Cigarette scars

Cigarette scars, By J.O.Small

It was a nice cell. I suppose, as cells go, it was positively luxurious. It had a window, for one, and curtains. The bed was somewhere between a single and a double, big enough for two pillows side by side. The privy was around a corner behind another curtain, out of sight completely. It was plastic, not metal. I had a private shower too. The walls were clean, the paint new. They were a calming light grey colour. Instead of bars I had a real door, albeit a metal one with a large window in it. Both windows, the one in the door and the one in the wall, had chicken wire run through them. More subtle than steel bars I suppose.

I had been allowed to decorate. Posters filled two of the walls, postcards occupying any leftover space. Only the space around the door and window was free. The posters were all from theatre productions. The post cards were all from France. They were all blank.

I had a stack of books by the bed. Thrillers mostly. The library here wasn’t up to much. Neither was the canteen. Or the gym. Or the yard. I exercised in my cell. Twice a day, every day. There was enough floor space. I ate out of the convenience store. They were more than happy to let me spend what money I had left on instant noodles and sandwiches.

I opened the window overlooking the yard. It only opened a quarter, the lower pane sliding up three or so inches till it hit its limit. It had taken weeks to convince them to let me smoke out the window. I had managed it though. They had given me an electric cigarette lighter, like what you find in cars, that was connected to the wall with a wire. I pressed the tip of the cigarette to it, rested my elbows on the windowsill and blew the smoke out into the yard.

It was an important anniversary today. One year. One year in this drab concrete compound. It was also my wedding anniversary. Three years. I had been arrested more than a year ago, of course, and that my first day here had been my wedding anniversary was purely unfortunate coincidence. Though I imagine it might have impacted why he hasn’t come to visit. Not once. I blew more smoke into the frigid air.

It was a dull winter day. Grey and lifeless. No wind, no rain, not even a chance of snow. It was a slow, creeping cold. The kind that seeps through into your bones and sits there. I closed the window. The cigarette stub let out a final curl of smoke as it died, before I threw it into a small metal bin in the corner. I watched the smoke coil upwards through the room before dissipating. Then, pushing through the dividing curtain and looking at the small mirror above the sink I unbuttoned the cuff on the flaccid grey overalls, pulling the sleeve up to look at the tattoo on my arm.

It was a delicate design, unlike many of my other tattoos. A gracefully sketched hand holding a lit cigarette, the end done with red and orange inks, a coil of smoke rising up, following the shape of my forearm. And right by the tip of the cigarette was an old burn scar. A small circular thing. I studied it for a while, then tugged my sleeve back down.

Wearing the overalls properly you wouldn’t have been able to tell I had any ink. You probably wouldn’t have thought me the type either. The petite brunette with the big circular glasses? The quiet one who reads all the time? With her uniform always immaculate? Unlikely. I remember how surprised some of the other inmates had been when they learnt I smoked. Even in prison, nicotine is falling out of fashion.

A sharp rap on my door broke my little reverie. I glanced over. It was the deputy Warden, which was unusual but not surprising. He had a thing for me. He held my eyes for a second, then smiled a little.

“Visitor.”

Ah. Now that was surprising. As I said I had been in here for a year now. I had had exactly two visitors. My parents. Separate visits. Within the first month of my being here.

I walked over to the door and peered out through the chicken wire.

“Now?” I asked, voice neutral.

In response the deputy slid a key into the lock and with a loud clacking noise the door swung open. He stood flanked by two guards. He offered out a pair of handcuffs. I eyed them cautiously.

“Any choice?”

A quick shake of the head and a wry smirk answered me. I grunted, then held out my wrists. He snapped the cuffs on with practiced ease, turned on his heel and started off down the walkway. I followed. Then the guards.

We walked briskly; I took nearly two steps for every one of the deputy’s. He led me along the walkway to the stairs; my cell was on the third floor. The corrugated metal clanged beneath my boots, a ringing sound that echoed out into the wing. I kept my eyes on the back of the deputy’s head as we walked. He had a buzz cut. Now that I thought of it, he walked like someone who had served. He wasn’t a tall man, which meant he was only a head taller than me rather than two.

We walked out into the yard, followed it round the edge under a clear plastic canopy. Into another building. Down identical corridors, passing identical doors. Even the people looked the same. All the guards, waddling around in their outdated uniforms, glass eyed and brainless. All the inmates, grey overalls worn in a dozen different ways but all still identical, watching everyone else with suspicion.

