Chapter 3
Joan sat down hard on the side of the bed. The cold, dank air stung her nostrils as she breathed in and out. The shock had acted like a jolt of adrenalin, and her heart punched at her chest. Now suddenly everything in here was all too real: the concrete beneath her feet, the taste of her unbrushed teeth, the white glow of the bedclothes in the darkness and the glint of the metal toilet bowl.
She was waking up, and she should not let herself do that. If she perceived things as they really were, she would go mad.
She shut her eyes, concentrating instead on the sharp scent of cigarette smoke drifting around her. Like a message from the outside world, or from another time – a time when everyone smoked in prisons, and she and Cynthia were friends, and Joan Ferguson was the name of a person, not a police file.
‘They…’ Joan swallowed, her throat parched. ‘They gave the governor’s position to you?’
‘Actually, Joan, I was headhunted.’ In the gloom, she could just make out the vengeful gleam in Cynthia’s eye. ‘The Board needed a firm leader, you know? Experienced. Someone who could straighten things out and restore Wentworth’s reputation after years of chaos.’
‘And how many people turned the job down before they got to you?’ Joan knew she sounded like a petulant teenager, and that this was exactly what Cynthia wanted. But what else was there to say?
‘Now, that’s not very gracious, Joan.’ Cynthia’s grin widened. ‘But it’s OK. I can understand how it might be a bit of a sore topic for you.’ She tapped her cigarette, sending ash tumbling across Joan’s cell floor. ‘Full disclosure: I think the Board may have talked to one or two other candidates first, who turned out not to have the balls required. After all, this governorship is starting to look a bit jinxed, isn’t it? Like teaching Defence Against the Dark Arts.’ She sucked hard on her cigarette. ‘That’s a popular reference, Joan; you wouldn’t know it. But bloody hell – four governors in three years? One dead, one deranged, one a corporate lawyer.’ She sighed. ‘Jesus. Poor Erica. And then there was your work experience girl.’
‘Vera.’ The name came out in a whisper.
Of course it made sense that Vera would have lost the governorship after the disasters of this year. Had they bumped her back down to deputy yet again? Joan thought of how Vera had treated her during her time as a prisoner, and her mouth twitched. Appalling though it was to think of Cynthia Leach as governor, perhaps there was an upside.
Joan pictured it: Vera having to run Cynthia’s errands to the betting shop and the Bottle-O. Vera spending her days breathing Cynthia’s second-hand smoke, tidying her apocalyptic paperwork, and listening to her calling everyone from the inmates to the Attorney-General a pack of stunned cunts. Joan’s mouth flickered again. How very … karmic. Not to mention Cynthia’s ability to trap even the most decent people in her nasty little schemes. Joan recalled that senior officer Cynthia had fallen out with at Blackmoor, the one so squeaky-clean her nickname was Ajax. By the time Cynthia had finished, the poor woman was serving two years for fraud.
For the first time since her day in court, Joan felt her lips curling into a smile. Oh, Vera. Let’s see what’s best for you and the women of this prison now.
‘So…’ Joan lifted her head. ‘How is Ms Bennett doing?’
From the silence, she realised this was not the question Cynthia had been hoping for.
‘Joan, I don’t mean to seem needy…’ Joan remembered the last time she’d heard Cynthia use that tone: right before she rubbed a steel cheese grater on a prisoner’s face. ‘But we were talking about me.’
‘My apologies, Ms Leach.’ Joan pushed back her hair. Her left hand protested at the movement, the old heat and tightness returning. The sensation took her by surprise. She had cut herself off from it for so long, like the inverse of an amputee feeling pain in a missing limb.
‘Well…’ Cynthia was waiting. And while Joan knew nothing beneficial would come out of this, it still seemed important to keep her visitor talking. If she didn’t, Cynthia might leave, and Joan would be alone in here again.
‘So, Cynthia, the Board lured you out of your cave with raw meat, to do a job no one else would touch. How is that going?’
‘Joan, I’m so glad you asked.’ Cynthia reached into her pocket, drew out a folded piece of paper, and shook it straight. ‘I saved this for you from yesterday. Knew you’d be interested.’
It was a page from a newspaper. A large photograph showed Cynthia in full uniform, standing with her arms folded in front of a wire link fence. Above it, the headline read ‘Back to Basics’.
‘I see.’ Squinting, Joan could just make out the byline: ‘After years of scandal and disaster, could the old-fashioned approach offer new hope for Victoria’s troubled women’s prison? Hayley Jovanka reports…’
Knowing that much of the scandal and disaster in the article would have her own name attached to it, Joan decided the darkness in here was a good thing. Of course only a moron would care what Ms Jovanka had to say about anything … but still the humiliation stung her like battery acid.
