The Good Samaritan

by John Marrs

  As I’d been in social services care, now, as an adult and through a subject access request, I could obtain a copy of my personal data and they couldn’t lawfully deny me access to it. Eight weeks passed before it arrived by post. I waited nervously until after I’d taken the girls to school before I braced myself and tore open the envelope.

  To my dismay, I discovered everything written about me was lies. The accusations were horrific in part, and words like ‘cold’, ‘unresponsive’, ‘lack of empathy’ and ‘impulsive nature’ jumped from the pages. One social worker even suggested I might have been a suicide risk, as my lack of involvement with anyone could mean I didn’t value my life. The truth was far from it.

  But it was one statement, written shortly before my fourteenth birthday, that left me speechless.

  Repeated evaluations have failed to determine just one personality disorder in Laura. She has shown traits of Narcissistic Personality Disorder and Self-Deception, amongst others. She has a desire to get her own way and is overtly charming but can be covertly hostile towards others. One foster carer noted that she liked to dominate and humiliate an older boy in the same house by making fun of his lack of intellect. Another carer witnessed her stamping on and breaking the leg of the family dog, but Laura refused to accept responsibility. She often appears to believe her own lies and rewrites events in her head so that she becomes a victim. She has repeatedly displayed sociopathic tendencies and we strongly suggest she is not homed with other foster sisters and brothers.

  I let the pages rest on my lap and closed my eyes. How could anyone have written something so awful about a little girl? Why had a child who had been through an emotional trauma like mine been branded a ‘sociopath’? What chance had I stood at being adopted when I’d been affixed such labels? How many potential families had rejected me because of those words?

  Of course every child makes mistakes, but as I became older, I’d learned to mask certain urges – I learned to fit in, I learned to be like everybody else. I rebuilt myself by watching other people’s behaviour. Those descriptions weren’t an accurate representation of who I was or who I had become.

  I knew I could never allow Tony to read my file, so I hid it away in the utility room behind the tumble dryer, next to my cigarettes. But in the weeks that followed, I’d return to it and reread it, torturing myself over and over again until I knew every word off by heart.

  Now I was torturing myself again by watching the silhouettes of Janine, Tony and the girls in the cinema. I quietly slipped out of the darkened auditorium and back into the car park. I made for Janine’s green Astra, removed my car keys from my bag, and once I was sure there were no CCTV cameras pointed at me, I carved the word ‘cunt’ into the driver’s door.

  CHAPTER TWENTY-TWO

  RYAN

  ‘I swear to God I am being framed,’ I began. ‘Please believe me. This woman wants to destroy me.’

  ‘Why don’t you just take a moment to compose yourself?’ she replied. She slid a box of tissues towards me from her side of the desk.

  I wiped my eyes. I’d done nothing but cry since being suspended from my job. Johnny had washed his hands of me and wasn’t returning my calls, and Effie’s accusations weren’t something I could talk to my parents about. I felt completely alone. My solicitor, Tracy Fenton, was on my side, but only because I was paying her to be. She was a masculine-looking woman with greying cropped hair, no make-up, and glasses that hung from a silver chain around her neck. She didn’t give me any indication of whether she believed me or not. But she had a job to do and that job was to help me, regardless of my innocence or guilt.

  After speaking to my teaching union rep, I’d made an appointment to see her the day after my suspension and explained to her my side of the story from start to finish, omitting nothing. She’d also just received a police update.

  ‘Images of a sexual nature have been found on the hard drive of your school computer, Ryan,’ she began. She opened a binder containing photocopied papers.

  ‘What do you mean by “sexual nature”?’ I asked, my voice close to breaking again.

  ‘One folder has been found containing one hundred and fifteen images of young females, all wearing school uniforms and in various states of undress.’

  I closed my eyes and shook my head. ‘How “young” are they?’

  ‘They haven’t told us that yet.’

  ‘They’re going to look about Effie’s age, I just know it. I’m ruined.’

