There was another pause.
“Is that some kind of a plan?” said Cole.
“What kind of plan?”
“You think you can get away with this by delaying things?”
“You’ve got this the wrong way round,” said Tabitha. “I don’t want to delay things. I want somewhere to read my files, to work on my case.”
“I’ve seen people like you before,” said Cole.
“No, you haven’t.”
“They think they’re better than other people. They think the rules don’t apply to them. They’re the ones after five years, ten years, fifteen years, you see in the corner, talking to themselves.”
Tabitha stared straight at the governor. She felt like a firework that was about to go off.
“I just need a space,” she said.
“I decide what space you get,” said Cole, slowly and evenly.
Twenty-One
When Tabitha got back to her cell, Michaela was methodically putting her things into a black bin bag.
“What’s up?” said Tabitha.
Michaela looked round but she didn’t stop filling the bag. There wasn’t much: clothes, toiletries, books, magazines, pens. She didn’t speak until she was finished.
“I’m leaving,” she said.
“Are you being transferred?”
“My release came through.”
“Your release? From prison?”
“They just told me. Five minutes ago.”
“You didn’t tell me.” As soon as she had spoken the words, she felt foolish. “I know. Why should you tell me? But I thought there was lots of preparation.”
“Some papers went missing and then they found them and then they came and told me.”
Tabitha and Michaela looked at each other. Tabitha didn’t quite know what to say, or even what to feel. She had only known Michaela for a few weeks and it wasn’t like they’d become particular friends. But somehow they had become used to each other. Michaela was silent, and then she seemed to come to a decision. She rummaged through her bag and produced a piece of paper. She put it down on the table and wrote on it, then handed it to Tabitha.
“That’s my phone number. If you need something.”
Tabitha looked down at the paper. “I don’t know what to say,” she said.
Michaela hoisted up the bag. “Maybe I’ll come and visit. It might be a bit weird though, coming back to a prison I’ve just left.”
“Why would you do that?” said Tabitha.
“You have to stand by your mates.”
“Right.”
“And we’re mates now.”
“Yes,” said Tabitha. It didn’t sound enthusiastic enough. “Yes, we are,” she added. She was touched and confused. She and Michaela had shared a cell; they’d lain in bed night after night listening to the sound the other was making; they’d used the same toilet and eaten meals side by side. Yet they’d never had a proper conversation or shared secrets. Maybe there are lots of ways of being friends, she thought, and they don’t have to involve words. The thought cheered her.
“You know,” said Michaela. “Nobody has come to see me the whole time I’ve been here.”
“If you came, it would be a great help to me.”
“Don’t hold your breath, no promises. You might never see me again.”
“It’s a nice thought, anyway. Thank you.”
Now what? Tabitha stepped forward but Michaela held up a hand to stop her.
“No hugs,” she said. “I don’t like being touched.”
“I’m not so good at it either.”
“You don’t say.” Michaela grinned and then hesitated, searching for the right words. “Don’t do anything stupid. I can imagine you doing something stupid, picking a fight with the wrong person, something like that.”
She walked to the doorway and then halted.
“Don’t even think of coming along with me,” she said. “I hate it when people come and see you off.”
Still she didn’t leave. She seemed to be making up her mind about something. Finally she spoke.
“So you’re defending yourself.”
“It looks like it.”
“Did you do it?”
Tabitha took a deep breath, then let it out. She met Michaela’s gaze. “No.”
“Good.” Michaela nodded. “You asked me what I did.”
“You don’t need to—”
“I hit my boyfriend with a flatiron. Several times. He nearly died. I wish he had.”
She turned and walked away without looking back, her feet clicking over the hard floor.
When she was gone, Tabitha lay on her bed. She tried to stop herself but she couldn’t: she thought of Michaela going through door after door. They’d give her back her phone and they’d also give her a bit of money and then she’d go through one last door and she’d be out in the street. She would catch a bus or just walk, in any direction she wanted. Would she really come back? Tabitha put her hand against the wall. It felt cold and hard and heavy.
Twenty-Two
Tabitha followed the warden across the room. It had cement floors and steel girders and long fluorescent lights and was lined with worktables, about forty in all. On each table stood an identical large black machine. Along one side of the room were broad shelves on which were stacked piles of blue drawstring trousers. In a locked cupboard with glass doors, Tabitha saw a variety of implements, including needles in different sizes, pins and safety pins and several long-bladed scissors. It was icily cold in the room. A tracery of frost decorated the windows and her breath hung in the air.
The warden stopped in front of a door, fumbled with his keys and pulled it open. Tabitha peered inside.
“Here?”
“That’s right.” The warden, who was enormously tall and bulky and was wheezing alarmingly, smiled at her. Not in a nice way.
“But it’s a cupboard.”
“Don’t blame me. This is what she said.”
“It’s dark.”
He reached his hand round the doorway and turned on a light. A single bulb glowed inadequately.
“It’s still dark. And freezing. And it’s full of things. What are they?” She took a step into the windowless space. “They’re mannequins.”
He shrugged.
“There’s no room for me with those things in there.”
She took hold of the first pink figure and dragged it out, then started on the next, whose plastic arm was raised in
