5
As she walked down the corridor, Maxine concentrated on the hum of the hospital. It was surprisingly familiar. She suddenly realized what it reminded her of: Wentworth.
“Ha!” she snorted. In Wentworth, her body was the prisoner. Here, walking toward the cancer centre, her soul was prisoner to her body—her diseased body. She sighed.
Linda looked at her from the corner of her eye.
“I’m fine,” Maxine informed her.
“Have you taken your pre-chemo pill?” Linda asked.
“Yes,” Maxine nodded, “but thanks for checking, Mum.”
Linda rolled her eyes.
They rounded the corridor and entered the cavernous cancer centre. Aside from an airport, it housed the largest waiting area Maxine had ever encountered. There were three floors of comfortable chairs, all arranged in little groups, flanked by ubiquitous potted plants. Around the outside were numerous little offices—categorized by each patient’s oncologist—and endless examination rooms. From past experience, Maxine already knew that the chemo rooms were slightly removed from this mass of chairs and plants, positioned away from all of the noise and bustle so as to provide a serene space in which to inject the poison into her veins.
She sighed again.
Linda halted, searching for chairs for each of them. “Is it always this busy?” she asked.
Maxine nodded. “It makes you think that everyone in the world has cancer, doesn’t it?”
Linda led them toward a small group of chairs. An older man looked up and nodded a welcome, but the woman next to him—his wife, Maxine surmised—swept both of them with a glance before curling her lip in distaste. “Excuse me,” she said loudly, directing her attention to Linda. “I would prefer if you remove… her… to somewhere else.”
Maxine froze. She could feel intense heat as her face flushed bright red in embarrassment.
Linda looked from the woman to Maxine, then back to the woman. She put her hands on her hips. “What?” she asked.
“Let’s just go,” Maxine mumbled.
Linda ignored her. “What are you talking about?” she asked the woman.
“She’s obviously a criminal!” the woman stated, ignoring her husband as he tried to quiet her.
“Lady, I know criminals,” Linda replied. “I work with them all day. I don’t need you harassing my friend—a nurse—when we’re both off shift.”
Maxine threw a quick, puzzled glance at Linda.
“A nurse?” the woman asked, askance.
“Who else wears teal scrubs all day?” Linda retorted. “Now would you kindly keep your accusations to yourself, and leave us in peace?”
The woman sat back with a huff. “I’m sorry,” she said finally. “I thought—”
“I know what you thought,” Linda interrupted. “But you might consider where we are. Even if my friend were a criminal, don’t you think she deserves the same care as anyone else battling cancer?”
The woman looked away. Her husband nodded and gave a tiny wink to Maxine.
She grinned.
Linda settled herself. “Looks like it’ll be a long wait,” she commented, looking at the full chairs surrounding them.
Maxine turned toward her, placing her hand lightly on Linda’s arm. “Thank you,” she said seriously.
“Oh, get off, Conway!” Linda replied, flicking Maxine’s hand away, but not before Maxine saw the small smile that graced her face.
They were both startled by the sudden ring of Linda’s cell phone. Answering it, she frowned. “Do you know who it is?” she asked the caller.
Maxine looked up sharply.
Linda ended the call. Tucking the phone away, she assumed a disturbingly blank expression. “I’m to keep you here,” she murmured to Maxine. “The prison’s on lockdown.”
“What?” Maxine asked, startled. “Why?”
Linda stared at her a beat before answering. “An inmate’s been murdered.”
Maxine felt her stomach drop. “Oh God,” she whispered, “is it…?”
“I don’t know yet,” Linda replied quickly. “It’s only just happened.” She paused, looking at the stricken expression on Maxine’s face. “I promise,” she added, surprising herself with her desire to comfort Maxine, “I’ll tell you as soon as I know.”
Maxine nodded, giving a tiny smile. “Thank you, Ms. Miles. I appreciate that.” She turned to the leafy plant beside her, purposefully trying to hide her face as panic and grief warred with each other.
Because inside, she knew.
Bea was dead.
***
The door suddenly sprung open, startling Joan. She stared wildly, backing herself against the wall, her breath coming in short bursts, her body ready to fight.
It was Lawson.
She exhaled, purposely relaxing her muscles as he strode toward her, holding out her bag. She received it silently, yanking it open and pulling out the shirt and blazer she had worn only an hour or so before, at her trial. She looked up, careful to position herself directly under the camera, where she couldn’t be seen. Ripping off her bloodied cardigan, she threw it to the ground before working to undo the buttons on her shirt.
Lawson was watching. She looked at him, raising one eyebrow. He reddened and turned away.
Joan tossed the ruined shirt next to the cardigan. She pulled on the other shirt and blazer. “The brawler?” she asked, straightening her clothing.
“I’m to move it as soon as you’re gone,” he replied.
“Do it now,” she ordered.
“Yes, Governor,” he replied automatically.
They both realized what he had said.
“Not yet,” Joan replied, “but soon.”
She shoved the blood-soaked clothing into the bottom of the bag. Turning, she walked away from Lawson, from the brawler, from her life as a prisoner. In the distance, she could hear sirens.
She smiled.
Soon.