The Wrong Boy

by Cathy Ace

  How did I ever fit in work? he wondered. The time was flying by; he was busy with projects around the house – and the garden, when the weather allowed. He’d learned the joy of downloading episodes of Desert Island Discs from the BBC website and listening to them as he pottered; he’d heard the life stories of some truly amazing people over the past months – the type with great accomplishments behind them but whose names had rarely, if ever, been mentioned by the mainstream press.

  He was also becoming fairly adept at using social media, as well as having discovered the pure delight of having time to read. He was pretty sure none of this would sound even remotely exciting to anyone else, but he was luxuriating in the ability to browse bookshelves – either his own, or those at the library – pick up a book on whatever topic took his fancy, then sit and actually read it. The passion with which he gobbled up all sorts of titles was a thrill to him, though he still most enjoyed reading about local history.

  ‘It’s quite something when we’ve come to this, don’t you think?’ asked Betty, dragging him back to reality.

  He nodded. ‘That columnist is basically arguing that we, as a society, should have a world-view where those who act against the interest of said society should be treated differently to those who act in support of said society. Don’t they understand that’s why we have rules – laws? That’s what the police and the courts are there for. They’re talking about it all as though it’s some brand-new idea.’ He allowed his annoyance to show. ‘I bet the person who wrote that’s about twenty-bloody-five. You can’t even tell if it’s male or female, because apparently the first name “Morgan” is now in use for both.’

  Betty placed the tablet on the table. ‘First of all, I have to say I cannot see what possible difference the gender of the author makes to the quality, or otherwise, of the piece.’

  Evan knew he’d touched a nerve and was sorry he’d done so. He hadn’t meant to.

  ‘Secondly,’ his wife continued quietly, ‘I don’t think that’s quite what they’re proposing, Evan. It seems to me they’re baying for the blood of drug dealers, and are saying this boy who’s been apparently arrested for murdering that dealer in Rhosddraig should be let off – even if he did do it – because it was a just act.’

  Evan stared at the kettle. ‘Well, yes, there’s that too. Which is also ridiculous.’

  Betty joined her husband at the counter and peered through the rivulets of rain pouring down the kitchen window. ‘That’s all looking a bit sorry for itself out there, isn’t it? When it stops, I dare say we’ll have a fair bit of tidying up to do. That nice bit of weather we had fooled us all into thinking winter was over.’

  Evan turned and held his wife. ‘Am I becoming a news bore?’

  ‘I wouldn’t say that exactly.’

  ‘But I’m close to it, I know. It’s just that I feel so . . . so helpless. When I was on the job, I knew I was making a difference; I was helping to apprehend those who deserved it, and to give some sense of justice to the victims of crime. But now? Now it’s as though I don’t have any input into society anymore. It’s like I’m on the “thanks, you’re of no use to us any longer” pile. And it’s annoying the hell out of me.’

  The kettle boiled, and Betty topped up the pot. They took their seats at the kitchen table. ‘So, what are you planning to do about that?’ she asked.

  Evan knew from experience she was using her professional wiles upon him. ‘I don’t know. Do you have any suggestions?’ he countered.

  Betty bit into a piece of toast, the angle of her head telling him she was thinking as she crunched. Eventually the psychologist he’d married said, ‘I know you’re still coming to terms with not being a detective, and I absolutely understand you can’t help but be curious about why people do what they do. It’s the part of your nature, your persona and psyche, which took you into your career in the first place. There are deeply engrained patterns of activity observable in most human beings which are the product of the genes we’re born with, and the experiences we’ve had. You’re experiencing the totally natural phenomenon of not being able to stop wanting to know what happened, and why, despite the fact your job is no longer a part of your life.’

  Evan took in what Betty had said as he poured them both a fresh cup. ‘So, to distill your mini-lecture there, you’re saying this is a process I’m going through, born of the nature/nurture effect?’ He wanted her to remember he had taken all those psychology courses.

  Betty smiled. ‘Exactly.’ She crunched her toast loudly.

