I’m back at Holloway to meet Alexa, my second interview subject. The guard, Amal, has gone; instead we have a guard called Nigel. He’s much older than Amal, mid-fifties, a career prison guard. I’d say by the look of him the novelty of the job wore off back in his early twenties, yet here he stands. We’re in the same room as last time. I think of Holli staring opaquely up at the slice of sky, and her face morphs into Mark’s. Holli’s release date, and our follow-up interview, is set for five weeks from now, but that won’t be till after the wedding and, now, after we’re back from our honeymoon.
It’s an odd damp day. I sip the staff room instant coffee that Nigel has made for me as I wait for Alexa to arrive. The coffee is hot and strong and that’s all that matters right now. I like my coffee like my men. I am joking, obviously. Wait, am I? I didn’t sleep that well last night; it’s been two days since our argument. I think we’re okay now, though. Mark and I. Over the weekend, we canceled the wedding venue and rejiggered a lot of wedding stuff together. It was actually pretty fun. I’ve been relieved to discover that I’m not a highly strung bride, not by a long shot. We’ve cut back in some places in order to splurge in others. We’re all set now. And Mark seems much happier. More secure. Back to his old self. I think this whole thing has just shaken his confidence a bit. But he’s back formulating a strategy now.
I don’t care about the wedding as long as he’s happy.
Nigel clears his throat loudly and gives me a nod. I turn on the camera next to me and stand awkwardly, as if I’ll be greeting someone I don’t know. But the funny thing with Alexa is that, since our telephone chats, I feel like I actually do know her, even though I’ve never met her.
I see her through the reinforced mesh of the door’s window, her eyes: warm, calm, serious. She enters looking at me from under soft blond bangs. Her open face. The pale blue Holloway prison-issue sweatshirt, pants, and slip-ons look like they’re from a Scandinavian fashion house on her. Like she’s trying something new for London Fashion Week. Very minimalist, very chic. Alexa is forty-two. She looks toward Nigel and waits for him to nod before pulling out the seat opposite me. I extend my hand across the white void of the table. She takes it with a muted smile.
“Alexa Fuller,” she says.
“Erin. It’s great to finally meet you, Alexa. Thank you so much for coming.”
“Yes, great to finally put a face to a voice,” she says, her smile widening. We take our seats.
I want to get straight to it but Alexa is staring at Nigel. His presence is going to be an impediment.
“Nigel. I’ve got the camera on now. It’s recording already, so would you mind stepping out of the interview? I’ll make the tapes available. Just the other side of the door is fine.”
I wouldn’t have dreamed of asking Amal to do the same during my interview with Holli, but Alexa is by far the safest of my interviewees. Nigel shrugs. I’m sure he’s aware of Alexa’s history and her crime. He knows I’ll be perfectly safe in here alone with her. I’m not so sure how safe I’d be with Holli and Eddie Bishop, though. I wonder if the authorities would ever even allow those two to be unsupervised.
Eddie has requested another telephone interview. I received an email from Pentonville on Sunday. I’m not sure what exactly he wants to discuss. I hope he isn’t getting cold feet about filming next month. I hope it’s not more game-playing.
I wait until Nigel leaves and the bolt slides on the door before I speak again.
“Thank you, Alexa. I really appreciate you taking part in this process. I know we’ve talked it all through over the phone, but just to recap: What I’m going to do is record everything we say here today. If something comes out wrong or you’re not happy with how you’ve expressed something, then just let me know and I’ll ask you again or I’ll rephrase the question. You don’t have to worry about performing for the camera or anything like that. Just ignore it and talk to me. Just like a normal conversation.”
She smiles. I’ve said something funny.
