She's Out (2 page)

She would always receive letters when the girls left Holloway. It was as if they needed her strength on the outside, but usually the letters came only for a couple of weeks then stopped. She was
never hurt by the sudden silence, the lack of continued contact, because there were always the new inmates who needed her. She was a heroine, and the whispers about her criminal past continued.
Sometimes she would smile as if enjoying the notoriety, encouraging the stories with little hints that maybe, just maybe, she knew more about the diamond raid than she would ever admit. She was
also aware by now that the mystery surrounding her past enhanced her position within the prison pecking order. She wanted to remain top dog and she accomplished it without fighting or
arguments.

After seven years, Rawlins was the ‘Big Mama’ – and it was always Dolly who broke up the fights, Dolly who was called on to settle arguments, Dolly who received the small gift
tokens, the extra cigarettes. The prison officers referred to her as a model prisoner, and she was given a lot of freedom by the authorities. She organized and instigated further education, drug
rehabilitation sessions and, with a year to go before she was released, Holloway opened an entire new mother-and-baby wing, with a bright, toy-filled nursery. This was where she spent most of her
time. She was able to help the staff considerably and enjoyed caring for the children. They became a focus for Dolly, who had no visitors, no one on the outside to care for or about her. And the
caring for the babies began to shape a future dream for when she would finally be free.

Dolly Rawlins did have those diamonds waiting and, if they had been worth two million when she was sentenced, now she calculated they had to be worth three, possibly four million. Alone in her
cell she would dream about just what she was going to use the money for. She calculated that fencing them would bring the value down to around one million. She would have to give a cut to Audrey,
Shirley Miller’s mother, and a cut to Jimmy Donaldson, the man holding them for her. She would then have enough to open a home, buy a small terraced house, maybe in Islington or an area close
to the prison, so she could come and visit the girls she knew would still need her. She even contemplated opening the home specifically for the pregnant prisoners who, she knew, would have their
babies taken. Then they could know they were in good care as many of the girls were single parents and their babies might otherwise be put up for adoption.

The daydreaming occupied Dolly for hours on end. She kept it to herself, afraid that if she mentioned it to anyone they would know for sure she had to have considerable finances. She did have
several thousand pounds in a bank account arranged for her by her lawyer and she calculated that with that, a government grant and the money from the gems, the home would be up and running within a
year of her release. She even thought about possibly offering a sanctuary for some of the drug addicts who needed a secure place to stay when they were released. And, a number of the women inside
were battered wives: perhaps she could allocate a couple of rooms for them. The daydreaming relieved any tension that she felt. It was like a comforter, a warm secret that enveloped her and helped
her sleep. The dream would soon be a reality as the months disappeared into weeks, and then days. As the ringed date was drawing closer and closer, she could hardly contain herself: this would give
the rest of her life a meaning – she would have a reason to live. Never having had a child of her own it had touched her deeply to have been so close to newly born babies: their fragility,
their total dependency opened the terrible, secret pain of her own childlessness. Soon she would have a houseful of children who needed her. Then she could truly call herself
‘Mama’.

They all knew she would soon be leaving. They whispered in corners as they made cards and small gifts. Even the prison officers were sad that they would lose such a valuable inmate, not that any
single one of them had ever had much interaction with her on a personal level. She rarely, if ever, made conversation with them unless it was necessary, and one officer hated her because, at times,
it seemed she had more power over the inmates than the officers. A few years back, Rawlins had struck a prison officer, slapped her face, and warned her to stay away from a certain prisoner. She
had been given extra days and had been locked up in her cell. The result had been that Rawlins was fêted when she was eventually unlocked and the officer, a thickset, dark-haired woman called
Barbara Hunter, never spoke or looked at Rawlins again. The animosity between Hunter and Rawlins remained throughout the years. Hunter had tried on numerous occasions to needle Dolly, as if to
prove to the Governor that the model prisoner 45688 was in reality an evil manipulator. But Dolly never rose to the bait, just stared with her hard, ice-cold eyes, and it was that blank-eyed stare
that, Hunter suspected, concealed a deep hatred, not just of herself, but of all the prison officers.

