but think back to the horrific scene he'd witnessed on that dark day when he'd come home from work and found the children. With tears in his eyes, he crossed the room and looked down at the very same chair that Amanda had been sitting on, rocking back and forth as she cradled Andrea and Jonathan in her arms; for a moment, he could almost see them right before him, even with all the blood running down Amanda's body and onto the floor.

  “Why did you do it?” he whispered. “Why did you confess to something so horrific?”

  Outside, in the street, a man in a black car raised a camera, adjusted the telephoto lens, and took a photo of James with his head in his hands.

  ***

  “I cleaned the floors,” Amanda explained, “and I cleaned the windows, and then I organized the slides like you asked, and then I even cleaned the corridor outside the laboratory, and -”

  She glanced up at the clock on the wall.

  “It's four. What time do I finish for the day?”

  “I believe four seems suitable,” Doctor Bell replied. “Mr. Dunne is going to want to talk to me later, to get an idea of how you've performed.”

  “And?”

  “And my appraisal will be absolutely confidential,” she said firmly, before pausing for a moment. “All I'm willing to tell you is that if he is particularly keen on you coming back to help me again, I suppose I might as well agree. I mean, I won't go out of my way to block the idea. After all, once you stopped bugging me, you did a good job, and you seem smart enough, so perhaps I can train you to keep out of my way a little more. Would you be interested in working here on a permanent basis?”

  “I guess.”

  “Try not to let the enthusiasm overwhelm you,” the doctor muttered, turning and taking a fresh packet of plastic gloves from the box before peeling the first glove from her left hand, revealing the burns and scarring underneath. Her hands were trembling so much, she struggled to get a fresh glove out of its wrapper.

  “What happened?” Amanda asked, shocked by the sight.

  “Nothing of any consequence,” Doctor Bell replied, wincing a little as she slipped a new glove onto her hand. “Anyway, it was a long time ago.”

  “But if -”

  “How did your children die?” she asked, interrupting her. “If we're in the mood for life stories, perhaps you could tell me what really happened to you.”

  “Haven't you read my file?”

  “I don't have time to read files,” she replied, carefully replacing the glove on her right hand. “If usually find that they're full of mundane, trivial details that bore me to death. Just tell me what happened.”

  “It was on the news.”

  “I don't have time for that either. Tell me.”

  “We had twins,” Amanda said hesitantly, “Andrea and Jonathan. They were just a few months old when...” She paused, feeling a little surprised by the fact that she felt able to finally tell someone the story. “I'd been having these dark thoughts for a while, like really twisted ideas. I found myself thinking about what it would be like if the babies both just... died... in some horrible way.”

  “You were suffering from a form of depression?”

  “I don't think it was that. It felt more visceral. Eventually I started to worry that I might act on these thoughts, but when I saw a psychiatrist he dismissed the whole thing. He said I was an attention-seeker, and at the time I just went along with that idea because I didn't want to consider the possibility that I was actually sick. I still had the thoughts, though, and they were getting worse and worse as time went by. Sometimes I'd imagine stabbing the children, or burning them, or drowning them, or putting them into the oven...” She paused, with tears in her eyes. “I didn't want to do any of those things. You have to believe me, I hated thinking about them, but I couldn't help myself, it was as if the images were just appearing in my head from nowhere and...”

  Doctor Bell waited for her to continue. “And what?”

  “I was starting to think that I was dangerous,” she continued, her voice trembling a little. “Like, I was seriously wondering if I should get my husband to look after the babies so I could just go away and fix whatever was wrong with me. I felt like I was the most unnatural person in the world. I mean, no woman should have those thoughts about her children, should she?”

  “No,” Doctor Bell said calmly, “she shouldn't.”

  “I was still trying to decide what to do,” Amanda explained, “when one morning, my husband went out for a while. I begged him not to leave me alone with Andrea and Jonathan, but he told me I'd be fine. I don't think he realized what a monster I'd become.” She paused, seeing the whole scene again in her mind. “I remember changing them, and feeding them, and then sitting down with them at the kitchen
table, and then...”

  She stared straight ahead in silence, as a tear rolled down her cheek.

  “And then what?”

