Mummy Where Are You? (Revised Edition, new) (30 page)

              Tears poured down my cheeks as I wondered how things had led to this. I longed for M, his warm little body hugging me, to be back in our cottage snuggled under the duvet watching one of his favourite DVDs and giggling – mugs of tea – a favourite since very small – and sometimes the treat of a cookie that inevitably found its way into the bed and sprinkled crumbs between my toes in the night.  How much we had known of joy – how far away that now seemed in this cold damp cell.  I had reached a veritable
Bleak House
– the Courts had swallowed us whole and spat us out.  How would I endure this?  I had no idea.  I felt as if I would not last the night, let alone another four and half months – but there was no escape, not even with sleep which failed to come and release me from the demons of my mind. 

              The television flickered through the night as I watched the news over and over on the one available channel, my only companion - it’s white and speckled noise, the only hum of company that life could offer me until dawn would deliver me to another day inside this brave new world that held me in its iron fist.

              Surviving each day became my aim. I counted the days and made myself focus on small goals and improvisation to help me get through.  When on the second day I developed severe period pains from my endometriosis, a condition which rendered me in agony each month; I asked for a hot water bottle from the warden, but there was only one on the wing and the girl with gall-bladder trouble had naturally been given this.  I could hardly  begrudge her, but was desperate for some relief from my pain.  I had already sought pain killers from the night warden without success as Health Care wasn't open at night.  I was told I must last until morning, another twelve hours away.  I cursed that I had not asked for something when meds had been given out but the onset of my condition usually presented no warning. 

              Under normal circumstances I'd have had access to strong prescription pain relief from my GP, but I'd had all medications removed on induction and I was still awaiting the Health Care’s approval for things like my asthma inhalers which had to be re-prescribed by the prison doctor.  I was not even allowed to have, what for some was life-saving treatment, but this was prison life and everything was bureaucratic and took an age to achieve. 

              It's amazing what one can come up with though when forced to.  I realised I had two things in the cell that might bring some temporary relief.  One was
Vicks
rub which I'd been allowed to keep and the other was a kettle.  I rubbed the Vick on my lower back, knowing that the menthol would provide some warmth and then searched for any container that might safely hold boiling water.  Someone had given me the dregs of a bottle of baby lotion to remove the make-up I had come from Court in.  I rinsed out the plastic bottle, filled it with hot water and for safety, put one of the small plastic bin liners from my waste bin over it and tied it securely.  I then covered this with a sock and low and behold I had a hot water bottle.  Later on I found other larger containers that would serve me even better and thus managed to survive the long freezing nights with some semblance of comfort. 

              Prison life was alien to me in every way.  I tried to see it as a challenge and also an opportunity to get away from the stress of the outside world.  I was exhausted from all the Court appearances and the constant annotating of reports that the lawyers expected of me.  I seemed to be working twice as hard as they were and I'd run myself into the ground.  Here, at least I was free from that and could enjoy reading, something I hadn't had the chance to do for a long time.                Books weren't plentiful in the prison library and there was very little choice.  Kind friends kept me supplied and I devoured these hungrily.  It was another way to escape the long tedious days and transport myself into worlds that bore no resemblance to the life I now endured - a non-life, an opting out from the world. 

              There were other things to get used to, such as powdered tea and bans on seemingly innocuous items like pepper which could be used along with orange peel, pages of the Bible and
Nicorette
patches to make cigarettes.  This being the only non-smoking prison in the British Isles at the time.  I had no desire to smoke since the temporary lapse - but stress levels were high enough amongst those who had come in with drug related crimes, and it seemed crazy to deprive them of cigarettes too. 

              I was struck by how little support there was for the drug addicts, who were offered no form of counselling, AA meetings or rehabilitation and were forced to go cold turkey. This seemed entirely wrong and probably explained some of the more aggressive behaviour.  It also meant that those who offended would probably re-offend as soon as released. 

              Nicotine patches and gum were handed out like
Smarties
and converted into some form of smoking device by whatever means. 
Valium
was equally dished out with aplomb, to keep people quiet and manageable, although fortunately not to me - as I was clearly not considered to be someone likely to cause trouble.  I did everything possible to make myself as invisible as I could, to deflect attention from the fact that I was a misfit. Once I'd realised I wasn't going to be accepted on any terms, I knew my best hope of survival was to be largely absent.  This was a lesson that took a while to learn and came at a price.

              I missed home comforts such as decent food and the occasional spritzer. Having said that, I suspected that anything was available for the right price.  It was not a hard core prison, but to me from a relatively middle-class background, it may as well have been Colditz. 

