Chapter 5
‘Oh, Joan…’ Cynthia looked back into Vera’s cell and shook her head as if in deep dismay.
Then she sauntered closer to her old colleague until one polished court shoe was planted between Joan’s bare feet. Joan’s instincts were shrieking at her to move away, but to cede ground now would be disastrous. The ridges and protrusions of Cynthia’s utility belt bumped against Joan’s hips; if not for their layers of cheap uniform, their breasts would have brushed together.
Cynthia reached up to pick a loose thread off Joan’s t-shirt, just below the neckline.
‘I’d heard the rumours,’ Cynthia murmured. She took her time looking up close at Joan’s pallid skin and unkempt hair, knowing how much it was costing Joan not to thrust her away. ‘The big bad governor and her cute little deputy… But I thought it had to be bullshit. I mean – Joan Ferguson, the Fixer? Hydrochloric acid in her veins? No way, I said, that she could go soft. Not nowadays.’
Joan’s jaw was clenched.
‘You’ve misunderstood.’
‘Oh, I don’t think so, Joan. Dirty little secrets are my speciality.’ Cynthia raised an eyebrow. ‘You must remember that.’
Abruptly, Cynthia swung around and stepped away. But Joan felt no relief, for now Cynthia was approaching the door to Vera’s cell. She positioned herself at the viewing window, feet planted shoulder-width apart, hands clasped behind her back, as she regarded the sleeping woman inside.
‘Can’t see it myself,’ Cynthia mused. ‘Weedy little thing – she’d need a stepladder to pash you, Joan. Although I suppose she’d be about the right height for other things, eh?’ Cynthia craned her neck back for a moment, enjoying the fury that rippled beneath the controlled surface of Joan’s face. ‘Still, I guess you always did like the nervous little ones, didn’t you? The ones who were isolated and lonely, who’d keep quiet and be ever so grateful for your special attentions…’
Joan’s hands quivered. She was desperate to haul Cynthia away, to slap the smirk off her face. The sight of her old rival, tall and untouchable in her dark uniform, staring with relish at the helpless woman in the cell, sent a sick feeling churning through Joan’s stomach. She refused to acknowledge it as guilt.
Instead she said ‘Grateful is not a word I would use to describe Ms Bennett. The woman made false accusations against me and usurped the job that was rightfully mine. Of course, that was her only opportunity for advancement, given her utter ineptitude.’ Joan’s voice was cold, sneering. Most people would have been convinced by it. ‘And the only thing I “like” about Ms Bennett is the thought of what my lawyer will do to her on the stand.’ Assuming Joan still had a lawyer, of course, but there was no reason to bring that up here.
‘Hey, that’s right – we don’t know what Vera was up to with Bea Smith!’ Cynthia’s eyes widened. She gave Joan a wink. ‘Want to find out?’
Joan froze. Cynthia drew the chain from her belt with its ring of keys, and swung it lazily to and fro.
‘Why not, Joan? I don’t mind bending the rules for a mate. Time was, the two of us could have got a confession out of any prisoner.’ She licked her lips. ‘Might be just like the old days…’
Cynthia moved towards the cell door, but Joan was faster. She stepped in front and seized Cynthia’s wrist.
‘Don’t.’ Joan’s grip was murderous. Cynthia laughed.
‘Oh dear, Joan. You lost your subtlety along with your governor’s badge, didn’t you?’
‘You don’t go in there.’ It was Joan’s bad hand clutching onto Cynthia. The pressure of Cynthia’s sleeve and flesh against her gripping fingers made Joan’s skin scorch and pain go coursing through her. She held on tighter.
‘Or what?’ Cynthia’s face twisted as her wrist was squeezed viciously, but she refused to lower herself by wriggling free. She spat ‘You’ve got nothing left, Ferguson. That errand boy of yours is dead, and no one else wants to know you. I could pay Ms Bennett a visit every night, and there’d be fuck all you could do about it.’ She leaned closer. Her shallow breaths felt like insect legs scuttling across Joan’s face. ‘What do you think Joan – would you be able to hear us in the next cell?’
Joan’s own breathing had almost stopped. She was studying the tie knotted around Cynthia’s neck, the heavy radio on her belt, the circumference of her throat. Calculating the odds, the possibilities.
She heard Cynthia say ‘Unless you buck your ideas up, of course.’
