A/N
OK, so after reading so many spectacularly good stories on this site, I plucked up the courage to poke my toe in the water and add an idea of my own.
I make no claims to great literature, and it will become pretty evident, pretty quickly that I have 'borrowed' both my chief protagonists and my basic idea from Skins and another quite popular show. However, I promise that apart from that caveat, nothing in this story is stolen from anyone else, here or anywhere else.
This will be told in POV format, and I will alternate characters, without, hopefully, repeating too much. So, enough prevarication Nancy, tell the fucking story!
I do not own Skins, although if I did, there would be a Naomily series 7. Period!
Naomi:
I opened my eyes slowly, and as I started to wake properly, a smile began to form on my lips as I took in the familiar scene in front of me. A still, tranquil blue lake, fringed with cypress and beam trees and in the distance, the merest hint of dawn sunlight filtering through to cast long shadows on the water. As my brain drank in the beauty on display, I let myself believe for a second or two that it was real. But as my stiff body creaked stirred and my mind shook itself properly awake, I knew the reality of my morning. Same as every other morning.
The curled edges of the picture, the rough painted brickwork around it and the just discernible smell of disinfectant and human bodies conspired to spoiled my dream. It was just a picture. A nice picture, about 20" x 10", stuck to the wall with government issue toothpaste, and lately showing significant signs of age. After all, it had been on one wall or another for three and a half years now. 1291 days and counting, this image had been pasted onto the wall next to my bed. Whichever bed I happened to be in. Right opposite my pillow, so that the first thing I saw when I woke every day, was this vision of the wonders nature can create.
It had been sent to me by my mum. Back in the days when we were still in touch. In those first few months when my mind was in blind shock and the 10 year prison sentence I was just beginning was so fucking overwhelming that I blocked it out and clutched at anything which would remind me of home. Bristol. Days in the park, student parties, MDMA, stolen kisses. Hope. Yeah hope. I remember that. Seems like forever.
I rolled over, taking in the rest of my 'room'. Yeah, they called them rooms now. But it was a cell, just like every other cell I had been in those 1291 days. Small, barred window high up on the wall. My single bed, with its rough too often washed sheets and regulation woollen red and green knitted blanket. A plain brown table and chair opposite, my OU books and notepads still scattered on it from last nights study. In the corner by the door, a small,regularly scrubbed but still awful toilet with a laughable 'modesty panel' to one side. Modesty, right. That's one thing I had given up from day one of this sentence. If it wasn't overweight female officers with body odour issues finding flimsy excuses for strip and cavity searches, it was the occasional predatory middle aged male screw who thought that any female under 25 was fair game for a 'hide the sausage' session in the showers or games room.
You learn quickly in here. You learn to hide everything. Tobacco, toiletries, your favourite knickers, letters from home. Oh, and most important, what you're thinking. Emotions and reactions are watched and analyzed by all the jackals and hyenas in here. Screws, cons, governors, fucking sociologists and head fuckers. One sign of weakness and you are fucked, sometimes literally. Like I said, you learn quickly. Or go under.
I came in here at 19, technically a Young Prisoner. Potentially vulnerable they call it.
Just a green light for any screw or older con to use you and abuse you is more like it. Vulnerable women die in here. I've seen that too.
I was never much of a shrinking violet. Even in my early teens, I learned to protect myself with a tough outer shell. People hurt you if you give them the chance. That's what they do. Like scorpions taken on boat rides, they sting you. Its in their nature.
So lucky me. I had a head start when the outside gate clanged shut and my real life ended. This was my life now. Regimented, repetitive and grey. Grey walls, grey people, grey blankets and grey future. One big nothing.
I groaned as I sat up. A small 'disagreement' with that alpha female cow Jodie on G3 landing yesterday had left some pretty spectacular multicoloured bruises on my forearm and I think she may have loosened a tooth or two. However, it was unlikely we would be meeting up any time soon. She was in the hospital wing with a pretty severe case of concussion, An unexpected meeting with a convenient toilet door seemed to have cooled her desire to maim me. She looked almost human laying on the wet floor with a dazed 'what the fuck' look on her face. Temporarily.