  Evan almost burned his mouth with his tea. ‘So do you think if I allow all of this totally natural desire to know “why” and “how” to be focused on this one case – the case in Rhosddraig – that I’ll be satisfied when it’s all done and dusted, then? When this angelic Aled Beynon is locked up for having killed the devilish little scumbag the media have now, somehow, discovered possibly supplied the drugs which caused Aled’s mother’s death, that then I’ll find my own sense of closure, and be able to think and act like a normal human being again?’

  Betty grinned. ‘I wouldn’t go as far as saying “normal”, cariad. Maybe that would be too much to expect. But the closure part of it might be true.’

  Evan scraped low-fat spread onto his toast, then gave it the thinnest possible coating of lime marmalade. Before he crunched into it he said, ‘But the neutrality of the jury pool is being tainted by all this mainstream media coverage; with the frenzy of trending this, and sharing that, on social media making it even worse. Honestly, I can’t remember any other case where the victim was so clearly portrayed as a sinner, and the accused as a saint. It’s all black and white, if you believe the coverage.’

  He allowed himself a moment to chew, then added, ‘Life’s not like that. Everyone’s a swirl of grey, with the choices they make giving them definition. Some of our choices are good, some bad. This Aled Beynon can’t be as pure as they say, and I’m sure this Dean Hughes was loved by someone, for some reason. Two young men, each being given a character make-over by the media simply to suit their purpose.’

  ‘Sales,’ said Betty.

  ‘Eyeballs,’ countered Evan. ‘That’s what they’re after these days; not sales from newsstands, but eyeballs on screens – eyeballs they can sell to advertisers.’

  Betty shrugged.

  Evan pressed on, ‘There’s something I’ve noticed about this case in particular; it’s about youth. Millennials lap up all this stuff; the generation that would rather look in a mirror or take a selfie than really learn anything about another person. It’s all about the packaging. It’s playing right to the media’s most desirable audience, this story. And good police work be damned.’

  Evan was glad Betty was apparently concentrating on enjoying her toast and didn’t respond, because he felt like stewing for a while. He suspected she could tell as much by looking at him. They ate in silence, then he pushed himself from the table and decided he’d better make a proper start to the day.

  By the time he’d showered and dressed, and Betty had done the same, he was feeling a bit more positive about their discussion. He knew his wife was off to give a few hours’ input at the Citizens’ Advice Bureau in Clydach later that day, so decided he’d just run a couple of thoughts past her before she left. The fact she’d pulled out the ironing board in the kitchen gave him the chance he needed to corner her.

  Enjoying the nostalgic smell of ironing mixed with the remnants of toast, Evan allowed himself the chance to organize his thoughts before he spoke. ‘I’m thinking of inviting Liz over. For a coffee, or something. Tonight, if she can. What do you think?’

  Betty didn’t take her eyes off the collar she was steaming into submission. ‘Will what I think really make any difference to what you’ll do?’

  Evan didn’t think her tone was harsh, just realistic. ‘Possibly,’ he replied, honestly.

  ‘Liz is a grown up. She can decide whether to take you up on your invitation, or not. I can’t imagine she won’t guess why you
’re doing it.’

  ‘True.’

  ‘So that’s that, then,’ she said with finality, popping the crisp blouse onto a hanger, and unplugging the iron. ‘See what she says, eh?’

  Evan was pleased. ‘You’re right. I’ll ask, and leave it up to her. I’ll phone her after you leave; there’s no hurry. Now, are you taking a snack with you? I’ll do something about dinner while you’re out if you like, or will you be coming back via any chip shops? It could be our Friday night treat.’

  Betty was examining her blouse, holding it up to the surprising shaft of sunlight streaming through the window. ‘I’ll bring something home; there’s a good Indian place in Clydach. How about a curry for a change?’

  ‘Do they do chips?’

  ‘They’re running an Indian takeaway in Wales, what do you think? So, chicken korma and chips for you, is it? Onion bhaji too? Or is that a silly question?’

  Evan licked his lips. ‘Have I told you recently how much I love you?’

  21st March

  Sadie

  Oh God, I miss him. I can’t see him, or smell him, or hear his voice.

