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I just kept singing. At the trial, the judge took offense when I sang so I was quiet. I was quiet when he read I would be in jail for the rest of my life. I was quiet when they striped me. I was quiet when the jailor ran her hands over my scarred body then handed me the best clothes I ever had worn. White pants and a shirt to match. I worked quietly in the jail until what ever they told me to do was done, then the next job and at night I imagined myself up on the hill with the rest of my family. Resting under the ground besides Pa and Sam because the judge had said I would never go to heaven being a murderer as I was. One day we got a new jailor, Miss Cindy took a dislike for me. I never knew why. I worked as hard as ever but it was never enough. She would have the men jailors beat me, and have their way with me as she watched. When that didn’t make me cry anymore she came up with other ways. Miss Cindy took an electric cord and cut off the insulation and would touch me with the bare. It had an allocated parking space that she’d made sure was free. So Anne was in the front reading the directions. Stan hated driving in London, but it was easier if he didn’t have to navigate. It was a case of adjusting to it, and Stan found that he became more assertive as the drive went on. He had to, to make headway – everyone else was intent on taking full advantage of any hesitation! They made it with plenty of time to spare, got out and walked the short distance to the Tube station. They got off at Green Park, and walked the quarter mile back up Piccadilly to St. Jermyn’s Street and the theatre. Stan’s careful research had ensured good seats – it was easy to get cheap ones, where the view was partially obscured by pillars – and after ordering interval drinks they sat down to enjoy the Phantom’s use of Christine as his face and voice to project his music. Stan liked ‘Phantom’, but he’d seen it before. He kept a careful eye on Denise. This was her night, and he wanted to be sure.
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