Vicky wished she’d had the foresight to get some travel sickness pills. The journey from Bradford Interchange to Leeds wasn’t only interminable, it was like sitting on the axle of a go-kart, as the bus wheezed and strained its way to Leeds. Not that it was hilly, or particularly windy – just stop-start, stop-start, in the endless traffic. The thought of doing this every fortnight weighed heavily.
And she wouldn’t even be there when it reached its destination, either. She still had to find a taxi to take her the rest of the way to the prison.
‘Best way,’ Gurdy had told her. ‘Or you’ll be faffing about with another load of buses. And it won’t cost you much. It’s only a couple of miles or so from there.’
He’d spoken with great authority – authority he really didn’t have. Or, at least, shouldn’t have. Since when did Gurdy know all about this stuff? Vicky knew he’d asked around for her – he’d said as much, sweetly. He’d been so anxious to help her out – had even offered to go with her, even though she knew that, at least this time, she must go alone. But it niggled at her that dear, sweet, good Gurdy seemed to have such ready access to the sort of information she required.
It sometimes felt, lately, that she was being sucked into a world she wanted no part of. Or, rather, catapulted – headlong. It had all happened so quickly. It was one thing to turn a blind eye to whatever ‘business’ Paddy got up to (something – as Lucy had always been quick to point out – that she’d been managing to do nicely these past couple of years), but here she was, on a bus bound for another, distant city – a city which housed the prison in which her boyfriend was now incarcerated. Her boyfriend, the convict. Her boyfriend, who had a record. And now she – and she couldn’t help but cradle her still barely visible bump with her hands – had become a prison visitor.
They’d stretched out on Paddy’s bed that last night before the trial, both looking up at the ceiling, Paddy drawing on a cigarette, defiant to the last, in the face of his mother’s fury when she came into his bedroom the following morning and could smell he’d been smoking in there.
‘Why should I care?’ he’d said, flicking ash into the ashtray which was nestled among his chest hairs. ‘I’ll be out of here, won’t I? And they’ll fucking disown me anyway.’ They since had, pretty much. ‘So it’s you and me, kiddo,’ he’d told her tenderly. ‘You and me against the world.’
They were words that she’d clung to while she’d cried into her pillow every night since. Him, her and their baby, against the world.
And he’d explained everything to her, carefully, as if to a child. That, once he’d arrived in the nick, he had to apply to the governor for something called a VO, which apparently stood for visiting order. That he’d be allowed two a month (unlike Gurdy, who’d needed to ask, Paddy knew exactly how prison worked), and that since his ‘lousy fucking parents’ obviously wouldn’t want one, he’d request both for her, which meant she could go and visit him once a fortnight. ‘Keep an eye on what you’re up to,’ he’d said then, teasing her, running a proprietorial hand over her naked breasts. ‘Make sure you’re not getting up to anything you shouldn’t be.’
And Vicky had laughed then – as if – feeling secure in his embrace, all thoughts of him snogging the likes of bloody Lacey, or any other random slapper, spirited away. So she’d sought to reassure him – both in word and, for another languid hour, in deed.
And when it could no longer be in any doubt that she was carrying his baby, she had felt a welling of something approaching joy. No, it wasn’t the best timing. Yes, she was obviously far too young. No, she wasn’t sure how he’d react – he had a lot on his plate, didn’t he? And, yes – yes, of course she was scared. But she was carrying Paddy’s child. Which meant she was carrying a part of him inside her. Which, since he had been taken from her, felt exactly as it should be.
Or would seem so, once the small matter of her telling him about the baby had been dealt with. She’d pretty much decided now that she wouldn’t. Had decided that almost as soon as she’d spoken to Leanne, in fact. After all, she should wait till it was properly confirmed, shouldn’t she? By the blood test she was going to get down the doctors this coming week. Though, in reality, she knew she was simply looking for reasons to put it off, because it was such a momentous thing she had to do. She rehearsed it constantly in her head – how she’d broach it, the way she’d look, the exact words she’d say to him. But every time, she stalled at the next bit of the conversation, because she simply had no idea how he’d react. Having a child together wasn’t something they’d discussed, ever. Not even in jest. Not like Lucy had with Jimmy, who apparently talked about such things all the time. Well, so Lucy said. She only had her word for it.