  I broke into a sudden sweat. I thought I was going to pass out, so I loosened my tie, undid two buttons on my shirt and moved towards the open window. I hoped the breeze might cool me down.

  Tracy flicked through a handful of pages. ‘Mrs Morris has made a statement to the police about the break-in but, as far as I’m aware, the police have yet to interview Effie about her allegations. If you are denying all knowledge of these images, then it’s likely they were downloaded elsewhere and transferred onto your computer, via something like a disk or a memory stick. The officer I spoke to off the record said they weren’t hidden well, in among a folder containing some Word documents, which would suggest they’d been moved there in a hurry. Once I can get a time and date stamp from the files to show when they were created, you and I will need to work out where you were, so that you can provide an alibi. Do other staff members use that computer?’

  ‘Yes, a few.’

  ‘Then although it’s in your office, the police need to convince the Crown Prosecution Service that it could only be you who downloaded them, before the CPS makes a decision on whether you’re charged and what with.’

  ‘And if I don’t have an alibi?’

  ‘We’ll cross that bridge if we come to it.’

  ‘And when will that be? I want this sorted out as soon as possible.’

  ‘It could be weeks or even months, Ryan. That’s how long these things take.’

  ‘So I’ll have this hanging over my head until then?’

  ‘I’m afraid so.’

  ‘I’ll never be able to go back to that school, will I?’

  Tracy removed her glasses, allowing them to dangle. ‘Probably not, no. Should the school and local education authority believe Effie, you will be barred from the National College of Teaching. If Effie makes a statement to the police and it ends up in court and you are found guilty, you’ll be put on a sex offenders register. But this is all the worst-case scenario.’

  I returned to my chair and held my head in my hands. I shut my eyes tightly. How had I got myself into such a mess? I thought of Charlotte and our baby, and how Daniel would most likely be taking his first steps by now and trying to speak his first few words. The three of us would have been our own little unit, making a life for ourselves in our house. I longed so much for something that had been denied the chance to happen.

  ‘What can I do to help prove my innocence?’

  ‘Nothing, absolutely nothing. Just wait until you hear from me again.’

  ‘I can’t just sit around and hope things sort themselves out.’

  ‘That’s exactly what you have to do,’ Tracy replied firmly. ‘I implore you, Ryan. Leave this for me to deal with.’

  Only I knew I couldn’t.

  CHAPTER TWENTY-THREE

  LAURA

  I once read that if you tell yourself the same thing over and over again, eventually you’ll forget where the truth ends and the fantasy begins.

  Sometimes when I thought about Nate, I’d close my eyes and picture an alternative world in which he’d returned to his home town of Birmingham. There, in his familiar surroundings, I imagined him starting his life afresh. He’d voluntarily enter into an alcohol detox clinic, like the ones I’d begged him to go to, and then find himself a halfway house to get back on his feet.

  I’d help him find some volunteer work in a non-pressured environment. And perhaps eventually he’d find a part-time paid job. He might also meet someone to fall in love with and have an anchor of his very own.

  That
’s what I wanted to believe – not that he was lying in the room next to me, his dead body being prepared for me to view.

  According to the police, none of his fellow homeless friends had seen him around in a long, long time. My determination to finish off Ryan meant I’d left very little time for anyone else in my life. I’d neglected Nate, and the guilt of that weighed heavy on my shoulders.

  Only now did I realise that Nate had appointed me as his anchor. It’s why he’d returned to Northampton from prison, because I’d been here. Through everything he’d suffered as a teenager to his time behind bars and beyond, I had prevented him from being washed away by the tide. Ironically, he’d died in the water, and it was my fault for casting him adrift these last few months.

  It turned out Nate’s body had not been very far away from me; he’d been tangled up in reeds in the River Nene, waiting for a canal boat’s hull to knock against him just hard enough to dislodge him and float him to the algae-covered surface.

  He was only identifiable through his DNA, which had been matched to his criminal record. I was his listed emergency contact.

  ‘I still want to see his body,’ I told the police officer assigned to his case.

