The Warden of Blackwater – Part 2: Lights Out at Blackwater

The regime was ruthless, and entirely theatre, and utterly absorbing. Every hour the Warden's heels rang on the iron gallery and her key turned in the lock. She inspected the cell. She inspected him, standing at attention against the wall, with a gloved finger under his chin, a cold appraising look and a flat statement of his shortcomings. She gave him tasks: to stand, to kneel, to recite the rules of the wing. She corrected every slip with a quiet word and an unhurried severity that carried no anger at all.

"Do you consent to continue, Inmate?"

"Yes, Warden."

"Say it plainly."

"I consent, Warden. Thank you."

"The Warden does not require thanks."

At midnight she brought a tin cup of water and held it to his lips with her own hands. At two she gave him a rough blanket and sat on the stool outside the open door with a notebook, writing in a firm hand, silent, her cap pushed back. It was a kind of care, severe and exact, and he felt more completely looked after than he had in years.

At three the lights went out in the gallery.

"Visiting," said Ingrid.

She said it softly, for them both. The cap came off. The grey coat was laid on the bunk. She sat down beside him on the narrow mattress, pulled the blanket round his shoulders and held him against her, her cheek on his hair.

"Are you all right?"

"I think," said Rob, slowly, "that I have never felt so safe. Is that strange?"

"It's the whole point." She rubbed his back in slow circles. "You were a wonderful inmate."

"Early release?"

"For good behaviour." Ingrid smiled in the dark. "There's a very strict probation period, naturally."

"I'll comply, Warden."

"I know you will."

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