August 21st, 2002: Her Majesty's Prison, Failsworth, Greater Manchester
Bzzzz!
"Alright, everybody up! Let's go, outta bed, clothes on, yes!"
Zed oozed into painful consciousness, wrestled awake by the racket. She squinted in the dim cell, and glowered at the dark trouser legs crowding her bunk.
The ambient clamor of women shouting and metal slamming now filled the room, louder than before. Through the open cell door echoed the constant noise of the inmates. As she had every morning for ten years, she'd awoken in HMP Failsworth, known by the locals as Odd-Daughters.
Today, however, was the day of her release.
A hairy-knuckled fist gripped a baton, slapping it against the palm of a pink, meaty hand with eager anticipation.
Fuck, Zed swore internally, Not this prick.
"Let's perk up, Hedgie love. It's your big day!"
Swearing again, the woman slid her bandaged arms from under her pillow, wincing at the tug of cotton on her stitches. She pushed back her heavy mane of wiry, black hair. She rubbed the back of her hand across her mouth, wiping away drool.
"I'm up," she groused, head pounding. Even her own, gravelly voice bounced around her skull.
"That's right! We're up bright and early today, eh?," she heard the grin in his voice as Moitey, the Wednesday day shift, savored her obvious discomfort.
He gestured up with his baton, and started rapping it against the bunk frame. She hissed at the shooting ratta-tat-tat of the nightstick on the painted metal.
Why this twitchy git, she bemoaned.
Zed leaned over her cot, trying to push herself up on her forearms, and her innards bucked. The floor spun into the ceiling. She spilled out of bed, heaving on the floor next to Moitey's black, rubber soled boots.
"C'mon, nunna that, up!," complained the corrections officer, stepping away. "Get up, and get dressed!"
"Give her a sec, Moitey, she had a rough night," her cellie spoke up. Bedsprings above Zed creaked and bounced, like her bunkmate had rolled onto her side. "She were cryin' painful hard."
Dumb, sweet bitch, Zed thought, exasperated, struggling against the vertigo to get upright. Her bruised ribs twinged dangerously but held together. They'd had three weeks to heal, so while they weren't screaming anymore, she still took it easy climbing to her feet.
"Aw, heartbroken at having to leave us so soon? Shut yer gob, Martin! I didn't ask you."
Zed grabbed her own shoulder so she didn't wrench it. She then reached over and patted her mate Peggy's bed by way of thanks. She figured she'd might as well accept the useless help in the spirit it was given.
She started to dress. Zed had slept in her uniform soft pants and a plain white t-shirt. It only took a minute to throw the prisoner's standard grey jumper over it and slide her socked feet into her sneakers. While she shuffled around to fix her bed, back aching, the meaty smack of baton-on-palm resumed behind her.
She rolled her eyes and sneered.
The guard repeated himself, "Pepper up, Hedgerot! It's your big day!"
Before Moitey lost his last god given smidge of patience, she threw her pillows against the bare brick walls. She then eased out her cardboard box of letters and thoroughly thumbed paperbacks from under the bed. Gripping it, the soon-to-be-former inmate straightened up, forcing her shoulders out of their hunch.
Her spine cracked as her vertebrae popped into place. She took private joy in Moitey going pea green under his furry, greying unibrow. Making that caterpillar wrinkle was almost worth the pain.
Tottering, balance a little off with box in tow, she murmured goodbye to Pegs, and glanced around the narrow, brown brick room a last time. She took in the whitewashed bunks, the barred window, the funk of stale women.
Zed left her unsaid ill wishes on the vacant bed. Then she cleared her throat, and spat on the floor.
"Oi, cut the shit! Disgusting," Moitey dug the nightstick into her kidney, prodding her forward. "Move, off to the showers."
Zed left the cell, feeling sorry for old Peggy Martin and the next poor girl to fill it.
Zed was allowed ten minutes to shower. Around her she heard sniffling, chatter, flip flops clapping against wet tile, a squeak of faucets turning, and the screech of curtain rings on the rods. A few other women milled about. Most younger inmates had towels; contrarily, most of the older ladies puttered about in the nude.
Tending to herself, she washed quickly and carefully, cautious of bumping her side with the bar of cheap soap. She rinsed off, and finger-combed her hair under the spray.