But her and Paddy, never. So it was uncharted territory. He might be in raptures or he might go apoplectic – even if (and she told herself this constantly, to reassure herself) he would, without question, come round in the end.
And strangely, so strangely, the one other person she had told had reacted in a totally unexpected way. She’d expected Lucy (who she’d rushed to tell, feeling guilty she’d told Leanne first) to rail at her, fume at her, drag all sorts of Paddy-avoidance promises from her. Yet she hadn’t. She’d gone misty-eyed. Lucy! It had been surreal. Her friend had even cried with her, seemingly overwhelmed by the enormity of it all. It was like being braced for a whack by her mam and not getting it – all her emotional muscles had been stiff with disbelief.
‘Of course you must keep it,’ Lucy had told her. ‘It’s your child. Doesn’t matter that it’s his’ – this word being hissed, so no change of heart there – ‘it’s your child. How could you possibly even consider getting rid of it? Be rid of him, yes, but, never, never, your baby. How’d you know this isn’t your one shot at being a mum? How could you know?’
And when Vicky had pointed out that she’d never once considered getting rid of it, even if her mam kicked her out on the street, that had been when Lucy had spilled all those tears. ‘And I’ll support you, you know that, don’t you?’ she’d promised. ‘Sod your mam – I’ll support you. Money. Time. Anything you need. Blood sisters, remember? I’ll help you look after it. Her … him.’ She’d wiped her tears away then. ‘I wonder what you’ll be having?’ her eyes all shiny.
And they’d hugged and they’d hugged and it had all been so lovely (not to mention reassuring) but still all so weird.
Vicky gazed out of the bus window now, trying to breathe through the constant waves of nausea, seeing the leaves turning on the trees and the fields and hedgerows slowly greying – almost as if to match the city looming darkly ahead. And she was struck by the thought that by the time Paddy was returned to her, the winter would have come and gone and it would once again be spring. And she’d have had her baby. There was absolutely no doubt about that now. There couldn’t be. Nine months minimum, the solicitor had said. And the baby due in about seven. The baby Paddy didn’t even know existed.
She’d written daily. Long letters. Since the day he’d been taken. Long chatty letters, full of day-to-day minutiae and, because she was mindful that her letters would be read by other people, only very lightly sprinkled with coy references to sex. In return, despite him having all the time in the world, she was in possession of just the one reply. Which had at first upset her, it being full of self-pity and recriminations, and the sort of ‘me, me, me, me’ stuff Lucy was constantly pointing out to her. And very little, bar a crude ‘I hope you’re keeping it warm for me’, in the way of wondering how she was getting on.
But when Vicky read to the end she understood things a little better. Paper and stamps both cost money (a prison reality she’d never thought about) and why would he need to be the one writing the letters to her anyway? He was stuck in a prison, with nothing to tell her, so why waste money on paper when he could at least buy a few cigs – anything to help him get through the endless grey days. And Paddy’d never been much of a one for wearing his heart on his sleeve. Why would that suddenly change? And would she want it to? She’d never been one for wet lads, after all.
No, her letters to him were the things that most mattered. And now, in a matter of less than half an hour, she’d be seeing him in the flesh, the thought of which gave her butterflies. And made her heart leap, as if anxious to get there quicker.
HMP Armley looked like a castle, Vicky thought. Not a fairy-tale castle – it could never be that – but with its towering stone walls, its giant doors and its turrets, the sort of castle you’d see in a film about the olden days – you could almost imagine it being stormed by knights on horseback.
As it was, it was being stormed – albeit quietly and politely – by a small army of visitors, mainly women and children, some with babies hooked around their hips, many done up to the nines for their men. (Keeping it warm? The phrase couldn’t help but return to her.) But most of them wore the same sombre, almost defeated expressions of people who had to be somewhere they didn’t want to be.
Joining the queue for entry, and clutching her vital piece of paper, Vicky wondered at the way the next few months were going to go. The curious business of her being ordered here once a fortnight (it was a visiting ‘order’ after all) in much the same way that Leanne had told her she’d be summoned to the baby clinic to check on her and the baby’s progress.
‘First time?’
Having been silent for so long now, and still trying to take everything in, Vicky started at being spoken to. It was by an older woman – in her thirties, perhaps, and accompanied by two whey-faced children – who was behind her in the signing-in queue. The woman smiled. One of her front teeth was missing, and Vicky found herself wondering if the man she had come to visit had been the one to knock it out. She’d been studying everyone with the same ghoulish fascination, wondering what the men they were visiting were in for. Whose partner was a murderer? Whose son was a burglar? Whose brother was convicted of rape or assault?
