Iris wept for the way her life had been taken from her. She wept for the treatment she had received in prison, reviled by prison officers and prisoners alike; labelled 'baby killer'. For all intents and purposes, in her mind, she was as good as dead, all that remained was the final cessation of life. That too had come very close during the two attacks on her in prison, despite her death wish she'd somehow, unaccountably, recovered from the multiple stab wounds, but she still carried the ugly scars on her abdomen, breasts, and chest. She wept in the sure and certain knowledge she had been set up by her ex-husband, who had destroyed her child, and her life. She had reached this conclusion by analysing what had happened to her, how her husband had acted before the divorce; after all, she'd had plenty of time to think about it in the loneliness of her cell, especially in the darkest part of the night when the sweet oblivion of sleep evaded her.She wept at the pain and degradation of the. " he witters. There was a nice blue dress, knee length, the shoes was a bit tight and the two inch heels fucking awkward, and a womens coat what stunk of piss and had a ?3 Oxfam label hanging off it. "You know," Al says, "You could pass for me Grandma dressed like that, she been dead two years!" He found something, I ain't sure a Miniskirt and tight top was an idea but the red wellingtons was better than the two inch heels I was lumbered with and then he stuck a white doctors coat on and we fucked off. "Where do you think your," Lionel said before Al twatted him again and he went down like a sack of King Edwards. "Where the fuck's the van?" I asked as we stumbled into the street. The world was grey in the early morning light, soft rain hung in the morning mist mingled with smuts from the iron foundry, "Down the fucking pub!" Al says. "Where the fuck are we?" I asks. "Well the sun rises in the west," Al says like a pillock. "East," I says, "Where's the fucking railway?" "There," says.
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