  ‘Like I said on the phone, I don’t think that’s a good idea, Mrs Morris, because of the time he has spent in the water. He has been what is known as “partially skeletonised” . . .’

  ‘I don’t care if it haunts me for the rest of my life. I owe him this.’

  Eventually she agreed, and I was led into a small side room to gather myself until the mortuary manager had finished preparing Nate in the body-storage area. I was led into a viewing room and it struck me that it was nothing like the hi-tech, super-modern places you see on television programmes. There were no corpses stored in filing-cabinet-like fridges or neon-lit metal drawers. It was just a plain, inoffensive room with no personality, no special features and no religious artefacts. At its centre, Nate lay under a dark-blue sheet on a wooden trolley. A solitary chair was placed next to it, in case it all became too much for me and I needed to sit, I assumed.

  The police officer and mortuary manager remained with me and, at my insistence, the sheet was slowly folded backwards until it reached Nate’s shoulders. There were wisps of hair but no eyes, no lips and barely any facial features left. I’d assumed he’d been picked apart by fish, water rats and bacteria. All that remained were patches of thin flesh and bone.

  ‘How long had he been in the water?’ I asked the officer.

  ‘We won’t know until the post-mortem results are released, but our best guess is around a year.’

  ‘No, that’s not possible,’ I replied, and shook my head. ‘I was with him five, maybe six months ago, so it definitely hasn’t been as long as that.’

  ‘Not according to the coroner’s preliminary findings.’

  ‘Could his body have been preserved, perhaps, depending on where in the Nene it was found?’

  ‘The Nene? Who told you he was found there?’

  ‘You did when you called me to say his body had floated to the river’s surface.’

  The police officer looked at me with a puzzled expression. ‘I think there might be some confusion here, Mrs Morris. Your friend’s body was found washed up in a cove by the beach in East Sussex.’

  CHAPTER TWENTY-FOUR

  RYAN

  The air inside the leisure centre was humid and smelled of beer and sweat, despite several sets of double doors being propped open.

  The packed crowd was made up almost entirely of men cheering, groaning or hurling foul language towards two boxers standing in the centre of the ring, waiting for a man in a short-sleeved white shirt and black bow tie to make his decision.

  The white-collar fights had consisted of three two-minute rounds, and were every bit as brutal as professional ones I’d watched on television. It was beyond me how the fighter in the red shorts, vest and headguard had managed to remain on his feet during the continued onslaught from his blue opponent.

  Finally, the referee held up the arm of the man in blue shorts as the winner. Tattoos ran the length of the champion’s arm, but despite his bloody nose and the perspiration dripping down his face, Tony Morris was still instantly recognisable. A cheer went up when it was announced he’d won his bout. He embraced his opponent, and a pal in the audience helped remove his gloves before he made his way to the changing rooms.

  I hovered in the background until he re-emerged wearing casual tracksuit bottoms and a T-shirt. He gravitated towards the bar and sank several vodka and Red Bulls in quick succession before I approached him. I took a deep breath and hoped to God my instinct was right, and that he didn’t have any idea what his estranged wife and daughter were up to behind his back. I reasoned that if he had been told, he’d have accompanied them when they’d turned up at Bruce Atkinson’s office to accuse me of being a child molester.

  ‘Mr Morris.’

  ‘Yes?’ He gave me a polite smile for a second as he tried to place me. He wasn’t quite drunk yet, but he wasn’t far from it either. ‘Mr Smith?’ When he smiled, I knew he was in the dark as to the accusations against me.

  ‘Please, call me Ryan. I didn’t know you were a boxer.’

  ‘I didn’t know you were a fan.’

  I hadn’t been until that afternoon, when I’d called him at work to be told by his secretary he’d left early as he had a fight that evening. I was glad. I’d rather meet with him in public, where there was less of a chance he’d try to kill me if he knew what his wife and daughter had said I’d done.

  ‘I’m pretty new to the sport,’ I replied.

