15
DAY TWO
“Will! This is the third message I’ve left on your voicemail,” Vera hissed angrily into the phone late the next morning. “Why aren’t you at work? Get your arse here immediately!” She slammed the handset into its cradle.
It promptly fell out.
Vera made a guttural sound of sheer exasperation. Grabbing the handset again, she slammed it into its cradle three times in quick succession, each time the force of the crash bouncing it right back out again. Frustrated, Vera finally threw the handset onto her desk, where it skidded across the smooth surface and fell over the edge, dragging the entire telephone unit with it.
“Fuck!” Vera yelled, falling back into her chair.
“I think you killed it, Vera,” Linda Miles drawled from the doorway, where she had watched Vera’s little tantrum with interest.
Vera ignored her. “Has Will Jackson reported in yet?” she asked tersely.
“Negative,” Linda replied.
“Tell him to see me as soon as he does,” Vera ordered. “Was there anything else?”
Linda nodded. “The detectives are back. They want to start questioning the inmates.”
Vera sighed. “Start with C Block,” she stated.
“Are you sure? Wouldn’t H Block make more sense—”
“Just do it, Linda!”
“Acknowledged,” Linda said, turning to walk quickly away from the office. “Ferguson's interview certainly got up your arse this morning…” she whispered under her breath, smiling.
Vera held her head in her hands, trying to regulate her breathing into long, slow breaths. The detectives had to start with anything other than H Block. She needed all the time she could get to figure out how to keep them from eventually questioning Kaz Proctor. Who knew what she might tell them…
Of course, did it even matter? Joan’s interview would run tonight, and she could only guess how many lies—and possible truths—the woman would reveal about her. Would she even have a job tomorrow at this time?
She slapped her hand against the desk in frustration.
Where the hell was Will?
***
News of both Bea’s death and Ferguson’s interview spread quickly throughout the prison. Maxine sat at the table with Liz and Sonia, her lunch tray untouched in front of her. She could hear all of the women chatting about it, wondering what had happened to Bea, excitedly speculating about what they thought the Freak was going to say, as if it was all some big reality television special.
“You really should try to eat,” Liz gently chided her. “You need to keep your strength up.”
Maxine did her best to summon a smile. “I’m really not hungry,” she replied. “Everything tastes awful.”
“I know, love,” Liz patted her hand. “I know.”
Maxine pushed the food around with her fork. She recognized, intellectually, that she was hurt. Bea’s death was still so new, so raw, and yet—with the exception of their little group—it appeared as if no cared. The women’s excitement felt like a betrayal. Had Bea truly meant so little to them?
Boomer joined them, slamming her tray onto the table. “Fucking cows,” she announced, dropping into her chair. “Bea’s died, and they’re all yammering about who did it and what the Freak is going to say.” She sniffled.
Sonia said nothing, but placed a consoling hand on her arm.
“That’s right,” Boomer suddenly yelled, springing up from her chair, pointing. “Fucking cows, all of you! She was your top dog, and it’s like you don’t even care that she’s dead!”
The cafeteria fell into silence.
Doreen appeared, quietly placing her own tray on the table and joining the small group of mourners.
Maxine contemplated the event distractedly, as if she was somehow watching everything from afar. The silence, she considered, was worse than the excitement.
Boomer started to cry.
“Oh Boomer! Love!” Maxine heard Liz exclaim helplessly. But Boomer couldn’t stop. “You’re cunts, all of you!” she cried as big, sloppy tears fell down her cheeks. “She protected us! She got us conjugals! She tried to stop all of you from killing yourselves on crap drugs!” She tried to wipe away the wetness with her hands, but the tears continued to fall. “She even did our hair! And not one of you gives a fuck that she’s gone!”
Boomer fell back into her chair, Sonia rubbing small circles on her back.
“Fuck off,” Boomer exclaimed, shrugging. “I’m fine!”
Sonia shook her head and continued to rub her back. Maxine reached across the table, taking hold of Boomer’s hand. “You care,” she stated clearly. “You give a fuck. That’s what matters.”
Boomer looked away, embarrassed. Still trying to stop her tears, she nodded.
Maxine squeezed her hand reassuringly.
Collectively, the little H-Block family was startled when one of Kaz’s crew—Mel—suddenly dropped a small piece of paper onto their table. Looking down, Maxine recognized it as a pencil sketch of a flower. She looked back up at the woman—someone, frankly, she didn’t know overly well—and saw tears in her eyes.
“We do care,” Mel told them. “Even if you don’t think we do, even if we had issues with her, she was Bea Smith. We respect her. We mourn her. We do care.”
Maxine watched, shocked, as one by one each of the women placed hand-drawn flowers on their table. They were daisies, lilies, violets. Many were roses. Some were artistic, most were rough, unpolished, but the message was the same.
The women of Wentworth mourned for Bea Smith.
Maxine didn’t even try to wipe away her tears.
***
Vera, watching the scene on the CCTV feed in the Governor’s Office, felt overwhelmingly alone.