Finally the day came, and Dolly carefully packed her few possessions from her cell. She waited for the call to the probation room for the usual chat with the Governor before she would finally be
free. The suit she had worn the day she arrived hung on her like a rag, as she had lost a considerable amount of weight. The years she had spent banged up had made her face sallow and drawn; her
hair was grey and cut short in an unflattering style.

On 15 March, she gave away all her personal effects: a radio, some tapes, skin cream, books, and packets of cigarettes. Then she sat, hands folded on her lap, until they called her to go into
the first meeting. She appeared as calm as always but her heart was beating rapidly. She would soon be out. Soon be free. It would soon be over.

The old Victorian Grange Manor House was in a sorry state of disrepair, although at a distance it still looked impressive. The once splendid grounds, orchards and stables were
all in need of attention. The grass was overgrown and weeds sprouted up through the gravel driveway. A swimming pool with a torn tarpaulin was filled with stagnant water, and even the old sign
‘Grange Health Farm’ was broken and peeling like the paint on all the woodwork of the house. The once stained glass double-fronted door had boards covering the broken panes, many of the
windows had cracks and some of the tiles from the roof lay shattered on the ground below. The double chimney-breasts were toppling and dangerous. The house seemed fit only for demolition. The once
vast acreage that had belonged to the manor had been sold off years before to local farmers, and the dense, dark wood that fringed the lawns had begun to encroach with brambles and twisted
trees.

A motorway had been built close to the edge of the lane leading to the manor, cutting off the house from the main road. Now the only access was down a small slip road that had been left, like
the house, to rot, with deep pot-holes that made any journey hazardous. The rusted, wrought-iron gates were hanging off their hinges, and the chain threaded through them with the big padlock hung
limply as if no one would want to enter.

The Range Rover bumped and banged along the lane, dipping into one deep rut after another as it made its slow journey towards the house. The grass verges were spreading on to the lane, the
hedges either side hiding the fields and grazing cows.

Ester Freeman swore as the Range Rover dipped badly; it was even worse than the last time she’d been there. She was a handsome woman in her late forties, but the dark hair scraped back
from her chiselled features made her look hard, and as she drove she clenched her teeth with fury. She was five feet six, slender and always looked good in clothes. A smart dresser, who wore good
designer labels, there was an elegance to her that belied and covered a toughness that even her well-modulated voice sometimes couldn’t disguise. She continued to swear as the Range Rover
splashed through yet another water-filled pothole. The muddy puddles splashed water over the wheels and sides of the vehicle as it lurched down the lane.

Sitting beside Ester, Julia Lawson stared non-committally, at the lane. She was much younger than Ester and taller, almost six feet, with a strong, rangy body accentuated by her jeans and
leather jacket. She wore beat-up old cowboy boots and a mannish denim shirt, and there was an arrogance to her face that was at times attractive, at other times plain. Unlike Ester, Julia had a
deep, melodic, cultured voice. She, too, swore as they bounced along. ‘Jesus Christ, Ester, slow down. You’re chucking everything over the back of the car!’

Ester paid no attention as she heaved on the handbrake. Julia watched as she slammed out and crossed to the old wrought iron gates. She didn’t even need a key to open the padlock –
she just wrenched it loose and pushed back the old gates.

As they drove up the Manor House driveway, Julia laughed. ‘My God, I think it needs a demolition crew.’

‘Oh, shut up,’ Ester snapped, as they veered round a hole.

‘You know, I don’t think they’ll find it.’

‘They’ll find it, I gave them each a map. Don’t be so negative. She’s out today, Julia. Come on, move it!’

Julia followed Ester slowly out of the car and looked around, shaking her head. She stepped back as a front doorstep crumbled beneath her boot. ‘You know, it looks unsafe.’

‘It’s been standing for over a hundred years so it’s not likely to fall down now. Get the bags out.’

Julia looked back to the piles of suitcases and bulging black bin liners in the back of the Range Rover and ignored her request, following Ester into the manor.

