Cages by David Mark (acx book reading TXT) 📕

His face changes. Softens. He watches her for a moment. ‘I appreciate it, y’know. To be so open. So honest. However much is fantasy, however much reality, I feel honoured that you’d choose to share it with me. I knew you had hard miles behind you but I had no idea. I just want you to know, you’re a very impressive person.’

Annabeth stops, her fork halfway to her mouth. Suddenly she can’t seem to swallow. Can’t seem to remember how to talk. What has she said? What hidden truth had she dug up and thrown his way in the soft warmth of apple brandy and rare company.

‘Sorry,’ she stammers, her voice half-strangled. ‘Whatever I was wittering on about last night, I was probably half-comatose, and …’

‘No,’ he says, shaking his head. ‘I mean the piece you wrote. The snippet of memoir. I hadn’t expected it. It really moved me.’

Annabeth screws up her features, confused. What had he read in her folder full of random jottings: of little pen-portraits and unfinished flights of fancy?

‘Oh, I’m forever scribbling, like I told you,’ she says, trying to sound casual. ‘Don’t take any notice of that, I’ll probably have been trying to come up with a character or something …’

‘No, it was in the pile of papers that the inmates handed in for overnight assessment,’ he says, looking at her as if he’s going to blame this amnesia on the early start and the brandy. ‘I got to it about one-ish. Made a welcome change of tone from the other submissions. That Mings chap might have a future in how-to guides. If there’s a market for pamphlets preparing you for prison life, he’s going to be the go-to guy. I learned a lot. Didn’t know you could make a curry in a kettle until now! And a prison toastie – that’s a thing worth knowing, eh …?’

‘Rufus, sorry, am I being daft here? What memoir? I didn’t hand anything to you. I was overseeing everybody else – I wouldn’t have had time anyway. I don’t know …’

Rufus looks confused. Tells her to hang on a tic and brushes past her to the living room. Brings his satchel through and leafs through his papers. Finds the page he’s looking for. One piece of lined A4. Two sides. Neat blue ink. Looks aghast at the title as Rufus hands her the loose sheet. The title is underlined with a wiggly line, running past the end of the final letter. A shark fin emerges from the waves beneath a crudely drawn but clearly blazing sun. She feels her stomach clench: wires in her bones suddenly humming with an electric charge. The handwriting is not hers, but the childish underlining is as familiar to her as her own signature. She’s been underscoring titles this way since she was a child. Had even done so on her coursework during her training for the prison service. Had underlined the words ‘Creative Writing Opportunity’ in this very way when she first pinned the notice in the library. Suddenly she can hear her own blood rushing in her head. There’s a prickling all over her skin: a mad energy suddenly grabbing her. She wants to run. To tear the paper into shreds. To sweep the plates and mugs off the table and scream until her throat is raw.

‘“Living a Lie”,’ says Rufus, gently, reading the title over her shoulder. ‘No, you’re not, Annabeth. You’ve nothing to be ashamed of …’

Looking back, the journey feels as though it were all inevitable. I don’t think I managed to avoid a single cliché on the road from nice, middle-class girl to streetwalker and drug addict. Yet at the time, I didn’t believe myself to be on a journey that so many others had taken before me. I thought I was taking virgin steps, moving forward into new experiences, meeting new people, putting myself further and further away from home. But there was nothing new about my situation. Nothing special about me. I was one of countless girls who ran away from home because the pain was too much to stand. I knew anywhere had to be better than what I was going through there. I don’t know if I was right or wrong about that. All I know is that in the first few weeks of my liberation I was cold and lonely and hungry all of the time. Money that had seemed like such a fortune when I closed the front door and walked away turned out to be a pittance on the streets. I’m not sure I ever knew where I was going. Maybe I’d read too many books. I kept expecting to drift into a narrative that would offer hope. I think I kept looking out for the scenario or situation that would turn my life into a movie. I would meet somebody kind, or find a job, or be given an opportunity. Maybe I’d even find love. What I found was a way to numb the pain. Drink first. Then cannabis. That led me into a new circle of friends. Friends who would let me sleep on their sofa or their floor and give me a few quid here and there. Then I tried smoking brown. Found a way to transport myself to a world where I wasn’t full of shame and self-loathing every second. And then nobody wanted to give it to me for free. I only had one thing to offer, and I gave it gladly. Gave it to other people too, bringing the money straight back to my dealer. I didn’t know he was my pimp until somebody else called him that. And that was my normal. My life. I look back and wonder when I could have taken a different path. Even now, walking these halls, looking at the men jailed for crimes often so much less than my own, I wonder whether I will