Forbidden

My mind is falling apart and I can barely think, but as far as I understand it, the fact is that unless Maya retracts her statement, she will be arrested just as I was, possibly even in front of Tiffin and Willa. With no one to look after them, no one to cover for our mother’s drinking and neglect, all three children will doubtlessly be taken into care. And Maya will be brought to the police station, subjected to the same humiliations, the same interrogations, and accused, just as I was, of committing a sexual crime. Even with my word against hers, there will be little I can do. If I continue to insist I am the abuser, they will immediately question why I am suddenly so desperate to absolve Maya of all wrong-doing – especially after having both repeatedly abused and threatened to kill her should she tell anyone. I will be cornered, powerless to protect her, for the more I insist that Maya is i

Whatever I try to do now is hopeless, especially as any attempts to catch Maya out will fail as she will be the one telling the truth. She’ll easily be able to explain away the blow to her lip as my last, desperate attempt to make it look as if I was abusing her.

Maya will be brought to court and sentenced to two years in prison. She will start off her adult life behind bars, separated not only from me, but from Kit, Tiffin and Willa, who love her so much. Even after serving out her prison sentence, she will emerge emotionally scarred, and stuck with a criminal record for the rest of her life. Denied all access to her other siblings for her crime, she will find herself utterly alone in the world, ostracized by her friends, while I remain locked up, serving out a considerably longer sentence because I’ll have been tried as an adult. The thought of all this is, quite simply, more than I can bear. And I know that, unless I can somehow get through to her, the stubborn, passionate Maya who loves me so much will not capitulate. She has made her choice. How I wish I could tell her I would rather be locked away for life than put her through any of that . . .

No use sitting here falling apart. None of this can happen. I will not let it. Yet despite thinking and thinking for hours on end, lashing out sporadically against the cold concrete around me in utter frustration, I ca

I’m begi

Yet still the regret gnaws away at me. If I’d run when I had the chance, if I’d left and somehow escaped arrest, Maya would not have confessed. Nothing would have been gained by telling the truth, it would have only hurt the children. She would have never confessed if I hadn’t been caught . . .

My gaze travels slowly up the wall to the small window in the corner, just below the ceiling. And suddenly the answer is right there in front of me. If I want Maya to retract her confession, then I must not be here to receive a sentence, I must not be trapped in a cell facing jail time. I must leave.

Unpicking the threads of the sheet sewn onto the mattress soon causes my hands to stiffen and my fingers to go numb. I keep track of the time between guard checks, counting rhythmically to myself beneath my breath as I carefully, methodically, sever the seams. Whoever designed these cells has done a good job of ensuring their security. The small window is so high off the ground it would require a three-metre ladder to reach it. It is also barred, of course, but the bars stick out at the top. With an accurate throw, I feel confident that I can lasso a loop over the spiked bars so that the knotted strips of torn sheet hang down just low enough for me to reach, like those ropes we used to climb in PE. I was good at that, I remember, always the first to the top. If I can achieve a similar result this time, I will reach the window, that small patch of sunlight, my gateway to freedom. It’s a crazy plan, I know. A desperate one. But I am desperate. There are no options left. I have to go. I have to disappear.

The bars covering the glass show signs of rust and don’t look that strong. So long as they don’t break before I actually reach the window, this could work.

Six hundred and twenty-three counts since the last steps were heard outside my cell door. Once I am ready, I’ll have ten minutes or so to pull this off. I’ve read about people managing to do this before – it doesn’t just happen on cop shows. It is possible. It has to be.

After finally working my way round the entire edge of the plastic sheet, I give it a small tug and feel it shift under me, no longer attached to the mattress beneath. Positioning it in front of me, I use my teeth to make the first tear and begin to rip, bit by bit. By my rough calculations, three strips of sheet tied together should be just about long enough. The material is tough and my hands are aching, but I can’t risk just yanking at the sheet for fear of the sound of tearing being overheard. My nails are torn, my fingertips a bleeding mess by the time the material is separated into three equal pieces. But now all I have to do is wait for the guard to pass.

The footsteps begin to approach, and suddenly I am shaking. Shaking so hard I can hardly think. I can’t go through with it. I’m too much of a coward, too damn scared. My plan is ridiculous – I am going to get caught, I am going to fail. The bars look too loose. What if they break before I reach the window?

The footsteps begin to recede and I immediately start tying the strips together. The knots have to be tight, really tight – enough to take my full weight. Sweat pours off me, ru

I miss. I keep missing. Despite the weight of the plastic material and the heavy knotted loop at the end, I ca