The Word Cloud

This is the first chapter of my book. I'd very much appreciate any comments/feedback/critiques from you lovely people, if you can spare the time....

POSSESSIONS OF MEN - Chapter One

Shivering in the back of the lorry, the five young women huddled together for warmth. Though wrapped in coats and wearing most of their meagre wardrobes, the bitter chill of the January night penetrated to the bone. Their breath hung on the dark, silent air. Two loud bangs on the side of the vehicle made them start. The signal. Squeezing each others’ hands for comfort, two of the women met each other’s eyes, seeking courage there but seeing only a reflection of their own fear. But it had to be done. Each of them, as quietly as they could, took out a plastic bag and slipped it over her head. Pulled it closed around her own neck. Trying to keep their breathing calm and steady, as they had been instructed, whilst they listened to the voices and footsteps outside. Praying that the trick would work, would prevent the detectors from picking up the changes in carbon dioxide that would give them away. Hearts in mouths, they waited. Focussing their minds on the goal, the dream: England.

* * *

Kate Oramore dragged herself from the depths of an unsettled sleep, groping for the switch to turn off the alarm clock. Before she could find it, the piercing sound stopped, and she felt Patrick sit up beside her in bed. She rolled over, scrunching her eyes up as he switched on the low-level bedside light. “What time is it?” she murmured. “Go back to sleep darling,” he said softly, leaning over to brush her forehead with his lips. “I’ve got an early flight to Singapore – I’ll be back tomorrow.” Kate mumbled something unintelligible, rolling over and wrapping herself in the duvet, trying to find sleep for a few more hours. As she drifted off again, to the sounds of her husband quietly dressing and searching for his flight bag, she guilty missed the days when he was with the RAF. Although he had been away in theatre for weeks at a time, at least when he was home he was really there: they could wake up together, touch each other through the dawn and drink sweet black tea in the kitchen, enjoying the comfortable silence, before she headed off to work. In a strange way, it felt like they had been closer then than they were now, in spite of the fact that they had spent more nights together in the past two years than they had in the previous four years of their marriage. Since he had left the forces and taken up a position with British Airways, it felt to Kate as though they never really had any time together, to simply enjoy each other, anymore. If he wasn’t leaving early or returning late from the long-haul flights that he regularly piloted, her work was keeping her out at all hours and leaving her too exhausted at night for anything more strenuous than a glass of wine and crawling into bed.

Two hours later, Kate woke again, this time to the sound of her own alarm. She had fallen into a deep, dreamless sleep after Patrick had gone, but was so sensitised to the sound of her alarm that she sprang awake at its first utterance. Sitting up in bed, pulling the duvet tight around her against the cold, she hit the clock to stop the harsh bleeping and switch the machine over to the soothing, familiar sound of the radio. Kate liked to listen to Radio 4 in the mornings, enjoying the combative interviewing style of the ‘Today’ programme hosts and the opportunity to find out what had been going on in the world whilst she slept. A childhood fraught with unhappiness and insecurity had left her with a deep-seated fear of feeling out of control: hearing the latest news as soon as she awoke brought her comfort, a sense that she could protect herself against whatever life might throw at her that day. Rubbing the sleep from her eyes and brushing a hand through her fine, shoulder-length red hair, she attuned herself to the lives of others, the political scandals of the day and, in particular, the mentions of ongoing police investigations. Kate was a forensic psychologist, employed at HMP Aldwich, a category C prison holding adult male offenders who had already been sentenced. Though young compared to most of her colleagues, she had rapidly built a reputation as an astute, incisive authority on the criminal mind and was often called in by the police to consult on active cases. Whilst a part of her objected to the time spent away from the office – and therefore from the prisoners and trainees psychologists in her charge – that this demanded, she was also aware of the kudos it brought in professional circles, the career advantages and, most importantly, the fact that this type of work excited her professional curiosity like nothing else. Listening with amusement to John Humphrys running verbal circles around a politician he was interviewing, she padded into the en-suite bathroom for a shower.

