Chapter Text
It was a typically drizzly and grey Manchester day that greeted Carla as she shuffled through the metal gates of Norcross Prison and out into civilised society, not that she cared about a bit of rain. It felt glorious as it dappled her face and clung to the wool of her coat.
She felt faintly ridiculous in her sombre black suit, burgundy blouse, modest heeled boots and thick wool overcoat. To anyone passing, she could easily be mistaken for a solicitor leaving the prison after meeting a client. But it was the plastic bag of worldly possessions she was clutching rather than a sleek briefcase that gave her away - that, and the pale, worn and haunted look on her face and the slight stoop to her shoulders.
Taking a deep breath, she looked quickly left and right before crossing the road and making her way down the street to the bus stop. Keeping her eyes down, she slipped one hand into her coat pocket to check again that the two bits of paper her solicitor had given her earlier that morning were still there: a pre-paid bus ticket and the address of the accommodation she would be calling home for the next three months.
Reassured, she ducked under the bus shelter and scanned the timetable. Glancing at the delicate gold watch on her wrist, she noted that it would be eight minutes until the next bus. She tucked herself into the corner of the shelter, leaning her back against the plastic, and commenced staring at her boots until the bus arrived.
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Stepping off the bus forty minutes later, Carla tried to look casual as she took in her surroundings. The street she would be calling home was run-down and neglected-looking, with soggy litter strewn across gardens and many houses with more than one window smashed or boarded up. It reminded her of the council estate she had grown up on, and she thought wryly that Michael, the prison counsellor, would refer to this as a ‘full circle moment’ for her - although probably not as something positive.
She checked the number of one such house in front of her and, with more confidence than she felt, turned left and made her way along the street until she found the address she had memorised from the scrap of paper in her pocket.
Pushing open the gate that was hanging on for dear life on one rusty hinge, she made her way up the weed-covered pathway to the front door. She rang the buzzer and waited, idly noticing the mound of spent cigarette butts piled to the side of the door and dotted throughout the overgrown grass beside the pathway.
‘Yeah?’ a disjointed voice blared through the speaker, jolting her back.
‘Um…’ Carla paused, uncertain as to what she was meant to say. Checking in sounded ridiculous, like she had just rocked up to the Ritz and was waiting to be shown to her suite.
‘HELLO?’ the voice demanded impatiently.
‘Carla Connor,’ she eventually answered, figuring that the less she said the less likely she would embarrass herself.
There was a long buzz and loud click in response as the door unlocked. She pushed it open.
The inside of the building seemed to be faring no better than the outside. Paint peeled off the walls in many places and, judging by the garish, swirling pattern, the threadbare carpet looked like it had been laid sometime in the mid 1970s and was liberally dotted with stains of a questionable nature.
There was a ‘reception’ desk to the right. It reminded Carla of a smaller version of the reception in Fawlty Towers, if Basil had erected perspex Covid screens from desk to ceiling to box it in. The screens, like the desktop, looked like they hadn’t seen a wipe of a cloth in months, and she counted no less than four spider plants dotted around in various stages of decay.
A woman of indeterminate age sat behind the desk. She could have been anywhere between forty and seventy - she looked as worn and haggard as the carpet beneath their feet. Switching on an ancient-looking monitor, she squinted at the screen, pecked at a few keys, and finally glared up at Carla.
‘What was the name again?’ she demanded, raising an eyebrow after giving Carla a long once-over.
Carla repeated her name, deciding to continue with the ‘less is more’ approach to speaking. The woman pecked away at the keyboard and clicked the mouse aggressively for another few minutes. Eventually, the sound of a printer rattling to life came from somewhere in the small room behind. She ducked into the back and reappeared a few moments later with a thin sheaf of paper and a large metal key attached to a brassy-looking round keyring.
‘House rules!’ she slammed the papers onto the desk. ‘You break any, you’re out - no exceptions. Your PO will be informed and, without a valid address, your licence will be withdrawn and you’ll be returned to Norcross to finish your sentence.’ Her eyes bore into Carla’s, and she nodded once to show she understood. Jonathan, her PO, had been through all this with her already, and even though the halfway house was one of the biggest shit holes she’d ever set foot in (and that was saying something), there wasn’t a chance in hell she was going to slip up and risk ending up back in her miserable cell.