‘Thought so,’ the woman said, seemingly pleased at her deduction. ‘You got that look about you. Don’t worry though. The natives are friendly. Well, mostly!’ She nudged Vicky’s arm and laughed. ‘My Don has his moments,’ she added brightly.
The woman’s words struck a chord, and Vicky found herself looking into a future that she did not want to see. How often did these children get to see their father? Once a fortnight, for an hour? And for how long had that been? And for how long would it be? Half their childhoods? If she resolved anything – which was hard, because Paddy did what Paddy wanted – it was that she would do anything she could to ensure he was never locked up again.
Still, the woman, for all that her life seemed to be the one Vicky least wanted, was helpful and cheerful and reassuring in the face of all the strangeness. She explained that after signing in, being patted down and surrendering her handbag to a locker, she’d be given a number and shown into a waiting room. There, amid a batch – there were various concurrent visiting sessions – she’d hear her number called and a guard would take her in.
‘They let you keep your purse, love,’ the woman explained. ‘You’ve brought some money with you, have you? There’s vending machines, see. So you can have a cuppa together. They like to be a bit spoilt on a visit, of course.’ She smiled. ‘And there’s usually home-made cakes and stuff, and all.’
As if it was a school fete, or something. As if all of this was normal.
The vending machine was the first thing Vicky did see – standing like a sentinel at the back of a room full of tables, at which of each sat a prisoner. The tables were set in rows, like exam desks laid out in a school gymnasium, except here, in place of invigilators in suits, who smelled of chalk, there were prison guards, unmoving, like stone pillars.
Her batch of visitors began to stream out around her. And soon the silence was replaced by a hubbub of noise. Chairs being scraped back. Throats being cleared. Greetings, exchanges of kisses, the whoops of excitable children. The sharp shushings of mothers and soft cooings of fathers. It was almost like Vicky imagined a reunion after a war.
She felt nervous and exposed, anxious to pick Paddy out in the sea of blue prison garb, but at the same time anxious about meeting his gaze, as well. Glancing around, watching women sitting down opposite their menfolk, she wished she’d decided to dress differently. Here, in the uniform world of the prison, the sense of occasion was only heightened further. Painted fingernails. Giant hairdos, glued in place by cans of hairspray, tight jeans, killer heels … even in her best jeans and a little white broderie anglaise top Paddy liked her in, she felt she’d not made enough effort. Was that what you did, though? Tarted yourself up to remind them what they were missing? Had she read how you did this all wrong?
But there he was, and the look in his eyes reassured her. And his smile. It was just so obvious how pleased he was to see her. Perhaps absence really did make the heart – his heart – grow fonder. Perhaps this enforced separation would be good for them both.
‘Alright, babe?’ he drawled, as she hurried across to him and pulled her chair out. Then he half stood to embrace her, and kissed her hard, on the mouth. He smelt different. Clean, but still different.
Vicky took her seat, feeling embarrassed by the ardour of Paddy’s kiss. She glanced across at two officers who were talking in low voices. About her?
‘Ignore the screws,’ Paddy said, his hands palm up on the table, ready to grasp hers. She placed hers in his. ‘You look nice, babe,’ he said softly. ‘Like I remember.’
Like he was remembering. Remembering her unclothed. He didn’t need to say it. ‘It’s only been a fortnight, babes,’ she said. ‘How much was I going to change?’
He squeezed her hands, sliding his thumbs back and forth over her palms. ‘I’m just so glad you didn’t plaster your face like the rest of the slappers that come in here. Bunch of tarts. Fuck me,’ he added, leaning in towards her, ‘I’ve missed you.’
Relaxing now, she smiled at him. ‘How are you coping, babe? I miss you too.’ And as he squeezed her hands again, so gently, she almost told him, but he spoke first, glancing from side to side, as if he was a spy or something.
‘I’m fine,’ he said. ‘But I tell you what, babes, I’ve had time to do some serious thinking. And I’ve worked it out. It’s all down to that fucking Jimmy Daley.’
‘What is?’