Zed spent her last minute holding her head under the showerhead, watching the grime, shed hairs, and dingy suds circle the drain. She let the hot water beat her tired body, eyes drifting shut.
"Hey, something's wrong…"
"You fucking bastards! Help me!"
"Christ, what...what are you?"
She jerked awake and was made to dry off.
The guards handed her a bag of outside clothes, dropped off by her mother earlier that week. She held a sweatshirt, running a thumb over the smooth, polyester tag with her name on it. Just three letters in blue permanent marker, "Zed."
She pulled on the off-brand Disneyland Paris sweatshirt, after several false starts. Doing it was a medieval torture on her ribs. Once on, the shirt hung to her knees, having once been her tree-of-a-brother's. She appreciated the fuzzy lining taking mercy on her sensitive skin.
The scrape of denim up her legs felt rough and foreign as she walked to the inmate release window. So did the hard waistband and zipper pressing into her belly while she stood being processed, officers at her back.
"Hedgerot, Zinnia C.," read the clerk in a monotone, who then proceeded to rattle off her prisoner ID number. "Is that you?"
"Yeah," she said, resting her box on the counter. Her arms were tired.
"Please step away from the glass."
She glared through the barrier, but complied.
The officer at the window flipped through her release papers and explained the rules of her license. Zed listened, answering when spoken to, while watching the other bags of belongings gather dust.
Soon Zed was given her years old possessions in a clear, ziplock bag: a band hoodie that reeked of plastic; her wallet with her expired IDs and gift cards; a keyring with keys to a now repossessed car, and a neon alien keychain. She began shoving some things into her jeans pockets, when the officer handed her an envelope. In it was the remainder of her canteen account, in twenty pound notes.
"Aw, there it is," drawled Moitey with a nasty grin.
She side-eyed him and started counting. She counted sixty quid while Moitey chuckled and quipped with his young partner. Zed flipped over a bill and frowned at the mustachioed man printed on its back.
"Who the hell's this?," she asked, puzzled.
"Elgar," supplied the younger officer. He watched her with mild interest. She didn't recognize him, so he was probably new. "'E were a musician."
She looked at him suspiciously. Would they give her play money as some sick joke? Those sixty pounds were all she had to her name. She hadn't the faith in humanity to believe they wouldn't toy with that .
Zed said nothing, though, as she put the money in her wallet and the wallet in her back pocket. The whole process felt awkward, like she was putting on a show.
"Let's go then," sniffed Moitey, gathering her elbow in his ruddy paw. "Time to see what all you've been missin'."
They led her through gate after gate, down a long paved walk and through a final, outer wall, before leaving her out by the sidewalk. They gave her a final warning to get to where she ought and locked the gate behind her.
For a moment, Zed just stood there, box and bag in hand, watching the guards watch her. Then she turned, carefully, toward the road…
She was out.
The weather was brisk, the air hardly warmed by the creeping sun. It cooled her hands and face. The morning peeked over the lush, surrounding trees. A light breeze brought along quieter smells than she was used to—usually sweat and caustic disinfectants. Here she smelled cut grass, and dirt, and a bit of dust from the gravel underfoot.
Gasoline, she thought, unbidden. She craned her neck up the street and sure enough, caught a ghostly whiff of exhaust carried downwind.
People lived nearby, ones who often drove past the prison yard in their minivans and dinged pickups. She supposed it was one of them.
Clearer than she thought right, such that she swore she imagined it, Zed heard an engine. She felt its determined hum wake up the road, vibrating, as if a car were headed her way from the edge of earshot.
Nobody was in the yard yet, so there was no yelling, no feet stamping, no guards snapping names. Waiting and listening to the morning birds and the shushing of leaves, Zed grew rigid as a car came rattling toward her.
She squinted through the sun glinting off of the windscreen, gripping her things. She didn't recognize the limping gold station wagon. Its front bumper sagged and duct tape crisscrossed its cloudy headlights. A shout leapt into her throat when the car honked and squeaked to a stop in front of her.
"Eyyy!," came a muffled whoop from inside. Someone was swinging open the driver's side door and stepping out
All she saw at first was hair. But it shook apart to reveal brown skin and bright, button black eyes.
"Zeddieee!," her brother crooned. Then he jumped at her.