The key clattered onto the papers.
‘Room six, second floor. Bathroom is the third door on the right on the first floor.’
And that was that. The woman disappeared back behind reception and left Carla to it. Not wanting to hang around, she quickly gathered up the papers and key and made her way up the creaking stairs.
She easily found her room and, after a bit of fiddling, unlocked the door and pushed it open on screaming hinges. Stepping in quickly, she closed it again and locked it immediately before turning to take in her surroundings.
As expected, the room was a kip. Only slightly bigger than her former cell, a single bed that sagged ominously in the middle was pushed against one wall. The mattress looked like something from a crime scene. A jumble of mismatched bedding was folded at its foot. A small window to the left of the bed housed a chest of drawers, upon which sat a small lamp. The floor was covered in the same carpet that ran from reception through the entire house. There was a musty, damp smell, likely coming from the patch of black mould that festered in the left-hand corner of the room. A rickety wooden dining chair sat under two crooked plywood shelves on the wall opposite the bed.
Placing her bag on the chair, she went first to the window and was disappointed to find it nailed shut. Moving her attention to the bedclothes, she gingerly unfolded them, determining that, while they were probably older than her, they were at least mostly clean. She meticulously made up the bed before removing her coat and boots and lying on top of it. It was an utter dive of a room, but at least she didn’t have to share.
Her gaze traced the myriad of stains that decorated the low ceiling as she took stock. She had six months left of her sentence that she would be serving on licence. That meant staying at this address, showing up to her community job at a local charity shop and doing basically little else. She would be meeting her probation officer weekly, where she would submit to drug and alcohol testing. She would also attend mandatory counselling sessions every week - something she was dreading most of all.
While in prison, she had been obliged to attend group counselling. However, her attendance had been more or less the extent of her involvement with the sessions. She suspected she wouldn’t get away with just sitting with her head down for her one-on-one meetings. Her first session would be in six days’ time; she decided not to worry about it until then.
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It was sometime later that a door slamming somewhere in the distance jolted her out of the light sleep she had fallen into. Bolting upright, her heart pounded as she looked frantically around the unfamiliar room. It took a few seconds for her brain to catch up and remember where she was, but eventually her heartbeat slowed to a more normal rhythm.
Standing, she smoothed out the bedcovers and crossed over to the chair to grab her bag. Placing it on the bed, she carefully unpacked its paltry contents. Her solicitor had brought her a few essential bits to tide her over: a multipack of plain black cotton briefs, five pairs of white sports socks, a black t-shirt bra, a pyjama set consisting of a vest and shorts, two black t-shirts, one pair of grey joggers, a black zip-up hoody, and a pair of supermarket trainers completed her wardrobe.
In terms of personal hygiene, she had a new toothbrush and toothpaste, a black plastic comb, a small roll-on deodorant, a bottle of Head & Shoulders, hair ties, a heavily scented bar of pink soap, a face cloth, and a yellow beach towel with ‘ON MY HOLIBOBS!’ emblazoned across it in purple script alongside a picture of a cartoon cocktail. A make-up pouch contained her various meds, tweezers, and a compact mirror.
As for personal effects, she had given away most of what little she had accumulated over the years to the few fellow inmates she considered friends. Well, ‘friends’ was probably pushing it — they were the few people she trusted not to stab her in her sleep or beat her up in the showers.
What remained were two books: a battered copy of The Count of Monte Cristo (a gift from Roy) and a less well-worn edition of the latest Sally Rooney, which had been a Christmas present from Michelle. She also had a travel alarm clock, two pencils and a half-filled sketchbook, a small bundle of letters and cards, the jewellery she was wearing, and £275 in cash.
She organised her clothes into the drawers and popped her books and toiletries onto the wonky wall shelves. The letters and cards went into the gap between the drawers and wall - not exactly the most inventive hiding place, but better than nothing. The cash would stay on her person at all times. Now that she had taken stock and unpacked, she decided it was time to be productive.
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Carla tried to make herself invisible as she wandered around the nearest Big Tesco. She kept a line of shelves at one shoulder at all times and avoided making eye contact with anyone, keeping her head down and only looking up to check what aisle she was in. She had changed into the tracksuit and trainers and tied her hair up in a messy bun, determined to be in and out of the sprawling supermarket in as little time as humanly possible. It was too noisy and bright and, although not overly busy considering it was mid-afternoon, too crowded for Carla to handle for long.
