I Know Who You Are

Forty-eight

London, 2017

“Name?” says the prison guard behind the desk.

“Aimee Sinclair,” I whisper.

“Speak up, and look at the camera,” he barks, and I repeat my name, while staring at the small black device attached to the wall. It feels a bit like being at an airport, except that I know I’m not going anywhere nice.

“Place your right hand in the middle of the screen,” he says next.

“What for?”

“I need to process your fingerprints. Place your right hand in the middle of the screen.” He sounds weary. I do as he says. “Now just your right thumb.” I move my hand. “Now the left…”

I feel strange as I follow a female guard through further airport-style security. A little light-headed, as though perhaps I am dreaming and none of this is real. I walk through a full-size scanner and then stand with my arms and legs spread, while two guards pat down every single part of my body.

“Remove your clothes, all of them, and put them on the chair.”

I do as I am told.

At first I feel violated because I haven’t done anything wrong, and they shouldn’t be treating me like this, but then I start to question everything again, unsure whether I can trust myself and my memories of what did or didn’t happen.

Ben is dead.

They found his body buried beneath the decking in our garden. His remains had been burned using some kind of accelerant, just like the lighter gel I discovered in our kitchen bin, which the police found in the bin outside, along with my fingerprints. They say I bought it in the petrol station, then burned him somewhere else, before burying his remains at home.

What they are accusing me of is unthinkable.

I wouldn’t believe what they said at first, but dental records confirmed that it was Ben. I thought I saw him, just for a moment at the wrap party before I was arrested, but I must have been mistaken about that, too, because my husband is definitely dead, and the whole world thinks I killed him.

Detective Croft said that the bullet wound in his skull was consistent with those from the bullets that fit my gun at home. The gun I bought, legally, to try to make myself feel safe. The gun they can’t find because I won’t tell them where to look.

They think I’m hiding evidence, but I did not kill my husband.

Did I?

What if I did?

No, that’s not what happened. It can’t be. I shake the thought and stick to the script I already wrote for myself: I’m being framed, I just don’t know who by.

I’ve been in a police station, then a police cell, then I was cuffed inside a white security van, and now I am here. I don’t know how long it has been, a couple of days perhaps; time has stopped working inside my head, I don’t know how to tell it anymore. They said I could use the telephone, but I didn’t know who to call. I have got myself a lawyer though, a good one. He’s handled a lot of high-profile cases over the last few years, and he seems to know what he’s doing. I told him I didn’t do it, and when I asked if he believed me, he just smiled and said it didn’t matter. His answer keeps replaying on a loop inside my head: “What I believe is irrelevant; it’s what I can make others believe that dictates the future.” It’s as though his words might have been written for me.

I pull on the green prison-issue top and jogging bottoms I’ve been told to wear, and every inch of my skin starts to itch. The feeling makes me want to scratch myself out. I catch a glimpse of a strange-looking woman in the mirror; she doesn’t look like me. When you dig down, deep enough inside your own despair, you usually meet the you that you used to be, but I don’t remember her. It feels as if I have to be someone different now, someone strong and brave, a role I’m not sure how to play.

I’ve never been inside a prison before. It’s a lot like how you might expect: high exterior walls topped with barbed wire, a lot of doors, a lot of locks. The place feels cold, and everything seems to look grayish green. The people I see don’t tend to smile too much. I follow another guard as he locks yet another gate behind us, before opening the next with the enormous bunch of keys attached to the belt of his uniform.

The keys remind me of Maggie, and the set she used to carry around the shop. I’ve thought about her a lot since I was arrested. It’s as though someone hit my reset button when I wasn’t looking, and I feel like a little girl again, a little girl who was taught never to trust or talk to the police. The only person I’ve spoken to since they took me away is my lawyer, a complete stranger.

I think he thinks I did it.

I’ve retreated as far inside myself as it is possible to go, and locked my own door with a key I thought I’d thrown away. I look at the other women I pass and can’t help thinking that I am not like them, that I do not belong in here.

But what if I do?

We walk across a yard and I see a series of buildings, all with barbed wire on the walls and bars on the windows, to keep the bad people in, not out. The guard unlocks another door with another key, and we enter one of the smaller buildings; the sign says BLOCK A. I wait while he locks the door behind us, then we walk in communal silence, up some stairs and along another corridor, past endless closed metal doors with tiny windows. I’m starting to think that life is little more than a series of doors: every day we have to choose which ones to open, which to walk through, and which to close behind us, leaving them forever locked.

What if I did do what they’re accusing me of?

It seems increasingly difficult to prove that I didn’t, even to myself. What surprises me the most is my grief. My husband is dead, not just missing anymore, but dead. Gone. Forever. And I feel nothing, except sorrow for myself and for the child I know I’ll never have now. Perhaps they’re right, with all their doctors’ reports and theories about my memory and mental state.

Maybe there is something wrong with me.

“Here we are then, home sweet home for now,” says the guard. He unlocks a blue metal door and pushes it open, introducing me to my future. I step forward, just a little, and peer inside. The cell is tiny. There is a bunk bed on the far right, and just in front of that is a dirty-looking curtain, barely hiding the stained toilet bowl and small sink behind it. On the left is a desk, with what looks like a computer, which surprises me. There’s also a small cupboard covered in someone else’s things: a can of baked beans, some books, some clothes, a toothbrush, and a kettle.

“There is someone in this cell already,” I say, turning back to the guard.

He is old and weary looking, with dark circles beneath his beady eyes, and an overfed belly hanging over his belt. His crooked teeth are too big for his small mouth. He has a substantial gathering of dandruff on his shoulders, and an impressive collection of gray hairs protrude from his nostrils, which flare in my general direction.

“I’m afraid the penthouse suite was already booked, along with all the single-occupancy guest rooms, so you’ll have to share. Don’t worry, Hilary is very friendly, and you’ll only be here until your court appearance, then they’ll find you a more permanent home.” He ushers me inside.

“I didn’t kill my husband.” I hate the pathetic sound of my voice.

“Tell it to someone who cares.” He swings the cell door closed with a loud bang.