  It’s terrible. Like falling, tumbling, in a void.

  If I concentrate really hard I can imagine his hands touching my body under my duvet, feel his breath in my ear.

  You’re a terrible God – you’re Nan’s God, not mine, and you’ve taken him away from me, for all this time. We’re supposed to be together. You know that.

  Nan says you’re all-seeing, and all-knowing. If that’s true, then you know what he means to me. Why would you do this to me? To him?

  Why are you torturing us like this? Is it because I know you don’t really have the power others think you have? Because I know the truth about you.

  Is this just you making my life a misery with the little ability you have?

  I wonder why I even try to get to sleep these days. Mam’s on and on at me to work harder for my A levels, but how can I when there’s this huge empty space in my life?

  I can picture my darling Aled, locked up with all those horrible criminals in Swansea prison. That’s where they sent him after the hearing at the Magistrate’s Court. Mam wouldn’t let me go to that. I wish she had. At least then I’d have seen him.

  Who’s going to look after Aled in prison? Everybody knows what terrible places they are, even if you’re innocent and you haven’t had a trial yet. What if he’s being picked on, or bullied?

  He’s too good for that place. Too young for it, too. But that’s where they put him. I think they should have sent him to a place especially for young people, but they said he was old enough to go there. I hate the police, and the magistrates, and the solicitors.

  The whole lot of them are against him. I can’t allow myself to think about any of the dreadful things that might be happening to him in there. It’s too upsetting.

  I’m doing everything I can for him. I keep Tweeting about him, and I know it’s working, but nothing seems to be helping to actually get him out. If nothing can happen until his trial, why don’t they just have that now? Fast.

  This waiting and waiting is unforgiveable. I’ve been Tweeting about that too, and I can see the message is getting through because there’ve even been things on the news on the telly, using Aled’s case to make the public aware of how long people are held before their trials – in so-called remand sections in prisons – when they haven’t been proved guilty of anything. It’s a national disgrace – everyone agrees.

  There’s even a website where they’re counting the days he’s been incarcerated. It’s nothing to do with me – it’s some organization that speaks up on behalf of young people being remanded before trial. It’s fantastic; so many people are helping Aled.

  They announced on the BBC last night that he’s got a new QC. On the BBC for goodness sake . . . and the proper BBC, not just BBC Wales. I’m not really sure what having a new QC means exactly, other than the man from Swansea he had before is getting pushed to one side, and this woman’s coming down from London to represent him for free; she thinks the case is a ‘terrible indictment of our judicial system’. Apparently she’s got a reputation for taking cases like Aled’s, where a person has been locked up for no good reason. We’ll see; I just want them to get him out, however they do it.

  Some people in the newspapers are saying that if anyone can get Aled’s case into court faster, she’s the one to do it; but others are saying she’s pissed off so many people over the years that his case might be slower to be dealt with.

  I just don’t know.

  What I do know is that I didn’t set out to change the world with my @wrongboy10 Tweets, I just wanted to get people to see Aled for who he really is. If everything gets slowed down for him, just to make some sort of an example of his case, that would be terrible.

  I can’t live without him. I’m dying inside. And as for my exams? Well, stuff them. He’ll be held back a year when they let him out – which I know they will – and I can stay on with him. Mam can’t possibly expect me to be able to concentrate on exams. Not with all this going on.

  She’s been pretty good about it so far, but she’s getting less supportive, now, about the Tweeting business; she was the one who agreed with me it was a good idea, but she doesn’t really get it. I know I haven’t told her everything, but why would I? It’s none of her business, and she wouldn’t like it. But she’s my mother; she’s supposed to be on my side.

  30th March

  Nan

  Nan was glad to have Agata behind the bar with her, because Helen and Sadie were just about keeping up with things in the kitchen. Even Agata’s kid sister was working as a waitress; she couldn’t serve alcohol because she was under age, but she could sort the food, so that was good. Nan couldn’t say the girl’s funny Polish name, so called her Gen; the girl’s English was good – considering – and she didn’t seem to mind what Nan called her, so long as she got paid cash at the end of each shift.