What the fuck I had done to deserve it I don't know anyway. Just the usual prison shit... she said something, I delivered my trademark fuck off response and the rest is a blur of punches and serious hair pulling. I just managed to get behind my door before a dozen burly heavy mob screws pounded down the landing and mobbed the toilets. One nil to Campbell. Just as well her 'posse' won't get the chance to ride to her rescue.
I squinted up at the thin dawn light trying its best to brighten my room. It must be just before 6. Being in here develops a pretty accurate internal alarm clock. No genius involved, just months and months of monotonous routine. Up at 6, slop out. Breakfast (if you can call lumpy porridge and cremated sausage meat breakfast) lock up. Open up at 9 for work. Line up and be counted through the sally gate to the main wing, where cleaning and serving tea to the screws took up most of the morning. 12 noon, line up, be counted back onto our wing. Serve the other cons lunch. Lock up. 1.30 pm unlock, collect the meal trays from outside the landing cells. Pile them into towers for the kitchen staff to collect. Lock up. 2.15pm, unlock, back to the main wing for more cleaning. Back at 3.30pm. Serve tea at 4. Lock up. Unlock at 6. Serve stewed tea via the big metal churns from the kitchen, cell by cell to the other cons. Lock up. Lights out at 8. Hell of an interesting day huh?.
Mind you. Today was gonna be different, So different I felt my stomach clench at the reminder of how things were going to change for me. You see, although prisoners hate the routine and mindless monotony of prison life, in some ways we get to rely on it. On the outside, change is a good thing. New job, new flat, new girlfriend (oh, sorry, forgot to mention I'm gay. Lucky me huh?)
But in here the routine is like a cosy suffocating blanket, insulating you from the hell which is always just outside your door. Offend a screw and its Governors report, 3 days down the block and loss of privileges. Offend another con, and depending on her status in the hen house, you could end up with an extra smile just under your chin, or if she was feeling less homicidal, a nice jug of boiling water, with plenty of added sugar so it sticks to the skin of your face and neck when thrown over you. Think I'm being over dramatic? I've seen both done several times. Not nice.
Anyway, as I dress quickly (you learn that too, when you've been perved over via the Judas hole by numerous screws). They do love a bit of young flesh in here, and I am just the right age for leching over. 23 now, but I know that if I serve my whole sentence, I won't look 29 when I get out. More like 40. It ages you, you see, this grey and shadowy world I live in.
I can hear you thinking. "But why are you in this hell hole Naomi?"
Simple. Two words (if you leave out the inevitable cussing) – James fucking Cook.
James Cook, who sold me drugs at knock down prices, so I could be his little buffer in the world of dealing. Nice earner for those little extras we all need, right?
James Cook, who sat next to me in the night club on that awful night and slipped 'something special' into my JD and Coke.
James Cook, who spent the next hour whispering filth in my unresponsive ear.
James Cook, who poured me into his car and drove away from the club.
Twenty minutes later, they pulled me from the drivers seat (Yeah, I'm puzzled about that too?) of his BMW 6 series and forced me to look at what 'I' had done.
A young couple, in their teens. Faces blank in death. Under the fucking wheels.
Add to that the half pound of puff and 600 E's in the boot.
What would you think if you were a copper?
Well they did. And so did the Judge, Probation Officer, Prosecution, and most importantly, the Jury. 12 men and women good and true. Looked at me like they had shit under their fingernails. 15 minutes they were out.
Guilty. Causing Death by Dangerous Driving. Two counts. Possession with intent to supply.
The judge said people like me needed to be taught a severe lesson, and he was giving me the 10 years to send a strong message to anyone else who might be tempted to deal drugs before driving a powerful car under the influence. He said if he could, he would have given me longer.