  “The next thing I remember is my husband screaming at me. For a couple of seconds, I had no idea what was wrong, but then I looked down at my arms and I saw them... and I saw the knife down on the floor by my feet, covered in blood. There was more blood running from Andrea and Jonathan, just pouring from huge holes in their bodies, and... I could tell immediately that it was too late.”

  She closed her eyes as more tears began to fall.

  “You used the knife to kill your babies?” Doctor Bell asked after a moment.

  Amanda nodded.

  “And then you let them bleed to death while you waited for your husband to come home?”

  Another nod.

  “Do you remember doing it?”

  She shook her head.

  “So you remember being home alone with them, and then the next thing you remember is sitting with them dead in your arms.”

  “My husband still clings to the hope that I didn't actually kill them,” Amanda said finally, opening her tear-filled eyes. “He can't accept that I could do something like that. I guess he's just not willing to go to that place yet. He's in denial.”

  “But you can accept that about yourself?”

  “There's no other possible explanation.”

  “No,” Doctor Bell replied after a moment, “I suppose there isn't.” She paused, watching Amanda intently. “Still, it's very good that you seem to have accepted your guilt. Some people would have tried to find a way to avoid all responsibility, to plead insanity or some other mitigating factor.”

  “I just want to...” She took a deep breath. “I tried to turn the knife on myself when I saw what I'd done. James was just about able to stop me, but all I wanted was to escape, to get away from the knowledge that my two beautiful babies had... I felt I couldn't ever draw another breath. It was too painful.”

  “And the dark thoughts stopped?” Doctor Bell asked.

  Amanda nodded. “I tried to kill myself again while I was on remand, but they just wouldn't let me go. Finally I realized that I had no choice. I'm never going to be free again, so I'll never have a chance to end it. All I can do is try to shut off my emotions as much as possible, try to exist without being me, and hope that the other people in my life are able to find some peace. My parents have already disowned me.”

  “And your husband?”

  “He came to visit, and he says he's coming again soon. I just want him to move on.”

  “You can always have his visiting rights revoked.”

  “I can?”

  Doctor Bell nodded. “You have the right to put his name on a list and prevent him from ever being let into this prison again.”

  “I should write to him first,” Amanda replied, wiping away her tears. “I need to explain.”

  “No,” the doctor replied, “you don't. Explanations and letters will only give him hope. Cut him off immediately, cold turkey. Eventually he'll have no choice. He'll have to get the message.”

  “Do you really think that's the best way?”

  “It's the only way,” she continued, heading over to Amanda and putting her arm around her, while steering her toward the door. “Your husband is addicted to your love, to the extent that he can't even accept the reality that's right in front of his eyes. He can't accept that you killed your children. Like any kind of addict, the only treatment is to cut him off. Believe me, I've used that approach with substance abusers many times, and it has never, ever failed.”

  “I guess,” Amanda said as she headed out into the corridor and turned back to the doctor. “I'll think about it. Thank you.”

  “My please,” she replied. “If there's anything else I can help you with, Amanda, don't hesitate to let me know. I think that perhaps, over time, I might be able to help you out a great deal.”

  As Amanda headed to the stairs at the far end of the corridor, Doctor Bell couldn't help but smile. She hadn't wanted anyone helping her out in the lab, but slowly she was coming around to the idea. In fact, now that she knew Amanda's full back-story, she was already coming up with ideas about how to use her.

  Part Four

  Today

  “And you'll be back on time?” Ruth asked, handing him his briefcase. “Remember how much I worry if you're late, Alistair.”

  “I expect to be back at six on the dot,” he told her as he reached the door and began to deactivate the various locks and alarms that kept them safe at night. It was a complicated process that always took a minute or two, although he'd somewhat learned the process by heart. “If I'm going to be more than a few minutes late, I'll call.”

  “You're such a considerate man,” she continued. “I'm convinced that this time next year, you'll be Sir Alistair Windsor. It's coming, you know. They can only ignore a man of your stature for so long.”

  “Let's not get ahead of ourselves,” he replied, opening the door and stepping out onto the front step. In the driveway, his driver had already pulled up and was waiting to take him to work. 6am pick-ups were a little extreme, but they always seemed to get the day off to a sprightly start. Most mornings, he wouldn't hesitate to go to the car, but this time Governor Windsor turned to his wife and paused for a moment. For the first time since Hardstone had reopened, the thought of arriving at the prison's large black gates felt somewhat unnerving.

