by Jill McGown
It had seemed special. Until the night that she hadn’t turned up and he had gone home alone. He had thought then that she’d made it up with her real boyfriend or gone back to her husband or off on her travels or come to her senses—whatever. That it hadn’t been special for her after all. He had been hurt but not surprised. He had known he could never hang on to her and had been trying to resign himself to never seeing her again.
Next day, he’d had a visit from the police, asking him about someone called Kayleigh Scott, inviting him to go to the police station and answer some questions. He said he’d never heard of her and then slowly became aware that whoever she was, she was thirteen years old and they suspected him of having had sex with her. Even then it hadn’t clicked; he had genuinely believed they had the wrong man, was even laughing and joking about it—the first of many mistakes he made. But it had seemed ridiculous—what would he want with a thirteen-year-old girl? He had even let them search the camper. It wasn’t until the details emerged of when and where he was supposed to have met her that he realized they were talking about Jennifer.
In a panic, and foolishly, he had continued to deny it, said that she was making it all up, and they had let him go. They’d searched the flat and had even taken his computer away, to try to find child porn, he supposed. The others had thrown him out of the flat after the search and he had had to live in the camper, but that apart, he had thought that it was all over. Then, three months after the investigation had begun, they told him they had found DNA evidence of her presence on the bedding that they had removed from the camper. He knew there was no way he could bluff his way out of it any longer, finally told the truth, and was charged.
The magistrate had said that in view of the youth of the victim and the prolonged nature of the alleged abuse, they felt that the case should be referred to the Crown Court. Everyone knew there was a long backlog of cases and that it wouldn’t be heard for months, so the magistrates gave him bail despite the opposition of the police. But the very idea of being charged with a sex offense appalled Dean, and he had done what he had so often done before and gone on the run. And, as they had always done before, the police caught him. That time, he was remanded in custody, and that was where he had been ever since.
The van was pulling into a prison yard, and one of the prisoners was taken off, shouting a parting obscenity. Dean crossed his fingers, hoping against hope that the others would be taken off, but they weren’t. He knew the prison vans’ routes by now; they were all, he and the other two, bound for the same place.
Dean had seen her again in court, when all his lies, all the unfunny jokes about underage sex, jumping bail, everything he had said and done, came back to haunt him. He could see the jury’s faces, and he knew he didn’t stand a chance as the prosecution hammered home the fact that she had been twelve years old when he, a couple of months short of his twenty-fourth birthday, had found her in the chat room.
“Does it seem likely to you,” the prosecution counsel had asked them, “that the defendant could possibly have believed her to be a grown woman of eighteen?”
It didn’t seem likely or possible to the jury, apparently. And Dean didn’t blame them—there she was in court, her long fair hair demurely plaited, her eyes wide with innocent alarm, her thin frame and her sober school uniform adding to the effect. That had not been the way she had looked when he had been seeing her.
He looked different himself, and he knew the jury wouldn’t be getting a favorable impression. The expensive haircut had grown out along with most of the blond dye; he hadn’t been sleeping, and he had, unlike most people in institutions, lost weight; eating wasn’t something you felt much like doing after someone had spit in your food.
Guilty, they had said after less than an hour’s deliberation, and he had been back this morning for sentencing. And he was lucky again, apparently—given that he’d already served almost six months on remand, with full remission he could be out by the spring. With good luck like this, Dean didn’t want ever to have bad luck.
The other two were still amusing themselves by calling him names, and Dean knew that the first chance they got they’d do worse than that. He’d be as ready as the next man to beat the shit out of anyone who sexually abused children, but when you were talking about a girl who was fashionably skinny, who wore designer gear, who smoked and drank, who told you, in her privately educated accent, that she was on a gap year before reading European politics at university, and who had passed puberty, a pedophile wouldn’t have wanted to know. But his fellow passengers weren’t to know that.
Nor was the jury; according to her, she had told him her real name and how old she was right from the start, had carried on chatting to him on the Internet just for a laugh, and had gone to meet him believing him to be a boy of her own age. When she had tried to leave, he had persuaded her to stay and have a drink with him.
“Did the defendant drink much that first night?”
“No. He just kept giving the bottle to me.”
She hadn’t let him keep pace with her, had kept reminding him that he had to drive her home. But she told the court that she hadn’t liked the vodka and had drunk it only because she was so nervous and it had helped her relax. Then he kissed her, she said, and she “quite liked it,” so she let him do what she called “the other things.”
“And did the defendant say anything to you afterward?”
“He said not to tell anyone or he could get into trouble.”
“You saw him a number of times after that, didn’t you? Why?”
“Because he was nice. And he gave me presents for letting him do it. CDs and things.”
Yes, he’d given her presents—he’d even bought some of them. It didn’t seem right, nicking stuff to give to a classy girl like that. But it wasn’t the way she was making it sound.
“But in the end, you told your mother about it. Why?”
