The grubby white cattle truck rumbled to a halt outside HMP Larkhall, slick with greasy east London drizzle. The noon sky was a sickly pale grey, just a few shades lighter than the bricks that made up the building.

A muscular PO with a shaved head jumped out of the driver's cabin and opened one of the doors. Six women were led out of their transit cells; two were dragged, kicking and screaming, down to segregation. The remaining four complained and made a bit of a fuss, but they followed him to the registry office.

"Sit yourselves down there," said a stout, aged woman with a blonde pudding-bowl haircut, pointing to a bench on the wall. She had the pips of a senior officer on her shoulders and was stood behind what appeared to be a desk but was actually just a low table.

The PO picked up a clipboard from the 'desk'.

"Boyle, Vanessa?" She read out. A redhead with a pimple on her chin stood and approached the desk. The two went through procedure and the PO sent her off for a strip search and urine test, escorted by a small female officer with curly golden hair. The girl went, moaning all the way.

"Ellis, Maureen?" Read the PO, and the procedure was repeated.

"Lomas, Rebecca?" This time it was the turn of the tiny blonde on the end of the bench. She kicked up a fuss before the stern woman had even spoken, shouting and screaming nonsensically. Two male officers rushed in and grabbed an arm each, and she was dragged off while the PO said something about 'the block'.

The slender, mousy brunette that remained on the bench looked down nervously.

"Well come on, let's have you," said the PO impatiently. The girl stood up tentatively and moved over to the desk. "Isabella Swan?"

"Yes?" She replied nervously, looking confused. Her voice was small and soft.

"Doing sixty months for possession and intent to supply?"

"Yes, miss," she said.

"Tip your bag out on here please."

She did so. The PO picked up her moisturiser and bottle of roll-on deodorant. She opened them both and checked to see if there was anything in them that shouldn't be. When she was satisfied she handed them back and cleared the rest of the stuff into a plastic bag.

"You'll be given that back upon your release. Now go into the other room, change into this," she held out a blue dressing gown, "fold your clothes and follow the instructions of the other officer."

Bella continued to look down as she followed these instructions. The stout woman went off on her tea break.

When she had changed, Bella looked over to the small officer with the curly hair. She had a kind face and a few laughter lines.

"Hello, Bella," said the officer. "I'm Miss Barker."

"Hello, Miss Barker," Bella said quietly. She hid her shock at not being called by her full name.

"I'm going to need you to provide a urine sample," said Miss Barker, holding out a container.

Bella took the container and went off to the toilet in the other corner of the room. Miss Barker checked Bella's pockets for anything she might've hidden.

"All done?" She asked a moment later. Bella nodded.

"One last thing," she said reluctantly. "I'll need you to squat over this mirror so that I can check you haven't got anything tucked up inside you." This was when most of the girls put up a fight and started complaining, but not Bella. A crimson blush raced over her cheeks as she followed the instructions, but she didn't make a sound.

"Right, Bella," said Miss Barker, "you can get changed back into your clothes and I'll show you to the dorm. You'll be moved into a cell tomorrow, but we're just situating things at the moment. At some point in the next few days you'll have an appointment with the governor. She'll explain the rules and assign you a personal officer. It's about time for lunch," she added absent-mindedly.

"Thank you, miss," Bella said, and followed her to the dorm.

It was a small, dirty room, holding four beds, two on either side, and a stack of four lockers – with no locks.

Bella sat on the bed nearest the door and looked around. There were three people in the dorm at the moment; herself, and Ellis and Boyle from earlier. No-one spoke until the door opened again and three plates of sad-looking cottage pie were brought in, along with three plastic cups of weak tea.

Bella pushed the food around on its plate. The long journey in the claustrophobic cell of the cattle truck had made her stomach churn. She drank some of the tea. It was disgusting, so she held her nose and gulped it down quickly.

Someone came through with a trolley. Bella handed back her plate and cup. She watched a cockroach climb the opposite wall and listened to Ellis crying and mumbling.

She found it funny how the cockroach would climb nearly to the ceiling and then fall down. It kept doing that for hours.

"You're never gonna win, cockroach," she muttered.

The trolley returned with more tea and something not unlike stale lasagne at around half past six. Bella ate more this time, but she still didn't finish it.

She watched the cockroach again. He was a good cockroach. Her cockroach, she decided. She would call him Charlie.

Just when Charlie was starting to make her feel better, Boyle threw a shoe at him and he scuttled off into one corner of the room.

"Can't stand the bloody things," she muttered to herself.

Bella lay down on her side, still facing the wall, and a few tears slipped down her face. She didn't bother to brush them away.

The lights were out by ten. She didn't know if she'd be able to stand that every night for the next five years.

She closed her eyes and thought about why she was in this mess.

It was all Mike's fault.

She was working at Mike's parents' shop with him because she needed the money. He'd told just about everyone some bullshit that she was turning tricks because she was poor and desperate. One day some man had come up to her and asked her how she'd like to make three grand.

He had proposed that she take some marijuana over to London for a friend of his. She'd been sceptical, until he promised that the worst she could get for marijuana possession in England was a slap on the wrist.

He wasn't lying; he just neglected to mention that the sentence for intent to supply could go up to fourteen years.

The night passed and gave way to a damp, cold morning. The girls were woken at half past seven, given breakfast eight and at nine the stern female PO from the previous night came in, followed by a black-haired woman with a mole on her chin.

"Ellis, Boyle, you follow Miss Rossi to D Wing," said the stern one. "Swan, you come with me to G Wing."

Bella stood and grabbed her bag of clothes. She followed the PO through gate after gate until they reached a large hall-type room with pool tables and stairs going up to another two landings and countless green doors with peep-holes.

She picked one seemingly at random and held it open, nodding for Bella to go through, which she promptly did.

There were two bunk beds, four of those locker-type things that were in the dorm, a sink, a mirror on the wall and a toilet that was blocked off from the rest of the cell by a waist-high screen, over which two towels were hung. Bella took this to mean that there were two people in here already.

"The rest of the girls will be returning from their work soon," said the stern woman. "Get to unpacking; you're going to be here for a good, long while."