She handed the paper back to Cynthia.
‘Congratulations. If your greatest ambition was to see your picture in a tabloid above an advertisement for power tools, you’ve succeeded.’
‘Jealous, Joan?’ Cynthia taunted. ‘Don’t worry; they’ve printed quite a few pictures of you over the past year.’ Joan felt her jaw tighten. Cynthia sniggered. ‘I’ve been keeping them in a scrapbook. Want me to bring it in?’
Joan tried staring the other woman down, but Cynthia had played that game before.
‘Come on, Joan. Don’t pretend you’re not interested in what that article says about the future of Wentworth.’
Joan tried to shrug.
‘I assume the phrase “firm but fair” was used?’
‘Actually, I went with “common sense corrections”.’ Cynthia winked. ‘Politicians love it.’
‘So, Vera’s New Wentworth has gone the way of the dinosaurs?’
‘More the way of the Loch Ness Monster, Joan.’ Cynthia pinched the filter, took one last ravenous drag, then dropped the butt and ground it into Joan’s floor. ‘Far as I can tell, the New Wentworth never really existed.’
‘Well, it did rather resemble the Old Wentworth with pamphlets.’
‘Exactly. Joan, you and I have been around long enough to know that when you build an institution meant for punishing people, stuff it to the brim with the poorest, maddest, most drug-fucked cases the Department of Human Services has to offer, then send the bill to Mr and Mrs Suburban Taxpayer who are out for revenge because their car got nicked – the results usually don’t have much to do with human rights or yoga classes.’ Cynthia shrugged. ‘Nature of the beast. I daresay the New Wentworth would have vanished soon enough, even if your Ms Bennett hadn’t turned out to be as useless as a chocolate teapot.’ The new governor snorted. ‘Christ, what an appointment, eh? They may as well have left a pot plant in charge.’
‘Some of Ms Bennett’s systems reforms showed promise,’ Joan heard herself say. Then she added hastily ‘At a micro level.’
‘Are you sticking up for her?’ Cynthia gave an incredulous cackle.
‘Hardly.’ Joan’s jaw clenched. The notion that she would defend Vera Bennett, that treacherous little rodent who had deceived her for months on end, sucked up her mentorship, pretended to worry about Joan’s feelings, made Joan think she might be a – a friend, then plotted with common inmates to have her falsely imprisoned… Well, the idea was preposterous. Still, Joan didn’t care for the implication that she’d been defeated by a fool.
To divert Cynthia’s attention, she said ‘So, this “common sense corrections” of yours – does it involve confiscating the inmates’ television sets? That’s usually what the tabloids like.’
‘Christ, no, Joan. That was where you went wrong.’ Cynthia shook her head. ‘If you’d just let those poor slags watch Real Housewives for eight hours a day, their brains would’ve been too fried to go planning any riots. Nope, the TV sets are staying. But I have introduced a few other changes, in view of the need for tighter security. After two breakouts and the odd murder, the Board could see the sense in my approach.’
‘Go on.’ Joan edged forward. Almost against her will, she could feel her mind creaking into gear. How long had it been since another person had wanted to talk to her about anything other than her so-called crimes? How long since another person had said anything to her besides ‘stand on that line’ or ‘bend over’ ?
Cynthia leaned forward too, her hands clasped between her knees.
‘Security is paramount,’ Cynthia recited, as if she’d given this speech before. ‘When inmates aren’t working, they are confined to their units, apart from strictly limited exercise periods. Inmates are not to visit each other’s units. Inmates are not to walk or congregate of groups of more than three. Inmates are not to speak languages other than English. Phone calls are supervised. Visiting times are restricted and physical contact is not permitted. The food is … simpler, and we’ve cut out most of the meat and sugar. We’ve pared back the items inmates are allowed in their cells; only the essentials, and cells are inspected each morning. No cosmetics, no loose hair, no coloured socks – and above all, I’ve cut all the bloody hoods off those jackets.’ Cynthia let out a scornful breath. ‘Seriously, Joan, I reckon I solved fifty per cent of your security problems right there.’
‘They’ll eat each other.’ Joan shook her head. ‘You don’t have the staff to enforce all that. There’ll be a riot within the first month.’
‘It’s been running for three months, Joan, and rather well if I do say so myself.’ Cynthia’s voice bubbled with barely suppressed glee.
Joan eyed her warily.
‘Why do I get a sense there’s something you haven’t told me?’
Cynthia winked, then sprang to her feet. Beckoning Joan to the open door, she said ‘Come out here. I’ll show you something.’