‘Don’t be dense, babe. The reason I’m fucking in here. How else would his dad have known? I’ve worked it all out, babe, like I said. He’s got someone on my case. And he grassed me up to his dad. It had to be him. Who else could it have been?’
Vicky knew she wouldn’t have been the only thing on Paddy’s mind. But even so, his insistent tone made her anxious. ‘But how would Jimmy have known?’
She wasn’t about to say so, but she knew Paddy had lied to her about that evening. And Gurdy too, albeit to protect her. She hadn’t wanted to believe it at first, but she had proof that he’d lied about the video recorders, because she’d since found out that he’d pleaded guilty to some of the car-related charges. Why would he do that if he could prove that he hadn’t even been there?
‘Because fucking Gurdy knew!’ Paddy said. ‘Or at least he had half an idea, the little Paki fucker.’
‘Gurdy? Grass you up? He’d never do that, babe, never.’
Paddy let go her hands, leaned back, and then leaned in again. ‘He must have. I can’t think of any other explanation, can you?’
‘But he’s your friend—’
‘And his too. They’re both up each other’s fucking arses, aren’t they?’
‘No they’re not. Paddy, Gurdy is your friend,’ Vicky insisted. ‘He wouldn’t say anything, especially not to Jimmy. He knows how the two of you are. Honestly, babe,’ she added, hating that she had come all this way – all this fucking way – and having to sit here and to defend bloody Gurdy. She still had to though. ‘Babes, he just wouldn’t.’
All the warmth seemed to drain out of Paddy’s face. ‘Why’d you do that?’ he asked her.
‘Do what?’ she said,
‘Do that.’ He waved a hand languidly in her direction. ‘Go against me.’
‘I’m not going against you. I’m just saying—’
‘Where’s your fucking loyalty? Seriously, Vic. I mean, shouldn’t you be on my side in this?’
‘It’s not a question of sides, Paddy,’ she told him, feeling her hackles rise despite herself. ‘I just think – no, I know – you are barking up the wrong tree. Gurdy adores you—’
‘Yeah, but you don’t.’
‘Babes, you know I do—’ She snaked a hand across the table. He withdrew his. Out of the corner of her eye she could see that the nearest guard was watching.
Paddy pouted now, and she knew he was tempering his response for their benefit. He stretched his hand out, then his other. She enveloped both, feeling ridiculously as if they were about to play that school game, where you kept pulling out the bottom hand and slapping it down on top.
‘Well, you’ve got a funny way of showing it,’ he said mildly. ‘You think all your mates are such fucking goody two-shoes, don’t you? But I’m telling you now, Vic,’ he added, in the same incongruously mild tone of voice. ‘None of them, none of them, can be trusted, you hear me?’
A different prison guard stopped by their table, making Vicky start. ‘We’re not having any problems here, are we?’ he said softly. ‘Only, you are looking a little bit agitated, Mr Allen, and we can stop a visit if it proves to aggravate a man.’ He turned to look at Vicky. ‘Hmm?’
She smiled at the officer. ‘Everything’s fine here, thank you,’ she said politely. ‘So,’ she added, turning back to Paddy, ‘shall I get us some cake?’
The taxis were lined up and waiting when Vicky emerged. Plenty for everyone who wanted one. A bumper profit day. And she was lucky to get a bus almost immediately once back in Leeds, for the hour or so’s trip back to Bradford Interchange.
It had got better. A little better. He had calmed himself down. They’d eaten cake – something with poppy seeds that lodged in her teeth – about which they’d laughed, and which he’d tenderly got rid of. She’d hang on to that. The words he’d mouthed as he’d touched his nail to her tooth. The way he’d slipped it along her gum, mouthing things that made her blush. The way he’d told her how he physically ached for her.
Yes, she’d hang on to that. Not the stuff about her not going out. Not the stuff about how there were people on the inside who knew all about what happened on the outside. Not the stuff about how it would be best if she didn’t hang around with Lucy – with any of them – not till he was out and he could look after her properly.
‘I can look after myself,’ she’d told him, chin up, defiant.
‘You think you can, babe,’ he’d said, ‘but, trust me, you can’t.’
No, she’d definitely stop trying to figure out what he’d meant. Just hang on to those last words. That he physically ached for her. And loved her. He’d been sure to tell her that.
And as they’d hugged, it had occurred to her that his protective streak was a good thing. He would surely feel the same about his baby.