The Other Side of the Door, Nicci French [new reading .TXT] 📗

after carriage behind her. She had felt an impulse, which she could barely stifle, to scream and scream and fight her way out.

Now she was in a cell, four paces long, three paces wide. There was a tiny, barred window. It looked out on a yard, beyond that a wall topped with barbed wire, and beyond that, you could just make out the hills, hazy in the distance. Yesterday she had looked out of that window and she had thought that she saw a little shape moving on that hill. Someone walking. Someone outside. Someone free. But now it was dark and there was nothing but the spotlights illuminating the yard. The door of the cell would stay locked until the middle of the morning. When she thought about it, she felt like she was buried alive and wanted to yell for someone to come and rescue her. Perhaps that was what that woman had been howling about.

If Tabitha couldn’t scream, then perhaps she could cry. But she knew that if she cried, she wouldn’t be able to stop. And probably it wasn’t good to be seen crying.

It was very cold, and the single blanket was inadequate. She drew her knees up almost to her chest and lay hugging herself in the darkness. She smelled different. Of prison soap and hair that needed washing, something slightly mouldy. She closed her eyes and thought of the sea, waves swelling and cresting on to the rocky shore. Thoughts came in long dark curls and she tried to push them away. There was another scream, then someone banged on a door far away.

Although it felt impossible, she must have slept a little because she was woken by the woman sliding down from the top bunk. It seemed to take a long time. Her feet came first, long, with purple-painted toenails, a tattoo of a spider on the right ankle. Then her legs in grey jogging pants, on and on. Then a black T-shirt riding up to show a ring in the belly button. Finally, a smooth oval face, long thick dark hair with a fringe, circular hoops in her earlobes. She was very tall, maybe six feet, and looked strong; in her late twenties perhaps, although it was hard to judge. Tabitha hadn’t seen her last night, not really. She’d just climbed into her bed and pulled the blanket over her head and lain there.

‘Hi,’ she said now.

The woman didn’t reply. She went across the cell and opened the little curtain.

That was another thing. The cell had been built for one person. Now it had bunk beds, two chairs, two narrow tables, two tiny chests, a sink and a lavatory with a little curtain rigged up in front of it. The woman tugged her trousers down and sat on the bowl. Her face was quite expressionless; it was as if she were alone. Tabitha turned to the wall, wrapping herself in the blanket so that she couldn’t hear.

The lavatory flushed and taps were running. Tabitha waited till the woman was done, then climbed out of her bed and washed herself under her arms, splashed water on her face. Then she pulled on canvas trousers, a T-shirt and a sweatshirt. She slid out her trainers from under the bed.

‘I’m Tabitha,’ she said.

The woman was methodically brushing her hair. She looked down at her. She must be almost a foot taller than me, thought Tabitha.

‘You told me that last night.’

There was a pause.

‘What’s your name?’ asked Tabitha.

‘Michaela. I told you that as well.’

There was a rattling sound at the door and it was unlocked and the door pushed inwards. A stringy, colourless woman was standing next to a trolley with two stainless steel urns on it.

‘Tea,’ said Michaela.

‘Tea,’ repeated Tabitha.

The woman filled two mugs and handed them across.

Tabitha’s breakfast pack was on the table. She opened it and laid it out: a plastic bowl, a plastic spoon, a miniature pack of Rice Krispies, a small carton of UHT milk, two slices of brown bread wrapped in polythene, foil-wrapped butter, a little tub of raspberry jam.

There was no knife so she spread the butter and the jam on the bread with the handle of her spoon.

She couldn’t remember when she had last had a meal and she ate the sandwiches in quick bites. The bread was dry but she helped it down with gulps of her tea. She tipped the cereal into the bowl and poured the milk over it. The milk was warm and had a sour under-taste. It almost made her gag, but she ate it all and when she was finished she tipped the bowl to drink the last of the milk. She still felt hungry.

She sat on the lavatory behind the thin curtain. She felt like an animal. As she sat there, her trousers around her ankles, she felt as if lights were flashing and there was a ringing in her ears. She suddenly thought of smashing her face into the wall, over and over again, something that might bring relief, that might make all of this stop.

Instead, she wiped herself, pulled up her trousers, washed her hands and sat back on her bed against the wall. She didn’t have anything to read and she didn’t have anything to do. The day felt shapeless and vast. Anyway, if she had sat there reading, that would feel like this was now her life instead of a nightmarish mistake, a mistake that would be corrected when everyone realised that she didn’t belong here and let her go.

Michaela was leaning over the sink, brushing her teeth. She was taking a long time over it. She spat into the sink, bent down and drank straight from the tap. She stood up, leaned her head back and gargled noisily. Tabitha felt like everything was turned up too high: the noises, the smells, the physical proximity of the other woman. Michaela pulled her hair back in a ponytail, then walked out of the cell. A few seconds later