***
At the threshold, Joan paused, grasping the doorframe for support. Her legs wobbled at the prospect of walking further than the distance between the bed and the toilet. She bit her lip, listening hard for voices, footsteps. She couldn’t shake the sense of being led out into an ambush.
But there was only Cynthia, leaning back against the window ledge and watching Joan stagger forward with a smirk of triumph on her scarred face.
‘Move along there, Ferguson, I haven’t got all night.’
The air tasted different out in the corridor. Joan could see down the hall for twenty metres in either direction, all the way to the glowing green exit signs. Through the window, she could make out an overcast black sky, one or two stars peeping through, and the lights of a plane taking off from the airport nearby. It rose higher, moving north, until it disappeared from view.
Joan’s heart was hammering. She stretched out her good hand and ran her fingers over the cool glass.
‘Hard, isn’t it?’ Cynthia crooned. ‘Seeing the world outside when you know you’ve got to go back in there?’ She jerked her chin towards the cell. ‘Harder still when you know you could spend the rest of your life in there. How long do you reckon you might last, Joan? Twenty years? Thirty?’ Cynthia spun around. ‘But let’s not talk about you, eh? There’s something out here I’d like you to see.’
Moving unsteadily, Joan followed Cynthia’s crooked finger over to the right. Cynthia tapped the glass.
‘Up there. On the skywalk.’ Joan blinked, her eyes adjusting slowly as she looked into the distance for the first time in months. Cynthia prompted ‘What do you see?’
‘Two officers patrolling.’ They were both women and they moved with the time-honoured guard’s gait: slow, ponderous steps, chests puffed out, heads swivelling left and right. In the midnight calm, Joan fancied she could hear the soft crackle of the walkie-talkies on their hips.
Cynthia chuckled.
‘Look again.’
Joan screwed up her eyes. The floodlights against the night sky were dazzling.
‘You’ve changed their uniforms.’ The women wore black trousers, black button-down shirts with logos on their sleeves, and hefty black boots. ‘Don’t tell me the Board gave you a budget for re-branding?’
‘Well, sort of.’ Cynthia was leaning far too close now. Joan could see Cynthia’s long, yellowed front teeth and taste the tobacco on her breath.
Cynthia said ‘Joan, those women out there are prisoners.’
‘What?’
‘This is the key to my success.’ Cynthia was twitching with happiness. Her eyes were wide; she was watching Joan’s every reaction hungrily. She said ‘It’s my new community marshal scheme, Joan. Would you like to hear about it?’
Joan said nothing. She edged away to avoid physical contact, but Cynthia moved with her, her shoulder nudging against Joan’s, the hard edge of her shoe almost crushing Joan’s bare toes. Almost. Joan took the hint and stopped moving.
‘It’s an innovative solution, Joan, to a whole bunch of longstanding problems in corrections. We take up to twenty per cent of the inmates – carefully selected, of course – and we train them as community marshals. They undertake a significant amount of the routine daily work of the prison: admin, rostering, health promotions, cell checks, routine patrols. They receive training and accredited qualifications – certificates in office management and so forth, plus they have actual work experience to put on their CVs when they leave. Several of them have shown interest in becoming public transport police or security guards – or corrections officers! – so we’re working with the relevant authorities to fast-track them through that training when they get out. Imagine that, Joan – prisoners who are actually good at something besides hiding crystal meth up their fannies!’
‘I take it you left that last line off the press release,’ said Joan. ‘Your officers can’t be happy about this.’
‘Oh, the union got a bit restless, but I sold them on the idea it will make their own work safer, without significant redundancies.’ Cynthia shrugged. ‘Staff-wise, I’m refreshing the brand a bit anyway; out with the old, in with the new. Hell, there’s a million unemployed out there.’
Dismissing that issue, Cynthia went on ‘When training our community marshals, unity is the key. They live together in a separate unit; they eat together, they have their own gym hours. I’ve been sure to include some fun stuff along with their training – you know, ropes courses, boxercise classes, movie nights. So many of these women have never done anything enjoyable and interesting in a group before.’ She grunted. ‘Unless you count pole dancing, I suppose. And my marshals get special privileges: better food, personalised cells, proper visiting sessions. You’d be surprised what a change it’s made just putting them in a different uniform. And of course I work with them a lot one-on-one. Lifting their self-esteem, making them realise they can do something better with their lives, that they don’t have to be like the other scumbags in here.’
‘And in return … they do your filing?’
‘Well, amongst other things.’ Cynthia flashed a wolfish grin. ‘I tell you, no one is better at figuring out what prisoners are up to than other prisoners. And no one is better at handing down a little discipline when it’s needed.’
