-------------------------------------------------------------------------------- From: "S.T.M.Newman" Subject: PCBH RR chpt. 18 Right, I thought I'd take the plunge and post chapter 18 to the list - if this annoys lots of people I won't do it again! NB This chapter features a certain officer being very nasty - anyone of a squeamish disposition may prefer not to read it. Just so's you know! CHAPTER 18. WHAT HAS GONE BEFORE... Wednesday 26th October 1983. Reb seemed torn - riven by a conflict between her past and her future. The fear of change was written large in her eyes. Was Myra right? Did she really need people? Did she have a future? Did she have a past worth clinging on to? Hesitantly she held out her hand, taking Myra's cautiously, then more firmly as she found resolve. A long handshake, a moment of togetherness between two people so different, and yet with so much in common. Personal pain - physical and emotional - forgotten for the moment. Neither knowing what the ultimate outcome of the action would be. Perhaps, neither caring. For now, it was not important. "To the future." said Myra. "To the future." ******************************* Friday 11th November 1983. 15:03 hrs, Wentworth Detention Centre. It was a drizzly, overcast day, the kind for which Melbourne was well known. Myra Desmond sheltered from the rain by the wall of the exercise area, smoking a cigarette as she watched the other women stroll back and forth. She seemed lost in thought. "Penny for them?" asked her friend Judy Bryant, the big American, as she strolled over. "Still thinking about Chrissie?" Myra frowned - in truth, Chrissie's plight had not been uppermost in her mind. "Hi, Jude," she responded. "...No, I think Chrissie's going to be okay. She seemed pretty chipper, judging by her last letter - even looking forward to having the kid, now." "Yeah," said Jude, unconvinced. Finding out you were paralysed from the waist down *and* pregnant by an animal like Frank Burke wasn't something many people would recover from fast. Myra continued: "I was just looking at Marlene over there - she seems to be taking Matt's leaving pretty hard..." "Not the only one pining, is she?" asked Judy gently. Myra stiffened, glanced up at Judy, then took another drag on her cig. "No... I guess you're right. I do kind of miss Geoff, too. But not as much as I miss my kids." There was a raw edge of bitterness in her voice, and Judy could do nothing but nod in sympathy. The police were still treating the death of Myra's two children as misadventure, but everyone at Wentworth knew differently... Judy glanced over as a taxi drew up at Wentworth's inner gate. Myra looked over too. She idly wondered who it might be. Reb barely noticed the taxi - shuffling desultorily around the exercise yard in the company of Marlene and Bobbie, collar turned up higher than usual against the rain, she was trying not to listen to the Rabbit's interminable ramblings. Her leg still hurt. Truth be told, after two weeks of this, she was bored as Hell, and fervently wishing that Marl would get her longed-for parole, to be with Matt near the work farm to which he and Geoff MacCrae had been transferred at the end of last month. More likely for Reb, she surmised, was another ten years or so of this nightmare. Christ. Somewhere out there, laughing at her, was the bastard who had killed her mother, killed her on the orders of a dead woman. The police had picked him up last week, charged him with causing death by dangerous driving. His name was Jimmy Simpkins. Inspector Grace seemed ready to believe Simpkins could be linked to Stevens' old gang, but with no evidence, he would probably get off with "careless driving", not even a prison sentence... Reb couldn't reach Sonia Stevens this side of the grave, but as long as one of her accomplices was alive, she at least had a goal. Something to keep her going. Someday, soon. Revenge. 16.12 hrs, Reception. Fear shrouded the footsteps of more than one officer in Victoria's Department of Corrective Services, but the stench of terror that hung about this one was almost tangible... Joan stode forward from the desk, beaming. "Hello, Cynthia. Welcome to Wentworth." Saturday 12th November, Wentworth Detention Centre. 09:32, Reception. Cynthia's expression bore the semblance of a smile as she regarded the new prisoner standing nervously on the line, a good-looking redhead, about thirty-five. In Cynthia's opinion, another stuck-up bitch about to get just what she deserved. Cynthia decided she was going to enjoy her first Induction at Wentworth. She glanced over the form: "Your name is Lynn McFadden" "Doctor..." interjected the prisoner. "*Doctor* McFadden," said Cynthia with a sneer. "You have been convicted of the theft and sale of restricted drugs, and sentenced to nine months' detention. Correct?" "I - I needed the money - my son's schooling..." said McFadden plaintively. "He's a genius, he needs private tuition..." "Answer yes or no." "Y-yes." "Right." Cynthia handed the paperwork to Pat Slattery at the main desk, and turned back to the prisoner. "You will now shower, be searched, and given regulation clothing. You will meet the Governor, then spend twenty-four hours in Solitary confinement, after which you will be allocated to a cell. Do you understand?" McFadden nodded numbly, feeling giddy and nauseous. Nine months. Her career ruined. Things, she thought, could hardly be worse. If she had realised the significance of the unusual gleam in Cynthia's eye, she would have revised her opinion. Though just how much worse things were going to get, she could hardly have imagined. 