Chloe in Prison Ch. 03

"Lie face down," said Rose. "Go on."

I lay on my stomach, and shuddered as new patches of wetness pressed into my skin.

"Now stretch your arms behind you, bend your legs up and grab hold of your toes. Can you reach?"

"Just about."

"Now open your mouth as wide as you can."

I did this too

"Now how long can you keep that up?"

A minute or two passed. I started to feel uncomfortable. My jaw in particular ached. After maybe five minutes I had to move.

"Not pleasant, is it?" said Rose. "Now imagine your hands and legs are tied and there's a gag in your mouth – how do you think you'd feel after half an hour? Oh, and there's probably something stuffed up your fanny and arse as well."

"I'd be in agony," I said.

"And what sort of state do you think you'd be in if they left you like that for a couple of hours?"

"No," I said. "They couldn't. No-one could do that. Surely not?"

"Believe me," said Rose: "you do not want to find out."

"Rose – I'm sorry. I didn't realise."

"That's OK," said Rose. "I'm sorry I had to threaten you, but it was the only way to make sure you got the porridge down."

I was almost fainting at the thought of the lucky escape I had had.

"Rose," I said: "this sort of thing can't go on. Surely it's illegal? Surely someone can stop it?"

"And how do you think you could do that?" Rose asked.

"I don't know – report it to the Governor? Write to her?"

"And how are you going to get a letter to her?"

"I don't know – through the Wardens I suppose."

"You think any Warden would deliver a letter to the Governor without Hardiman reading it first?"

"No, I suppose not."

"Anyway, just suppose you did get a letter to the Governor – what do you imagine she'd do?"

"I don't know – hold an investigation?"

"Chloe: you've been living in a little middle-class bubble all your life, where the only things people have to complain about are dogs fouling the pavement. This is the real world Chloe. I'll tell you what will happen if you get a letter to the Governor. First off, she'll summon Hardiman. 'Hello Barbara,' she'll say, because they're best of friends: 'I've had a letter from one of the inmates – would you care to read it?' 'It's a tissue of lies,' Hardiman will say. 'I thought so Barbara – best if we tear it up and put it in the bin.' 'That's the place for it. And may I suggest that a girl who writes poisonous rubbish like that should be punished?' 'I'll leave it in your capable hands Barbara.'

"Do you think your life will be worth living after that?"

"No," I said, shuddering at the prospect. "But there must be something we can do."

"There is," said Rose. "Keep your head down and do everything the Wardens tell you. If they tell you you're a nasty little piece of shit, you say 'Yes Sir I'm a nasty little piece of shit'. If they tell you to clean their arses with your tongue you get down on your knees and clean their arses with your tongue. You've got to learn to accept that Chloe, or you're in for a rough ride."

I sighed. "I haven't got off to a very good start, have I?"

"Everyone makes mistakes to start with," said Rose.

Then I thought of something:

"Rose: you weren't exactly deferential when Raymond and Clark came round. I though you were for it then."

Rose laughed:

"A bit of banter is alright: they don't mind that as long as you're careful not to go too far. But don't try it until you've been here a while."

"I won't," I said. Then I asked: "Rose: have you ever met the Governor?"

"Once," said Rose. "About two years ago, she came round with a Prison Inspector. I remember that day because we had the best food I've ever eaten in here. The cells were spotless and everybody was on their best behaviour. They asked us questions, and everyone said how well they were treated and rubbish like that: we knew what would happen if we didn't. Apparently the Inspector commended the Governor for running a model prison."

"I see," I said.

"Good. Now if I were you I'd try to put it out of your mind and have a rub. That's what I'm going to do."

I stretched out on my bed, and following Rose's advice I stuck my hand inside the sodden underpants and fumbled around. But my heart wasn't in it. I was too shaken up. At home, if I was het up about something, I would go for a jog or a walk, and try to work off all my nervous energy. But in here that was impossible.

"It's horrible being locked up," I said.

"Just remember," said Rose: "they can lock up your body – but your mind is still as free as a bird. They can't lock up your mind."

So I closed my eyes, and tried to imagine I was an eagle, soaring over mountains and rivers, trying to conjure up landscapes from childhood holidays in Scotland and Wales: but too much had happened to me, and all I could see were the lecherous women, the slopping-out room, and the squatting forms of Bradley and Dawes. I heard Rose groan as she came, and wished I could forget as easily as her. I watched her squat over the bucket, her hands gripping the rim of the basin: I could smell my own sick as I listened to the splashing of her piss. I tried turning onto my stomach, and grasping my ankles, horrified yet compelled by the thought of being hogtied. I opened my mouth, trying to imagine it being filled with a gag. Supposing you needed to scratch, I thought. Or blow your nose. Or go to the loo. What could you do? Nothing, was the answer. I turned back onto my back: it was too awful to contemplate.

Rose still had her hand between her legs – it almost seemed to be glued there – but she no longer seemed to be rubbing herself with any great purpose.

"Rose," I said. "I don't suppose I could have a cuddle?"

"Chloe," she said: "No disrespect, but you stink of piss and your clothes are still wet. So I'd rather not, if you don't mind."

"No," I said. "Of course not." Actually I felt awful: I'd always taken great care with my grooming, always made sure I was clean and fragrant, that my breath smelled fresh and my hair was well brushed. No-one had ever told me I stank of piss before.

But there was nothing I could do about it, so I went back to staring at the ceiling, and somehow I got to thinking about my boyfriend, Mark. Bastard, I thought. It was him who had got me into this: I had never wanted him bringing drugs into the flat in the first place. He ought to be in prison now, getting his balls squeezed by sleazy Wardens, being forced by psychopathic prisoners to take their dicks up his arse. Instead of which he was at large somewhere, probably on some Mediterranean beach making love to some gullible Spanish girl. The strength of my hostility surprised me: I wasn't normally a vindictive person. Was prison starting to change my personality already? Whatever: I knew I hated Mark now, and would never have anything to do with him again.

I tried putting my hand between my legs again and having another rub; but still my heart wasn't there.