Joan’s stomach pitched with mingled hope and disgust. She knew she couldn't kill Cynthia out here without it being traced back to her – assuming Joan could pit her sickly body against Cynthia’s at all. But if her gaoler was thinking in those terms, there might be another way.
Cynthia had always enjoyed humiliating her opponents, staging displays of her own dominance. Joan remembered the prisoners at Blackmoor who’d had to ask Cynthia’s forgiveness on hands and knees, or break their own cherished possessions, or read their love letters out loud for her snickering amusement. Joan remembered, too, how she had stood in the doorway on those occasions and let it happen. How she’d brought some of those women to Cynthia specially.
If Joan submitted to clean Cynthia’s shoes for her, or have her hair hacked off, or take her rare showers in front of Cynthia’s gloating gaze and foul commentary – would Cynthia leave Vera alone? Would it buy Joan enough time to plan her next move?
Still, Joan couldn’t help saying ‘You abusing your position and dragging me down to your level? Yes, that certainly would be “just like the old days”, Cynthia.’
And although she knew she must focus, Joan felt a fresh wave of anger at those memories.
The first time had been in the kitchens at Blackmoor, when Joan had stepped in to stop Cynthia from forcing peanut butter down the throat of a woman who was pleading and sobbing about her allergies. (Not that anaphylaxis was widely understood at the time; not that Cynthia would have cared if it had been.)
‘All right, Ms Leach, no sense in wasting the condiments.’ Joan’s voice had been mild, but her grip on Cynthia’s elbow had won a snarl from the other woman which Cynthia could barely contain until she’d hauled Ms Ferguson outside for ‘a quick update’.
‘What the fuck are you doing, Ferguson? Don’t you ever contradict me in front of these slags again!’
‘You went in too heavy, Cynthia. We don’t even know she was the one making the liquor. We don’t need her ending up in sick bay.’
‘What we don’t need, Ferguson, is this prison spiralling out of control,’ Cynthia had retorted, her eyes narrowing. ‘Because if that happened, Joan – if I had to spend every waking moment chasing troublemakers from pillar to post – I’d have no time left for other important jobs. Like protecting that nice little prisoner Riley, for instance. And you.’
What could Joan do, but stare back at her in defeat? That moment had confirmed what Joan had been dreading ever since the night Cynthia had sprung her outside Jianna’s cell and strolled away with a chuckle and a tap to the side of her nose. To wit, that Cynthia would never pass up an opportunity to own somebody. Even somebody who’d imagined Cynthia was her friend.
When they returned to the kitchen, they found the prisoner had pissed her pants from fear, which Cynthia decided was enough of a lesson for that evening. But Joan knew she herself would not be let off so quickly.
***
Now, watching each other in the darkened corridor at Wentworth, Cynthia said ‘No idea what you’re talking about, Joan. Back then, we made a terrific team.’
‘You forced me to be your lookout,’ Joan glowered. ‘Your hench. You blackmailed me into your bent little schemes.’
‘Did I? That’s not how I would have put it, Joan.’ Cynthia curled her lip. ‘Way I remember it, you always had a talent for “managing” the inmates, right from the start. The way you knew which visitors to block and which privileges to deny, to upset a prisoner the most. Those special restraint holds of yours that never left a mark. The way you could fasten the cuffs just that little bit too tight…’
‘That’s not true,’ Joan whispered. Inside her chest, there was a terrible hollow feeling. ‘I was a good officer. Straight down the line. Then I met you.’
‘If you want to blame me for all your problems, Joan, go ahead.’ Cynthia rolled her eyes. ‘But we both know you took to that stuff like a duck to water.’ Cynthia gave a dirty little titter. ‘Remember our “induction” sessions, Joan? For the newbies?’
Joan’s lip twitched.
‘That was nothing. Just … theatre.’
Cynthia shrugged.
‘Oh, absolutely. I saw no problem with it. Just a bit of fun, really.’ She raised her eyebrows. ‘You had fun, didn’t you, Joan?’
The inductions had been Cynthia’s idea. ‘Prevention’s better than cure, Joan,’ she’d explained, before barking at the half dozen first-timers to line up in the corridor. At the head of the queue was the cubicle where the strip searches were conducted.
