‘Maria,’ the Governor says, ‘can you tell me why you are at Goldmouth, what your conviction is?’
My conviction. I look down at my fingers. How do I talk about something I don’t recall doing? ‘I am here at Goldmouth because…‘ I clear my throat, my nerves creeping up. ‘Because I have been convicted of a category one murder under the Criminal Justice Act 2003. I received life imprisonment.’
‘And who were you convicted of killing?’
My eyes stay on my hands, on the flesh, skin, bones. All real. Above ground. ‘The priest,’ I say to him, after a few seconds. ‘I was convicted of killing the priest. He was stabbed-’ a deep breath ‘-tied up in the convent, his body splayed out by the altar in a star formation.’ A swim of remembrance: blood trickling down altar steps, an upturned crucifix. ‘There was a lot of blood. Mostly his.’ I pause, gulp a little, try to stave off the image. ‘Some mine.’
‘The priest’s name was Father O’Donnell,’ Dr Andersson says.
‘That is what I said. The priest.’ I inhale the whisper of a memory: English tea. The priest used to offer me English tea. What happened to him, I…My throat runs dry. I touch my neck, lower my head, my hands shaking. The priest tried to help me, tried to be my friend. Then he uncovered some information for me, and next he was gone.
‘Can you say his name?’ Dr Andersson asks.
I look up. ‘The priest’s?’
She nods.
Even now I still see his blood, his entrails, see the photographs. Somehow, if I say his name aloud I think I will cry, cry so much, so forcefully that I fear I will never stop, never be calm again. And I don’t know how to handle it. I don’t know how to tell anyone how I feel. So instead I tell her that I cannot say his name.
‘You have to say it, Maria.’
‘Why?’
‘Because it helps the rehabilitation process, the healing.’
But I cannot. I just cannot. Dr Andersson sighs and looks to the Governor, and when I see them, when I spot the exchange of glances, I think: I have seen this look before. My emotional training. Some people have to learn calculus. I have to learn facial expressions.
As she continues to talk, I turn and scan the room. Books. Legal textbooks. They all are housed in shelves by the walls, legions of them lined up, straight, tall, spines of golden lettering and dates and names. Bookshelves of oak, walnut, strong wood built from trees, from Mother Nature, from the very earth we stand on, the same earth that we raid to create the paper that the words in the books are written on, words we use to educate, to provide knowledge. Provide truth. Truth that can be burnt with one lick of a flame.
I search the shelves some more and when my eyes settle on a criminal law book, it hits me. Just like that: Appeal. I have the right to appeal against my conviction. I should not be here, in this prison, encased like a specimen, gawped at, made to endure, made to face my nightmares every single day, every single night. Never mind that my current barrister deems it futile to try-the right is still mine. And I want it. The freedom. I need my freedom. Because I need to find out what is happening to me. And why.
‘…And of course,’ Dr Andersson is saying as I turn back, ‘I will be here when you need me to help you to adjust your…behaviour, your temperament. I know you are a long way from home, Maria, and-’
‘I would like to appeal.’
She falters then shakes her head. ‘All inmates at some point or another consider appealing. I can tell you now that there is no point. It is not accepted at Goldmouth.’ She stops. ‘Are you thinking you want to get to the truth? Hmmm? That people need to know the truth about you?’
She understands! I sit up, feel an unexpected surge of hope. ‘Yes! Yes.’
‘Well, that is pointless.’ My hope extinguishes. I drop my shoulders. Dr Andersson smiles. ‘You see, Maria, you must learn to live with your circumstances. To accept your guilt. That, Maria, is the real truth. The sooner you realise that the better, and your healing process can begin.’
The Governor sits forward. ‘Dr Andersson is right-to a point.’ He pours some water then leans back, the glass in his hand, thick, bronzed fingers, white, square nails. I look at his face. Is he messing with me, too? Playing mind games I don’t understand? ‘The theory is that the sooner you accept responsibility for your…actions, for your situation, the better it will be for you here at Goldmouth.’ He proffers a glass. ‘Thirsty?’
