Stix and George arrived at the medium-security prison
outside Davenport, Iowa, two days apart. After George was processed in to the
prison, he was ushered into a cell. Stix was sitting on the top bunk, his long legs
dangling over the edge of the mattress. George dropped his prison-issued bundle
– towel, sheet, blanket – onto the bottom bunk and sat down with a sigh.
The cell was predictably Spartan: the set of bunk beds, a toilet,
a small sink against one wall, a slit of a window high up on the opposite wall.
Ten paces from wall to wall.
Stix was in on a charge of manslaughter. He had been the
lookout during a liquor store robbery that went horribly wrong when the clerk
reached under the counter and Stix’s buddy shot him, right in the face. Stix’s
buddy was tried for murder and got a life sentence; Stix pleaded out and pulled
15 years.
George, who supported himself through a string of burglaries
in his hometown, got six years after one particular rainy night, when, just
outside a house’s gate, with his sack of loot slung low over his shoulder, he
slipped in a mud puddle at the edge of the road, fell and broke his wrist, just
as a deputy sheriff rounded the corner in a squad car.
The two men settled into the routine of prison life: sleep,
eat, walk around the dusty yard for 30 minutes, eat, bed check, sleep. They
learned to avoid the more sadistic of the guards, but they both kind of liked
Andy, the guard most often assigned to their cellblock. Andy was the warden’s
brother-in-law, and he seemed to be a nice guy, not too invested in his job,
nor in the plight of the prisoners. He was usually good for a cigarette, and he
had a way of treating the convicts with something close to dignity.
Prison life was boring in its day-to-day sameness. Between
meals, confined to the small cell, George often paced the floor, from bars to
window, although the slit of sunlight was too high on the wall for the shorter
man to be able to see out. From his bunk, Stix could watch the sky, and he
would tell George every morning if the day was cloudy, or clear, or threatening
with rain clouds. Sometimes at night, Styx, who at 6-foot-5 and beanpole-thin,
seemed to be unable to keep his feet from hanging off the edge of his bunk.
George often bumped his head on them when he got up in the middle of the night
to take a leak. At least Stix, in all his leanness, didn’t cause his mattress
to sag down into George’s bunk space, but all the same, the worn mattress
springs creaked through the night with every turn of Stix’s frame.
An antidote to boredom was the escape game that George
invented for the two of them. The men played it endlessly, whispering to each other
about how they would do it, where they would do it, when they would do it.
After a few months, the game ended and the planning began. Use the bunk beds to
disguise a hole in the floor, exposing a shallow tunnel leading out to the
yard. Time the run across the yard to the fence against the guards’ routines.
Cut a piece of the wire fencing in the yard, not so you could tell, but just enough
to bend the wires and squeeze through. Cut through the second fence that was a
few feet from the cornfields on two sides of the prison. There would be plenty
of good hiding in the cornfields.
Every day through that summer, George hid in his palm a
makeshift razor, scored on a trade of a dozen girly magazines, and rocked
against one spot of the fence during their allotted 30 minutes out in the yard.
Sometimes he rocked slowly; other times he sped up to edge the blade sharply against
the wire. The guards took to calling his antics, “George’s rain dance,” and
didn’t pay him any more mind than that.
Stix had a small pair of nail clippers, missing the nail
file, that he sharpened with George’s blade every night after lights out. That
would make the cut at the second fence.
And for several hours every night, they would take turns
under George’s bunk, shifting dirt from the hole in the floor into their extra
pairs of socks, which they would empty into the dusty yard every noon.
Three nights that summer, in the space of two weeks, the men
made practice runs, ending at the first fence, where they tested the
flexibility of the cut wire. Their confidence grew each time.
They planned their escape for the night of laundry day.
Their freshly cleaned clothes would leave less scent for the dogs to track, they
figured. And as soon as they reached the cornfield, they would part ways, so
the guards and dogs would have to split up, too.
They went over the plan, 10 times, 20 times, 30 times. They
knew there was a risk of a guard varying his routine, but after their practice
runs, that didn’t seem likely. Prison routine was prison routine, for the
guards as well as the inmates, after all.
After supper on laundry day, George got a stomach ache. It’s
just nerves, Stix reassured him. George laid on his bunk, taking deep breaths.
Two hours after bed check and lights out, they shook hands, squeezed under
George’s bunk and slipped into the shallow tunnel. Stix slid ahead easily, but
the going was slower for George. Finally, he could no longer tell how far ahead
Stix was.
