My Husband's Wife Read Free Page B

I can’t see it from behind.
    â€˜Everyone’s surprised when they see this place. Used to be a private home till Her Majesty’s Prison Service took over.’ Then his voice grows dark. ‘Pack of bleeding nutters in there now, and I don’t just mean the criminals inside.’
    I sit forward. My initial worry about putting a taxi on expenses (the bus didn’t go far enough, as it turned out) has been dissipated by this rather intriguing information. Of course I knew that HMP Breakville has a high proportion of psychopaths and that it specializes in psychological counselling. But a bit of local knowledge might be useful.
    â€˜Are you talking about the staff?’ I venture.
    There’s a snort as we carry on up the drive, past a row of what appear to be council houses. ‘You can say that again. My brother-in-law used to be a prison officer here before he had his breakdown. Lived in one of those, he did.’
    My driver jerks his head at the council houses. Then we round another corner. On the left rises one of the most beautiful houses I’ve seen, with lovely sash windows and a stunning golden-red ivy climbing up the outside. At a rough guess, I’d say it was Edwardian. It’s certainly a complete contrast to the crop of Portakabins on my right.
    â€˜You check in there,’ says the taxi man, pointing at the house. I scrabble in my purse, feeling obliged to tip him if only for the extra information.
    â€˜Ta.’ His voice is pleased but his eyes are troubled. ‘Prison visiting, are you?’
    I hesitate. Is that what he has me down as? One of those do-gooders who feel it’s their duty to befriend the wicked?
    â€˜Sort of.’
    He shakes his head. ‘Take care. Those blokes … they’re in there for a reason, you know.’
    Then he’s off. I watch the taxi go back down the drive, my last link to the outside world. It’s only when I start to walk towards the house that I realize I forgot to ask for a fare receipt. If I couldn’t get that right, what hope is there for Joe Thomas?
    And, more importantly, does he deserve any?
    â€˜Sugar? Sellotape? Crisps? Sharp implements?’ barks the man on the other side of the glass divide.
    For a moment, I wonder if I’ve heard right. My mind is still reeling from the strange journey I’ve just taken. I’d gone towards the lovely house, relieved that prison wasn’t that terrifying after all. But when I got there, someone directed me back across the grounds, past the Portakabins and towards a high wall with curled-up barbed wire on top that I hadn’t noticed before. My heart thudding, I walked along it until I reached a small door.
    Ring
, instructed the sign on the wall.
    My breath coming shorter, I did so. The door opened automatically and I found myself in a little room, not that different from the waiting area in a small domestic airport. On one side was a glass partition, which is where I am right now.
    â€˜Sugar, Sellotape, crisps, sharp implements?’ repeats the man. Then he looks at my briefcase. ‘It saves time if you get them out before you’re searched.’
    â€˜I don’t have any … but why would it matter if I had the first three?’
    His small beady eyes bore into mine. ‘They can use sugar to make hooch; Sellotape to gag you. And you might be bringing in crisps to bribe them or make yourself popular with the men. It’s happened before, trust me. Satisfied?’
    He
certainly seems to be. I know his sort. Rather like my boss. The type who relish making you uncomfortable. He’s succeeded, but something inside me – a strength I didn’t know I had – makes me determined not to rise to it.
    â€˜If, by “they”, you’re referring to your inmates, then I’m afraid they’re out of luck,’ I retort. ‘I don’t have anything on your list.’
    He mutters something that sounds like