“Because I knew he shouldn’t be doing these things with me.”
His barrister—a woman, because his solicitor thought that might look better—tried to make Kayleigh retract all of that when she cross-examined, but she wouldn’t and got so distressed by the questioning that they had had to adjourn to let her recover.
So prison it was, but prison was the least of Dean’s worries, despite the dangers inherent in being locked up with violent men of violent views; the very worst part of all was that his name was now on the sex offenders’ register and would stay there for the next ten years. It would only take some pervert to do something awful for the police to drag Dean in for questioning, putting him right in the firing line when frightened parents and local skinheads, united in outrage, came looking for blood.
The van arrived, and he heard the others’ cells being unlocked as he waited. Then it was his turn to put his hands back through the opening in the door, to have the handcuffs put on again, to have the door unlocked, and to get up, stiff and sore from the uncomfortable and alarming journey, to be led into the prison, where the handcuffs were once again removed.
He was taken to the holding room prior to being stripped and searched and given his prison uniform and number; as he walked in, one of his fellow prisoners shot out a foot and Dean ended up sprawled on the floor. He was getting to his feet when the other turned and an expertly aimed kick hit its target.
“Oh, was that you I tripped over?” he said as Dean doubled up in agony. “Didn’t see you down there.”
A prison officer pulled him to his feet, choosing to regard the whole thing as an accident, and that was when the pain, the humiliation, the sheer injustice of it all overwhelmed Dean.
“Ah, now look what you’ve done,” said the first man. “You’ve made him cry.”
Jerry smoked, so they took their coffee out into the lobby, where the long low tables were surrounded by studded leather sofas and furnished with huge ceramic ashtrays.
Jerry lit his cigar and opened his briefcase, putting a ring binder on the table. “So there it is, Ian. What do you thin
k?”
Ian picked up the ring binder, looked at the glossy brochure, at the job description, at the spectacular views of the Sydney Harbour Bridge and the Opera House. “It looks like a great job. But I don’t know, Jerry. I’m used to being my own boss.”
Jerry held his hands wide. “You would be your own boss. All right, technically you’d be working for me, but I won’t be there, will I? That’s why I want you to go. You’d make your own hours, your own decisions—you’d hire and fire whoever you wanted.”
Ian looked at the brochure again. “It looks like a beautiful city.”
“Believe me, Ian, it is. And it’s got everything you could want, plus sunshine. You wouldn’t regret it. Not for one minute.”
Ian smiled. “Then why aren’t you going there yourself?”
“My business commitments—that’s all. I can’t be in two places at once, and most of my business is in Europe. But Australasia is important, and I need a presence in that part of the world. I haven’t offered it to anyone else—you were my first choice.”
Ian could see that it would be a great place to live, but everyone he knew was here. He didn’t want to go to the other side of the world, however good the weather, whatever the opportunity. He shook his head. “I don’t think so, Jerry. Thanks, and all that, but—”
Jerry drained his brandy glass. “I don’t understand why you aren’t jumping at it. You’re not getting any younger, you know. Opportunities like this don’t come along every day at your age.”
Ian smiled. “I’m thirty-eight, not sixty-eight.”
“But you’re not twenty-eight, either. You know this is a great job—and you’d love it. So would Theresa.”
“Maybe.” Ian motioned toward Jerry’s empty glass, going to the bar when he nodded.
“Give them my room number!” Jerry called after him.
Ian raised a hand in acknowledgment. He could, of course, have summoned a member of the staff to bring the drinks, but he wanted time to think. He’d have to explain to Jerry what the problem was, or he would think he was mad. It didn’t seem right, telling Jerry before he’d even told Theresa, but Jerry knew that he could snap his fingers and a dozen whiz kids would come running; he deserved an explanation for Ian’s lukewarm reaction.
He returned and set down the drinks. “The thing is,” he said, “Theresa wouldn’t be coming with me.”
Jerry’s eyebrows rose, but he didn’t sound too surprised. “Have you split up? When did that happen?”
Ian took a sip of his beer. “It hasn’t happened yet. But it’s going to. I’ve met someone else.”
“Whoever she is, Theresa’s worth ten of her. She gave up her career so that she could keep you in food—I hope you’re remembering that.”
“Look—I know what Theresa’s done for me, and I’m grateful. She knows that. But . . . well, this has been in the cards for a long time now. Meeting Lesley just made it happen, that’s all.”
“So what’s she like, this Lesley?”
“A couple of years younger than I am, small, slim—blond. Full of energy and commitment.”
He realized as he was describing Lesley that if it was true that men always went for the same kind of woman, he was the exception that proved the rule. Theresa was almost Lesley’s exact opposite.
“And it’s happened just like that? You’ve met someone you fancy, and twelve years with Theresa count for nothing?”
He had known this would be worse than telling Theresa herself. “No, not just like that. Things haven’t been all that hot between me and Theresa for a long time—I don’t think it’ll come as much of a shock to her. Probably more of a relief.”