The hallway was dark and forbidding: the William Morris wallpaper hung in damp speckled flaps from the carved cornices and there were stacks of old newspapers and broken bottles everywhere. The
old wooden reception desk was dusty, the key-rack behind it devoid of keys and hanging almost off the wall. Even the chandelier above their heads looked as if it was ready to crash down.

Their feet echoed in the marble hall as Ester opened one door after another. The smell of must and mildew hung in the air, chilling them immediately.

‘You’ll never get it ready in time, Ester.’

Ester marched into the drawing room, shouting over her shoulder, ‘Yes, I will, and there’s enough of us to help me out.’

Julia picked up the dust-covered telephone. She looked surprised. The phone’s connected,’ she called to Ester.

Ester stood looking around the drawing room: old-fashioned sofas and wing-backed chairs, threadbare carpet and china cabinets. The massive open stone fireplace was still filled with cinders.
‘I had it connected,’ she snapped as she began to draw back the draped velvet curtains. They hung half off their rings and she turned her face away as dust spiralled down – four
years of it, maybe more. Even when Ester had occupied the place no one was ever that interested in dusting.

The Grange Health Farm had been defunct when Ester bought the manor with all its contents, but she had no ideas about refurbishing the old house as it was a perfect cover for her real
profession. All Ester had done was spread a few floral displays around the main rooms and brought in fourteen girls, a chef, a domestic and two muscle-bound blokes in the event of trouble. The
Grange Health Farm reopened, and for men who wanted a massage, Ester would provide that with a sauna, but her clients mostly wanted a lot more physical contact – and Ester provided that too .
. . at a price.

‘We should have started weeks ago,’ Julia said, as she lolled in the doorway, looking around with undisguised distaste.

‘Well, I didn’t, so we’re gonna have to work like the clappers,’ Ester snapped again, then looked up to the chandelier, trying the light switch. Two of the eighteen bulbs
flickered on.

‘Bravo, the electricity’s on as well,’ laughed Julia.

Ester glared around the room. ‘We’ll clean this room, the dining room and a few bedrooms. Then that’s it, we won’t need to do any more.’

‘Really,’ Julia smiled.

Ester pushed past her, wiping her dusty hands, and Julia followed her back into the hall, watching as she banged open shutters. One almost fell on top of her and she kicked out at it.

The dining room was in the same condition but with empty bottles and glasses smashed on the floor and littered on the table. Ester was flicking on lights, dragging back curtains, cursing all the
time. But she seemed to deflate when she saw the wrecked kitchen, broken crockery and more smashed bottles. ‘Shit! I’d forgotten how bad it was.’

‘I hadn’t. I told you this was a crazy idea from the start.’

Ester crossed to the back door. She unlocked it, pushing it open to get the stench of old wine and rotten food out of the kitchen.

‘Must have been some party,’ Julia mused.

‘It was,’ Ester said, as she looked at the big black rubbish bags bursting at the seams.

‘Surprised the rats haven’t been in here.’

‘They have,’ Ester said, as she looked at the droppings.

Julia pulled a disgusted face. Ester became even more irate, pushing past her into the hallway.

‘Don’t just bloody stand there, help me.’ Ester stood in the darkened, musty-smelling hall – even the oak panels had lost all lustre from the damp that crept from every
corner. She hadn’t realized just how bad the place was. When she and Julia had visited a few weeks earlier, there had been no electricity and they had arrived at dusk. Ester sighed: it had
been some party, all right. There used to be one every night but she had not been able to see the last one through to the end. She had been arrested along with her girls. She reckoned most of the
damage had been done by the few who were left behind or who had even returned when they knew she had been sentenced, come back to grab whatever they could. A lot of the rooms looked as if they been
stripped of anything of value.

She had not bothered to come to see the damage before; she knew the bank held the deeds as collateral for her debts. She had dismissed the place from her mind until she got the news that Dolly
Rawlins was going to be released. Then she had begun thinking – and thinking fast: just how could she use the old Grange Manor House to her benefit? Now she began to doubt she could ever get
it ready in time.