Stix made good time, not giving a thought to the man behind
him in the narrow tunnel. He scurried across the yard, squeezed through the
first fence, dashed across the darkened no man’s land, and cut the second fence
easily. He dropped to his belly and crawled the few feet to the safety of the
cornfield. As he plunged into the tall stalks of corn, he pulled up short.
There, standing between Andy and several other armed guards, was George.
As the guards cuffed Stix, shackling his feet for good
measure, and led him away to solitary, Stix wailed, “Why did you do it, George?
Why’d you turn me in?”
George looked at Stix and a slow smile spread across his
face. He said: “I wanted the top bunk.”
Angie's story:
Emma loved her amateur dramatic group and almost all the people in it with the exceptions of a rather opinionated and boorish ex army man , a founder member who was past his sell by date and Sally, a young and rather beautiful young lady who was not surprisingly much in demand. Rumour had it that she was in fact seeing someone and not a single someone, hence the secrecy.
Ironic then that they should be about to start rehearsals for the famous Pinter Play ‘Betrayal’ arguably one of his best and inspired by his seven year long affair with Joan Bakewell.
Emma was lying in bed pondering these thoughts with a cup of tea which had been deposited next to her by John on his way out to work and delivered with the cursory peck and good wishes for the day trotted out each morning with perfunctory ease.
She in turn lifted her cheek, returned the sentiment and opened her iPad, checking the day’s emails before taking a shower, dressing and downing a yoghurt all in her usual record time of 1O minutes before grabbing her bag, locking the door, climbing into her car and heading out into the already congested traffic.
As she drove she reflected on how long it had been since she was consciously aware of her loss of feeling for her husband.
Had it been there before Terry had begun to show more than a passing interest in her school drama productions.
Or had she still thought herself as content in her marriage as any other of her friends of similar age where time children and careers had all taken their toll on what had once been a hot bed of desire and a longing to please the beloved.
This she knew was the stuff of dramas. The pattern of marital fluctuation, waxing and waning recharging and drifting into times of annoyance or loss of respect or frustration or perhaps the worst total apathy.
Had she actually arrived at this point. She supposed so. In the four years she had been with Terry she had found her ideal man.
Not conventionally good looking or wealthy but he made her laugh constantly, made her feel special and was generous to a fault. John by contrast had become more introvert, more business aware and less sociable as the yers had gone by.
From watching her school productions Terry had finally joined Sally’s dramatic group just to see more of her and had discovered an innate talent for acting that he would never have known he possessed.
Before long their clandestine meetings began and they became lovers.
So here they were, Sally and Terry in this latest production cast as the two central characters Emma and Jerry the best friend of Emma’s husband Robert.
Here real life and drama parted company since John had only met Terry fleetingly at the odd end of term do at Sally’s school. Did that make it slightly less bad that she was not betraying John with his best friend (actually did he even have a best friend?)
Terry seemed able to justify their relationship and while not wanting to hurt his own wife who seemed oblivious, continued to enjoy his family, two children in late teenage whom he was adamant he could not hurt in any way since he felt a breakup was traumatic at any age.This of course stopped Sally harbouring any thoughts of a fuller relationship at the moment.
Sooner than usual, the inner city school gates hove into view and Sally braced herself for a day of non stop stress interspersed with glimpses of Terry, usually in sports kit and heading for the playing fields, with a raffle taggle of semi willing participants trailing behind in various degrees of sports attire.
The day passed in the usual melee of classes, marking and meetings with other heads of departments. Problems with difficult pupils always loomed large and Sally was grateful that her subject was English and drama which meant lots of chances for free expression and letting of steam.
She hadn’t really had a chance to speak to Terry even in the staff room at coffee time.Lunch was always full on for both of them with various clubs and for Terry away games and practises.
So tonight at rehearsal would be a wonderful chance to catch up a little and maybe, as they sometimes did, if it was an early finish, leave separately and drive to a nearby secluded wooded area where they could spend a precious half hour or so alone together.
She got home in time to throw together a pasta salad before John arrived looking distracted.A successful business did not come without many stresses and demands on his time and energy. A weekly game of squash was one way of unwinding and he wandered upstairs to change saying he’d eat later.
Sally ate while catching up on the news and then took a leisurely shower luxuriating in the hot stream of water embracing her body hoping that later Terry might appreciate that smooth warm perfumed skin.
