I turn my head slightly. The other women are also all lying on their mattresses, apparently asleep. Could it be after lunch already? Does one get three meals here: breakfast, lunch, supper?
I try to move away as carefully as possible from the strange bodies touching mine, but no matter which side I turn to, there is a body pressing against mine. I want a toothbrush, some mouthwash. My bladder is full, even though I’ve had nothing to drink. This makes me realise I’m thirsty. For anything to drink, but preferably coffee.
What’s the time? Out of habit I look at my wrist. Nothing. No watch, no cellphone. Gingerly I lift my body into a sitting position. The toilet is going to be a problem. It’s not enclosed. And it’s dirty.
The woman who made place for me next to her also sits up and yawns loudly. “What you in for, sugar?”
She leans so close to me that I can smell her sour breath. I recoil instinctively, then feel embarrassed about my reaction. Shake my head.
“You don’t want to tell me?” She sniffs, looks me up and down. “Can’t be for prostitution, nobody would look at you with those baggy clothes and no hair. Why’s your hair so short?”
When I don’t answer, she says: “I’m in for prostitution. Third time. If it carries on like this, I’m going to lose customers.” She sounds quite resigned.
I avoid looking at her, hoping that she will get the message that I don’t want to talk to her. I don’t want to talk to anyone, just sit here. And think. And pray. And hope.
She sniffs again, whispers loudly: “My old-timer’s fault. He used me and abused me. You could say he raised me for the trade.”
I turn my head away from her. I don’t understand this. How is it possible that there are women who have been sexually abused and yet are ready to have sex for payment? How can they have sex at all?
Yet a small part of me does understand. Didn’t I sleep around at school? Have sex left, right and centre without the benefit of payment? And even though I have been living for years in self-imposed celibacy, the knowledge is always there: you were also like that. You are no better than a prostitute.
“Murder.” I turn back to her. “I’m in for murder.”
“Did the bastard rape you?”
I nod, surprised.
“Then it’s good that you stabbed him.”
“I shot him.”
“Good for you,” another voice says. “I used a knife on my man, he beat me up. Won’t ever do it again, though.”
Everyone is now sitting up, yawning, patting down rumpled hair, scratching an itchy spot. I begin to link the voices to faces.
“I’m in for robbery.”
“Drunk in the street.”
“Drugs.”
“My name is Violet,” says my prostitute neighbour. “What’s yours?”
“Anna. I’m thirsty.”
“Come.” She stands up, groaning, pulls me up by the arm. “Let me show you.”
Next to the toilet there’s a hole in the wall and a nozzle from which water is dripping. “Look,” she shows me, “you pull the little lever and water squirts out.”
I do this, drink huge gulps of water.
“Want to pee?”
I nod.
“Hey, look away,” she tells the others. “She wants to pee without being watched!”
“It’s so dirty, maybe I’ll just wait.”
“How d’you think, till when? We don’t have any cleaning stuff. If we had a blanket, we could put it on the ground, then at least your feet would stay dry. If it was winter we could have, then we get two blankets. But now . . .” She shrugs her shoulders.
“Pass my blanket.”
She shakes her head. “No, you going to need it tonight, it gets cold. So you better just pee.”
I sit down on the toilet, shudder at the wetness under my feet, and also because the bottom edges of the tracksuit pants are now going to be soggy.
“Shame, not even any panties.” One of the others shakes her head.
“Shaddup, you!” Violet hisses at her. She looks at me. “Mary,” she indicates with her head, “acts holy as the Virgin, but she drinks herself silly. She has never even seen a panty, never mind worn one.”
“Fuck you, Violet!”
“Fuck you too, Mary.”
Thank goodness there is toilet paper. I sigh and pull up my pants.
I turn around, look for the handle to flush the toilet, but Violet says: “It’s broken. Broke long ago.”
From outside comes the sound of keys, the squeaking of the gate. The cell door opens.
“About time, I’m fuckin’ hungry!” someone says.
A woman stands in front of the barred gate, plates in her hands. Someone behind her passes more plates on to her, she passes them on to us.
I go and sit on my mattress, look at the enamel plate in my hand. No knife, no fork. Watery, overcooked chicken on mushy rice. Green veg. Spinach? Green beans? Could also be peas cooked to a mush.
I am hungry. When last did I eat anything? I look down at the food. Jail food.
No, I decide, I’m not this desperate. Also not this hungry.
“Aren’t you gonna eat?” Violet’s eyes are fixed on my food.
I shake my head and hold the plate out to her.
“Please, Supe, these are old people and they have driven far,” Joubert van Heerden says. “Just ten minutes, here in your office, under your supervision. They are very worried about her, and I’m worried about them. Let them just see that she’s okay.”
Bulldog ponders the request, sizes up the other man.
“Supe knows me.” Now the lawyer is pleading. “I would never ask for something like this unless it was really necessary. Please.”
How many times have the two of them not battled each other in court for what is right and just? Bulldog asks himself. He considers the options. This is not normally done, she is a suspect. But really, he cannot think of her as a murderer. What difference will ten minutes actually make to him? For her, on the other hand, it could mean a great deal.
“Fine,” he hears himself saying. “But only ten minutes. And tonight at eight, when there aren’t so many eyes around here.”
As Van Heerden leaves the office with a grateful smile, Bulldog shakes his head. He is getting soft in his old age.
He picks up the phone, dials his home number. “I’m going to be late tonight,” he says to Marie on the other end. “I let that little snot-nose lawyer talk me into allowing the murder suspect to receive a visit. Tonight in my office. I think I’m losing my edge.”
“What you are doing is humane, Leon. Compassionate.”
He grunts and replaces the phone on the cradle. Seeing he has to stay at the office until late, he might as well keep busy, he decides, and pulls Anna Bruwer’s dossier towards him.
Him, Bulldog Webber, compassionate!
I lie on the mattress, arms folded under my head, stare at the ceiling. Try to work out how much time has passed since lunchtime. Try to imagine that I am somewhere else. That I can’t hear the shouting and swearing and complaining around me. That I can feel the sun on my skin. That I am not hungry. Not thirsty.
If