“It’s been a while since I’ve had a ‘normal conversation,’ Erin. So you’ll have to bear with me, I’m afraid. I’ll do my best.” She chuckles. Her voice is warm and deep. It’s funny to hear it now in person after hearing it on the phone for so long. We’ve had three pretty comprehensive phone conversations since we started the process. I’ve managed to keep off the central interview topics, as I want her to be able to tell me her story in full for the first time on camera. I want to keep it fresh. It’s strange to see her now, here, real, in front of me. Of course, I’ve seen pictures of her in her file, articles in papers, the story Mark read over my shoulder only a month ago, but this is different. She’s so calm, so self-possessed. I’ve seen her arrest photos from fourteen years ago, when she was twenty-eight. She’s more beautiful now somehow; she was attractive then but she has clearly grown into her beauty. Her soft dark blond hair is tied back loosely in a low ponytail at the nape of her neck, her naturally sun-kissed skin has a sprinkling of freckles across her nose and forehead.
She’s only half joking about the lack of normal conversation. I can see it in her eyes. I smile. I understand why she might have agreed to this project. Cultural homesickness. I can’t imagine there are too many people like Alexa in Holloway. From where she’s from. We’re not the same generation, she and I, but we’re definitely the same tribe.
“Shall we give this a go then? Any questions before we start?” I ask.
“No, I’m happy to jump right in.” She straightens her already straight sweatshirt and shakes her bangs from her eyes.
“Great! Just to let you know, I’m going to keep my questions short; they’ll be more like prompts for you, really, to focus you on a topic or redirect you. I can edit myself out and we can use voiceover later to overlay. Okay. Let’s give it a go. Could you tell me your name, age, and sentence?”
I feel my phone buzz silently through my pocket. Mark. Maybe good news. Maybe a job offer? God, I hope so. That would solve everything in one quick stroke. The buzzing stops abruptly. Either went to voicemail or he’s remembered where I am today. What I’m supposed to be doing right now.
I snap back into focus. I watch as Alexa takes a soft breath, I let go of thoughts of Mark, and the prison interview room seems to disappear around her.
“My name is Alexa Fuller. I’m forty-two years old and I’ve been here, in Holloway, for fourteen years now. I was convicted for assisting in the suicide of my mother, Dawn Fuller. She was terminally ill. Pancreatic cancer. I was sentenced for the maximum sentence allowable.” She pauses. “Um…the maximum conviction ever given for assisted suicide. There had been a lot of press that year around lenient sentencing, lots in the media about assisted-suicide convictions being thrown out of court. There was an inquest where it was decided that the Crown Prosecution Service should take a harder line in the future. I just happened to be first through the door after the rules changed. They decided cases would be treated similarly to manslaughter, even if they clearly aren’t manslaughter.”
She stops for a second. Looking past me.
“She’d wanted to go to Dignitas in Switzerland originally, Mum, but we told her it would all be fine, she would beat it. She was only fifty-five and receiving the most intensive chemo program available. They all thought it would knock it on the head finally. But she had a heart attack.
“When they stopped the treatments she was too sick to fly; I wouldn’t have wanted to take her to Switzerland anyway. Dad and I visited the place whilst she was still in ICU recovering. It was so cold there. Empty, you know, like one of those hotel rooms you get at motorway service stations.” She pulls her sleeves down over her hands before continuing. “I couldn’t imagine her there. Dying.”
For a fraction of a second, I think of my mother. A flash of Mum in a bed, in a room, somewhere, alone. That night after the crash. After they found her, broken, rain-soaked. I don’t know what room it was or where it was, whether she was alone. I hope it wasn’t a room like that.
Alexa’s eyes flick up to my face. “Neither of us wanted to imagine her there. So we brought her home. And she got worse. And then one day she asked me to leave her the morphine. I knew what that meant….” Her voice wobbles.
“I put it on the nightstand but she couldn’t pick up the bottle. She kept dropping it on the bedsheets. I called Dad downstairs and we talked it all through together, the three of us. I went upstairs and got the camcorder, Dad set up the tripod, and Mum told the camera, and later the courtroom, that she was in sound mind and wished to end her life. She showed how she couldn’t lift the bottle on her own, let alone inject herself, and then she explained that she was asking me to help her. After the video we had dinner. I set the table in the living room with candles. We had champagne. Then I left her and Dad to talk. He came out into the hall after. He didn’t say anything. I remember that. He just walked past me, up to bed. I tucked her up in the duvet on the sofa and we talked for a while but she was tired. She would have talked all night with me but she was too tired.”