First in line was a willowy redhead with delicate, freckled skin and an air of such ethereal innocence that she could have been, as Cynthia put it, ‘in an ad for organic fucken hair conditioner.’ But the young woman, Brenda, had only been in the cubicle a minute before Cynthia’s voice rang out: ‘And what the hell is this, ya slag? You think you can bring this shit into my prison?’
‘Oh no, miss, it’s not what it looks like…’
‘Well, it’s doing a pretty fucken amazing impression of a Class A illegal substance. Ms Ferguson, can you come in here and escort the prisoner to solitary while I call the cops?’
‘No, no, miss, please – I can’t do more time! I’m really, really sorry – ’
‘Is that right?’ Cynthia’s voice had dropped to a lecherous purr. ‘How sorry?’ There was a pause. ‘This sorry?’
‘Oh, miss, I’m not like that!’
‘Really? I thought you liked naughty things up there?’ From behind the curtain there had followed a soundtrack of slaps and groans and whimpering protests.
It was Joan’s job to stand outside, stern-faced and implacable, making it clear to the new prisoners that no one would intervene. She also studied the faces of the women in line for signs of guilt, amidst their fear, disgust and occasional arousal.
Not for anything would Joan have admitted to the treacherous heat that stirred between her own thighs during those sessions, the slickness that gathered there. And she didn’t know whether to be more or less ashamed because the whole thing was staged – Cynthia’s performances had been keeping Brenda in cigarettes and chocolate bars for months. If Joan had pulled aside the curtain, she would probably have found a fully clothed Brenda examining her nails while she snivelled and panted and uttered desperate apologies.
Probably.
Now, Governor Leach leaned in nearer to Joan and ran her tongue over her teeth.
‘You know what I reckon, Joan? I reckon our induction sessions used to be the highlight of your sad little life back then. And from what I’ve heard, you kept on with that stuff long after I was out of the picture.’
‘I’m not –’ Joan shook her head. ‘I’m not like you.’
Cynthia snorted.
‘No, Joan, you’re not. You took it too far. You got too emotional about it all. You got caught.’
Joan’s stomach gave a heave as Cynthia moved back towards Vera’s cell and ran her long fingers caressingly over the glass.
‘If you made me happy, Joan, maybe I could bring the old times back.’ She cast a sly look at her old adversary. ‘Don’t pretend you’ve never thought about paying Ms Bennett a visit some dark night. Giving her a surprise – teaching her the error of her ways…’
‘You’re deluded as usual.’ Joan spoke coldly, but it was an effort to meet Cynthia’s eye. Because she had thought about it. Of course she had.
Months ago, when she still had feelings in her body, Joan had gazed up at the ceiling of her bedroom, her office, or the police holding cell, and relived that moment when she had forsaken all control and slapped Vera hard across the face. The shocking heat that had rushed, tingling, along her fingertips and sparked between her legs. That angry, breathless, disgraceful thrill. And she’d imagined Vera begging her to do it again, to strip her clothes off and land rhythmic, punishing smacks all over her. And afterwards she, Joan, would take Vera in her arms and be kind to her, and soothe that outraged skin with her lips, her tongue, her breath.
Surely she had killed those feelings months before, or had them torn out of her. How impossible – how absurd – that they should come flooding back now, and on Cynthia’s command.
Cynthia said ‘It could be arranged, Joan. Some quiet midnight shift… I could keep watch outside. You used to enjoy that too, didn’t you?’
When Joan’s face tightened in revulsion, Cynthia taunted ‘You know what I always thought? Secretly you liked me knowing about Jianna. Sharing the guilt around, feeling like someone was giving you permission to go there. Even though you were doing a terrible, criminal, sinful thing, there was always someone who understood…’
‘You understand nothing!’ Joan’s face darkened. ‘And don’t you dare say her name to me.’
Cynthia folded her arms. Then she shook her head, almost wearily.
‘I see. We’re going to do this, are we?’
‘You were on duty,’ Joan whispered. ‘I was called to B Block. I asked you to stay near her. She was … fragile.’ Joan bit her lip until the pain seared. ‘You promised me you would look after her – and you snuck off to the staff room to get your cigarettes instead. One decent act, Cynthia, and you couldn’t even manage that!’
‘It was fifteen minutes, Joan, tops!’ Cynthia’s voice was rising too. ‘One honest fuck-up, and didn’t you make me pay for it!’