As she stood under the hot water, enjoying the sensation of it pummelling her skin, she thought about what the day was likely to hold. After the operational meeting first thing in the morning – attended by the prison Governor and members of the senior staff – had caught her up on the happenings of the past twenty four hours in the establishment, she planned to finish writing a report that had been requested by the courts on one of the prisoners held in the prison where she worked. She had interviewed the man the day before, taking her usual copious notes, and begun the report late the previous afternoon. The case was the type that she dealt with frequently: following the break-up of their relationship, the man had subjected his ex-partner to harassment for months. In spite of a restraining order, he had continued to contact her and turn up at her house unexpectedly until, after almost nine months of escalating behaviour, he had taken her hostage in her own home. The police had had to negotiate with him for over four hours before he would release her and he was subsequently sentenced to nine years for false imprisonment and breach of the restraining order. He was appealing the sentence, his solicitors arguing that he had been suffering from a psychotic depression brought on by stress, and so the court had asked for a forensic psychological assessment to be completed. Whatever the solicitors said, the man had not had any psychiatric treatment at the time that would confirm their claim and Kate’s assessment was that the man had known what he was doing. She had noted during their interview, and from the case files she had read about him, that he held deep-seated beliefs that led him to view women as the possessions of men and, in her professional judgement, this was where his offending behaviour had stemmed from. She considered him to be a dangerous individual and the nine year sentence – of which he would serve roughly half in prison – to be an appropriate length of time to allow him the chance to access interventions to reduce his risk of reoffending in the future.

Stepping out of the shower and wrapping herself in one of the big bath towels from the heated rail, she thought that this might be a good case to use as a training aide for Emma Hampton. Emma was one of Kate’s three trainee forensic psychologists, a bright, ambitious twenty-eight year old who dedicated herself to her work and training body and soul. Kate had a supervision session with Emma at eleven o’clock that morning and made a mental note that she needed to have another word with the girl about maintaining a work-life balance. Whilst Kate appreciated her enthusiasm and passion for the job, she had seen too many people burn out working in this environment in the past, and habitually cajoled Emma gently about her working habits.

Searching through the wardrobe for something to wear, a slight frown flickered across Kate’s features. After supervision with Emma, she had arranged to have lunch with her sister, Sylvia. Though she loved her dearly, Kate could not help but be aware that, were they not sisters, she and Sylvia would be unlikely to be friends. Where Kate was tenacious, driven and fiercely independent, her older sister flitted through life like a butterfly, happily depending on others to take care of her. Not that any of the men who had fulfilled this role minded; with her long blond hair, hazel eyes and delicate features, Sylvia had had no shortage of admirers more than willing to buy her clothes, pay her rent and take her to the theatre and the expensive restaurants she so enjoyed. In her last year of a fine art degree at university, Sylvia had met Ivan Skarowic, a wealthy Armenian businessman eight years her senior, and married him a year later. Since the age of twenty four, she had never had to work or worry about money. Kate had had – and still harboured – some reservations about Ivan, but her sister seemed happy enough with him, so Kate remained friendly and courteous. Slipping on a pair of dark, loosely tailored trousers and a white blouse, Kate pushed these thoughts from her mind, tuning her ear in once more to ‘Today’ and trying to pick up the thread of the debate.

In the car driving to work, the eight o’clock news bulletin featured an item that made Kate’s ears prick up. The body of a young woman had been found stuffed into a wheelie bin in St. Paul’s, one of the seamier areas of Bristol. Scant details were given at this stage, the report stating only that the woman appeared to be in her late teens to early twenties, with no form of identification found on the body. Kate wondered what had happened to the poor girl, thinking that the most likely explanation would be drug-related. St. Paul’s was riddled with dealers and addicts, providing a home to at least a quarter of the population of HMP Aldwich – when they weren’t resident in one of the cells, of course. The young woman was likely a junkie who had overdosed and been put in the wheelie bin by a panicked fellow user, or else involved with one of the complex gang hierarchies that controlled the drug supply and frequently led to casualties when turf wars occurred or deals went bad. It was a sad state of affairs, but Kate had long since grown used to this facet of the world in which she lived her professional life. It would have been unusual for such a case to make national headlines, but she assumed that the police had released the information in the hope that someone would be able to identify the body and provide some indication as to what might have led to the poor girl’s death.