Eventually, I was led into a room with two dozen small, circular tables. I was uncuffed. The deputy nodded over to a table by the far wall. I recognised the woman waiting. She was sat staring at her hands, which were laid flat on the table. She had a red winter coat on, and blue jeans. She wore hiking boots and had a small backpack by her feet. Her hair was dark, and her face lean and slightly weathered.

I nodded to the deputy and made my way over. She looked up as I sat across from her. I didn’t speak. She studied me. I saw a dozen emotions behind those eyes, swirling and roiling and fighting for position in her mind. Fear. Hate. Desperation. Sorrow. Grief. Anxiety. Exhaustion. Hope. I wondered if she could read me. I wondered what she saw.

“You look well.” She spoke first, breaking the silence. “Healthy I mean.”

“I have a lot of time to exercise.” No pleasantries pretty please.

She nodded. I saw the confidence building. Good. Straight to it then.

“My son has gone missing.”

I nodded. Made a show of considering the information.

“Why should I care?”

She winced. “Listen Rory, I know..”

“Do you?” I cut her off. I was angry, I realised belatedly. “And don’t call me that, sissy.” I put as much sarcasm and scorn into the nickname as I could.

She winced again and nodded. “Aurora” I grunted. “My son has been missing for eight days. I’ve been allowed to bring in a copy of the police report to show you. Please.” I could hear the desperation now, the tears that were threatening to spill. Don’t say it. Don’t say it.

“Please,” she said again. “He’s your nephew too.”

That sat for a while. My sister had gone back to looking at her hands. I sighed.

“Not a single visit.” She trembled as I spoke. “Mum and Dad came and shook their heads at me a year ago and since then I haven’t heard a word.” Her eyes watered. “No phone call. No letters.” She drew a ragged breath. I kept going.

“Derek hasn’t been in touch. I mean I assume all the postcards are from him, but for all I actually know they could be from Santa. I think I have the right to know how my own fucking detective agency is doing, don’t you?”

She paused.

“Derek moved away” She said, “And It hasn’t been easy for us either. You know how close we all used to be. Jacks taken it badly. Him and John worked together for years before-“ she choked, swallowed, took a breath. “Now that Johns gone, he’s struggling. And he’s angry at you. He didn’t want me to come today. But you are still my sister.”

She looked up at me and I could see the cogs turning behind her eyes. It was all a sham. She just wanted me to help her. She opened her mouth to speak but I didn’t let her, feeling the words swell and spill out of me.

“And so the first and only visit to your sister in prison and it’s because you want her to find a missing boy. Don’t play dumb either, we both know your only here because you need me. I bet you were sat at home scheming, thinking about how best to convince me. No doubt you thought you wouldn’t have to. Why she’s probably so bored in there that she’ll leap at the chance to do something productive. Something to occupy that big brain of hers. Ever so clever my sister is.”

By the end my voice had turned into a snarl. I realised that other visitors were casting worried glances over towards us. I lowered my voice, though the intensity only grew. My sister withered in front of me.

“I haven’t heard a word from John. Or his family. At this point I’d prefer divorce papers to silence. Though I guess I shouldn’t expect anything if he’s stopped speaking to you as well.”

My sister had frozen. She was staring at me in shock. The deputy appeared to the side. He gave me a look. I realised, in that moment, that he thought I was crazy. He thought I was delusional and unstable and dangerous.

“Mrs Barton?”

She thought I was psycho too no doubt.

“Call me Cecilia please. And I think I’d like to go now.”

“Of course.”

Before she stood, she reached down and into the backpack, withdrawing from it a slim folder. She placed it on the table.

“Goodbye, Rory.”

Then she left.

A minute later the deputy returned to escort me back to my cell. I took the folder. I didn’t take in any of the walk back. As we stopped outside my door the deputy jerked his head at the guards. They paused a moment, then slouched away. I turned to face him.

“Mrs Evertine,” It had taken me a week to get them to refer to me like that rather than by my maiden name. “can you tell me what you are in prison for? What you were charged with?”

I frowned at him. He was serious, I could see that much. Why?

“Assault. Me and my husband got in a fight. You know all this.”

He looked at me, hesitated, then nodded. He opened my cell door. He took off the cuffs. He looked slightly ill doing it.

I stepped inside. The door slammed closed behind me. I heard the guards trudge back. They walked away. As they went, I thought I heard the deputy say “Christ, she doesn’t even remember killing him.”

I must have misheard.