Tabitha gazed at him. She didn’t have a clue what he was talking about.
“Your defense statement, a list of witnesses you want to call, written responses from any professionals. Do you understand?”
“Not really.”
“Of course you don’t: you’re not a lawyer. This is a farce—and a reprehensible waste of time and public money, I might add.”
He went on speaking. He was saying things about written applications, previous convictions, applications for hearsay, primary and secondary disclosures. Tabitha wasn’t listening or, at least, she wasn’t properly hearing. The words sounded like gibberish to her, and now the crown prosecution solicitors were replying with the same orotund vocabulary. She felt suddenly hollowed out by tiredness.
“Let’s get this over with,” the judge was saying.
“What?”
“You haven’t entered your plea, Ms. Hardy.”
A woman who had been sitting impassively below the judge stood up. She asked Tabitha to confirm her name, her nationality and her date of birth.
And then here it came:
“Tabitha Hardy. On count one you are charged with murder. The particulars of the offense are that on Friday the twenty-first of December 2018, you did murder Stuart Rees. Do you plead guilty or not guilty?”
Tabitha gripped the side of the dock.
“Not guilty,” she said.
Nineteen
On the way back, enclosed in the van, she wanted to bang her head against the metal walls. She wanted to kick against them. She wanted to punch them. When they arrived back at Crow Grange she was led out of the van. She said to herself that if they strip-searched her again, she would go for one of the wardens, leave them something to remember her by, but she was given nothing more than a cursory pat down.
She was led into the main body of the prison and then she walked along the corridor and into the main hall. She kept her head down all the time, staring at the floor in front of her. She had a feeling that if someone looked at her wrong or if she saw someone picked on, she would get involved. She felt a terrible impulse not just to do damage to someone but to be damaged herself, to be beaten up, to be really hurt, just to stop the burning fizzing feeling inside. She arrived back at her cell, which was empty, and paused only to grab her towel.
What she normally would have done at a time like this was to walk out of her house, down to the beach, and plunge into the sea, the colder and stormier the better. A shower would have to do instead. She pulled her clothes off and stood under the shower and switched it on. Only a few drops fell onto her up-turned face. She remembered the advice on her first morning to bang the pipe. She hit it a couple of times and nothing much changed. She hit it harder and harder and then she felt as if something inside her gave way. She grabbed the showerhead above her with both hands and swung from it with her whole weight until it came away. Then she seized the pipe that ran up the wall and pulled. It wouldn’t move, so she put her right foot up on the wall to give her some real purchase and leaned backward. At first there was nothing, then a creaking sound and then a shattering and she fell back on the floor, pulling the pipe with her. There was a jet of water from where the pipe had snapped. The pipe had bent so the water gushed outward onto her as she lay on the floor. She heard shouts from either side; the women gathered round her, aghast, though a little impressed. Just for a moment, Tabitha laughed and felt a sense of release that was like nothing she had experienced for weeks and months.
She wrapped herself in her scratchy towel, gathered her clothes and ran, half naked, back to her cell, her wet feet slapping on the floor. She could hear people shouting, but she didn’t know who they were or what they were saying.
She pushed open the door and half fell inside. She dropped her clothes—Ingrid’s clothes—to the floor and pulled on some old trousers and a thick shirt. She needed to have a swim, go for a run, walk for miles and miles with a gale in her face. What should she do to get rid of this terrible energy? She jumped up and down, feeling her heart begin to race.
And then the wardens came: Mary Guy, of course, and the thin one with a face like vinegar, and someone she’d never seen before who wore an incongruous red bow in her hair.
“Stand back,” said Mary Guy.
“Get out of here. This is my room,” said Tabitha. “Fuck off and leave me in peace.”
Mary Guy swept the flat of her hand across Tabitha’s table, scattering all her meager possessions to the floor.
“You’ve no right!” yelled Tabitha.
“Really?” She nodded to the other wardens. “Carry on with the search,” she said. “You’re coming with me.”
Tabitha stepped backward into the room. “I’m not.”
Now the wardens were pulling her clothes out of drawers and tossing them on the ground, throwing her books carelessly. Mary Guy gripped the top of her arm so hard that Tabitha gave a grunt of pain.
“Walk,” she said.
The governor looked impassively at Tabitha. She didn’t ask a question. She didn’t say anything at all. Tabitha just stared back at her. She wasn’t going to apologize. The governor looked at Mary Guy standing beside her.
“She wrecked a shower fitting. Totally destroyed it. Pulled it away from the wall. There’s water everywhere.”
Deborah Cole took a deep breath. “I heard about your court appearance,” she said.
There was a pause. Tabitha didn’t