“Morning, Kate.” Andy Green, the Operational Support Grade manning the main gate that morning, greeted her with a cheery smile.
“Hi, Andy. How are you this morning?” Kate replied as he swung open the gate and stood aside to let her through.
“Not so bad: another day, another dollar, y’know how it goes.”
“Uh-huh. At least the sun’s shining though.”
“You’re right there, love, could be worse.” Kate enjoyed these early morning exchanges with the OSGs. Following the same essential pattern each day, they helped get her into a work frame of mind. Waiting for her keys to be chucked down one metal chute in exchange for the tally she had placed in the other one, she went through a similar set of pleasantries with the OSG in the gatehouse. Clipping her keys to the chain attached to her belt, tucking them into their leather pouch and collecting a radio, she chatted to the other staff arriving and going through the same security routines. As she was let out of the inner gate, into the main compound of the prison, Kate fell into conversation with Rebecca James, the Head of Learning and Skills. Following a twenty year career in teaching, during which she had acquired a reputation as a trouble-shooter for problem secondary schools, Rebecca had taken up the position in charge of the prison’s education department three years earlier. She shared with Kate a deep-seated belief in the possibility of change, no matter how far down the wrong track an individual had gone, and the two women had developed a very positive working relationship that had led to a pro-active, reciprocal relationship between their respective departments. It had also developed into a rewarding friendship outside the prison walls, a shared bottle of wine every couple of weeks providing a chance for both to let off a little steam about the somewhat macho world in which they worked.

After some general chitchat about prison business , Rebecca asked “Do you fancy grabbing some lunch in the mess today?” The slang terminology for the staff canteen at the prison was a hangover from the days when the vast majority of the staff was ex-armed forces.
“Sorry,” Kate replied, “I’ve already got lunch plans.” The other woman caught her slightly downbeat tone.
“Can I tempt you to a glass or two of wine this evening instead then?” This was one of the things Kate enjoyed about the teacher’s company: she picked up on nuances that other people didn’t and, rather than pressing for the reasons behind them, offered subtle opportunities to discuss what was troubling them. This talent was one of the reasons she was so good at her job, as it meant she not only worked deftly with prisoners, but also managed her staff in a compassionate, collegial manner.
“That would be lovely,” Kate answered, gratefully. After a short pause, she explained “I’m having lunch with Sylvia.” Rebecca raised her eyebrows slightly and nodded in understanding. She was familiar with Kate’s mixed feelings towards her sister and the psychologist appreciated the tacit support her friend offered. As Rebecca unlocked a gate leading to the education department, marking the point at which their ways parted, she turned briefly.
“I’ll get a couple of bottles in then.” Kate smiled at the wink that accompanied this comment, as the older woman turned away again and stepped through the gate. Feeling more positive about the day, with a drink and a chat with a good friend to look forward to at the end of it, Kate turned left along the fence and continued towards the low, red-brick block that housed the psychology department.

Kate barely had time to grab a cup of coffee and say good morning to the other staff in the department’s kitchenette before heading out the door again and over to the administration block, where the operational meeting was held every morning in the Governor’s office. Trying to juggle the papers she was carrying and her keys to open a gate without spilling coffee all over herself, Kate was grateful when a hand reached round her with a gate-key ready. “I’ve got it,” said a male voice behind her. As she stepped aside, she suddenly felt slightly less gratitude and a little embarrassed. Alan Davies, Head of Security, was a grim-faced man in his late forties. He was one of the old guard, set in his ways after a lifetime serving in prisons across the country, who could often be heard harking back to the ‘good old days’ when officers were there to bang the prisoners up and there was none of this ‘touchy-feely nonsense’ – by which he, and others of his ilk, meant attempts to rehabilitate the men in their care. He also disapproved of women in the service, so Kate, as both a female and a psychologist, constantly felt as though she had to prove herself to Davies and the other dinosaurs, as she privately thought of them. She knew that he would take her juggling act as a sign of incompetence, a suspicion that was confirmed by the condescending and faintly disapproving smile he gave as he held the gate open for her.
“Thanks,” she smiled, forcing herself to sound light and breezy as she stepped through the gate. She firmly pushed down any feelings of inadequacy as she walked towards the administration building, reminding herself that she was a highly valued member of the senior staff and that the days of men like Alan Davies running the prison service were numbered. Regardless of their personal views, new government initiatives frequently put the emphasis of sentencing more and more on the rehabilitative aspect of custody, rather than the purely punitive, and the front-line staff had to implement the policies whether they liked it or not.