So far in her basket she had a £12 electric kettle, one plain white mug, a bowl and plate, a knife, fork and spoon, two boxes of cuppa soup, six packets of noodles, a box of breakfast bars, a packet of bourbon creams, teabags, and a net of easy-peel oranges. Making her way through the health and beauty aisles, she added a bottle of multivitamins, a packet of paracetamol, and a box of tampons. She rolled her eyes as she realised that, after the kettle, the tampons were the most expensive thing in her basket. Looking through her items, she was satisfied she had everything on her list and was within her meagre budget.
Turning to make her way to the self-checkouts, her steps faltered when she spotted the clothing section to her left. She hesitated briefly before making her way over to F&F - there was no harm in looking after all. Wandering amongst the rails, she allowed one hand to reach out and skim over the different fabrics as she passed. The worst of winter was over, making way for a relatively mild spring, and the items on the rails reflected the change in seasons with brighter patterns and lighter materials.
But the new season meant full price, and there was no way Carla could justify buying anything when the remainder of her cash would have to tide her over until she could organise a new bank card and access to the modest funds she had set aside for day-to-day use. Or so she thought - a sale rail marked ‘Final Reductions’ off to one side caught her eye, so she meandered over.
Rifling through, she was disappointed to find it was mostly a hodgepodge of leftover winterwear in sizes either XXXL or XXS. She was about to give up and leave when, there, at the very back, she saw them - a pair of size ten straight-leg jeans in light denim. Assuming someone had been too lazy to put them back on their proper rail, she cautiously reached for the label and cheered internally when a red sticker with ‘£17’ revealed itself.
It would put her over budget by £9, but she girl-mathed her way to justification, steadfast in her belief that a good pair of jeans was a sound investment. She had a brief flashback to applying this same logic when spending £490 on a pair of Victoria Beckham jeans many lifetimes ago and rolled her eyes at herself before grabbing the hanger off the rail and making her way to the tills.
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Back in her room, she stored her food away in one of the empty drawers and arranged her crockery on the shelf beside her books. Satisfied, she grabbed her kettle and key and, after locking up, made her way cautiously downstairs to the bathroom.
It was predictably grotty, but there was a working lock and toilet paper, so that counted as a win in Carla’s book. She used the toilet quickly and washed her hands, drying them on her hoodie before filling the kettle. Taking a steadying breath, she unlocked the door and stepped out into the hallway - straight into the back of a woman with close-cropped peroxide blonde hair.
A little water splashed from the kettle onto the woman’s grey shirt. She spun around, furious, and Carla’s stomach dropped to her feet as she instantly recognised who it was.
‘You have got to be fucking kidding me!’ the woman raged at Carla.
She tried to stutter an apology, willing her legs to move so she could leg it back to the safety of her room, but they refused to cooperate. She remained frozen to the spot, still clutching her stupid little kettle.
She saw the exact moment it dawned on the woman who had bumped into her.
‘Connor?!’ she all but snarled before stepping forward and grabbing the front of Carla’s hoodie in both hands.
Carla felt herself being slammed into the wall, the back of her head making painful contact. A fist connected with her face once, then twice, pain radiating in its wake.
‘Nothing to say for yourself, you stupid bitch?’ the woman spat, raising her fist to strike again.
Carla saw her chance and took it, swinging the still mostly full kettle upwards with all her might and smashing it into the woman’s chin. There was a howl of rage as her head snapped backwards and she released her grip on Carla’s hoodie to clutch at her face.
Carla didn’t wait to survey the damage and ran full pelt down the stairs to her room, fumbling her key out of her tracksuit pocket to unlock the door. She slammed it behind her, locking it quickly, before dragging the chair over and wedging it under the handle of good measure. Backing away, she wedged herself into the gap between her drawers and the wall and slid down to the ground, hugging her knees.
Well, she thought. This changes everything.
Then promptly passed out cold.
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The shrill beeping of a car horn outside her window woke her with a jolt that she immediately regretted, as pain seared through her head. Standing stiffly, she stumbled across the room to the shelves and fumbled for the packet of paracetamol. She dry-swallowed two before remembering the bottle of water she’d bought at Tesco. Grabbing it from beside her bed, she took a few careful sips, wincing at the pain in her split lip. Her whole face and head throbbed, and her stomach rolled with nausea.
