The Wicked Girls

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There’s a blanket, but from the aroma that rises from its folds, she guesses it’s never been washed. The cells are overheated and, despite the fact that Jade balled it up and pushed it into the corner of the room when they first brought her in here, the stink of stale piss and unwashed skin is hard to ignore. Officer Magill picks it up and holds it out towards her, wadded in her hand. ‘You’re going to have to wear this,’ she says. ‘Over your head. Apparently they’re not allowed to see your face.’

It’s hardly necessary. Jade’s face was all over the papers months ago, and will be all over them again tomorrow. She looks at the blanket, repelled. Officer Magill’s eyes narrow.

‘You know what, Jade?’ she says. ‘You’re welcome to go out there uncovered if you want. They’re all dying to see you, believe me. It’s no skin off my nose.’

They’ve seen me already, thinks Jade. Over and over. In the papers, on the news. That’s why they make us queue up for those school mugshots every year. It’s not for our families. It’s so there’s always a picture to sell to the papers. So they have something to hang a headline on. THE WORLD PRAYS. FIND OUR ANGEL. Or, in my case, ANGELIC FACE OF EVIL.

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