My life ended then. I heard the thump as my mum collapsed in the public gallery. After that, the numbness I have now was all that was left.
A hearty thump on my door was followed by the jangle of heavy keys. The lock rattled and the door swung open with a bang. Do you know how long it has been since I had a handle on the inside of my door? 1291 days... Oh yeah, I've said that.
"Come on Campbell" the screw said. Actually, Mrs Powell wasn't a bad old stick. In her late 50's short and stout just like the proverbial teapot with cropped grey hair. Fuck me I hope I don't look as much like a cartoon dyke when I'm her age.
But she was at least civil to me, unlike some of the fuckers.
"Looking forward to moving on?" she blessed me with a thin smile, showing off her nicotine stained teeth a treat.
Was I fuck. Like I said, cons get used to what they're used to, and change inside is usually a bad thing.
"Not really" I smiled back in my normal cold con/screw interaction mode
"I was just getting to like the old place"
Her eyes narrowed as she looked for anything approximating sarcasm, but I kept my blank Campbell mask on and she decided it wasn't worth pursuing
"Well, most girls would be pleased at getting out of this damp old building into a nice new purpose built unit. Especially as you've been recategorised C"
I'd better explain that. When I first got here, because of the length of my sentence and my age, I was categorised 'At Risk' Which is virtually the same as Cat A 'high risk of escape' category. Like I was Ronnie Kray for fucks sake. It meant 15 minute observations. Single cell, no exercise. Lights on all night. Almost drove me mad for 3 months. Since then I have been category B, which is 'prisoners for whom escape must be made difficult'. Result, high walls, razor wire and old fashioned cellular confinement.
Category C is where I'm headed. Still the fence and razor wire, but no cells, open association with other prisoners and, if you're good, work outside the gates. In the real world. Frightened the shit out of me.
Oh, and the kicker is, I had to accept 'rehabilitative counselling'
What the fuck that is I have no idea. More head fuckers trying to make me remember my Dad interfering with me, I guess (he didn't, but by the time these people have finished, you almost believe it)
Pleasant early morning conversation had obviously weakened old Powell, because she flopped onto my chair and ordered me to get her a cup of tea. I didn't really mind. Got me out of the trek to the kitchen with the other orderlies. I walked along the landing to the screws office and poured a cup of strong tea into the mug saying 'BOSS'
I know, they actually believe it too. Fuckers.
The other screws in the office ignored me, which was normal. Screws think cons are invisible most of the time. Some of the stories I have overheard while I've been landing orderly would make your hair curl. But I digress...
After old Powell had slurped her tea and regained her strength, she reverted to official mode.
"Come on then Campbell" she barked "I see you have packed your gear. Lets get down to Reception.
Now I know you are thinking, Reception? Do prisons have carpeted lobbies, with uniformed flunkies and a concierge? Well, uniformed flunkies yes. But the only decoration on the collars of their uniform is dandruff. Some of them look like they have been frosted for Christmas. Head and Shoulders obviously never reached HMP Styal.
No, our reception, like most prisons is a hell hole of lino, over bright fluorescents and barking screws. At this time of day it would be full of lucky discharges, wearing ill fitting clothing, creased and musty from spending an age in a brown cardboard box. Basically, when you enter a prison, everything, including your personality is boxed up and stored away for that distant day when you rejoin the real world.
Actually, as it was a women's prison, we were allowed to wear our own clothes. Nothing flash mind. No designer gear. Tracksuits and hoodies were most popular. No one really wants to stand out. Can be dangerous. The biggest gesture to individuality was the trainers. I liked my Converse, and was on my fourth pair.
Anyway, an hour later and I'm sitting next to a girl who must have been arrested after throwing up. At least that's what her jacket smelt of.
Great.
Me and Miss Vomit sat for over an hour waiting for the fucking screws to get their act together, drink tea and smoke for England before signing themselves and us out. Down the steps we went, into the crisp autumn air, across the yard and into a waiting taxi.