"Fuckin' hell!," she shrieked. She damn near threw the box at him when the giant man loped towards her, arms wide, beaming. "I thought you were some creep!"
"I am!"
"Aw, shut up."
As per old times, her yelling did nothing to dampen her brother's enthusiasm. No matter the time or place, the man was always deaf to her scolding. Ten years vanished in an instant. They might as well have been kids again, kicking dirt at each other in the yard.
She'd expected their mum to pick her up. She imagined the woman still pushing around the same, Jurassic-era purple hooptie. The one where scientists could've carbon dated the junk in its treads and pinpointed the dawn of man. The car her brother drove, while far from new, was new to her. Then again, that day, what wasn't?
Again, she felt like the world tilted at an angle that grew steeper every time she noticed it.
"Whose car is this?," Zed asked, leaning away.
"Oh yeah, mine! Bought it off old John when his beau died."
"Walt's dead?," she said, coming closer. She remembered old John and Walt from down the way, back in primary.
She then realized with a jolt that she was walking away from Odd-Daughters.
She felt exposed. All the guards and towers and mortared walls were to her back. Everything she had known for so long was behind her. She didn't look back though, pushing on. The ex-inmate continued toward the car like it was hers.
Her little brother greeted her with a sweeping hug. She scowled up at his chin. His scraggly chin hairs tickled up her nose and got in her eye. It was immediately too hot and too cramped where he'd gathered her into her chest. Her belongings were held out between them, and her every joint clicked when he squeezed.
Zed sweat, needing not to be touched.
"Knock it off!," she ground out, irritated, and was, of course, ignored. "Get offa me, you massive goon!"
She jumped at his booming laughter, cursing when he uncoiled and clapped his hands down on her shoulders. She felt pain shoot up from her heels and into her back. Tendons burned. Pulling away, she glared at him.
He gestured for her things, still beaming, reading her pain as surliness. She always hated hugs.
Zed hedged about giving him her stuff, having just gotten some of it back herself. But eventually she handed over the box and bag. Her brother turned away, grinning. Thus relieved, she tucked her arms into the pocket of her sweatshirt. She followed him to the car, resigned to giving her aching hands a rest.
"You're fuckin' free!," he laughed, almost as if to himself. He bent over, dropping her box in the backseat. "This is amazin', sis!"
She muttered something about being on parole, and not technically free. And the world outside already made less sense than she'd hoped. But he faced her again, and his goofy, crooked-toothed smile tugged at the knot in her everything.
She cracked a grin despite herself, and felt it stretch the yellowed bruises painting her cheeks.
She missed the swell of relief, though, once he realized the state of her. Now that they'd stepped fully out of the shadow of Odd-Daughters, and the sun had lightened a little more of the sky, he could see her properly.
His smile wilted, and storms gathered on his face. His heavy brows furrowed, and his lip pulled back in a snarl. She knew he'd never met their father—a miserable old drunk on the dole—but he favored the man terribly.
"What happened to you," demanded her brother. He sent his blackest look past her at the prison behind.
She looked back at it as well, fighting the tilt, feeling the slide backwards into her nightmares. She thought of sterile hospital beds and restraints. She remembered fluorescent lights, and curtains tearing, and blood, and dizzy nothing.
Stop it, she thought, sucking sweat from her top lip.
"Look, hop in the car and I'll tell ya," she reasoned, smacking her little brother on the hip.
He stayed looking at building and its guards, searching and furious, like they'd stolen something. Of course, they had, many things, but still. He wouldn't find his answers there.
"There's no one to bash," Zed said, moving around to the passenger side door. She gripped the handle and yanked it open, banging on the wagon's roof as she climbed inside.
"C'mon, bozo!," she called. Impatient, she leaned on the car horn, obliterating the morning peace. She yelled again out the rolled down window: "Keep hangin' about and they'll keep ya!"
Her brother turned to her, all wound up. She scoffed and honked the horn again.
"Your fuckin' face, Zed!," he protested.
"If I'm not at the P.O.'s in ten hours, they'll say I've run off. I ain't sick of freedom yet, understand, only had it ten minutes. Plus, whoever did it—not sayin' anyone did anyfin' but let's say some arsehole did—they're already locked up then, innit?
"It's done. Now drive me to my fuckin' appointment and tell me how's mum."
