The Lady Jailer of Blackthorn – Part 2: Lights Out

The cells were side by side on the second gallery, with a shared wall of old brick. Each held a plank bunk, a grey blanket, a tin cup and a slit of high window, and each had a plain iron latch on the inside, lifted with a thumb. She showed them both, once more, before the doors closed.

"The doors will be shut. The latches work. The bell on the wall is for emergencies, and for the word."

Both men nodded. Both doors swung to, with a long iron clang that went through them like a bell, and then the gallery was silent.

She worked the round like a professional. Every half hour the iron stair rang under her boots, and the keys chinked, and the lamp threw a long yellow bar through each grille. She inspected the cells, and the men in them, and found each wanting, in a low flat list of faults so absurd that Silas, in the dark, almost laughed. She made Gideon stand at the door and recite the rules of the wing until he stumbled, then made him begin again. She made Silas turn out his cup and his blanket and fold them, twice, until the corners met. She spoke to each of them in the cool, level tones of a woman who had never once been disobeyed, and neither of them could have said why the sound of it made him feel so safe.

"Does Penrose wish to continue?"

"Yes, Jailer."

"Does Marsh wish to continue?"

"Yes, Jailer."

"Say it plainly."

"I do, Jailer. Thank you."

"The Jailer does not require thanks."

At eleven she made them kneel in their doorways, side by side, with the gallery lamps dimmed, hands on their knees, and sat on a stool at the end of the corridor with a book and a mug of tea. For an hour she did not speak. Neither did they. The old building creaked. A pipe ticked. Somewhere above them, a loose slate rattled in the wind.

At midnight she closed the book.

"Lights out," said Imelda, quietly. "Both of you. Into your bunks."

The lamps went off. The gallery fell into soft darkness. She walked the length of it once more, slowly, and stopped at each grille, and spoke through it, very softly, the same four words.

"You did well. Rest."

It was not in the Regulations. It was, he thought, the best line of the night.

At three she opened the doors.

"Daylight," said Imelda.

It was her word, and she spoke it for all three. The grey coat came off. The keys were laid on the desk with a soft chink. She sat on the lowest step of the iron stair in her old jumper, rubbing her eyes, and the two men came out of their cells in their socks and sat on either side of her, and she put an arm round each.

"How are you?"

"Locked up," said Gideon, with a damp, helpless laugh. "In a very good way."

"Rested," said Silas. "Properly. I haven't been told what to do in twenty years."

"You were both exemplary." She kissed each of them on the forehead, like a nurse. "The finest intake Blackthorn has had."

"Is there a second sentence?" said Silas.

"A longer one." She smiled. "In the spring. In the women's wing. With a very strict matron."

"I'll bring my own cup," said Gideon.

"You'll bring your name," said Imelda, "and you will answer to it."

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