Yeah, a taxi. Although I was still a prisoner, and the handcuff biting into my wrist was evidence of that, as a Cat C, I wasn't considered enough of a risk to warrant a sweat box for transport to the new unit.
The unit was a long, long way away. Fucking miles. Styal is in Cheshire, Larkwood is in South Gloucester. A place called Thornbury.
And Thornbury was a couple of miles from a place I remembered all too well...
Bristol.
Four hours later, I woke from an uneasy sleep, punctuated by images of old faces, people I used to know. On my shoulder was the dribble left there by my travelling companion. I shifted her head sideways abruptly and she woke with a groggy
"Fucks sake Campbell, play nice yeah?"
I ignored her. My attention was more than taken up by where we were. The building we were just pulling up beside was a two storey red brick block. No bars on the windows, but we had just passed through a 20' gate topped by razor wire. No Butlins this then, I thought wryly.
Once inside the depressingly familiar 'Reception' we were quickly processed, searched and trooped across a wide lawn towards another squat block of concrete and brick. At least it was modern, I said to myself. Hot water and decent plumbing at last.
We walked behind the single female screw into a lobby with a wide staircase on either side. Above me I could see lines of doors. All blue, all obviously cells.
The screw smiled at me pleasantly as I frowned at the all too familiar institutional layout.
"Naomi isn't it?" she said and my guard was instantly up. I hadn't been called by my first name for years, certainly not by anyone in uniform
"Err, yeah" I said quietly, not wanting to sound too fuck you, at least until I got the lay of the land.
She smiled again
"Its all first name terms here Naomi. My name is Ellen and I will be your wing officer" She turned her head to my travelling companion and flashed the same smile "And you are Sasha, yes?"
I noticed her nose twitch as she caught the same whiff of stale vomit I had been living with for the past four and a half hours. I'll give her credit, the smile wavered, but she kept it up.
"Both you girls are on my watch. This is Sorrell Wing, and you will be in rooms 212 and 247"
I breathed an internal sigh of relief. At least Miss Vomit was going to be on the other side of the landing to me. I don't do close with other cons. Its dangerous.
After I had been shown to my room, I sat on the bed and looked around me. Well, the furnishing wasn't up to much, but the view from the window was an improvement. Wide, open fields stretched for miles out into the countryside. A low mist hung over what must have been a river. Perhaps this wouldn't be too bad after all.
There was a polite knock on my door, and as I looked up, seeing in passing a handle on the inside (hooray!) a head popped round the door.
It was Ellen, the polite screw.
"Settling in OK?" she said, sounding almost as if she meant it.
"Err, yeah" I said, realising I was repeating my earlier answer. Fucks sake, she will think I'm educationally challenged, I thought.
"Can you be downstairs in two minutes" she asked
I nodded, not wanting to open my mouth and confirm her suspicions
"You have an appointment with the Wing Governor, who will be looking after your welfare and progression towards eventual release on licence"
She saw my brow furrow as I reacted instinctively to the usual management bullshit.
"Actually, you might be pleasantly surprised" she said, the smile slightly more genuine than before
"She doesn't suffer fools, but most of the girls think the sun shines out of her..." she paused
"Anyway" she started to pull her head back, and the last words floated away with her down the landing
"Be outside Miss Fitch's office in two, yes?"
I blinked at the door as it slowly swung closed behind her
Fitch, I thought. Where have I heard that name before?
A/N
Well, I am prepared for brickbats, boos and hisses. But I hope you will like it enough to want to hear more!
And if anyone is curious, just let me say I have NO personal experience of being in the Nick! Just a well read mind and some diligent research with a friend of mine who has a brother who is a bit of a Cook!
Next chapter is well on the way to being written. Apologies to all Skins and Bad Girls fans. I promise it isn't quite as cut and paste as it looks so far!