The Kindest Thing by Cath Staincliffe Read Free Book Online

your defence if you do not mention when questioned something which you later rely on in court. Anything you do say may be given in
evidence. Do you understand the charge?’
    The words won’t come.
    He repeats the question.
    There are wings beating in my chest and the chill of stone in my bowels.
    ‘Yes,’ I whisper.
    ‘Is there anything you wish to say?’
    ‘No.’
    It was still light, the world gold-drenched with sunset when we arrived at the prison. I was stunned, a ball of static in my head that made it impossible to think clearly.
    At the main gate, we were taken from the van one by one. The guards exchanged forms and I was asked to confirm my name and date of birth. The entrance to the complex was a big metal gate and
gatehouse. Fences ran off either side, cream-coloured steel mesh topped with coils of razor wire.
    A prison officer led me through to the reception area, unlocking and relocking a series of doors. There, I was met by two other officers, women. Again I had to give my name and date of
birth.
    ‘Have you been to prison before?’ PO Vernon, asked me, various forms spread out in front of her.
    ‘No.’
    ‘Every time you enter or leave the prison we have to do a full search. Please put your clothes in the basket here. Socks and shoes in here. Your bag on the side there.’
    My fingers trembled and I wanted to cry. I removed everything until I stood naked before them.
    ‘Now walk in a circle.’
    I did. My face burning, my pulse quick and uneven. I was so thirsty. And horribly aware of the eyes watching.
    Everyone was very matter-of-fact and workaday about this process because it was their daily work. But me, I was drowning. Anxiety prickled my every pore. I was hot with shame and stiff with
apprehension. My muscles twitched and shivered without control.
    One of the women moved to my clothes and looked through them, holding them up to the light of the window, checking seams and pockets, shaking them. Then she examined my shoes.
    The officer told me I could get dressed and asked my dress size. They gave me a change of clothes – briefs, bra and T-shirt, tracksuit bottoms and sweatshirt. Casual, anonymous garb. When
I finished, they asked me to sit down.
    ‘You get a towel and soap.’ PO Vernon passed them to me. ‘Do you need any sanitary supplies – Tampax or towels?’
    ‘No.’ It was two years since I’d had a period.
    She poured the contents of my bag out on the table. ‘There are some items that are prohibited,’ she told me. ‘They will go on your property card and be kept for you, until your
release.’
    She set aside my mobile phone, money and credit cards, paracetamol and lip salve. ‘We can’t allow any cosmetics in,’ she explained. ‘Some of the women conceal drugs in
them. You can buy some here once you’re settled.’
    She also picked up the photograph of the four of us taken just before Neil got ill.
    ‘Why can’t I keep that?’ I asked.
    ‘Nothing allowed if it has your face on it. It could be copied, used to fake ID. You can have them send in some other photos from home. Everything will be checked before you get
it.’
    They let me keep my wedding ring.
    ‘Do you smoke, Deborah?’
    ‘No.’
    She made a note on one of the forms.
    ‘Are you a drug-user?’
    ‘No.’
    ‘Are you currently on any medication?’
    ‘No.’
    ‘Do you have any existing medical conditions?’
    ‘No.’
    ‘Do you suffer from any of the complaints on this list?’
    She passed me a sheet, which I read through. It reminded me of the permission slips we had to fill in for the children’s school trips. Asthma, diabetes, epilepsy.
    ‘Sign here for the property we’ve taken.’
    I wrote my name.
    PO Vernon held out a plastic card to me. ‘This is for the phone. There’s two pounds’ credit already on it. You can make a brief call to let your family know where you
are.’
    They took me through, locking and unlocking doors, and across the grounds to another building. There I