The Kindest Thing by Cath Staincliffe Read Free Book Online Page A

waited behind two other women until I could use the phone. It was noisy: there were lots of
women milling about, talking loudly, snatches of raucous laughter. People were glancing my way, a new face. I felt disoriented, shaky and exposed.
    Adam answered the phone. ‘Mum?’
    ‘Adam, I’m . . . erm. Listen, love, I want you to call Grandma, okay? Ask her to come over.’
    ‘Why? Where are you? Are you still at the police station?’
    ‘I’m in prison, in Styal.’
    ‘Fuck. Why? Because of Dad?’
    Did I even answer his questions? I don’t know.
    ‘Is Sophie there?’
    ‘She’s in the shower.’
    Disappointment weighed me down. I longed to hear her voice, picture her disconcerted but determined to manage. It probably wasn’t fair but I was hoping she would make me feel better.
‘Tell her I’m fine. You both look after yourselves. And will you ring Jane and explain to her? The number’s on the thing in the kitchen.’
    ‘Mum, it’s going to be all right, isn’t it?’ Was he trying to reassure me or asking me? ‘How long are you going to be there?’
    ‘I don’t know. I have to go to court in the morning. They might give me bail. I’d better go now. I love you.’
    I was still in shock. People had to repeat things to me before I grasped what they were saying. My knees were weak and I worried that I might throw up, though there was nothing much to throw as
I hadn’t managed to eat anything for hours.
    As a novice, I was put into a special unit called the First Night Centre. It was designed to give new prisoners extra care and support but I was so bewildered to find myself locked up that I was
unable to pay much heed to such distinctions.
    I shared a room with a slight, dark-skinned woman who spoke no English. I don’t know where she was from, Africa perhaps. When I made attempts to find out her name, she just shook her head.
We spent the time silent, each in our own cocoon of despair, numb and unresponsive. Everything around us was out of proportion, escalated like in a fever. The level of noise was debilitating: the
hard surfaces amplified the sound of chairs scraping, gates clanging, coughs and shouts and canned television laughter. The smells, of women and food and unfamiliar toiletries, were overpowering.
The ceilings were too low, the lights brash, the colours sickly and unsettling. When I touched the plastic chair in my room, an electric shock bit my fingers.
    If they’d employed me I could have shown them how to use natural materials to absorb the sound and vibration, reduce the amount of static. Soften the lighting with daylight bulbs to give
an easier spectrum, less tiring for everyone. Pick colours to soothe the eyes and ease the emotions.
    The day after, I appear in the magistrates’ court. There are three people sitting at the bench. I confirm my name and address and date of birth. The charge is read out
and my solicitor says I am not entering a plea. She asks them to consider bail. The magistrate in the middle looks to her colleagues and a couple of whispers are exchanged. Then she straightens up,
presses her lips together briefly before replying. ‘Given the seriousness of the charges involved we will not be granting bail. The accused will be held on remand until the preliminary
hearing next week.’ They send me back to prison.
     
Chapter Five
    S o today, nine months after, I am being tried in the Victorian Court at Minshull Street Crown Court. There are two Crown Court buildings in the
city. This one’s not far from Piccadilly station. Handy for spectators, if popping into town for a shot of criminal justice is your thing.
    As the name implies, it’s a traditional set-up: a raised gallery for spectators, dark wood benches and panelling, a high, vaulted ceiling. The combination of pomp and circumstance that the
Victorians loved and their careful workmanship. You can see evidence of that in the carvings on the ends of the benches, the crest with the lion and the unicorn high