Hazel and Max arrive at the prison and wait silently in the reception area, ignoring the stares of others around them. They sit on bucket seats nailed to the wall in a small, grey room where a heavy gunmetal-coloured door stands guard between them and the prison interior. Hazel’s hands are red and chilled from the air outside and she shivers, not with cold so much as anticipation.
She is finding it hard to breathe. Being in here. Hearing the clank of locks and keys, the slam of heavy doors swinging into place. Then the dark, the claustrophobia. And, very faintly, the call of the birds outside, circling the skies, so far away through the glass and the brick that confine her.
She is picturing her sister. Recalling her face before they were separated, before Laurel was taken away: on the beach, her blonde hair wrapped around her face by the wind, her mouth curved in a huge smile, cheeks bronzed by the sun. Snow-White and Rose-Red. That’s what their mother had always called them. Her two princesses. Laurel looked more like their father with her fairness and her height whereas Hazel was her mother’s image, dark and slim and contained in a way that Laurel never was. Her sister was clumsy, forever tripping over, dropping things and breaking them, her arms flailing in enthusiasm for whatever was around her, for what the day held. Hazel and her mother would watch her sometimes as she sprinted across the garden in the rain, her face lifted up to the skies, relishing the feel of the water on her skin.
And now Hazel is going to see her again. After nearly twenty years. What will she look like? Will her face be as unguarded? Or will it reflect the vitriol and bile she must feel towards her sister? Will she have forgiven her? Hazel shakes her head, feeling the leaves on the bud of fear inside her beginning to uncurl. She clenches her fists and breathes. One, two, three. She is strong enough to cope with this. She has to be.
Next to her, Max sits with his legs spread wide, the confident position belying his nervousness. He can feel Hazel trembling beside him and glances at his watch. They were early and now have been sitting here for over thirty-five minutes. He can still taste the hurriedly swigged coffee that passed for breakfast, the bile from his ever-present heartburn searing his throat. For want of anything better to do, he lets out a little laugh.
‘This place is pretty horrendous, isn’t it?’ He turns to Hazel. ‘How are you feeling?’
‘Oh,’ she sighs, scuffing the toe of her boot along the floor. Her hood hangs over the collar of her coat, making her seem much smaller than she is, ducked down and hidden. ‘Pretty scared. Nervous. Terrified actually. I don’t really know what to expect.’
‘The main thing is to try and establish a relationship with Laurel. Take things easy, one step at a time. You may find,’ Max’s voice rises a little with the energy of his thoughts, ‘that just the very fact of seeing her after all of this time will trigger things you’ve forgotten. Memory is a funny thing. You can never tell what will bring stuff to the surface. A smell, a sound. It’s been so long . . . if you’ve pushed things down for all these years, you might be surprised what comes up.’ He stops, as if he has suddenly heard what he is saying. ‘I mean . . . Hazel, I don’t want you to get upset. I’m sure … I know this will be very traumatic for you. I’m sorry, I’ve put my foot in it. It’s just, I’m so sure that this is the right thing we’re doing. That you’re doing. I really hope – want – you to get some closure here.’
Hazel runs her hands over her face. From somewhere outside, a drain gurgles with water as the door into the prison opens. ‘I know, Max. Don’t worry,’ she says, lifting her head. ‘Hello, Uncle Toby,’ she says, seeing him suddenly appear in the doorway, his face pale. He is with a female prison guard, a heavy blonde woman with a large chest, buttons straining on her shirt, the colour of which reminds Hazel of limp and flabby oysters seeping juices over their shells.
‘Rosie,’ Toby says, coming forward, his hands outstretched. He halts as if stung by an electric fence. ‘I mean, Hazel. I’m an idiot. I’m so sorry . . . You look so . . .’ He flashes her a smile. ‘It’s been a long time, that’s all.’
She nods her head and takes his hands. ‘It’s good to see you.’
Toby kisses her on the cheek, closing his eyes briefly as he does. Then he straightens and turns to Max. ‘Toby Bowman. We spoke on the phone.’
‘Max Saunders. Thank you for all of your help with this.’
They are similar in stature, in build and age, Toby observes, but he is the thinner of the two, he notes with a mixture of gratitude and fear. Max has the stomach of a man who likes good food and wine, much as Toby used to do but, in all likelihood, will never do again.
They appraise each other as subtly as is possible under the glare of the unforgiving strip lighting.
Max, as the author, wonders if Toby the lawyer has realised the symmetry. A Flower Girl each, Max thinks. And immediately pushes the thought away, slightly sickened by it.
‘Laurel is waiting for you,’ Toby says.
‘We need you to go through security here,’ the guard states.
‘A couple of things before you do,’ Toby says, ignoring the barked instruction. ‘Laurel likes to be called L now. I’d call her that if I were you. Also . . .’ He fidgets with something in his pocket, flicks a glance up at the ceiling. ‘She isn’t in a good place, Ros— Hazel. She’s been incarcerated for a long time. She may exhibit some anger.’ He pats Hazel’s arm. ‘I’m not saying she will be angry with you, but try and be understanding if you find her behaviour challenging. Be patient. This is a difficult thing for L to do. She had to be persuaded. Her view of your – of our – family is not entirely charitable, I’m afraid.’
Hazel nods, her face meek and flat. ‘I understand,’ she says. ‘I’ll be careful.’
‘OK, good,’ Toby answers, and moves aside to let her pass.