When she arrived at the rehearsal room, people were already milling a bout clutching scripts and chatting animatedly.There was a feeling of expectation in the air as always at the start of a new play.
Sally was there of course, surrounded by various admirers and explaining why, this time she was not taking the lead part since inevitably it must go to a more mature woman.
They were all finally brought to order by Bruce, the director for this production and a mainstay of the group.
Chairs were pulled noisily into a circle and Emma and Terry were seated next to each other as the two lead characters.it was infact a very small cast but everyone liked to be involved from the start, props, lighting, scenery etc.
The read through went quite well and Emma enjoyed the chance to speak lines to Terry that seemed ironically, so familiar to her, as they discussed their secret love, their ongoing affair and the need to be discreet.
In the play, the lovers were actually able to buy a flat for their clandestine meetings and Emma felt a twinge of envy knowing Terry would never be able to afford such a thing on a teacher’s salary.
Afterwards, as people began to chat amongst themselves Emma noticed that Terry was in earnest discussion with Sally. She thought little of it but was a bit surprised that there should be much to discuss with Emma having no part.
She waited for him to come over to her as usual and suggest a rendezvous.
When she finally caught his eye she read something chilling in his expression. It flitted across his face and was gone but she recognised in that split second something she never thought to see, guilt.
He touched Sally’s arm lightly to excuse himself and came across to Emma. The nonchalant posture was back and apparent attentiveness but Emma had seen in those looks and in that touch the thing that she thought was hers had slipped away.Sally might not have a part in the play but her new role would be the prize.
Her secret lover was indeed not single as everyone knew, but only Emma could see who it really was.
Whether or not she could now play the lover would test her acting skills to the limit and her broken heart so much more.
For her, betrayal had become reality.
___________________________________________________
Jackie's story
November fog had dumped itself in the apple orchard obscuring the usual fabulous views of rolling hills, rose bushes and marigolds. Mavis had just returned from the train station after dropping off her sister who’d been on a weekend visit from Paris. The house still lingered of her signatory perfume. They had had a fun weekend, but all that talk of the bustling rue Faubourg de St Honoré, the Champs Elysees, Paris cafés and the girly lunches Mavis realised she dearly missed her old life. Her sister on the other hand seemed preoccupied and stressed and she had caught her once or twice foraging in cupboards and an old chest of drawers.
As Mavis adjusted her reading glasses she pinched the tendrils of wiry grey hair that framed her face. Oouch - she felt a drop of blood behind her ear and felt slightly dizzy. - Surprised, she discovered they were not her usual glasses but some she had found in the kitchen drawer. Absent-mindly she set them aside for her own blue ones.
Her partner of 10 years had died suddenly last year - one minute getting on the metro in Paris for a conference and the next speeding in an ambulance to the Hopital Val de Grace with cardio arrest. Ten years of bliss and he had left her totally destitute. As is the custom in France no matter how many years you live with someone you do not automatically inherit from them. There had been no pacs agreement and no marriage.
So there she was a few weeks after the accident his two children claiming their beautiful and comfortable apartment and she out on the streets with only a tiny cottage in the deepest part of rural Ardeche to go to. Luckily she had kept this inherited tiny country property and was now safe in the knowledge that no one could claim it
After a year living in a state of disbelief and shock Mavis was finally beginning to take control of her life again
Her labrador puppy had been a great help and it was due to his playful behaviour that on this particular dreary morning she discovered something that sent her emotions into a terrible turbulence and fired her into revenge.
Puppy was scratching at an old desk , the one thing that she had salvaged from her previous home with her partner. Being too painful to examine it before today she opened the drawers. Papers, bills and notebooks spilt onto the carpet in a river of past times and one small leather moleskin bound notebook caught her eye.
It was unmistakably a diary, the red leather cover was crackled, worn and had obviously been manipulated a lot. The binding so creased, bent and crinkled it created patterns like a Vasarely painting. A page opened and upon seeing “his” writing a tidal wave of memories flooded her mind and she felt an undercurrent of emotions; rivulets of tears poured from her heart.
She couldn’t help but read the letter that fell out of the diary with a whiff of perfume that seemed familiar “my darling, I cannot be with you tonight as planned - by the way, did you give Mavis the reading glasses? You must, then we can be free to be together … I’ll see you tomorrow usual time usual place”
Flipping back through the pages Mavis discovered other letters, with poems and scribbling. Familiar handwriting all addressed to “My darling, my soon to be husband…” and dating back through the ten years Mavis and her partner had been together.