She looked ahead down the street, eyes on the blind curve that would lead them off to Manchester. Her heart thudded away while she waited to get going. She felt it stutter against her breastbone when the car sunk and rocked under her little brother's weight.
The driver's door slammed shut and she was overtaken by the strange new smells of the car: stuffy sea breeze air freshener, spoiled takeout, tobacco; something cloying, gamy and cold that she'd never run into before.
"Alright, I get it," he grumbled, nose wrinkled in distaste.
She eyed him, glad when the ignition finally turned. He started them down the street. Tree branches ran shadows that dappled the gold bonnet, which itself shook with the divots in the blacktop. A fringed Guyanese flag dangled from the neck of the rear view mirror.
Zed leaned forward, her awareness of her brother falling away as the road opened up to the highway. Heeding her creaking body, she simply stared into the rear view, and saw the last glimpse of prison disappear around the curve.
She waited for the freedom feeling to hit. All she felt was her healing bones and the cool air whipping her hair into a tangle. They drove in silence for a while, before he asked again: "So...what happened?"
Zed shrugged out of habit and her shoulder popped.
"Christ!," exclaimed her brother, alarmed. "Zed, is it broken!?"
"Naw," she winced, massaging the tendon. "I dunno, it's like everything got shook outta socket. Not broken though, only hurts."
"A fight? On some prison gang shit?"
"No, man, I dunno," she tried to piece together the story enough to tell but was about as successful as she'd ever been. She didn't remember enough to make it make sense. It might as well have been a fever dream.
"Something happened, sis, I got eyes, y'know," he turned from the highway to peek at her, then swerved and looked back. "Shit! You protectin' someone or summit stupid like that?"
Zed ignored him and took in his profile. He'd gained weight back in his face, and the beard had grown over the pitting from lasering off his tattoos. She knew he had stopped drinking, and had seen him become more lucid over the years. He looked better now—still a great, hulking terror, but kind in the eyes like he used to be.
"You look good, Fox. Healthy," she said ponderously.
Fox gawked and let loose a hoot of laughter. "You don't. Unbelievable."
She shrugged again and cursed.
Her meeting with her parole officer was uneventful. She sat across from a tiny man behind a desk who rehashed her license. Then he started reading off dates when she was meant to return for her regular check-ins.
"I can't make that last one," she interjected when he paused for breath. The man raised his eyebrows, dripping in condescension.
"And why not?," he squeaked. "You understand, missing a date without reason and proof of that reason is a violation of your license. You could land yourself back in Failsworth if you're meaning to play a bit a hooky."
"I got a doctor's appointment," she replied, reaching into her sweatshirt pocket. "Parole board mandated."
She pulled out a creased doctor's letter that she had printed in the prison library just for then. On it was the date in question. Around that was a formal confirmation of a meeting with a publicly-referred neurologist.
The officer took the letter from her and read over it. "What's this for?"
"It's in my file," she pointed out, nodding at the open folder on the desk. "I got a prescription too—"
"Clonazepam," read the officer, speaking over her, "for 'convulsive status epilepticus'."
He put down the papers, threaded his fingers together, and narrowed his eyes at her.
"Abuse and unlicensed distribution of controlled substances is very much illegal and will land you back inside," he lectured. "I know 'sales' is your forte, but please refrain from falling in with your old crowds."
The man lifted one tiny, sparse eyebrow.
God, she hated him.
By the time they left the parole office, it was half past ten in the morning. Fox drove them toward Piccadilly station, where they parked and waited on the noon train from Leeds. Zed dozed against the window, face tucked into her sweatshirt.
She passed in and out of wakefulness while Fox read in his lap, humming to the pop on the radio. They whiled away the rest of the morning, until eventually Fox shook her awake.
"You hungry, Zeds?"
She grunted, "Hm. Meat pie," and was corrected by her growling stomach, "Mmm, no. Steak. Let's go in somewhere."
"Yeah, I'm famished. Ah, never mind, here they come."
She groaned, starving. Fox chuckled and the car bobbed as he stepped out. She resurfaced from her warm shirt and scowled out at the bright daylight. Several cars down, she saw the pair hustling toward them.
Their mother, Gracie, rushed along, leading a child by the hand. She must have been fresh from her shift at the mill, as she was still in her blue factory jumpsuit. She had a patterned scarf around her head, tied under her chin. It was likely meant to hide her helmet hair from the general public.
