The Art of Deception. Louise Mangos

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       Chapter 1

      ‘Stop! Stop it!’ I yell, with my hands pressed over my ears.

      My voice rasps in my throat and fills my head. The thudding on the wall ceases abruptly, and I take my palms slowly away. The ensuing roar of silence is tuned perfectly to the blood pumping through my veins.

      My gaze is fixed on a pencil-drawn sketch taped to the mottled plaster, a child’s portrayal of a chalet. The house is perched on top of a mountain with stick people skiing down one side of the hill. As my concentration wavers, I blink away a tear of frustration, and rub my temple. I was expecting to see the picture tremble with the thumping. But these partitions are solid brick; raging fists will not move them.

      The subsequent stillness is painful, and I try to imagine Fatima in her two-by-four-metre space on the other side of the wall. The expectation of what might replace her anger increases the tension like the static of an impending lightning strike.

      They have taken away her son, and won’t let her see him even briefly for a feed. One of the female guards simply marched in and picked the little thing up from his crib, right in front of Fatima’s eyes. We all came out to the corridor to watch in horror as the head security officer gathered Fatima’s flailing arms and held her while the guard walked away with the baby. Then they locked her in. Who knows how long they’ll keep the baby this time. An hour. A morning. A day? I suck in the musty air of my cell. Annoyance has prevailed over my sympathy. I want to scream and shout too.

      Someone has also taken away my son, but I have to keep a lid on my emotions or it may backfire. Losing control would do me no favours in this place, especially as my son is far away, and I don’t know when we will be together again.

      I hope they don’t keep Fatima’s baby for long. She stole three packets of Zigis from the new Polish girl who came in last week. The one whose name no one can pronounce. Lots of z’s and c’s. Who the hell risks solitary for a handful of cigarettes? I guess the nicotine-deprived are desperate. They haven’t seen fresh Marlboros for weeks. I don’t even think Fatima intended to smoke them herself. She merely wanted something to trade. The theft led to a fight in the canteen, a messy affair resulting in tufts of hair on the floor and bite marks on various limbs.

      I can’t believe Fatima was caught so easily, especially after all the other stuff she helped steal, the stuff she didn’t get nabbed for in her previous life. It turns out she was only the driver when she was arrested.

      We all have previous lives. I still find it hard to talk about mine, so I choose to silently observe everyone else’s.

      That fight clinched Fatima’s punishment. No solitary, simply take the little boy.

      Her baby is called Adnan, and he’s a sweet little thing. The guards periodically use him as a bribe to try to control her anger, but I think it makes her worse. How can they take this woman’s child away? There’s an irony to it, with the tainted history of this place. All they’re doing is building a seething resentment that will eventually rise like the stopper on the top of a pressure cooker. Fatima is close to breaking point.

      I know how she feels.

      Adnan reminds me of Jean-Philippe, or JP as we called him within days of his birth. Maybe Adnan’s Balkan roots have a vague link to JP’s part-Russian ones. The same penetrating Slavic eyes, a strong squarish head, an almost simian brow. My baby is much older than Adnan, and no longer an infant. But I still think of him as a baby. The name JP stuck when he started l’école maternelle last year. His friends at school even adopted the soft ‘Shay-Pee’ in French.

      I’ve noticed he tries to sign his full name, Jean-Philippe, on the bottom of his little notes and drawings to me now, a challenge for one so young. I hope he’s proud he can spell such a complicated name. More likely his grandmother, Natasha, or Mimi as JP calls her, has insisted he practises his full title. She has always hated the acronym we use for his nickname, and is undoubtedly dragging him back to a more conservative tradition. Her whole philosophy seems so formal, so remote. Since I’ve been here, she’s removed the strings connecting mother and child like a heavily glued sticking plaster, painfully tearing him from his Anglo roots.

      He was 6 years old last week, and I haven’t seen him this month. I have had to be content with sending cards and my own drawings and talking to him on the phone. To think he had a birthday without me, his mother. The court has obliged his grandparents to let me see him once a month. It’s the most I could engineer for the moment. His father’s СКАЧАТЬ