‘Not nearly as much as you deserved.’ Blood was rushing into Joan’s face, battle drums echoing in her temples.
Cynthia swore under her breath.
‘Christ, Joan, after that you did your best to ruin me! Remember that cell-toss, when we’d agreed in advance how to play it? Then you came slithering in after me and found that whole stash in a cell I’d just said was clear. The governor wasn’t too impressed with me about that, was he?’
‘You’re blaming me for doing my job, Cynthia?’
‘Piss off, Joan; we both know you’d turned a blind eye before. That cell-toss fucked my chances of applying for the deputy job – oh, and look who slipped her application in instead!’ Cynthia’s fists clenched. ‘But that wasn’t enough, was it, Joan? Then you went and set me up, so you could screw my career for good.’
‘Cynthia, I walked in on you drowning a prisoner.’
‘Bullshit – it was just a little discipline. And you “happened” to walk in with the governor and two visiting busybodies from the department right behind you! You’re telling me it was a coincidence that your little tour took them right to that particular bathroom? What did you think you were going to show them, Joan – the new cisterns?’
Joan could see the vein in the side of Cynthia’s forehead throbbing with rage. Cynthia said 'That job was all I had. I wasn’t like these kids nowadays, with their evening classes and their bloody investment properties. I’d been a corrections officer since I left school. Who else would employ a woman like me?’ She shook her head. ‘You knew that governor’s job was my end game; you knew it meant everything to me. And you shopped me, Joan, you had me bounced down the stairs – I was bloody lucky not to be charged!’
‘You don’t think your own actions might have played a part in that, Cynthia?’
‘Oh, look who’s talking!’ Cynthia hooted. ‘You know where I ended up, Joan? Working the front desk at a juvie in rural bloody Tasmania! Cleaning the bathroom, taking out the bins, getting spat on by teenage junkies, and explaining to their angry toothless parents why they couldn’t bring their pitbulls in for a visit! Passed over for promotion time and time again – I don’t suppose you had anything to do with that, Joan?’ Cynthia’s voice was ringing off the concrete. ‘It took me years to claw back something resembling a career – and all because your girlfriend got murdered for something that was your own bloody fault!’
***
Silence fell. Joan felt her mouth growing dry. In a distant corridor, there was a buzz and a click as a door opened.
‘You knew Jianna was murdered?’
Cynthia’s mouth fell open. For once, she seemed lost for words. Joan repeated ‘You knew at the time, and you said nothing?’
‘Jesus, Joan, it was years ago. What does it matter?’ Joan took a step forward. Cynthia added quickly ‘I figured suicide was a little easier to cope with, all right? I was thinking of you, Joan.’
‘No, you weren’t.’
She stared at Cynthia, taking in the deep lines in the other woman’s face, the point on her chin where the scarring was thickest, the guarded look in Cynthia’s eyes. And after so much time spent thinking of nothing at all, Joan suddenly felt the pieces of an old story gather and rearrange themselves, before settling into a clear and final pattern. How had she never seen it before?
‘Back then,’ Joan said slowly, ‘everyone smoked in prison.’ Cynthia seemed about to interrupt, but Joan continued. ‘There was a cigarette machine in the prisoners’ rec room. It was just around the corner. You didn’t need to walk all the way to the staff room for a smoke.’
‘I forgot.’
‘No, you didn’t.’ Joan’s voice was level. ‘You’ve never forgotten the location of a cigarette in your life. You took an unnecessary walk, and in the short time you were gone, a woman was murdered.’
Cynthia was shaking her head, but on her face was a look Joan had never seen there before. Guilt.
‘Honest, Joan, it wasn’t like that – ’ Cynthia’s words were cut off when Joan’s right hand shot out and gripped her by the throat.
In silence, they grappled together. Joan had thought her body flabby and wasted, barely able to walk across a room, but now it was surging with power. Choking and wheezing, Cynthia wrenched at Joan’s fingers, but Joan’s scarred hand twisted Cynthia’s wrist, bending it painfully out of the way.
‘What happened, Cynthia?’ Joan whispered, her blank white face close to Cynthia’s sweating red one. ‘Were you so greedy, so corrupt, that a few dollars were worth an innocent woman’s life?’ Cynthia’s lips worked silently, her left hand tugging at Joan’s clothing. Her flesh was hot beneath Joan’s tightening fingers. Joan’s nostrils filled with stale cigarette smoke and a pungent animal scent: sweat and fear.