She rifled through her makeup pouch for her compact and braced herself before flipping it open to inspect the damage. As expected, it wasn’t pretty - her left eye was swollen nearly shut, the skin on the bridge of her nose had split, and there was dried blood coming from both nostrils and the cut on her lip. She prodded her nose gently and decided that, although painful and swollen, it didn’t seem to be broken - small mercies. Running her hand through her hair, she could feel a large lump on the back of her head, but no blood. Grabbing her washcloth, she poured some water onto it and cleaned her face as best she could before plonking down onto her bed.
Sandra ‘Sandy’ Brown - the woman who had just tried to rearrange her face upstairs - had been the bane of Carla’s life in Norcross. She was a sadistic bitch who took pleasure in making people’s lives as miserable as possible, whether through physical violence or relentless bullying. She had been released three months previously, and it had been one of the happiest days of Carla’s (and numerous other inmates’) lives.
While Sandy enjoyed persecuting people for the mere thrill of it, with Carla it had become personal - the incident upstairs hadn’t been the first time she’d administered a beating. The difference this time was that there were no guards roaming the halls keeping an eye out for trouble, and Carla was under no illusion that the next time Sandy caught her, she wouldn’t be getting away so easily.
There was no way she would be able to avoid the woman for six days, let alone the six months she had to stay at the house. Lying back onto the bed, she closed her eyes and tried to order her muddled thoughts. She couldn’t stay here, but she couldn’t demand to be moved without cause - that would involve reporting Sandy, something she was not prepared to do.
Roy was out of the question - his name had appeared in the papers when he had given an impassioned plea in court to spare Carla a custodial sentence. If Carla disappeared from the halfway house and Sandy decided to track her down, Roy would be the first and most obvious place to look. And besides all of that, she wasn’t ready to show her face anywhere near the cobbles yet. She possibly never would again.
She let her mind run through her mental rolodex, trying to think of someone, anyone, who might agree to let her stay with them until she finished her sentence and could leave Manchester for good. In terms of her surviving family, Rob was out of the question for obvious reasons, and she had no idea where in the world Kate was at the moment — not that she’d ever consider asking her sister for anything after all that happened. Michelle was happily settled in Dublin, and Ryan was having another go at making the DJ thing work over in Ibiza.
She was at a literal dead end.
She wished she could call Michelle and hear her voice, but a new phone wasn’t in the budget at the moment, and there was no way she was going to risk sneaking out to find a payphone. She wasn’t even sure if payphones were still a thing.
Her mind drifted to the bundle of letters and cards stashed behind her dresser, and she decided that, if she couldn’t talk to her best friend, reading her words would be the next best thing. Fishing them out, she untied the ribbon holding them together and picked out one at random. She read through it twice before reaching for another, then another. She worked her way through the pile until all that was left was one last card.
Picking it up, she smiled at the picture of cartoon bananas on the front with ‘Thanks a Bunch’ scrawled below. She knew the short message inside off by heart by now, but opened it to read again anyway.
Carla,
I know you told me to forget about you and everyone and everything else from in there, to walk away and never look back, but I will never forget you and what you did for me. I will never be able to thank you enough.
I will always remember you and try my best to make good choices and do you proud.
I’ll miss you.
Kidda xx
Smiling sadly, she closed the card and placed it face down on top of the folded letters. Reaching for the ribbon to retie the bundle, something on the bottom corner of the card caught her eye.
She hesitated as a plan began to form.
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After a fitful night’s sleep, Carla got up the next morning ready to take action. She cleaned herself up as best she could in her room and dressed in her new jeans, her court-appearance blouse, trainers and overcoat. Double, then triple checking she had everything she needed, she slowly moved the chair back from the door and stood stock still, listening intently.
It was just after 11 a.m., and the house was eerily quiet after the noise of the morning rush. By her calculation, there were nine rooms altogether spread out over the two floors of the house. She had stood by her door all morning, listening for footsteps and counting the number of times she heard the front door slam. She was fairly confident that seven people had left already, leaving her and one other person in the house.
