Laurel and Fritz sit in her cell, flicking ash into an empty Coke can. The cassette player scratches out an ancient tape of Patsy Cline.
They are quiet, companionably lost in the weed and their thoughts. Laurel has her head leaning against the wall, eyes closed, trying to palpate the anger which rages inside of her into something calmer, easier to swallow. The weed is helping, transforming the image of Rosie’s face into a blurry mash.
Since she spoke to Toby after the hearing, the number of times he has tried to call her back has risen to double figures. But Laurel refuses to talk to him. What’s the point? It should have been obvious to Toby that Rosie would do this. Just as it had been obvious to her when she’d heard that her sister wanted to see her. She’s still angry with herself that she allowed curiosity to sucker her into the meeting. And then, that her rage had caused her to walk out on Rosie during it. That would have been what prompted her sister to be so cruel. She never did like to be left alone.
Laurel thinks about Toby and the hole that will be left in her life from now on. She would like to talk to him. The desire burns inside her so bitter it makes her sick. But there’s just no point. He’d only want to say sorry, and she can’t bear to hear any more sadness from that man. He won’t last the month, she reckons. About time she gave him a break, let him live out his last days in peace without always having to bother about her.
She can look after herself anyway. She has her mates in here. She has her routine. What was she going to do on the outside? Work for fucking Sainsbury’s? And whatever anyone said, she knows what the deal is. Keep your shit private. That shit is worth something.
Down the corridor, a girl screams out and a clash of metal reverberates through the doorway. Laurel opens her eyes.
‘Shut the fuck up,’ she murmurs, trying to keep stoned and in the place where things make sense, where it’s warm and tomorrow doesn’t rear up like a slap in the face.
She feels the weight of Fritz, curled up at the end of her bed, like a coil of lanky string. Laurel knows it won’t be long until they’re separated. It might be years, it might be months, but at some point Fritz’ll get parole or she’ll be moved to another prison and Laurel will be on her own again. It’s the way it has been since that day in the courtroom when she was led away from her parents and sister and they left her in a cell by herself. The only person there was the social worker. Laurel can’t even remember that bitch’s name any more. She hadn’t spoken to the child anyway, just let her sit there on the hard, thin bed, waiting for her mum to come and explain what was going on, for someone to take her home.
Nobody came.
Nobody ever comes to your aid in life because you’re on your own for all of it. Birth to death and back again.
Laurel takes another drag and Fritz taps her on the knee.
‘What?’
‘Why do you listen to this old rubbish?’
Laurel doesn’t answer, remembering her mother swaying at the sink with Patsy Cline singing that she was crazy.
They were all fucking crazy. That was the problem.
‘Just do,’ she says at last. ‘Makes me think.’
Fritz nods and falls silent.
‘Are you going to see her again?’ she asks after a minute.
Laurel knows who Fritz means but she won’t say the name. Won’t have it said in her presence.
‘Bitch is coming next week.’ Laurel drops her butt into the can and shakes it, extinguishing it with a hiss. ‘Last fucking time. Last fucking time that bitch is coming anywhere near me.’