The Madam. Jaime Raven

warm breath against my neck again. It had been a long time. Too long. I’d missed her so much and the thought of snuggling up in bed with her tonight filled me with a sense of well-being. We clung to each other for a full minute and the lump in my throat got so big I couldn’t swallow.

      Scar and I had formed a relationship after we started sharing a cell towards the end of my first year inside. For me it provided a much needed distraction, a way to make the banality of prison life bearable.

      ‘I’m taking you to a pub first,’ she said, when we finally moved apart. ‘We’ll celebrate with a bottle of champagne. Everything else can wait. So get in the car, sit back and relax.’

      I sat back in the front seat of the ageing Fiesta, but I couldn’t relax. Too much to see and too many thoughts to process.

      For one thing I had to remind myself that I’d got my identity back. I was Lizzie Wells again. Twenty-seven. Light brown hair. Dark brown eyes. Almost perfect teeth.

      In prison the screws had labelled me a troublemaker because I found it hard to control my temper and would always answer back. That was why I didn’t get released any earlier. But then they were constantly trying to rob me of my self-respect. They were still at it even up to a few days ago.

      ‘You were a looker when you came in here, Lizzie,’ one of them had said. ‘But you look like shit now. I doubt that blokes will still want to pay you for sex. Good job you’re now a dyke.’

      She was right about the way I looked, but the jury was still out on the other thing. In prison Scar and I had become soulmates and sexual partners. The bond between us was strong and intimate. But freedom gave me the option to return to being straight, so my sexuality was among the issues that I would need to address. I would, of course, but in my own time.

      And time was something I’d become far more conscious of. In prison it passed slowly. I counted the hours and days and often my head was filled with nothing but the loud ticking of an invisible clock.

      Now time was going to burn like a fuse. I was sure of it. There were things to do, people to see. The monotony of prison routine was behind me. The pace of my new life was set to blast me into orbit.

      For the first time in years I felt glad to be alive. But my newfound freedom was already filling me with trepidation. A lot had changed since I’d been banged up and I was fearful of not being able to cope. I realised suddenly that I hadn’t really prepared myself mentally for the chaos of life on the outside. I’d been too wrapped up in what I planned to do.

      Scar turned into Parkhurst Road. It was heavy with traffic and noisy as hell. The wail of a police siren made me jump and set my teeth on edge. We stopped at some lights. A party of primary school children in bright red uniforms started crossing the road. Their animated chatter made me smile. We then continued along Parkhurst Road and swung left into the much busier Holloway Road. Here the pavements were lined with shops and packed with pedestrians.

      As we drove on I took it all in. Cars crawling by in a welter of exhaust fumes. A young mum pushing a pram. A couple of teenagers holding hands and laughing. An elderly woman struggling with two heavy Tesco bags.

      Normality. The everyday things that you take for granted until they’re taken away from you. I’d missed so much of everything, and I felt bitter about that.

      ‘There’s a pub on the corner,’ Scar said. ‘The champagne is on me.’

      I reached out and touched her knee.

      ‘Thanks for being so thoughtful,’ I said.

      ‘It’s no more than you deserve, babe. Life’s been a bitch to you, and it makes me want to cry just to think about it.’

      The boozer was called The Red Lion. It was just off the high street and more than a little drab on the outside.

      I couldn’t remember the last time I’d been inside a pub, or who I’d been with. It was a long time ago, though.

      Before that fateful night my favourite tipple had been vodka, lime and lemonade. But I was also partial to bottles of potent German lager. For a time back in those days binge drinking had been a problem, along with class B drugs. It was no wonder that I got into such an awful mess with my life and ended up in Holloway.

      The champagne tasted strangely medicinal, and the bubbles tickled my nose and made me sneeze. Scar laughed and poured herself a glass.

      ‘Just a small one for now because I’m driving,’ she said. ‘We can let rip tonight when I don’t have the car.’

      The pub was small with a clean floor and dimpled copper tables. A few people were propping up the bar, office types mostly, on early lunch breaks.

      We sat in a corner and attracted a bit of attention, but only because the cork made a loud pop when Scar extracted it from the bottle.

      I’d half expected people to stare at me because I was an ex con. But that was stupid. It wasn’t as if I had it written across my forehead in large black letters.

      ‘Here’s to your new life,’ Scar said, raising her glass to mine. ‘May it be long and happy.’

      ‘Right on,’ I said.

      We clinked our glasses, and I felt a wave of affection for my former cellmate. She was the most considerate person I’d ever known. Her real name was Donna Patterson, but inside she was nicknamed Scar for obvious reasons. She told me that she didn’t mind because it gave her an air of mystery. But I knew it was a lie. In truth the scar bothered her, just like it would any woman. It disfigured an otherwise beautiful face, and unfortunately no amount of make-up could conceal it.

      I drank some more champagne and savoured the chill that swept through my insides. For a brief moment I felt like crying. It welled up suddenly, and I had to fight it back. Now wasn’t the time to react to the emotional impact of what was happening.

      So I cleared my throat and said, ‘So tell me what you’ve got.’

      Scar, bless her, had come prepared. She had known that I’d want to get straight down to business, that any celebration would be muted and short-lived.

      She took a notepad out of her handbag and flipped it open. But before reading from it she cocked her head on one side and looked at me. The scar was more pronounced as the light through the window set off the ridge of red, gnarled skin.

      ‘Are you sure you want to go down this road?’ she said.

      ‘We’ve had this discussion,’ I pointed out.

      ‘I was hoping you might have changed your mind.’

      ‘Well I haven’t.’

      Scar took a deep breath, and said, ‘Fair enough. Just don’t tell me later that I didn’t try to stop this madness.’

      The thing was I had to start somewhere. There was no game plan as such. No obvious clues to follow up. I only had a bunch of names and a list of unanswered questions. But it would have to be enough. If I could just stir things up then maybe I’d get a result.

      I’d spent four years going over it in my mind. Bracing myself for the day when Lizzie Wells would embark on a new career as an amateur sleuth.

      Scar was right, of course. It was madness. I really had no idea what I was doing, but I wasn’t going to let that stop me doing it. I’d waited too long for this.

      ‘Let’s start with the flat you asked me to rent,’ Scar said. ‘As you know I’ve taken a one-bedroom place on a six-month lease, all paid up front. It’s in a part of Southampton called Bevois Valley. Nothing fancy, but it’s tidy and decently furnished.’

      ‘That’s good,’ I said. ‘I know the Valley. It’s where I used to live.’

      ‘I’ve also made a reservation for tonight at The Court Hotel. Room eighty-three. The one you wanted. Check in any time after two o’clock today. I didn’t tell them we’ll only be popping in and out.’

      She reached