inspected. It was quicker than
Sarah expected, which was relieving. Then the knock came on her door and it was
opened up. Sarah stood still and pretended she wasn’t there. She felt her face
go red.
“Arm,” demanded
Ms Hutchen.
Sarah stuck out
her arm with the burned barcode on it. Ms Hutchen scanned it. She then pulled
out another device and tapped Sarah lightly on each shoulder and hip. It lit up
green.
“Turn around.”
Sarah turned
around.
“What’s this?”
demanded Ms Hutchen.
For a moment
Sarah panicked. What did she mean? She didn’t somehow have something stuck to
her, did she? Then she relaxed as she realised that Ms Hutchen was asking about
the scar. It was a small, white scar that sat on her right shoulder blade. She
understood why Ms Hutchen pointed it out. The scar was too well formed to have
been an accident. It was the perfect image of an hourglass in a thin circle.
“How did you get
that?”
“I don’t know,”
replied Sarah. She was being honest. She just knew that about five years ago
she had woken up one morning and there it was, hot and painful but neatly
bandaged. She had asked her mum about it, but she had claimed not to know
either.
“Bullshit you
don’t know. That would have hurt like hell. And why that symbol?” She added,
more demanding suddenly. “Why the hourglass?”
“I, I really
don’t know,” stammered Sarah, not appreciating the sudden intense attention,
especially while she still stood there naked.
Ms Hutchen
looked at her disbelievingly. She opened her mouth to demand more answers but
was stalled by an alarm going off on a small device that she wore on her belt. She
silenced it irritably and glanced at her watch. She muttered something under
her breath about her shift having finished and exited the stall. Ms Hutchen
kicked a pile of neatly folded clothes into Sarah’s stall before walking over
to the next stall and repeating the routine. It seemed that finishing her shift
on time was more important to her than discovering the secret behind Sarah’s
scar. Sarah grabbed the clothes with a feeling of relief and put them on. She
was provided with underwear, a sports bra, which fit surprisingly well, and a
top and pants combination that mimicked medical scrubs. A hairband was also
provided and she tied her hair back into a ponytail. By the time she had
finished dressing and had exited her stall, Ms Hutchen had made it to the last
stall in the row, Heather’s. A beep emanated from the stall. Sarah guessed that
it was the device that Ms Hutchen had used to touch her shoulders and hips.
Something about Heather had made it go off.
“Hand it over.”
Ms Hutchen’s voice was flat and humourless.
“I don’t bloody
think so,” sneered back Heather’s voice.
There was a
screech of pain and a ripping sound before Ms Hutchen emerged from the stall
holding a ring which still had a chunk of hair tied to it. Evidently Heather
had gotten bored while waiting and had decided to hide the valued heirloom in
her nest of hair. Ms Hutchen kicked a pile of clean clothes into Heather’s
stall without even looking, walked over to one of the boxes which now sat on
the floor, chose the one furthest away and dropped the ring, hair still
attached, inside.
“We’re going to
your cells now.”
Heather emerged
from her stall, hastily dressed and clutching her head where a patch of hair
was missing. Some blood was congealing on the area. She was looking at the
ground, but every now and then Sarah saw her glance up at Ms Hutchen with a
look of utter loathing. She stifled a small, self-satisfied grin. It would do
Heather good to realise that she wasn’t always in charge.
They exited
through a different door to the one they had entered and passed through what
seemed to be a multitude of corridors and down two flights of stairs before finally
entering the cell block. The room had a central corridor that was lined on
either side by cells. The corridor size was similar to the rest of the
Sarah expected, which was relieving. Then the knock came on her door and it was
opened up. Sarah stood still and pretended she wasn’t there. She felt her face
go red.
“Arm,” demanded
Ms Hutchen.
Sarah stuck out
her arm with the burned barcode on it. Ms Hutchen scanned it. She then pulled
out another device and tapped Sarah lightly on each shoulder and hip. It lit up
green.
“Turn around.”
Sarah turned
around.
“What’s this?”
demanded Ms Hutchen.
For a moment
Sarah panicked. What did she mean? She didn’t somehow have something stuck to
her, did she? Then she relaxed as she realised that Ms Hutchen was asking about
the scar. It was a small, white scar that sat on her right shoulder blade. She
understood why Ms Hutchen pointed it out. The scar was too well formed to have
been an accident. It was the perfect image of an hourglass in a thin circle.
“How did you get
that?”
“I don’t know,”
replied Sarah. She was being honest. She just knew that about five years ago
she had woken up one morning and there it was, hot and painful but neatly
bandaged. She had asked her mum about it, but she had claimed not to know
either.
“Bullshit you
don’t know. That would have hurt like hell. And why that symbol?” She added,
more demanding suddenly. “Why the hourglass?”
“I, I really
don’t know,” stammered Sarah, not appreciating the sudden intense attention,
especially while she still stood there naked.
Ms Hutchen
looked at her disbelievingly. She opened her mouth to demand more answers but
was stalled by an alarm going off on a small device that she wore on her belt. She
silenced it irritably and glanced at her watch. She muttered something under
her breath about her shift having finished and exited the stall. Ms Hutchen
kicked a pile of neatly folded clothes into Sarah’s stall before walking over
to the next stall and repeating the routine. It seemed that finishing her shift
on time was more important to her than discovering the secret behind Sarah’s
scar. Sarah grabbed the clothes with a feeling of relief and put them on. She
was provided with underwear, a sports bra, which fit surprisingly well, and a
top and pants combination that mimicked medical scrubs. A hairband was also
provided and she tied her hair back into a ponytail. By the time she had
finished dressing and had exited her stall, Ms Hutchen had made it to the last
stall in the row, Heather’s. A beep emanated from the stall. Sarah guessed that
it was the device that Ms Hutchen had used to touch her shoulders and hips.
Something about Heather had made it go off.
“Hand it over.”
Ms Hutchen’s voice was flat and humourless.
“I don’t bloody
think so,” sneered back Heather’s voice.
There was a
screech of pain and a ripping sound before Ms Hutchen emerged from the stall
holding a ring which still had a chunk of hair tied to it. Evidently Heather
had gotten bored while waiting and had decided to hide the valued heirloom in
her nest of hair. Ms Hutchen kicked a pile of clean clothes into Heather’s
stall without even looking, walked over to one of the boxes which now sat on
the floor, chose the one furthest away and dropped the ring, hair still
attached, inside.
“We’re going to
your cells now.”
Heather emerged
from her stall, hastily dressed and clutching her head where a patch of hair
was missing. Some blood was congealing on the area. She was looking at the
ground, but every now and then Sarah saw her glance up at Ms Hutchen with a
look of utter loathing. She stifled a small, self-satisfied grin. It would do
Heather good to realise that she wasn’t always in charge.
They exited
through a different door to the one they had entered and passed through what
seemed to be a multitude of corridors and down two flights of stairs before finally
entering the cell block. The room had a central corridor that was lined on
either side by cells. The corridor size was similar to the rest of the
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