Gracie noticed her son first, and waved an arm in their direction. Next to her, a girl of about grade school age dragged her feet in their cheetah print flats. Zed lifted her shirt collar over her mouth's downturned corners.
She didn't like kids. They asked too many questions, or brooded in that trying, adolescent way that spoiled precious silence. Even just going about her day, she'd been gawked at by what felt like every brat in Manchester. This girl was already in a sulk, slouching as she trailed along, her eyes on her feet. The hand not wrapped in their mother's held the strap of her hot orange backpack.
This made Zed question the bulky stereo headphones the girl wore over her nest of curls. They didn't seem attached to a game or a Walkman. The girl looked up, noticed Zed watching, and threw her gaze back down to the asphalt.
The woman called for her brother's attention. He bent over, swiping hair behind his ears. She motioned to the little girl.
"Who's the rug rat?," she asked, annoyed.
Fox stared quizzically back, then seemed to understand her confusion.
"That's Laney. Remember? I don't know how much mum said to you," he answered. "I know she didn't bring her to visit, so you've probably never laid eyes."
"The baby!?," she said, gobsmacked. She remembered her mum getting pregnant when Zed was first arrested, and having no clue why she kept it. Who had a baby at forty? Still Zed had requested furlough when Gracie went into labor and was denied.
She suspected her mother of thinking her a liar, assuming she just never tried to come. It hardly came up, but Gracie never brought the baby to Failsworth for a visit. Zed didn't press, not caring either way. But now, she felt wrongfooted, seeing the older woman hurry towards them with a whole grade schooler in tow.
Fox nodded, gauging her reaction.
"What's her name, Laney?," Zed followed up, sitting up in her seat. Her mother and—kid sister—were almost at the car.
"Yeah, Marisleny," replied Fox fondly, and she shot him a shocked look.
He said the girl's name like he had raised her himself. His smile when the pair finally reached the car was unlike she'd ever seen on the man's face.
Even his beaming down at her, freshly released, had been strong, impressive—a forceful joy. This smile softened his whole face, sapping some of its natural pique, buffing the edge of some of their father's features.
This was peaceful.
"I got to name her, y'know," her little brother explained further, glowing with pride. "After Nan."
Zed felt a little empty, not able to place why.
"Zeddie!," shouted their mother. The passengers door flew open and calloused hands came up around Zed's cheeks. The injured woman squawked at a sudden barrage of affection. Loud, lipsticked kisses smacked on her forehead, eyelids, and cheeks.
Zed gasped desperately. A cloud of smells overwhelmed her senses: machine oil, the leavings of perfume, wax and powdered, sweat, recycled train air; hops, soursop, a curry lunch; kid's breath, cold chicken fingers, pencil shavings, lemon.
Two cars honked, fighting over a spot dozens of yards away. She swore she heard the drivers bristle and the friction in the pause before the row.
Am I havin' a stroke, she panicked, ears ringing, face and neck protesting the assault. This wasn't the hard, salty woman she knew. And this was entirely too much touching. Her skin tightened and stung, as if sunburned.
Zed caught her mother's face in one hand and glared at her through her spread fingers. She felt lipstick mash into the heel of her hand and the muffled complaint.
"You're bleedin' mad," she growled, forcing the older woman back. "Stop, you maniac!"
Her mother's eyes squinted good naturedly, and then grew wide with horror. She shoved aside Zed's hand and grabbed her face again.
"Ow, I said stop!"
"What happened to your face," snapped her mother, fingers running over Zed's cheeks. "Who did this to you? I hope you kicked her bloody teeth in."
"Mum," Fox hushed. "Not in front of Laney. Let's eat lunch first, at least. You hungry, duck?"
Zed, face mashed in her mother's hands, glanced over at the kid of interest, eyebrows raised to her hairline.
Duck?, she thought, incredulous. Yes, Fox had definitely changed, as had her mother. What is it about this kid?
Laney looked up at him, face blank. She then shook her head and readjusted her grip on the backpack strap.
"I ate chicken," she replied, and Zed couldn't agree harder. Her stomach turned at the smell of milk, grease and breading on the girl's breath. "We're sisters."
Zed flinched at the abrupt address. "Yeah, so I'm told."