She had been mourning all these time for a man who had cheated on her, never cared for her, or admitted to having another love -all those trips he took to Amsterdam, London and New York time away from her he had been fleeing to someone else. - her love turned to hate in several minutes. But the tables had turned for him and it was he who was the victim not her. Now it was her turn to get even.
Intrigued by the reading glasses she had retrieved that morning and upon examining them found a very small needle on the left branch; the bit that went over the ear which must have pinched her - Mavis was alerted as she had always thought her partners death was suspicious. The pharmacy confirmed traces of poison - deadly enough when fresh to send a shock to the heart and cause death. So the glasses were meant for her after all but by mistake had been used by her companion. Pretending medical reasons she ordered some more of the deadly venom.
… trembling with emotion she went online to buy her train ticket.
Mme Martin next door was given strict instructions not to feed the dog too many biscuits and she packed a bag.
;;
Arriving in front of the apartment building she composed herself - was she really prepared to do what she had planned - was betrayal worth all this ?
“I’ve been waiting for you, you took your time to find out but now you know.”
“I just came to return these to you Mavis said thrusting the glasses onto her sisters face and pressing them onto her head firmly -
“Put them on, you’ll need them to read your prison sentence”
______________________________________
Annemarie's story:
Betrayal
Tony had been out of work for over well nine months but each morning, he took the train into London dressed in his suit and freshly laundered shirt, just as he used to when he worked.
The family had stopped eating out, there were no more holidays abroad and they had all cut back on personal spending. Tony even suggested Melanie's beloved cat should go (to someone else or cat heaven, she was not sure which he meant). Melanie's salary (self employed aromatherapist) paid for everything. At the weekend she took the boys for walks, foraging and blackberry-picking and then spent time making jams and chutneys. The household chores she finished late at night , before falling into bed exhausted. When her friend asked why Tony could not do some of the chores, particularly ironing his shirts, Melanie closed her eyes and took a deep breath before she replied:
“Well, the poor man, he's already been made redundant and to ask him to iron - well that would be a little demeaning for him. He's never had to do housework, he doesn't even feed the cat, wouldn't have a clue how much to give it let alone cook a meal for us.”
Melanie's friend sighed. It saddened and angered her to see Melanie working her fingers to the bone at home, whilst Tony spent money on daily train fares to avoid their wealthy friends knowing he had no work, then returning home ill tempered and critical.
It was a far cry from the affluent life they had led when he'd worked for a high-end property magnate involved in London’s theatre land. They were the golden couple - Tony regaling their friends with the latest luvvie scandals and Melanie with her big brown eyes, her glorious auburn hair, in her designer dresses,and to quote Germaine Greer, “fuck me shoes” all chosen by Tony.
'Were' being the operative word. No longer did Melanie get invited to cosy coffee mornings (after all she had her ironing to do), or join the 'ladies who lunch ' in chic little restaurants and no longer did they go to smart dinner parties (after all her clothes were all last year's models). She did, however, get called upon to make house visits with her aromatherapy table and to give foot massages.
Having decided Melanie needed a day out, away from London and having dropped their children off at school the women drove out to Amersham, its quaint high street lined with black and white timbered buildings jutting over the pavements. They browsed the shops, sometimes trying on clothes but each time Melanie declined buying anything - “ I couldn't. Poor Tony would be devastated if I spent money on myself when we have so little coming in.”
After a leisurely lunch, and several glasses of wine, Melanie was more like the old Melanie her friend remembered from art college.
“Before we go to visit the garden let's look at the gallery across the road - Tony is never interested in anything like that.”
The gallery was empty apart from a bespectacled middle-aged man behind an antique desk, apparently engrossed in a book. They sauntered round, Melanie happy and slightly wobbly after her rather liquid lunch. Then she stopped stock still before a large modern painting, mesmerised.
“Oh!” she exclaimed “just look at those colours. Look at the the way it draws you right in! I would so love to have that, I would never tire of it.”
Tony had been out of work for over well nine months but each morning, he took the train into London dressed in his suit and freshly laundered shirt, just as he used to when he worked.
