We meet in a small interview room. When Pauline arrives she is carrying an
electric jug, milk, a mug for each of us, coffee and her own smokes. One day
she comes empty-handed. It's a new guard, doesn't believe her story,
confiscated her things—'Arsehole,' snorts Pauline, 'having a bad day,
and takes it out on me—'
Sometimes we gossip. Like the time we'd both seen the film on TV showing
murder victims dressing up to go and watch an execution. We agree we
wouldn't want to live in America. 'It's just revenge,' she says. 'Can't see
the point. You have to forgive—everyone does. I mean, am I going to go
on for ever blaming my mother? or Bill, bastard as he was? I have to be
responsible for myself, for what I've done.'
Other occasions come and go. At home I write to the woman I now know, the
silent archetype who endures Pauline's sufferings.