She couldn’t afford to wait any longer and, satisfied there was no one in the immediate vicinity of her room, unlocked the door as quietly as possible and inched it open enough to peep her head out. The coast was clear.
Stepping through, she locked up and crept to the staircase. Peering over the top and not seeing anyone, she took her chance and legged it down the two flights of stairs, skidding to a stop at reception. There was a different woman sitting at the desk that morning, and her eyes widened when she looked up and saw Carla’s battered face.
‘Connor - room nine, signing out please,’ Carla half muttered, half whispered at the woman, who continued to stare but buzzed the door open nonetheless.
Out on the street, Carla checked both ways before turning left and walking to the bus stop, which she was relieved to see was empty. She wasn’t waiting long, and £2 and six stops later, she was in the city centre. Her first order of business: an internet café.
After parting with £3 for fifteen minutes of time, she settled herself at a terminal and got to work. In short order, she had created a new email address and logged into her inbox. Clicking on ‘compose’, she pulled out the crumpled bit of paper with her PO’s contact details and input their email address.
She decided on the eye-catching ‘Extremely Urgent!’ as the subject line and moved on to the message body. Aiming for a tone that was casual yet professional (rather than desperate and panicked) she kept it brief, advising Chris, her PO, that she wished to change her approved address. She added that she would be available at the new dwelling tomorrow at 1 p.m. for him to perform an inspection and sign off. She finished by reminding him that she was yet to acquire a new phone, so she would look for his response in the morning.
Next, she pulled up Google Maps, typed in the address, and hit the ‘Directions’ button. Satisfied she knew where she was going, she logged out of everything and headed on her way.
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40 minutes and a pitstop at a poundland to buy a pair of sunglasses later, Carla was standing in front of a neat but small terraced house with a shiny blue front door. There were 2 windows downstairs, both sporting platers overflowing with brightly coloured geraniums on the sills. The street was quiet - not affluent by any means but tidy and well looked after.
She was just building up to knocking when the door swung open abruptly. She jumped back a step in surprise.
‘You wanna tell me why you’ve been outside casing my house for the last five minutes?’
A short blonde woman stood with one hand on her hip, staring pointedly at Carla. Carla stared back, momentarily lost for words.
‘Well?’ the blonde pressed.
Everything Carla had been carefully rehearsing on the walk over promptly evaporated from her head.
‘Um… I’m a friend. I suppose. Of Betsy’s.’ She stammered. ‘I was wondering if I could speak to her for a minute?’
‘A friend of Betsy’s?’
A perfectly sculpted eyebrow rose in disbelief as she gave Carla an excruciatingly slow once-over. The brunette tried not to squirm under the scrutiny.
‘Yes.’
‘From where?’
‘Um… from last year…’
Carla watched as the woman’s face paled and she leaned out of the door to glance quickly up and down the street.
‘You better come in’, she replied shortly, grabbing Carla by the arm and all but dragging her into the small hallway at the bottom of the stairs.
Reaching behind to her back pocket, she pulled out a mobile, typing something furiously. Finished, she stormed through a door, gesturing for Carla to follow. Passing through a small but comfortable-looking living room, they arrived in an equally small but well-equipped kitchen-diner.
The blonde gestured to the small table. ‘Have a seat.’
Carla did as she was told and squeezed onto the chair nearest the wall.
‘Take your glasses off, please’, the woman ordered.
Carla hesitated but had little choice but to comply. She slid them carefully off her bruised nose and folded them, placing them on the tabletop before looking up.
The woman gasped, and Carla cringed internally at the reaction.
‘So you were in Norcross with Betsy?’ the woman demanded.
Carla nodded silently.
‘And by the looks of your face, I’m assuming you weren’t a guard?’ she asked wryly and received a snort of disbelief in response.
‘I’ll make this easy for you - you’re not going anywhere near my daughter until you talk to me first.’
Carla opened her mouth to reply, but before she could get a word out, her stomach let out a rumble so loud it seemed to echo around the otherwise quiet kitchen. She looked up apologetically at the woman, who was leaning against the counter, arms crossed, the beginnings of a scowl on her face.
‘I suppose a brew’s out of the question?’ Carla ventured, half jokingly, half pleadingly - she was starving after only having an orange and half a Belvita for breakfast. The woman merely scowled harder in response.
Wow. Tough crowd.