              This prison was not about reform, but containment - the caging of animals, keeping them in existence without allowing them any dignity or trying to help them to lead better, happier and more productive lives.

              I was not a natural rule-breaker- a quiet, shy girl in my childhood and something of a loner, which made me an ideal candidate to become a writer.  I'd gone against everything that had been instilled in me when I'd risked my freedom to save my child but then I'd abided only to the law of nature.  To protect one’s young is throughout humanity and in every part of the animal kingdom.  I can only say that animals play fairer, cleaner and more honestly than humans do in their treatment of each other. 

              My spirits sank lower and lower.  The first few days I feared I may go mad with despair.  I had always feared enclosed spaces, had always panicked on long flights, in elevators, in fact any place where I was locked in and here I was incarcerated, locked in a cell for hours on end with only my imagination for company and my overwhelming grief at the loss of my son.

              There was a further shock still to come.  I learned on the News only days later, that the body of my friend who'd gone missing, had been found and it appeared she'd been murdered by her husband.  I was horrified and numb with shock and yet there was no place to grieve in this clinical environment.  The compounded effect of the loss of my child who I feared for every minute, coupled with this horrifying news, was too much to bear.  I found I couldn't cry.  I was too traumatised and I believe at that moment came a point of shutting down - in this world of no sense - came no feeling.

              I was a somnambulist, keeping everything inside in my heart in a safe place, with only my deep love for my son forcing my breath through my body.  I asked daily for contact and the answer was always the same, "We're looking into it."

              Each painful minute inside the cell felt like an eternity.  I sometimes drifted into sleep from sheer exhaustion, and would wake minutes later in a cold sweat, not sure if I was awake or still dreaming.  I could make no sense of the events that had led me to this solitary end. I relived my life before the fateful day that my son had disclosed to me, going over details endlessly, but there were no clues to solve this insolvable puzzle - the eternal "Why?"

              The pounding of my heart rang loud in my ears as I faced the terrifying prospect that M was heading closer to a life of being given to his abuser and I was powerless to help him.  I lived in constant torment with nowhere to turn and tried to hang onto hope that my legal team would find a solution that would save him, but it seemed less and less likely as the days passed.

              The memory of M being taken in America haunted me constantly.  I relived the moment over and over again - the barbaric nature of the apprehension as they forcibly pulled him screaming from my body; the three armed police who had burst into our newfound Paradise and turned it into Purgatory. 

              His words echoed in my mind: “Please don’t send me to Daddy he hurts me;” the desperate plea of a seven year old boy as he was carried out by his little arms while I could nothing to stop them.  Now I was no longer free.  I was a feeble match for corruption as deep as this and a system that seemed to grow its army daily, perpetrating lies in an elaborate game of “Simon says.”              

              This Machiavellian machine continued to turn and there was nothing I could do to stop it.  I was a silent voice, in a world that was shouting its lies into truth - the silent scream, the invisible mother, stripped of her most precious child and in my heart I knew that the day they took him would likely be the day I lost him forever.

Chapter 14

              As I went through the motions of prison life, vague memories of the fateful day they'd taken my beloved M would suddenly flash into my consciousness and jolt me into the moment.  This horrifying barbaric scene would stay with me forever.

              I didn't blame the American authorities for what happened to us.  The local people had been lovely, warm and generous.  I had found much love and support amongst our newfound friends, despite the shortness of our acquaintance and on the whole they had been non-judgemental in a way that my long term friends back home were not.   

              The CAS, weren't bullying or discourteous, merely acting on the instructions of another authority in different jurisdiction - and whilst at the time I had thought otherwise, I came to realise that they had only been doing their jobs and had had no personal axe to grind.

              Sadly this was not the case as far as other family members were concerned and whilst I forgave my father, I could not my Aunt and Uncle and sadly now we have lost touch. 

              My Uncle, a product of his own upbringing - had been raised by a cruel father who drank heavily.  He'd learned only how to be weak and how not to love.  With distance one can see this, but in the moment one only sees the pain of betrayal.  It had hurt deeply that they had left us to cope alone, having encouraged us to come to them.  Mum was gone now  and would never know what had happened.  She, at least, had been spared the pain of the loss of her grandchild – a child she had loved so dearly.

              I remembered waiting for the Realtor to collect us in the foyer of the
Travel Lodge
where my Aunt was delivering a parcel and pretending not to notice us.  It had been hard to justify this behaviour to M, who saw things with the clarity of a child’s eyes.  He hadn't liked them on first meeting and children do not make allowances, as adults do.  Children have an instinct about who is loving and who is not and their reactions to people are open, honest and usually immediate, making it even more bemusing that M's disclosures had been ignored by so many.               