  ‘Think you might fancy having a go at it yourself? We get people from all walks of life here: bankers, solicitors, council workers, even teachers.’

  ‘I think I’d be flat on my back after the first punch. Can I get you a drink?’

  ‘Sure,’ he replied, and I ordered us two vodkas. We made conversation for a little longer about why he’d taken up the sport and his IT business, and I quietly hoped he’d bring up Effie and lead me into why I was really there. When he didn’t, I knew I’d have to steer the conversation.

  ‘This is a bit awkward, Tony, but I need to talk to you about something.’

  ‘Is everything all right with Effie?’

  ‘Actually, it’s about your wife, Laura.’

  ‘My wife?’ I’d caught him off guard and he took a step back. ‘What has she done?’

  His question surprised me. He didn’t ask ‘what’s wrong?’ or ‘what’s happened?’ but ‘what has she done?’, suggesting this wasn’t the first time Laura had given him cause for concern. I took a breath and tried to explain it without sounding as if I was the mad one, rather than her.

  ‘While volunteering at End of the Line, I believe Laura talked my wife into committing suicide.’

  Tony did not seem surprised. He downed the rest of his drink and picked up his gym bag.

  ‘I don’t want any part of this,’ he replied, and made his way to the exit, clearly flustered but not outraged. He didn’t try to convince me I was being ridiculous and he didn’t stare at me as if I were an idiot. He knew that what I’d said was entirely plausible – he just didn’t want to face it.

  I followed him outside into the car park. ‘I just need a few minutes of your time,’ I said. ‘I don’t mean to offend you, but something isn’t right with your wife and I need your help to understand what her motives are.’

  He stopped and turned. ‘Look,’ he said, ‘I don’t know what goes on in Laura’s head any more than you do. We’ve been separated coming up for two years and we don’t live together. My daughters live with me. And it’s important I make sure their lives are stress-free. That includes keeping them away from Laura and anything she might have done.’

  How had I not worked this out from the time I’d spent parked outside Laura’s home? It explained why Tony’s car was rarely on the driveway, and the animosity between them as they sat together in Bruce’s office.

  �
�Please, Tony,’ I begged, ‘you’re the only one who can help me.’

  Tony paused and narrowed his eyes as he mulled over my request, then something in him relented. He gave a deep sigh. ‘What do you want to know?’

  I told him how I’d discovered what Laura had encouraged Charlotte to do. But, as with Janine, I omitted to mention anything about how I’d manipulated his daughter or my house confrontation with his wife. Even in the pale beam from the overhead light, I saw the colour draining from his face.

  ‘Why would Laura want a caller to die?’ I asked.

  Tony looked at me. ‘She is a very complicated woman,’ he said, ‘with many demons. She has a fixation with death. I can only assume it has extended to trying to assist people to reach that goal. She told me she wanted to volunteer at End of the Line to help others. I had no reason to disbelieve her.’

  ‘And now, after what I’ve told you?’

  He shook his head. He didn’t need to vocalise what he was thinking.

  ‘There’s more to this,’ I continued hesitantly. ‘Laura had me arrested recently and is making horrible, career-ending allegations against me. So I need to know exactly who I’m up against.’

  ‘What happened?’

  ‘I stood up for myself, fought back against her.’

  Tony shook his head and rubbed the cool night air into his face. He looked as if he was debating whether to tell me what he knew or remain silent. When his eyes returned to mine, he spoke. ‘If you knew what she’d done in her past,’ he said, ‘then you’d be afraid of her too.’

  ‘What could be any worse than talking people into killing themselves?’

  Tony looked at me as if he wanted me to work it out for myself.

  ‘Unless,’ I continued, ‘she’s killed someone herself.’

  ‘No, Laura never gets her hands dirty. She manipulates others into doing what she wants them to do.’ The alcohol had begun to loosen Tony’s lips, and he steadied himself with his hand against the roof of a car. ‘I assumed it stemmed from losing her parents when she was a kid and having to stick up for herself when she was put in care.’