Like This, for Ever

murder was brimming over with life. You could almostlook into her eyes and see her heart beating. And her conversation was so quick, so full of energy, ideas just poured out of her. This woman, more than anyone, made Lacey acutely conscious of how sluggish her own thinking had become, how dulled her reactions to what was going on around her. This place, more than anywhere, made her feel as though she were viewing life through a thick screen of opaque glass.
    ‘I’m very happy for you,’ said Lacey. ‘And at what stage is the winner determined?’
    Hazel-blue eyes blinked. ‘It’s more of an ongoing challenge. We just update the board in the dayroom as and when. One of the warders rubbed it off the other week and there was nearly a riot.’
    ‘Volatile places, prisons.’
    The woman tucked a strand of hair behind one ear. ‘You’re telling me,’ she said. ‘Then we had the allegations of cheating, so now we have to supply proof. One of the older women is in charge of the board. Only she can update it, and she wants to see the letters or the emails before she’ll change the scoring.’
    ‘Strict.’
    ‘Rachel Copping. You’ve probably heard of her. She put weedkiller into her husband’s tea when she found out he’d emptied their bank account. Took him three days to die and she kept him locked in the bedroom the whole time.’
    ‘I’m glad you’re making friends.’
    A conspiratorial grin. Then a second of silence as both women momentarily ran out of conversation. Lacey’s eyes drifted up to the wall clock and saw that twenty minutes had gone by already.
    Time behaved differently in here, she’d noticed. Or rather it misbehaved. It skidded, dragged its heels, sprinted forward and doubled back, catching itself on loose nails and grinding to sudden and unpredictable halts. It was as though the laws governing real time didn’t quite make it through prison security.
    ‘Are they treating you well?’ she asked, when the silence was nudging towards awkward and even a stupid question seemed better than nothing. As if anyone were treated well in prison. But this woman was probably one of the most notorious killers of modern times. She’d be bound to attract attention.
    ‘Not bad. I wonder if they’re a bit afraid of me, even the staff.’ As she spoke, she glanced at the middle-aged man in uniform standing just five yards away against the wall. He caught her eye and looked down. ‘If any of them get a bit lippy,’ she went on, ‘I just sort of stop and stare. And I can see them thinking about what I did and they just back down. Nobody really gives me any trouble.’
    For a second, the warmth in her eyes flickered out and her pupils took on a darker cast. For a second, it was possible to see the woman who had killed, premeditatedly and brutally; who, despite what she might pretend to the prison authorities, psychiatrists and social workers, felt not a shred of remorse. It was good though, good that she was tough, good that she was feared. It would keep her safe.
    ‘Good,’ said Lacey.
    A second more of silence. Lacey leaned back and took a deep breath, unconsciously pushing back her shoulders to give her lungs more room to move. She still hadn’t got used to how thin the air felt here, as though the place was part of some underhand experiment to find out if prisoners and their visitors might be a bit more manageable if the oxygen content of the room were reduced. Come to think of it, didn’t they do that on aeroplanes?
    The prisoner was watching her thoughtfully. ‘Are you still getting headaches?’ she asked.
    Lacey nodded. ‘Sometimes,’ she admitted, although headaches were something she was suffering from increasingly. Especially on visiting days. The thin air in the visiting suite, the noise and smell of people around her, then the exhaustion that several hours on public transport brought. And yet, she realized with a surge of warmth, it was all a small price to pay for the sheer joy of having this woman back in her life again.
    ‘You know what? Having an education is the most enormous advantage in prison,’ said the prisoner.
    ‘It’s generally considered an advantage out of it as well. But you left school at fifteen.’
    ‘Yeah, but I didn’t waste my time when I was there. I can read. I can string a sentence together. Loads of the women in here ask me to write letters home for them. Or read the ones they get. One girl even asked me to teach her to read. I said I’d have a go,