‘I see.’ Joan was beginning to. ‘Tell me, Cynthia, these special inmates of yours – do they receive combat training?’
‘Self-defence,’ Cynthia answered smoothly. ‘It would be irresponsible of me not to provide that.’
‘And do they carry weapons?’
‘Certainly not, Joan! That would be bang out of order. Although of course…’ Cynthia nodded towards the two women outside; they had moved closer now. Close enough for Joan to see the large heavy torches that swung from their belts.
‘And what if these women start abusing their new powers?’
‘We do not stand for that,’ Cynthia said briskly. ‘Anyone fucks up, she gets stripped of all privileges and sent straight back to her original unit.’ That low cackle again. ‘You can imagine the welcome she’d get from her old cellmates, can’t you? Funnily enough, I’ve only had to make an example of one or two.’
‘Fascinating,’ said Joan. ‘And when you say “fucks up”, Cynthia, what behaviours are you referring to? Bashing another prisoner – or bashing her without your permission?’
‘Let’s not get bogged down in details, Joan.’ Cynthia’s grin was so wide now that Joan could see the metal fillings in her back teeth. ‘The point is innovation.’
‘Hmm, yes.’ Joan chewed her lip and forced a nonchalant tone. ‘Not all that innovative, actually; Himmler had the same idea. You’ve introduced a kapo system.’
‘Community marshals, Joan, please.’ Cynthia bounced on her toes. The look of delight on her face was truly alarming. ‘Well? What do you think?’
Joan breathed out hard.
‘I think … I underestimated you, Cynthia.’
‘Yeah.’ Cynthia lunged forward, seizing Joan by the chin and forcing Joan’s face close to hers. Her nails bit into Joan’s skin. The gnarled white scar tissue twisted around Cynthia’s mouth as she smiled and smiled. ‘You really did, Ferguson. But you won’t be doing that again, will you?’
‘No.’ Joan broke free. ‘I won’t.’
For months, she had deadened herself to the unwanted touch of other people, to their dirty, disgusting hands on her skin. But now she was awake again and she couldn’t tolerate it any longer. Couldn’t and wouldn’t. She wiped her face on her sleeve, while Cynthia laughed.
‘Oh, Joan. You don’t know what it means to me, to have you here to see my success. You never thought I could do it, did you? You never thought I’d make governor at all.’ Cynthia’s smile had become a snarl. ‘Not after you’d done your fucken best to stop me.’
Joan rolled her eyes.
‘My approval means a lot to you, doesn’t it, Cynthia?’
‘Fuck your approval! And fuck you!’ Cynthia lashed out; Joan’s reflexes, numbed for months on end, were not quick enough to respond. There was a loud crack, and pain burst across the back of Joan’s skull, four hot stripes stinging along her cheek. Cynthia had slapped her so hard her head had hit the wall.
Joan surged forward, her right arm swinging around, determined to flatten Cynthia’s long nose for her. Blood was surging behind her face, her old impulses screaming back – touch me, will you?
She caught herself just in time. Stumbled to a halt a half-inch away from her opponent. Lowered her fists and stepped back, her heartbeat pounding in the sides of her head.
‘That’s right.’ Cynthia was trembling, either with rage or momentary fear, but now she laughed again. ‘Stand down, that’s a good girl. You know what happens to a prisoner who assaults a senior officer, don’t you, Joan? Especially if she’s the sort of pathetic lowlife freak who’s rotting in protection because even the other slags can’t stand her.’ Cynthia leaned forward with exaggerated concern. ‘Golly, Joan! What does that make you?’
Joan drew herself up, her fists unclenching.
‘The person who defeated you at Blackmoor.’ Her voice came out as cold and imperious as it had ever been. ‘And Cynthia? I’m sorry to hear you’ve been bearing a grudge against me for years, obsessing over how to get even and what you would say when we met at last … because all that time, I wasn’t thinking of you at all.’
Cynthia’s long fingers twitched again, her disfigured face a mask of hatred. She said ‘Think you can push my buttons that easily, Joan? Get me all confused and upset, doubting myself?’ She snorted. ‘I’m not Vera Bennett.’
‘Yes, that is one thing that might be said in Ms Bennett’s favour.’
Joan watched her captor closely, waiting for another blow. Still, she couldn’t help adding ‘And how is Ms Bennett adjusting to your New Old Wentworth? I can’t imagine it’s to her tastes.’
Cynthia blinked.
‘Who gives a shit? Anyway, I don’t expect she knows much more about it than you do.’