  It was good they had all hands on deck, because the unseasonably warm weather and the notoriety of Rhosddraig meant The Dragon’s Head was bustling; even on a sunny Saturday in March it was unusual for all the outside tables to be in use. Nan loved it.

  Having called Helen from the kitchen to help Agata behind the bar, Nan was enjoying a smoke, hovering at the side door; it was a nice enough day that she owed it to herself to have a breath of fresh air. The winter had been as brutal as ever, and now – finally – it looked as though the end might be in sight. The sheep were dotted about the moorland and hillsides as they should be, and at the base of the cliffs the tide was out, so the sand seemed to go on forever.

  Best view in the world, she thought, puffing away. But we could do without the wind, as per.

  For all that most of the locals were a right pain in the backside, Nan loved Rhosddraig. She’d never so much as considered leaving, and had made it perfectly clear during their courtship that, if Jack Jones wanted her hand in marriage, he’d be expected to live with her and her parents at the pub, and work there too.

  He hadn’t objected; Nan knew he’d discovered it wasn’t easy finding work after the war, when all the real men were coming back to take the jobs, and he was only sixteen. Indeed, he hadn’t held down a proper job between the time he’d left school in 1946 and the time he married Myfanwy in 1959; he was the one who’d started calling her Nan, and she’d loved it.

  ‘Mum, I’ve got to go to the cellar to change a barrel; can you help Agata behind the bar for a few minutes, please?’ Helen sounded snippy.

  ‘Can’t it wait? I’m just having a quick one.’ Nan was immediately annoyed.

  ‘You were giving that up last year, Mum,’ sniped Helen. ‘And no, it can’t wait – we’ve got the chance to sell beer, and beer we shall sell. I remember some woman telling me that should be my reason for living, once upon a time. I’ll let you know if I see her around.’

  ‘Oh, ha bloody ha. You’re so sharp you’ll cut yourself one of these days, my girl. I’ll be there now, in
a minute.’

  Nan was getting sick and tired of the way Helen sighed all the time; it was quite uncalled for.

  Pushing through the gaggles of customers, Nan took the reins behind the bar; she’d pulled so many pints over the years she didn’t even need to think as she did it, which meant she was able to spot Gwen Beynon peering through the window, before the woman headed toward the door.

  ‘I can’t have that,’ Nan shouted, much to the surprise of the hiker whose pint she promptly banged onto the counter, only half-filled. She lifted the bar-flap and let it drop with a thud.

  Agata carried on pouring the drink where Nan had left off, and handed the puzzled man his beer with a cheery, ‘There you are, sir.’

  Nan tried to head Gwen off before she entered the pub, but failed; she wasn’t as fast on her feet as she’d once been. Gwen stood there, almost filling the doorframe – in terms of its width, if not its height – and her expression spoke volumes. Decades of being a landlady had taught Nan how to spot a problem, and here was one walking into her pub. Gwen had come to make trouble, that much was clear.

  ‘I don’t want you in here,’ said Nan bluntly. ‘Go away with you now, Gwendolyn Beynon.’

  ‘Or what, Myfanwy Jones? Will you throw me out? Is that it? I don’t want to be in your horrible pub any more than you want me in it, but you hardly leave it, so I’ve come here to tell you what I think of you once and for all. My poor Aled’s in prison, for something he didn’t do, and you’re spreading ugly rumors about him all around the village, and in this pub no doubt, as well as saying things to the newspapers that aren’t true.’

  Nan noticed the look of distaste with which Gwen surveyed the faces surrounding her.

  She hoped the woman would shut up, but Gwen continued, ‘To top it all, Myfanwy, you see the whole thing as just a way to fill this place with disgusting people who wouldn’t be here at all if it wasn’t for the fact that an innocent boy accused of all sorts used to work here. Well, he’s my flesh and blood, and I won’t have it. You’re a disgrace to your family, this village, and the church. I’ve complained to the vicar about your un-Christian ways, and I’ve written to the bishop in Brecon. So there.’