‘Or did you get a kick out of it, Cynthia? Maybe bashings weren’t enough to satisfy you any more. Did it give you a laugh to see my beautiful girl lynched?’
That vein was bulging in Cynthia’s forehead. Joan squeezed harder – and hissed, as one heavy, heeled shoe slammed down on her bare foot. Her grip weakened for a second, and Cynthia reached up to claw at her eyes. Joan flinched, then reeled as a hard, knobbly fist rocketed up into her jaw.
Struggling free, Cynthia hit out again, this time landing a chop to Joan’s windpipe that made her stagger backwards, gasping.
‘You fucken psycho, Ferguson!’ She could hear Cynthia coughing and retching. Claw-like fingers fastened themselves in Joan’s hair and banged her head into the cell door. White spots whirled before her eyes.
Cynthia was bellowing in her ear ‘Who the fuck do you think you are? You have a go at me, and I will make you regret it for the rest of your miserable pointless fucken life, you hear me?’
Joan’s arm was yanked up between her shoulder blades; she felt a ridge of cold metal snap shut around her wrist. Cynthia growled ‘This is my prison, Joan. And god help me, you will learn your place.’ She gave a wild laugh. ‘Otherwise, who knows? Maybe I’ll get careless with my paperwork and accidentally release Ms Bennett into General.’
A jolt shook Joan’s body. Her gaze lifted to the window of the cell door.
Inside the cell, the bed was empty. A slim figure was standing right on the other side of the door. Her small hand was clutching at the glass, her mouth open with shock as Cynthia crunched Joan’s face against the wall.
As Joan stared back, she saw that Vera’s eyes were wide with horror, and her lips were forming a name. Not ‘the prisoner Ferguson’ this time. Just ‘Joan’.
Cynthia’s breath filled Joan’s ear.
‘Imagine that – Vinegar Tits in teal!’ She grabbed for Joan’s left hand, seeking to fasten the cuffs. ‘Another ex-governor all alone out there… Still, I daresay Juice’s crew will give her a warm welcome.’
Joan’s head snapped back. She caught Cynthia on the bridge of her nose; there was a spluttering sound and a warm spray of blood. Joan ripped her arm free, hurtled around, and launched herself at her captor.
Her full weight caught Cynthia in the chest, sending the governor flying. Cynthia hit the wall opposite, then groaned as Joan’s fist pounded her in the stomach.
Adrenalin was surging through Joan’s body, but everything seemed to be moving slowly: the piston of her right arm, Cynthia’s shocked expression, the glint of the cuffs flying from Joan’s right wrist. Inside her head, there was a howling.
‘You think you can touch me?’ She heard her own voice; it was ragged, discordant. ‘What do you say now – am I "progressing well"?’ Mad laughter rang in her ears. ‘Breaking through my–’ her fist hammered Cynthia’s midriff ‘–barriers?’ Cynthia doubled over, gagging. Joan backhanded her across the face. ‘Reconnecting with my emotions?’
Flailing, Cynthia seized a handful of Joan’s hair and hauled until Joan’s scalp was scorching. Her head was pulled lower and lower – then Cynthia’s knee caught her hard in the mouth.
Spitting blood, pain reverberating along her jaw, Joan was dragged by her cuffed wrist back towards the cell. Cynthia had the loose cuff in both hands now, the metal sawing into Joan’s wrist. If she resisted, her good arm might break.
She rushed forward instead, catching Cynthia off guard and sending them both crashing to the floor. Joan scarcely felt the impact. Her face distorted and streaming blood, she straddled Cynthia’s heaving chest and pummelled her again and again.
‘Scum!’ Blood and spit were flying from Joan’s mouth, her clumped hair writhing like black snakes. ‘You think this makes you brave? You wouldn’t be the first pigs I’ve slaughtered!’ Her voice shook the concrete. ‘I’ll rip your eyes out!’
The taste and smell of butchery were everywhere. She couldn’t stop – wouldn’t stop –
Until Cynthia worked her arm free, and Joan saw a dark, bricklike shape – Cynthia’s radio – come arcing through the air towards her. It seemed to move with a dreamy slowness. No rush, no danger at all … until it smashed into the side of Joan’s head.
Twice, three times – then the world turned to knife-points of silver and black.