  “Is anything wrong, dear?” she asked.

  “No. Only... Do you remember the night of the intruder?”

  “I... I'm not sure...”

  “I'm sure you must.”

  “I...” She frowned, as if a gentle mist was getting in the way of her memory.”I... think so...”

  “Did it hurt?”

  “Did what hurt?”

  “When he... I mean, when you...” He watched her for a moment, but it was clear from the blank look in her eyes that she didn't know what he was talking about. “I just wondered how it felt, that's all,” he added finally. “To pass beyond the physical realm. To die.”

  “Die?”

  “Yes, when...”

  Pausing again, he realized that this was probably not the time to broach such an important subject. He'd never been sure whether Ruth was truly aware of her situation, and he worried that pushing her too far might alter the delicate balance between them. Sometimes he desperately wanted her to be free and leave him, but whenever he felt the chance might be at hand, he could never bring himself to give her a gentle push.

  “Never mind,” he said finally, kissing her forehead before turning and heading out into the bright morning. As he made his way to the car, he could already hear Ruth activating the various locks and alarms behind him.

  ***

  Sitting in his gloomy office, he stared straight ahead. His eyes were fixed on the door, as if he was waiting for someone to arrive. Grace hadn't buzzed to let him know of any arrivals, and his appointment book for the morning was completely empty, but still...

  He was expecting someone.

  Someone was coming.

  They might not be outside the door yet, they might not even be in the corridor, but he could tell that a presence was making its way toward him. When it arrived...

  Thinking back to the previous evening, he couldn't get the little girl's image out of his mind. He'd seen her only briefly, reflected in the elevator door, but he knew enough about the history of Hardstone to be worried. All those stories that he'd scoffed at in the past, all those jokes about the superstitions that surrounded the place; the stories suddenly seemed much more possible now.

  “Now do remember that you're taking on a haunted prison,” he remembered the Minister telling him over drinks at the club, “so watch out for things that go bump in the night, eh?”

  “I shall do my best,” he remembered replying as they clinked their glasses together to toast the new project. “Cheers!”

  Suddenly the intercom on his desk cracked into life, pulling him o
ut of his memories.

  “Governor Windsor?” Grace asked, with a hint of hesitation in her voice. “I'm sorry to bother you, Sir, but I just received a rather strange message from one of the guards who's been supervising the labor force down in the yard. You remember, the inmates who are working on the vegetable patch? You ordered them to get to work at first light.”

  “Well?” he asked wearily. “What's wrong?”

  “He asked if you could go down and take a look at something. It sounded important.”

  “Down there?” He turned and looked out the window, and a shudder passed through his body as he saw how many inmates were working in the yard. “Why can't he just tell me while I'm up here?”

  “He said he couldn't explain,” she continued. “He said you really have to go down there and see it for yourself.”

  ***

  “At first,” Ferguson replied, leading the governor toward the patch, where two dozen inmates were milling about aimlessly with their work tools piled up against the wall, “it didn't seem important. But as more and more pieces turned up, we started to think... Well, that maybe it was something after all.”

  “Pieces of what?” the governor asked impatiently as he reached the edge of the patch. Looking down at the small gray and white items laid out on a pair of sheets, he frowned. “What are these things? They look like -”

  “Bones, Sir,” the guard replied. “Human bones. We've managed to identify quite a lot of them.”

  “How can you be sure they're human?” he asked. “These could be from a bunch of cats or -” He paused as he spotted what appeared to be a human jawbone; a little further away, there was a complete skull. “Well... I mean, this isn't so bad, not really. There can't be more than twenty or thirty individual bones here.”

  “This is just the latest haul,” Ferguson replied, indicating a group of large black sacks over by the wall. “Those are full of bones too. When you dig down more than about a foot, you start finding them and the deeper you go, the more you keep finding. These aren't even the lot. After a while, I told the girls to just stop and wait for you. I mean...” He turned his back to the inmates and lowered his voice. “This shouldn't be happening, Sir. Where are all these bones coming from?”