Once he leaves, curtailed by the buzzer which signals the end of visiting time here at Limehouse, we’re escorted back to our cells in silence. I want to write down what he’s said and absorb it all in my own time, but prison doesn’t recognise the need to be alone. Sure, you can be incredibly lonely here, but you’re never actually given any time to just be by yourself. And for me, that usually means that Kelly will be hovering nearby. In this case, she’s sitting on my bunk when I get back.
I don’t believe in God, but I swear sometimes I think that Kelly was sent by some vengeful angel to piss me off. If an all-seeing deity really does live in the sky, then bravo for conjuring up a suitable punishment for my actions in the shape of Kelly McIntosh as a cellmate. Kelly is bent over her foot, filing her toenails on my mattress. There are nail clippings on my bed.
‘Wotcha!’ she says, without looking up. ‘How was the brief?’
As far as I know, Kelly has never attempted to appeal her sentence, nor met with a lawyer, nor protested her innocence like so many others do in here. As if anyone else cares about your situation when they have their own to contend with. It’s like hearing about other people’s children – or worse – hearing about other people’s tiresome mental health problems. She’s been in here before. This time it’s for blackmailing men over sexy photos, when she was younger it was for robbing people on the Caledonian Road. She likes to say that the crime rate in N1 dropped by 80 per cent when she was put away. Kelly is a woman who doesn’t like change. Her crime works, she says, blithely ignoring her repeated incarcerations, why change your modus operandi? Except she doesn’t say modus operandi because Kelly would undoubtedly think that was a Latin American soap opera.
‘Oh the usual,’ I say as I hover over her and look pointedly at the toenail shavings with what I hope is a suitable amount of withering disgust. Nothing gets to Kelly though. You cannot shame her, upset her, embarrass her. It would be fascinating, if she weren’t such an empty vessel. A psychologist could spend hours with her before reluctantly concluding that maybe there’s not always something hidden in the depths of the psyche. Some people inhabit shallower pools. Kelly spent most of her time in the paddling variety.
‘So are you getting out or what? Did your fella find what he was looking for? I suppose you need a witness, huh? Is your mate still not talking to ya?’ It bothers me that Kelly takes such an interest. I’m sure she’s looked up my case, since I barely tell her anything and yet she asks me questions that make it obvious that she knows more than she should. The story is out there, the Daily Mail practically had a reporter assigned to my trial, I can’t expect other people not to want to know more. But I don’t want anyone in here gleaning anything that they can embellish and giving it to a journalist when I get out. I want to disappear back into my old life. Or not so much old life but the life I planned to start before this hiccup.
I give her a bland run-through of my meeting, how we’re hoping that there will be a decision soon, how I feel confident in my appeal. She moves off my bed and sits cross-legged on the floor like a little girl as I shake down my sheet and smooth out the pillow, desperately hoping her feet haven’t been on it.
‘Isn’t it mad,’ she says as she starts painting her toenails a lurid shade of coral, ‘how I’ve done so much bad shit and nobody knows my name, and you ended up, like, a celebrity for something you didn’t even do?’
Kelly is obviously annoyed that I’ve fascinated so many, as though I don’t deserve the dubious attention I’ve received. As though it’ll springboard me onto a reality dance programme and get me a haircare deal and a photo spread in OK! magazine to tearfully talk about my ordeal. After months of living cheek by jowl with the woman, I know this to be exactly Kelly’s dream.
I don’t know how to explain that women like her are a dime a dozen. She’s not going to end up on the front page of the tabloids because there’s nothing really salacious in her story. Sure, she’s attractive to a point, and there’s a sex angle to her crimes （it always helps）， but there’s nothing unique about someone hustling for money after a bad start in life. Nell Gwyn did it centuries ago, and she did it with more style than Kelly can ever hope to have.
‘I guess I just got lucky,’ I say, rolling my eyes.
‘But did you never do anything bad before? Not even the odd shoplift? We was mad for a bit of that down at the local Sassy Girl, I used to shove tonnes of stuff down my trackie bottoms and sell it on at the local car boot on Saturdays. My mum couldn’t believe how well I saved my pocket money. That shop got a bit fancy later on though, started sticking tags on things and we had to move on.’ She smiles at this memory, as if it’s as wholesome as something Enid Blyton might’ve conjured up. I smile too, well practised in making it look real. A fake smile takes work – it doesn’t quite reach your eyes, and your facial muscles seem to sense that they’re only going through the motions so it feels like you’re dragging them along. And yet it can’t look sarcastic, as half-hearted smiles so often do.