The family had stopped eating out, there were no more holidays abroad and they had all cut back on personal spending. Tony even suggested Melanie's beloved cat should go (to someone else or cat heaven, she was not sure which he meant). Melanie's salary (self employed aromatherapist) paid for everything. At the weekend she took the boys for walks, foraging and blackberry-picking and then spent time making jams and chutneys. The household chores she finished late at night , before falling into bed exhausted. When her friend asked why Tony could not do some of the chores, particularly ironing his shirts, Melanie closed her eyes and took a deep breath before she replied:
“Well, the poor man, he's already been made redundant and to ask him to iron - well that would be a little demeaning for him. He's never had to do housework, he doesn't even feed the cat, wouldn't have a clue how much to give it let alone cook a meal for us.”
Melanie's friend sighed. It saddened and angered her to see Melanie working her fingers to the bone at home, whilst Tony spent money on daily train fares to avoid their wealthy friends knowing he had no work, then returning home ill tempered and critical.
It was a far cry from the affluent life they had led when he'd worked for a high-end property magnate involved in London’s theatre land. They were the golden couple - Tony regaling their friends with the latest luvvie scandals and Melanie with her big brown eyes, her glorious auburn hair, in her designer dresses,and to quote Germaine Greer, “fuck me shoes” all chosen by Tony.
'Were' being the operative word. No longer did Melanie get invited to cosy coffee mornings (after all she had her ironing to do), or join the 'ladies who lunch ' in chic little restaurants and no longer did they go to smart dinner parties (after all her clothes were all last year's models). She did, however, get called upon to make house visits with her aromatherapy table and to give foot massages.
Having decided Melanie needed a day out, away from London and having dropped their children off at school the women drove out to Amersham, its quaint high street lined with black and white timbered buildings jutting over the pavements. They browsed the shops, sometimes trying on clothes but each time Melanie declined buying anything - “ I couldn't. Poor Tony would be devastated if I spent money on myself when we have so little coming in.”
After a leisurely lunch, and several glasses of wine, Melanie was more like the old Melanie her friend remembered from art college.
“Before we go to visit the garden let's look at the gallery across the road - Tony is never interested in anything like that.”
The gallery was empty apart from a bespectacled middle-aged man behind an antique desk, apparently engrossed in a book. They sauntered round, Melanie happy and slightly wobbly after her rather liquid lunch. Then she stopped stock still before a large modern painting, mesmerised.
“Oh!” she exclaimed “just look at those colours. Look at the the way it draws you right in! I would so love to have that, I would never tire of it.”
The man at the desk quickly roused himself, approached the women and with an obsequious air he said,
“You have great taste. Romane Albers, greatly inspired by Georges Braques and
“You have great taste. Romane Albers, greatly inspired by Georges Braques and
becoming
internationally recognised. This painting has only recently come onto
the market and likely to go very quickly as there is a huge demand for
his work.”
Melanie gazed at the painting. She had never wanted
anything as much as she wanted this painting. Glowing and content after
her meal she imagined, she dreamed of, owning such a painting.
“Why
don’t you treat yourself,” said her friend, “you work hard enough and
you have your little inheritance tucked away. You'll never have a
chance like this again.”
A little more persuasion from the art
dealer, a little more “you deserve. It” from her friend and in no time
Melanie was the proud owner of a Romane Albers painting and her bank
balance reduced by the sum of £4,575.
When she arrived home
with a slightly clearer head, panic set in. How on earth would she
explain her new acquisition to Tony. He would be furious. No matter that
it cost less than his golf club fees (after all how else was he to
network?) She would just have to hide it for the time being, wait for a
better time, wait for when Tony had his new job. She would hide it in
what should be her art studio but was in fact her ironing room since she
had no time to indulge in painting and Tony never, never went near the
ironing.
Having hastily stashed it in the room she shut the
door and hurried off to pick up the boys, rushed back home and begin the
evening meal. Tony arrived home in bad humour and poured himself a
whisky and Melanie moved gingerly around fearful of rousing his anger.
Meanwhile a feint meowing could be heard; it grew ever louder and
demanding and Melanie called:
“Someone please see to the cat. I'm busy at the stove”. Seconds later she heard Tony yell:
“ Melanie, come here! “.
Too late she realised the cat had been shut in her studio. Tony's face was red with fury as he gazed at the painting or rather the price ticket still attached. Trembling she looked first at Tony then at her escaping cat , her cat who had betrayed her.
