‘So when is your court case, Babs? And how long have you actually been in Holloway?’

‘My trial is probably next year sometime. I’ve been in here four months, but I know I’m gonna get life.’

Frankie was gobsmacked. Babs seemed so nice, but she must have done something really bad to be looking at life. Sensing Frankie’s reluctance to ask her what she’d done, Babs started to open up. In the four months she had already spent in Holloway, she had never really talked about her crime. The other inmates all knew what she’d been charged with, but nobody knew why she had done it. Her usually bubbly expression disappeared and was instantly replaced by a look of sadness.

‘My first boyfriend, Dennis, was a bastard to me. He’s the father of my daughter, Matilda, and I met him when I was fifteen. As soon as I fell pregnant, the beatings started. He nearly killed me one time; pushed me down some concrete stairs and I was in hospital for nearly two month. He was Jamaican, like me, and involved with the Yardies, into drugs, prostitution, the works. Once he even made me sleep with a mate of his while he filmed it.’

‘Oh my God, that’s awful,’ Frankie said, shocked.

Months of not speaking about what had happened came bubbling to the surface and Babs was determined to share her burden with Frankie.

‘That’s nothing compared to what happened next. I contacted one of those women’s refuge places and they were brilliant. They put me in one of their safe houses and me and Matilda were so happy until Dennis turned up one day and set fire to the place with us inside. We managed to escape through a back window, but it were such an awful experience, Frankie. Even to this day, a whiff of smoke is enough to frighten the living daylights out of me.

‘The police never caught Dennis: he went on the run, and he knew the right people to protect him. Me and Matilda got moved again, this time to Surrey, but I could never say we were happy there. I used to sit in the dark most nights in case Dennis had found out where we were. Then, one fine day, a copper knocked at the door. Dennis had been found dead on the streets of Brixton. He’d OD’d on drugs, crack cocaine, and the police reckon he’d died in a house or flat and had been dumped on the pavement after his death. I was so happy. All I wanted was to move back near my family and friends, but Dennis dying just seemed too good to be true. I insisted on viewing his body – I needed to know it was definitely him – and when I saw his evil face in that morgue, I danced for joy, as I was finally free.’

‘So, how did you end up in here? The police didn’t accuse you of injecting him or something, did they?’