Joan frowned. Did that mean Vera was no longer working here – that the Board had sacked her for incompetence? Joan felt a momentary flare of triumph – but in a second it gave way to a shameful and shattering disappointment. If Vera had been banished from Wentworth, then Joan would never spar with her, never sneer at her, never see her again.
She realised Cynthia was frowning.
‘Joan…’ The other woman’s tone was confused. Then Cynthia’s eyes widened. ‘Bloody hell. You don’t know, do you?’
Joan hated it when people said that.
‘Know what?’
But now Cynthia was laughing once more, silently, her tall, lanky frame shaking with mirth.
‘Christ on a bike! You don’t know!’
With difficulty, Cynthia calmed herself, wiping one eye. Then she straightened her shoulders and jerked her thumb back in the direction they’d come from. Back towards Joan’s cell.
‘Come here.’
Joan’s body froze. The concrete chill of the floor seeped up through the soles of her feet. It slithered along her limbs and wrapped itself around her belly, her heart.
‘No.’
‘Excuse me?’ Cynthia blinked, her expression one of outraged amusement. Joan’s face hardened.
‘I will not go back in there.’ Joan drew her shoulders back. She’d finished with all that, she realised. Cynthia could call her officers or her jumped-up inmates, they could beat Joan down and drag her in there, but she would not walk herself back into that cage.
Cynthia raised one curious eyebrow.
‘Is that a fact?’ She nodded to herself, apparently turning this news over in her mind. Then she feinted sideways and delivered a jarring kick to the side of Joan’s knee, hard enough to send Joan staggering.
Catching her off balance, Cynthia seized Joan’s arm, twisted it behind her back, and propelled her forward, using Joan’s own weight to send her crashing into the wall.
‘Listen up, you slag,’ she hissed, pressing Joan against the bricks. She grabbed a handful of Joan’s loose hair and yanked her head back until Cynthia’s lips brushed her ear. Joan could smell the other woman’s sweat. ‘You will go wherever the hell I tell you to go, when I tell you to go there, and you will be fucken grateful that I bothered to speak to you at all. You got that, Ferguson?’
‘Get away from me.’ Joan thrashed in Cynthia’s grip, throwing her assailant left and right. But months of captivity had wasted Joan’s strength, and while Cynthia’s grip shook, it did not loosen.
‘Look at you, Ferguson!’ she crowed. ‘Pathetic! You couldn’t last ten rounds against my poor old mum and she’s been dead five years!’ Still, Joan could hear Cynthia puffing as the new governor dragged her sideways towards the cell door.
‘Put me back in there and I will kill you,’ Joan heard herself breathe. ‘However long it takes, however much you think you’ve won… Just ask Bea Smith.’
‘Oh, for fuck’s sake, Ferguson.’ Cynthia darted one foot between Joan’s ankles and tripped her neatly to the left. Joan teetered, before a shove from Cynthia sent her hurtling into the cell door.
The closed cell door. This wasn’t her cell, she realised, but the next one along.
‘Jesus, Joan.’ Cynthia was panting. ‘Calm the fuck down, will you? I was only trying to show you something.’
‘What?’ Joan caught her own breath much more easily. She hadn’t smoked since Blackmoor. Let her get out of this place and get well again, and she would tie Cynthia Leach in a knot.
‘Here.’ Cynthia slapped the glass panel in the door. ‘I was trying to give you a surprise, you crazy bitch. A bit of a treat.’ She released Joan and stood back, rubbing her ribs where Joan’s elbow had hammered them. ‘That’ll teach me to be so nice to people.’
‘What are you talking about?’ Joan’s teeth were clenched. She decided she would kill Cynthia regardless, just for touching her. And for insulting her, and for stealing the governorship and making a big, brutal success of it, when Cynthia didn’t deserve to be successful at anything, ever.
‘I’m talking – ’ Cynthia rapped one knobbly finger on the glass ‘ – about this.’
Moving slowly, mistrustfully, Joan followed the direction Cynthia was indicating. She brought her face up to the glass and squinted into the darkened cell.
It was hard to make anything out at first. As her eyes adjusted, Joan noted the same stark furnishings familiar from her own cell: the narrow bed, the toilet, the faint rectangle of light from the small window, set too high to provide any view of the world. This feeble light picked out the white tangle of bedclothes, the pale square of a pillow.
And lying curled up small on top of the bedclothes, her curly hair spread across the pillow, was a human figure. It was dark in there, but her features, silhouetted against the linen, would have been familiar to Joan anywhere.
Joan’s scarred hand reached up to touch the glass.
‘Vera,’ she whispered.