I wanted to leave but she was still blocking the door. There was nothing I could say that would make it okay. All I could hear was beeping from a monitor a patient was hooked up to, timed exactly to the sound of my own heart thudding.

‘She’s got a broken eye socket and a fractured skull.’

I winced. Mrs Whitaker looked to be in a world of her own, staring into the distance.

‘You are perfect,’ she whispered to no one.

Ice shot down my back and I stood to attention.

‘I’m sorry, what did you say?’ I asked, bringing her back to the moment. Her eyes focused on me and she sighed. She looked like she hadn’t slept a wink.

‘That’s what he said to her before she lost consciousness. “You are perfect”.’

‘I have to go. I’m sorry,’ I said as the room blurred. I squeezed past her and pressed the door release button. Hurrying to the exit, outside into the fresh air. When I reached the doors to the smokers congregated under the canopy, I slumped against the wall. Doubled over like I’d been winded. You are perfect. It wasn’t a coincidence. Ian had said the same words to me.

Sunday 28 January 2018

I’ve been doing laps of my cell for around half an hour now, after I managed a short nap. Time seems to move at a glacial pace as soon as the door is locked. It feels like I’ve been here for days. There’s no way of knowing what the time is. Only the light from the window dictates night or day. It must be late afternoon now. I’m not sure what is going to happen. Will they want to interview me again? I’ve been charged now and I’m not sure what more they can ask? There’s a lead weight in my stomach, pushing me down. I’m waiting for the door to swing open and to be carted off to HMP somewhere. I don’t know where the nearest female prison is. I have no idea where any prisons are.

All the hanging around is making me twitchy. Like I’m due to sit an exam I haven’t prepared for. I’m used to the smell of urine radiating from the floor now. No matter how many times the cell is cleaned, I’m sure it remains, ingrained in the cracks. Yet I don’t want to leave here. I’m afraid of where I’ll be sent.

The grey plimsolls they’ve given me are too big and rub at my heels, but I persevere with my walk. Around and around in circles with no purpose, a bit like my life. What a disappointment I must be to my mother. I wonder if anyone has told her? Jane maybe? Ben? Will she be sober enough to comprehend?