              It is well-known that children of six, as M was at the time he was interviewed by the police, cannot lie. M, a well-behaved, truthful little boy was incapable of fabricating the allegations and had no points of reference to do so.

              Many mothers in similar situations to me, at this time were now fleeing to Ireland, to the point where it could not cope with the demand on its Social Workers, thought to be more compassionate to mothers and women, but this too would change over time. 

              Despite the lack of any real support in America, we'd coped.  Compared to what life had now become, these were Halcyon days.  Years later, I would remember them as some of the sweetest of my life., being with M,  safe and free - but our sense of freedom then was an illusion, as the  outside world was there waiting to swallow us whole for daring to break free from Purgatory.

              During the long hours spent in my cell, memories came back to me in wakefulness and in sleep of simple daily activities that had become our life that summer.  How little we'd known that it was the dawn before the dark and that each moment of being on the run, would be treasured and relived, so often, in my mind.

              Life had been simple then.  We'd  walked miles each day in the sunshine to the shopping mall to browse and have a sometime treat of multicoloured ice-cream.  I can still see and taste the blue streaked dollop that M had always chosen, like
Plastacin
e that's been rolled into a ball with the colours smudging into each other.

              To say I was proud of how M adjusted, would be a gross understatement, for he'd accepted so easily the loss of his old life and embraced the new with excitement and zest.  He missed his Granddad but, other than that, he'd little reference to our old life, home or the people we'd left behind.  He had longed to start at his new School and try new sports such as Ice Hockey, baseball and American Football and told me daily that he loved the States.  Back then  I had felt certain that the risk had been worth taking.  Would I have felt that way, if I'd known how it would end?  I very much doubt it -  but I am grateful for those special days we had together and had I not tried to save him, I would never have forgiven myself for not trying.  I can only hope that M will one day understand why I felt there was no other choice left open to us and that I'd wanted only to end his pain and suffering and keep him safe. 

              Often I was jolted from my reverie by the voice of the prison chaplain taking a Sunday service, which  I'd begun attending – sometimes being the only inmate.  I didn’t care what denomination.  I was not particularly religious but it got me off the wing and I hoped that I would hear something to comfort or explain this insanity and restore my faith in a God that had allowed this to happen. 

              “Elijah walked seven times around the walls of Jericho until they fell down,”  the chaplain read from his bible.

              “Perhaps if I walk seven times round the prison yard, these walls will come down.”  I attempted humour, but there was nothing funny about any of this.  I wondered if I would ever really laugh again.

              I was reminded of an interview I'd watched with Robert Downey Junior. When the troubled actor was sent to jail for drug abuse, he'd said that he'd coped using two strategies, first survival at all costs, and second humour – I know exactly what he meant as I tried weakly to employ these too. 

              My grief at the loss of my son, whom I had borne, held and nurtured for seven and a half years was like a flood inside me, drowning me from the inside, whilst on the outside an avalanche of fear, anger, betrayal, and rage at the injustice overwhelmed me - anger at the system blazed like an inferno and at other times it became a hungry beast that swallowed me whole, leaving me alive inside its gaping, frothing mouth that called itself justice – an empty cave that wouldn't kill you but hold you between its teeth, until it spat you out.

              Exercise time was a mere half an hour a day of walking around under the bleak grey sky against a backdrop of iron green walls the colour of mould, the air raw and damp and the sky featureless – dogs barking in the near vicinity, patrolling the perimeter.  I had no gloves so pulled thick wool socks over my hands.  I had no coat either as in the shock of what had happened, my father had left it in the car.  Now I had to wait for it to be posted in, checked, and approved which would take a few weeks.  I was permanently cold to my bones.  The cell was like an igloo and I longed to move upstairs where it was warmer but this was a privilege one had to earn.  The hot water pipes had been installed in the roof, a poor design, which left those on the lower floor without any heat.  As a new inmate I had to be near the desk for observation.  The cell was much larger than the others, but as such it was colder, so I had begun knitting. 

              I'd found oddments of wool in a cupboard in what served as the "recreation room," a few plastic chairs and a craft cupboard. A vast assortment of wool and needles lay untouched and I hoarded them in my cell, hungrily – a veritable magpie storing its treasure lest someone else take the prize.  It was ironic that they let me have them, given that I was not allowed other basics like a belt for my jeans, but I'm sure they turned a blind eye on many occasions.  They did not consider me dangerous and mostly the wardens treated me with kindness. 

              Knitting served two purposes - practicality and distraction.  I made a scarf and a hat for myself and one for M too.  I even managed to knit an under- blanket for my bed and I would actually look forward to getting into my narrow cot, with a cup of powdered tea and my home-made hot water bottle and welcome the distraction of feeling the wool between my fingers, as I worked at my task of trying to make a hat with no pattern for the boy who was my whole world -each stitch, a token of my love.