As she entered the Governor’s office, Kate glanced around the big, polished oak conference table that occupied one side of it, nodding and smiling greetings to the people already assembled there. She dumped her papers on the table in front of an empty chair and sank into it, taking a long sip of her coffee just as the Governor entered.
“Good morning everyone,” he said, taking his place at the head of the table. “Everyone seems to be here, so let’s get started.” A big, gentle-looking man, Governor Rodney Talland was an open-minded individual who ran his prison with a hand that was firm but fair. His arrival a little over a year earlier had marked the beginning of a period of change at HMP Aldwich, with Talland taking a much more hands-on approach than the previous, budget-focussed Governor who had retired after nearly a decade in charge of the establishment. Predictably, the slow, steady revolution that Talland had instigated had not been welcomed with open arms by all of the staff, but the man had enough charisma and vision to keep the dissenters in line.
“We’re going to have to keep it brief this morning,” he continued “I’ve got a budget meeting with Tracy to get to.” Tracy Shepperton, who ran the prison’s finances, was a notoriously tight-fisted woman and it was well-known that the Governor had clashed with her more than once in the past. The impending meeting would explain why he was looking even more harassed than usual this morning.

Once the usual apologies for absences were out of the way, the minutes of the previous day’s meeting agreed and updates given on issues that had needed following up, David Riley, Deputy Governor of the prison and yesterday’s duty governor, started his run-down of recent events. Starting with the roll-call of which prisoners were remaining on the wings due to illness or unemployment, Kate listened with half an ear as Riley went on to list which individuals were on open ACCT documents – prison parlance was full of acronyms and abbreviations, to the extent that new staff were often given a lengthy cheat-sheet: ACCT stood for Assessment, Care in Custody and Teamwork, referring to the continuous assessment document that was used to monitor men who were at risk of self-harm or suicide. No new names came up that Kate was not already aware of, but she made a note to check that Sally Mills, another of her trainee psychologists, was keeping abreast of developments with Bill Wentworth, who had been on an open ACCT for a week and a half now. Sally was fairly new to the department, having been appointed around four months earlier and, though she was somewhat green, Kate had seen the potential at interview for her to make a good, intuitive psychologist, given the right guidance. Her main concern was that Sally tended to take things to heart, not yet having developed the ability to maintain the clinical detachment that was vital for survival in their profession. Bill Wentworth was a disturbed young man of below-average IQ, whom Sally had been working with on a one-to-one basis in conjunction with his attendance on a programme designed to help offenders understand and control unmanageable emotions that contributed to their criminal behaviour. Kate wanted to ensure not only that Sally was attending to her professional duties with the man, but also that she was given an opportunity to voice any concerns or difficulties she was having dealing with the situation.

A familiar name brought Kate’s attention back to Riley’s voice. Lester Abbott, the man she had interviewed yesterday in order to prepare a court report, had become abusive to his personal officer the previous evening, had been physically restrained and put on Basic. This referred to the ‘basic regime’ level of the Incentives and Earned Privileges system, under which good behaviour was rewarded with perks such as increased numbers of visits and poor behaviour was disencouraged by the reduction or removal of the same. Raising her hand slightly to indicate to Riley that she had a comment, Kate cast her mind back to yesterday’s interview.
“I saw Mr. Abbott yesterday to interview him for his appeal court report,” she told the meeting. “He maintained his calm during the interview, but I could see he was wound up by the end of it. I made a note in the obs. book, but it doesn’t surprise me that he kicked off later.”
“Do you have time to see him today, check what’s going on?” This came from Tom Burton, Head of Operations, who managed the residential units and wing staff. Kate nodded, meeting his eyes and smiling slightly to indicate that she would, as she made a note on her pad. Burton was one of the good guys, in Kate’s opinion, and habitually smoothed any difficulties she encountered in dealing with the wing officers.