Alexa’s breath catches. She looks away. I wait, silent.
“She was tired. So I did what she asked, and then I kissed her goodnight and she fell asleep. Not long after that, she stopped breathing.” She pauses before looking back at me. “We never lied, you know. Not once. We told the truth from the beginning. It was just bad timing. With the crackdown. But that’s life, isn’t it? Sometimes you’re the dog; sometimes you’re the lamppost.”
She smiles her muted smile.
I smile back at her. I don’t know how she’s done it, stayed sane after being stuck so long in this place for doing what anyone would have done. For helping someone she loved. Would I do that for Mark? Would he for me? I look at Alexa. Fourteen years is a lot of thinking time.
“What job did you do before prison, Alexa?” I ask. I want to get her back in flow again.
“I was partner at a corporate law firm. I was doing pretty well, all told. Mum and Dad were very proud. Are proud. I wouldn’t go back to it, though, even if I could, which I definitely can’t. But I wouldn’t.”
“Why not? Why wouldn’t you go back?” I prompt her.
“Well, I don’t need the money, for starters. I made a lot before. I invested well. We have a house already. Well, my dad does. I’m moving back in with my dad; he owns outright, no mortgage anymore. I could retire on my investments and savings. I won’t, but I could.”
She smiles and leans forward, resting her elbows and forearms on the table.
“My plan…my plan is to try and get pregnant.” She says it softly, instantly young again, vulnerable. “I know I’m getting on, obviously, but I’ve spoken to the prison doctor about it and the IVF available now is just light-years ahead of where it was before I came in here. I’m forty-two and I’m out in a month. I’ve already contacted a clinic. I’ve got an appointment set for the day after I get home.”
“Donor sperm?” I hazard. She’s never mentioned a man in any of our phone calls. There aren’t many people who can wait around for fourteen years, I suppose. I’m not sure I could.
A burst of laughter. “Yes, donor sperm. I’m a fast mover but I’m not that fast!”
She looks genuinely happy. Joyful. Making a person. Making a new life. I can feel my heart beating faster. The idea of a baby. A baby with Mark. A warm feeling. We bask in it together for a second. Mark and I have talked it through already. We’re going to start trying. I came off the pill four weeks ago. We’re going to try for a baby, and if it happens on honeymoon so much the better. It’s strange that Alexa and I are at the same point in our own, very different, lives.
She leans in. “I’m going to try as soon as possible. The chance of success drops every year, but the limit for IVF is forty-five, so I’ve got three years. Three years’ worth of chances. I’m healthy. It should be fine.”
“Why do you want to have a baby?” It sounds stupid even as I say it. But she takes the question as I meant it.
“Why does anyone? I suppose so much of my life recently has been endings—endings and waiting. Even before prison: waiting for holidays, or for a better time, or next year, or whatever. I don’t even know what I was waiting for. But now I get a new beginning. I don’t have to wait anymore. I’ve done all my waiting and now I’m going to live.”
She sits back in her seat, face glowing, lost in a world of possibilities.
I take the opportunity to glance at my phone. We’ve run over by ten minutes. My one missed call up on the screen. I can see the edge of Nigel’s shoulder through the small window in the door. He’s not rushing us but I don’t want to push my luck.
“Thank you, Alexa.” We’re done for the day. I stand and press the door release button on the wall. I sneak another glance at my phone and tap the notification. The call was from Caro, not Mark. My disappointment is so sharp I can taste it. I guess he doesn’t have a job yet. I was so sure for a second there. But never mind. Early days. Early days.
The claxon sounds abruptly, bolts slide, and Nigel, slightly startled, trundles in.
I turn off the camera.