‘I couldn’t let him hurt my son like he hurts me. I just lost it, I… I’d been making sandwiches and the bread knife was on the surface, and the carving knife. I just grabbed the carving knife and stabbed him. I didn’t honestly realise what was happening until it was too late.’
It struck me how desperate Rebecca must have been to do something like that. How powerful that feeling of hopelessness and despair must’ve been for her to physically do that to him.
To strike him hard enough to kill him.
‘The only time he ever stopped hitting me was when I was pregnant. But once Jack arrived, he started again, saying I was putting the baby before him. Always seeing to Jack and never looking after him. There were so many times he almost killed me. Believe me. It was either us or him.
‘I got him in the chest. There was blood everywhere. I couldn’t quite believe I’d done it. I’ve never hurt a fly. He staggered around for a minute or two, shouting at me, and then fell on the floor.’ Rebecca’s voice was dull and unemotional as she relayed what had happened. Her eyes were glassy and her face was expressionless. I imagined the true horror of the event would not sink in for many days, or even weeks or months.
‘I still couldn’t believe what I’d done. It was like I was in a dream that I couldn’t wake up from. The blood was spreading all over the floor, and he lay there completely still. I was panicking, but knew I had to do the right thing. I called the police and then my mum. Before I knew it, two paramedics arrived. The police must have sent them. They said he was still alive. They tried to save him, but he died within minutes of them turning up.
‘I wanted to clean up the kitchen. I got the mop out. I didn’t want to leave it for someone else to do, but the police wouldn’t let me. They brought me straight here.’
Rightly or wrongly, I felt for her. I could see she didn’t realise the enormity of what she had done. She was desperate, and like so many of the women I see, was despairing and couldn’t see a way out.
We continued to go through Rebecca’s notes. She didn’t use drugs and was not a heavy drinker and she had no medical issues. She was a young woman, who was fit and well.
‘What am I going to do about my son? Will I see him?’ Her voice sounded almost hopeful, that things would not change for her and her son.
For most mothers, being apart from their children must cause the most indescribable pain. I simply couldn’t imagine what that must be like for anyone, especially for someone with very young children.
‘You said your mum’s got him?’ I replied, softly.
‘Yes. She said she would pick him up from school. I guess he must’ve had his tea by now. Done his reading – he’s starting to read now. It’s amazing, and the books are so funny. He’ll be in bed by now, I suppose. I hope he has his favourite teddy.’ She paused, her mind ticking over, like most mothers, the things they do every night to keep their kids happy and comfortable. ‘When will I see him again?’
‘I’m sorry. I don’t know,’ I replied. All I did know was that the chances were, if she was found guilty to the charge of murder, she was likely to be in prison for a very long time.
I put my hand gently on hers. ‘I can’t imagine how you must be feeling. I hope you cope with being in prison, and that you will soon be able to see your little boy.’
The prison officer standing outside came in and led her away. That was the first and last time I ever saw Rebecca. I never knew whether she lived to regret what she had done, or if she was able to see her son regularly whilst she was inside. I simply got a snapshot of her existence, and happened to be there on what must have been the most shocking and tragic day of her life.
The Reception shift in Bronzefield involved seeing to the new prisoners who had arrived from one of the ninety-five courts the prison serves, or from police custody, before they were taken to the house blocks by the officers to start their stint behind bars. Many of them would be withdrawing from a medley of drugs and alcohol, and would need medication to get them through the night. My shift started at 5 p.m. and lasted until 9 p.m. but it was often not possible to see all the new arrivals in that time. They would be seen by the on-call doctor, if needs be. Whatever crimes they had committed, they still needed to be cared for. Some had very complex physical and mental health issues, arriving with bags of different medications: a jumble of boxes, bottles and pill packets, some of them empty, often many of them out of date. Sometimes it seemed to me like they had simply swept the top of their bedside table into a bag in anticipation of not going home for a while. These medications needed to be checked and prescribed on the computer, before the nurses could administer them.
I felt pensive after seeing Rebecca, and wondered how she would cope with the days that would follow, away from her son. I took a deep breath of stuffy air and padded out of my room, along the strip-lit hallway to the small waiting area.
A warming smell of jacket potatoes wafted out of the little kitchen area and made my stomach rumble, reminding me of the fact I hadn’t eaten since mid-morning. Food is provided in Reception for the new arrivals who won’t make it back to the house block in time for the evening meal. The kitchen is kitted out with a small fridge, microwave and chest freezer, supplying the basics, including bread for toast. Often dinner for the new arrivals is a simple jacket potato, with a dollop of beans and handful of cheese.
It was obviously a jacket potato day. For many of them, it would be their first proper cooked meal in days.
‘Hi, Doc.’ Melissa and Shamir, two prison officers, greeted me, smiling. We exchanged a few words.
‘It’s really busy tonight,’ Melissa said with a sigh. She sounded exasperated as she tried to sort out one of the girl’s possessions – a jumble of clothing and prescription medicine that she was passing over the large countertop. Behind the wide counter are rows upon rows of small lockers to house the women’s possessions whilst they are inside. When they are released, they are given back the items.
‘Yes, it looks crazy,’ I replied, scanning the scene in front of me.
The process of getting into the prison can be slow. Some cases are more complex than others. After prisoners arrive inside from their ride in the uncomfortable ‘sweat box’ to the prison, they are processed into the system. This involves searches, sorting their clothing, and getting their ‘welcome pack’.
I could see one girl being handed a white string bag, containing a handful of items, including a mug, a plastic knife, fork and spoon, toothpaste, toothbrush, shampoo, soap, conditioner, six pairs of knickers and socks, two tracksuits, a nightie, tea and coffee, and a hairbrush. These packs are compiled by the residents who work in Reception, earning from £2.40 to £3.20 a day, which they can spend how they wish on items like moisturiser, vapes and snacks. The girls can also take some of their own clothes to wear, if they wish, but many of them only have the clothes that they are standing up in. The prisoners then meet with the nurse, to go through their medical notes, and all those that require medication would be added to my list. There could sometimes be more than fifteen new residents needing to be processed, and sometimes I would need to spend thirty to forty minutes going through their medical history and medication. Any newcomer that had not been seen by the end of my shift would be seen by the duty doctor for any essential medication and then added to the GP list to be reviewed the following morning. It was a finely tuned process that was often exhausting and challenging. But at times, it was also very rewarding. It kept me on my toes, and it was definitely never boring.