The meeting ran its course, drawing to an early close as Talland hurried off to his next appointment. Kate exchanged pleasantries with some of the other managers whilst gathering her things, before walking briskly through the lingering chill of the January morning back to her own department, her mind running ahead to the report she was working on, going over the facts of the case and pinpointing evidence to support her assessment of Abbott’s behaviour and risk levels.

The rest of the morning flew by, and Kate was slightly startled when there was a knock on her office door and Emma Hampton’s head appeared around it.
“Supervision session?” the girl reminded her. Kate smiled and gestured for her to come in and sit down, simultaneously finishing the sentence she had been typing and saving the document.
“Sorry, Emma,” she apologised as her trainee pulled up a chair to the other side of the desk. “I hadn’t forgotten – just got caught up in this report. Actually,” she continued, “I was thinking it might be an interesting case for you to have a look at as well: Lester Abbott’s appeal hearing?” Kate knew that Emma was likely to be familiar with the basics of the case, as the prisoner’s behaviour had gained him a degree of notoriety since his arrival at Aldwich. Emma nodded, leaning forward with bright, interested eyes, and the pair fell into an animated discussion of the man.

Kate was late for her lunch with her sister, creating a note of discord that persisted through the rest of the meal. She listened without much enthusiasm as Sylvia chattered about her life, talking about a mini-break to France that she was departing for the next day. As soon as was polite after they’d finished, Kate made her excuses, had a minor tiff with her sister over who was going to pay the bill, and headed gratefully back to the sanctuary of the prison. She was aware of the irony of her characterisation of the place but, at that moment, nothing seemed more appealing to her than being relatively insulated from the outside world, especially that part of it that contained her family.

It was approaching four o’clock and Kate was just considering taking a break from the afternoon’s administrative tasks to make some tea and chat to some of her staff, when the phone on her desk rang. She reached out and picked up the handset without looking away from her computer screen, still giving the majority of her attention to the monthly stats she was looking over as she put the phone to her ear.
“Kate Oramore,” she said, absently.
“Hey Kate, not tearing you away from something vital am I?” Kate smiled as she recognised the teasing tones of Kevin Latchmead, the police liaison officer for HMP Aldwich. A tall, slightly lanky man, Kev had intense, dark hazel eyes, dusky blond hair cropped close to his skull and a gently flirtatious manner that led some of the female staff to refer to him as sex-on-legs and tease each other about finding excuses to see him.
“Hi, Kev – what could possibly be more vital than talking to you?” Kate matched his tone and, leaning back in her chair, gave him her full attention.
“Well, now you mention it....” he replied, before his voice turned serious. “Actually, there is something we’d like your help with.” Kate sat up, elbows on the desk and head bowed as she sensed that this was not going to be a routine type of request.
“Go ahead?”
“There’s an ongoing matter down in Bristol that they’d like your opinion on. I don’t really have many details, something to do with similarities between a couple of recent incidents. The guy running the investigation’s getting a bit worried about it and asked if I’d make an informal approach to you before it gets passed up the chain.”
“Okay, Kev, that’s no biggie. If you’ve not got the details, I assume he wants me to swing by the station on the way home?”
“No, he’s asked if you can get over there as soon as possible, Kate.” The PLO’s voice was entirely professional now, no teasing or flirting. “I think this might be something pretty serious. Could be a storm in a teacup, but Granger’s not the type to ask for outside help unless he’s pretty sure he needs an expert. That’s the detective in charge: Ollie Granger.”

Thanks for reading, hope you enjoyed it, do please let me know your thoughts