09:45 Having left McFadden's civilan clothing in storage, Cynthia returned to the shower-room with prison issue denim skirt, jacket, and blouse. The prisoner would be permitted to keep her own underwear and shoes, a practice of which Cynthia disapproved. The prisoner was still showering. Cynthia dropped the clothes on the floor, and pushed open the cubicle door. McFadden gasped and flinched away from her, trying to cover herself. "Right McFadden, out. Time for your cavity search." "No! You can't mean..." "Troublemaker, eh?" Incongruous with her cut-glass accent, Cynthia's grin was almost a leer. She pulled the naked woman out of the cubicle, then twisted the prisoner's right arm behind her until she -------------------------------------------------------------------------------- yelped in pain, pushing her down onto her knees. From under her jacket Cynthia produced a pair of handcuffs, with which she manacled McFadden's wrists behind her back. Then she leaned in close to Lynn's ear, and in a voice heavy with menace, whispered: "Now, *Doctor* McFadden, we're going to have a little fun." * * * 21:00 hrs. Joan Ferguson looked up from her newspaper as Cynthia walked into the staffroom, carrying her handbag. "Hello, Cynthia. You doing night shift too?" "Hello Joan. Yes, I volunteered. Apparently Mr. Dunlop wanted the evening off." Joan sneered. "Oh, yeah. I expect he'll be spending it with Morris." Joan spoke with contempt. As far as she was concerned, Patrick Dunlop was an incompetent who should have been sacked after his miserable failure to stop the assassin Steiner - wasn't Dunlop supposed to be an expert in that sort of thing? Instead, he had received a Departmental Commendation - and would probably be getting his long-delayed promotion any day now. Pathetic. "Interesting." said Cynthia. She poured herself a coffee, while Joan sipped hers, before speaking again: "By the way, how's the new prisoner - McFadden?" Cynthia shrugged. "Very... nice. She'll need careful watching - a drugs-pusher like that, there's no telling what she might have smuggled in." Cynthia smiled unpleasantly. " In fact, I think I'd better give her another search now. Better safe than sorry..." She grinned evilly, and as she did, she reached into her pocket and produced a well-worn pair of black leather gloves. "Coming, Joan?" Joan smiled too, despite a tinge of apprehension. She nodded. "Wouldn't miss it." 21:42, Solitary. McFadden struggled helplessly on the mattress, naked, gagged and bound, as Cynthia did things with her truncheon that made even Joan squirm. * * * Sunday 13th November 1983. Wentworth. 08:23, Reception. Joan was signing out after her double shift, when Governor Reynolds arrived to start work for the day. She nodded coolly to Joan. "Ah, Joan. Anything to report?" Joan appeared to consider this. "Not much, Governor. McFadden up in Solitary seems in a bad way - could be drug withdrawal symptoms. Could be a suicide risk, I'd give her another three days in Solitary to cool off." Anne considered. "Hmm... no, that's too long. Could make the poor woman even worse. Another day, then if she's no different, put her in with the other women. Pity Sister Hall is away." Joan stifled a grin, and pretended disappointment. "At least give her a single cell - she'll need time to readjust. We have plenty of space in H-Block." Anne nodded. "Fine. I'll see you tomorrow." Joan nodded and left. Monday 14th November. 07:55, Cruickshank residence. Dennis was making the coffee when Heather came in. She looked stunning. "By 'eck, love, you look gorgeous as a prime whippet!" Heather tried to look annoyed. "Leave it out, you idiot!" She grinned. She'd already had enough Yorkshireisms from this son of Barnsley to last her several lifetimes. Dennis relented. "Well, you do look smashin'. You'll knock 'em dead at the camera shoot." Heather's smile faded. "I dunno, Dennis, it's going to be professional people - real fashion models. The photographer must see better ones than me every day of the week." Dennis shook his head vigourously, then munched a piece of toast. "No way, they'll pick you for sure." Heather had become something of a celebrity since the night of Steiner's attack. More than one press photographer had suggested she go into modelling, following her resignation from Wentworth, and with her arm finally healed, now seemed the time to try. But whether she could really make a career of it, she had no idea. Heather sighed, and sipped her coffee. Then she brightened. "Oh, well. Anyway, what have I got to lose?" * * * "He used to bring me roses..." ************************************************************ Okay Andrew, hope you can do #19! -Simon.