              Usually at this time of year, approaching Christmas, I would be hiding away gifts with which to surprise M.  It was a magical time and I would start quite early looking for treasure to make him smile on Christmas Day.  Now I could only offer a home-made scarf and hat, but I knew it would mean something to M that Mummy still did what she could to show him she cared and loved him.  With this in mind, I knitted furiously, hoping that by the time I got a visit – which was still being “arranged” with Social Services, I would be able to give it to him.  It also gave me a much needed sense of purpose.  The endless tedium is one of the biggest enemies one faces in prison and many of the girls took to their beds day in and day out, barely existing and listening to music played loudly and monotonously in the upper level from sun-up to lock down.  The relative peace was one of the few advantages of being downstairs. 

              When I wasn’t knitting I wrote, using the pens and few sheets of paper I'd gleaned from the warden as soon as I'd been put inside.  I wouldn't receive my order of toiletries and stationery that I'd placed from the canteen for a few days.  There was also a limit placed on spending, so items had to be carefully chosen in order of necessity.  Two writing pads were high on my list of priorities and I would write daily.  As soon as I'd written thirty or forty pages, I would put them in an envelope and mail them to my solicitors, these being the only letters that could go out sealed - they promised to keep them safe for me until my release. 

              Writing gave me an outlet and means of articulation, as well as a way of getting through the long hours.  When so little happened, it was a wonder I found anything to write about, but I drew mostly on my inner world where there was still life and hope and joyful memories. Occasionally some small thing that happened on the wing that pierced the grey mundanity of the usual day.

              Whilst others chose to return to their cells and their beds after breakfast, I tried to stay outside of mine as much as possible, in a vain attempt to give the days some sort of structure.  I hated being locked up and took the opportunity to sit at a table on a plastic chair to give contrast to the room in which I spent between twelve and fifteen hours. 

              Father Shaun, the Catholic Priest visited on the first Saturday I was there.  He asked to speak to me and whilst I’m not Catholic and consider myself spiritual rather than aligned to any particular religion, I was happy to talk to anyone and glad of any company and diversion.

              My brother, a vicar, and I had drifted apart at this time - the relationship another casualty of the horror that had become our life.  Since this time we've managed to bridge the divide, but back then we had virtually become estranged - so now I turned to this man of God for comfort, someone who had never married or had children - but who nonetheless understood something of what had happened to us.

              I wasn't without sympathy and compassion from other people.  I was inundated with letters of support.  Some hundred and twenty letters arrived for me during the weeks I was in jail and they brought much comfort and overwhelmed me with gratitude that so many people cared about us.  Not once did I receive anything at all that was negative or critical. The letters came from far and wide, many from strangers who'd read about my trial in the press. As the only woman to date to have been jailed for Child Abduction of her own child in the British Isles it had led to significant media attention.  Although mostly I was oblivious to this, my Dad sent me cuttings.

              Father Shaun was a kindly Irish man in his seventies.  However his words to me that day chilled me to the bone.  I had come to the conclusion that M’s father may not have been a Freemason as I had first thought – a theory that had been borne out of a desperate need to solve the puzzle that surrounded our fate - However, Father Shaun thought otherwise.  He shared some horrific stories with me of injustice that had occurred through this institution and it soon became clear to me that what I had first suspected, may indeed be true.

              One thing was clear, M’s father must have had some connection or influence with the right people for him to be so  protected.  This odd reality hit me hard, but was then overshadowed by the news of my friend's now confirmed murder, later that same day.  When her body was found and her identity confirmed, I could only watch in horror as the appalling facts were reported on the
BBC
news. I had to be thankful that at least I still had breath in my body to fight for M.

              As Shock followed shock, I developed a blank exterior and went through the motions each day of my tedious existence.  In the silent darkness of the night, my cheeks were wet with tears as I thought of my little boy and wondered how he was, yearning to hold and comfort him.  I prayed he knew how much I loved him and hoped that would carry him through this wicked ordeal.

              At first I didn’t think that any of the girls could relate to me at all and it left me terribly isolated.  Not only was I considerably older than most, more educated and spoke differently, they were already in cliques. We had nothing in common other than being in jail.  Outside of the prison walls our paths would never have crossed and they found me as alien, as I found them.  It was not their fault, nor indeed mine, but the gulf between us was too wide.  I was someone they couldn't understand.  I didn't speak their language – didn't swear or endlessly hurl abuse at the wardens.  I wasn't one of them and couldn't fit in.