The Memory of Scent by Lisa Burkitt

the closed hatch.
    ‘Babette Fournière. Would Babette Fournière make herself known?’
    The key is unlocking our door even as this request is being hollered, so they know I’m here. I stand to attention. I am learning to respond to commands with the compliance of a beaten puppy.
    ‘You’re leaving here, gather your things.’
    I’m leaving? Of course I’m leaving. Somebody has realisedtheir terrible mistake. I swiftly gather my small bundle of things. I am standing in the plain grey prison dress with the striped apron that everyone is assigned on arrival. My blood is pumping as I follow the guard down the long corridor. I allow myself a small smile. I’ll have to write a note for Cécilia to say my goodbyes. Why has the guard stopped so abruptly? I nearly bump into him. He growls and with two large keys unlocks the door and pulls it ajar. Something has gone wrong. I am standing at the other side of the door, numbly aware that it is being locked again leaving me on the wrong side of it. I can feel a pathetic whelp rise through my tightened throat. There is a gap in the door and I must be heard.
    ‘Wait, you’ve made a mistake. I’m Babette Fournière. I should be getting out.’
    Someone is laughing. Laughing? Swinging around I see two young girls, one only slightly younger looking than me. The younger of the two is imitating me.
    ‘I should be getting out’, she mimics. I can hear myself scream, an involuntary convulsion that would under any other circumstances have embarrassed me hugely, and one by one I throw each item that I have been clutching at the young mimic who is swinging this way and that to avoid being hit. From somewhere near me, the older girl walks over and picks up my pieces of clothing while chastising the young girl for being nasty. I slump on to a bench, the only furniture in the cell.
    ‘Here, you’d want to be very careful about hanging onto your outside clothes because one day you will need them. Many a girl has nothing to wear when it’s time to leave. They could be stolen from you at any time, so I wouldn’t go flinging them about if I was you.’
    I suddenly am aware of how grimy I am. I feel as if I have been dipped in something. My face must resemble – I don’t know – probably these ugly children swarming around me.
    ‘Why was I moved here? I thought I was leaving.’ The older girl is the only one I feel has the wit to respond sensibly.
    ‘What age are you?’
    ‘I’m sixteen. Nearly seventeen.’
    ‘Better to say you’re fifteen, nearly sixteen. You probably should have been brought here first. This is a children’s cell. Well for younger inmates anyway. I’m Paulette.’
    I am a little embarrassed at first to take her outstretched hand because I feel so dirty, but then Paulette is even filthier, though she does have a pleasant face. She gestures to a corner of the room where I can roll out a mattress and without saying another word, I nestle as best I can and try to fall asleep. There is no stillness in this place. It is as if we are trapped in the belly of a beast. We have been swallowed whole and everything is just rumbling around us. We are swirling innards and I feel as if I can’t breathe.
    * * *
    I must somehow have slept because this morning is sharp and clear and I was able to find Cécilia so we could walk around the courtyard.
    ‘Babette, you must not let this place get you down. Look, you are too pale already. Keep your shoulders back. There is a Saint-Lazare walk that I would recognise from two streets away. It’s a broken walk, as if holding up your head was too much of an effort.’ I feel her thumb and forefinger prise up my chin. ‘I’m warning you now, the minute you start thinking like a prisoner, you begin to look like one.’
    ‘What am I going to do, Cécilia? My mother would be too ashamed to come and visit me. I told her how well I was doing in Paris and not to worry about me so I can’t turn around now to tell her where I am. She would