The kid didn't quite make eye contact, staring at her chin. Zed's mood soured. A pall of bated breath fell over the car that she didn't care for.
She pried off her mother's hands, crossed her arms and leaned back in her seat, staring out at the puttering cars.
"Yeah, let's eat," Fox muttered, sliding back behind the wheel.
"Three burgers and chips," said Fox to the visibly bored waitress. "Cooked through please."
Zed imagined sinking her teeth in a fresh, bloody patty. Her mouth watered.
"Gimme mine rare, love," she corrected, grinning at the server. The waitress took pause, pen hovering over her notepad, momentarily forgotten.
Zed's grin widened, showing more teeth. The other woman gulped. She scribbled a word down, and hurried off to the kitchens.
"Geez," Fox huffed, scratching his chin. "Take your time."
"'Geez,'" teased Zed.
"Shut it."
"So, your face," interjected their mother. Gracie had one hand on the kid's book, seemingly covering the text. Zed quirked an eyebrow at the title, "The Seven Principles for Making Marriage Work." Laney had been trying to worm her fingers between the palm and the page, to no avail.
"You were fighting in there in your last frickin' month? You keep to yourself, Zeddie," her mum scowled, "Stupid, what if they extended your sentence? Then what?"
Zed rolled her eyes and fiddled with her steak knife.
It's wild how they just give these to people, mused Zed, turning the serrated blade in the light.
Smirking, she turned it till she caught a beam of sunlight from the window. Then she played around with flashing it about, blinding her brother.
"Stop," the man complained, shielding his eyes with the dessert menu.
"Stop what," she snickered, trying to aim around laminated tiramisu.
"Ey, listen here! I'm serious, what were you thinking!?"
"Leave it, mum," Zed shot back, picking up her napkin with the knifepoint. "It weren't a fight."
"Ah, then it were what? A talent show? Who did your face like that?"
Zed belted up before she said something in poor taste. She had grown annoyed with all the questions. She wanted food and rest, not an interrogation. She slapped down the knife and pulled her hands from the table.
"You're getting worked up over the nothing," she finally admitted. "I took a spill and hit my head, so I don't remember much. The doctors inside think I've got brain damage maybe, and get seizures now. It was rough before they caught it but now I've got some medicine for it and it's fine."
"And a seizure did that to ya," her mother scoffed. "Stop messin' with me, Zed. Is it drugs? Did yer old people find you?"
"Mum, she says it's not that," Fox cut in, holding up quelling hand. "If she fell, she fell."
Zed nudged his side, thankful for the assistance. "See, if it was drug shit, Freddy Fox wouldn't even look at me. It's just a thing I've got now, quit scrikin'."
"Don't you talk down to me, missy," groused her mother, jabbing a finger her way. Quickly though, the relief set in of no one being out for her eldest's blood. Her strict outrage melted into disgruntled concern. "Whatever, you done good avoiding trouble."
"Thanks," she snarked.
"How'd you fall?," piped up a lilting voice. Zed looked across at Laney, who was still tucked into her book but had clearly stopped reading. The girl froze while Zed looked her over.
"Three burgers, two well done, one rare."
A new server, this one a floppy-haired young man, distributed their plates around the table. Zed's plate plunked down, bun sweating. She inhaled the beef and onion steam and sighed, contented and ravenous. The room vanished aside from her, her stomach, and sweet, red meat.
"Enjoy," announced the new server, backing away from their table. She nodded, licking her lips from corner to corner. She wiggled, thrilled, before hefting the meal in both hands and tearing into it.
"Christ, woman!," Fox chortled, stunned and childishly delighted. "You're a beast!"
"Slow down before you choke," said her mother, repulsed. Zed ignored them both and continued to scarf down the burger. She was already halfway through when Laney spoke up:
"My dad says you shouldn't eat mincemeat rare. You get sick."
Zed sucked lettuce from her teeth, not bothering to look up from her meal. Oil and pink juices decorated her plate. She tore off some of the bun, sopped up the liquid, and sucked it down.
"Don't do it then," she belched, resuming her feast.
A/N: I'm not sure yet how often I'll have OC chapters like this, but guess what? Today's update is a two-for-one! In the next chapter, we pick up were we left off here and continue onto Snape's POV, so see how he is dealing with a certain chance encounter.