Jerry sat back. “How did you meet this Lesley?”
“I wish you’d stop calling her ‘this Lesley’ like that. I met her when I did that work for the charity that employed me to oversee their new computer installation. She’s a director there.”
“Oh, yes. And you were working on that for—what? All of a month?”
Ian could feel the waves of disapproval from across the table and felt obliged to defend himself and Lesley. “Sometimes you don’t need any time. You just know. We knew. As soon as we met.”
Jerry looked less than impressed. “But that was last April! You mean you’ve been cheating on Theresa all that time?”
“No! Well . . . yes, if you want to put it like that. Something happened that made it difficult at the time. But we’re telling them today, so this is a bad time for your offer to have come along.”
“Them? This Lesley has a husband, I take it?”
“No. She’s a widow. She’s telling her daughter today. Look—there were reasons why we couldn’t say anything before now.”
“None of my business.”
“No. But the bottom line is that I can’t drop everything and go to Australia at a moment’s notice.”
“I’m not asking you to drop everything! And it isn’t a moment’s notice—you’ve got until the end of February to make up your mind.” He shrugged. “You seem to have made up your mind about ditching Theresa in half that time, so this should be a doddle.”
Ian felt himself flush slightly. Put like that, his protests did seem a little hollow.
“And maybe Lesley would like the idea.”
Ian was sure she wouldn’t, but at least Jerry had stopped calling her “this” Lesley.
“I’m sure she’d prefer it to living on your somewhat erratic income,” Jerry went on. “She might not be as supportive as Theresa.”
“She doesn’t need my income,” Ian muttered.
“Oh, she’s a rich widow? And it was love at first sight. How fortunate. No wonder you can turn a great job down without even considering it.”
Ian ignored him; Jerry and he had been friends since childhood, and he knew Lesley’s money hadn’t been the lure—if it had, Ian would have gone in with Jerry in the first place and be able to wine and dine people at five-star hotels in London as a matter of course, like he did. But Ian supposed that it did mean that he was able to turn down opportunities he might once have jumped at. Besides, he was certain that Lesley would hate the idea. He said as much to Jerry.
“Talk to her,” said Jerry. “See what she thinks. Take the stuff with you.”
Ian put the ring binder in his briefcase. He would talk to Lesley. And she would say no, because she would have no reason to say yes; her life was here. And once Lesley had said no, not even Jerry, the ultimate salesman, would be able to talk her into it.
“Keep the change.”
Phil walked up the driveway, his hands thrust deep into the pockets of his jacket, his head down against the snow-filled gust of wind, wishing he had worn a coat and hat. His thinning hair was no protection against the elements, and the wind was whistling through the jacket. It might have a designer label, but it didn’t keep you warm. He made the shelter of the porch and turned to look at the garden.
Even in these conditions, he liked the way he’d got it now; it looked good all year round, with the little fountain surrounded by pebbles, slate blue and shiny in the wet snow. It wasn’t on, of course, but even switched off, even today, it gave him considerable satisfaction. All the gardening programs on the telly had given him the urge to do it, and taking up DIY landscape gardening at forty-seven wasn’t easy. It had taken him all spring, but he’d got it right in the end. Lesley had protested that they could hire a professional to do it, that there were horses for courses, that she wouldn’t get a landscape gardener to do her accounts, all that stuff. But Phil had wanted to do it himself, and he had. He had promised Kayleigh he would build a summerhouse with a sundeck this year, and he had been looking forward to that.
And she seemed to think that it might still happen; she had begged him to see Lesley again, talk to her. So here he was, with the excuse of having been to hear sentence passed on Dean Fletcher.
Lesley opened the front door, looking at him a little suspiciously as he told her why he was there and expressed some surprise that she wasn’t
in court.
“I knew whatever sentence they gave him wouldn’t be enough. I felt I could do without being made to feel even angrier.”
If it had been up to Lesley, Dean wouldn’t have been given any sentence at all; she had been all for letting the whole thing pass, as usual. Phil didn’t say any of that. The last thing he wanted was to start a row.
“Come in quickly, if you’re coming in. It’s freezing.”
Phil closed the door and hung up his wet jacket as he told her what had happened in court.
“So he’ll be back out before we know where we are,” she said. “What if he comes looking for Kayleigh when he does get out?”
“Then he’d go back to prison. And how would he find her if you’re moving away?”
Lesley had decided that she and Kayleigh were moving out of London once the court case was over. Throughout Phil and Lesley’s years together, they had been constantly on the move, because Lesley’s answer to problems was to move away from them. He had argued that it was bad for Kayleigh to keep taking her away from what she knew, but all he had achieved was the boarding school solution; that way, Lesley had countered, it wouldn’t really matter if they moved, because Kayleigh’s friends would be at the school and that would give her the stability she needed.
“Besides,” Phil added, “they’ve put him on the sex offenders’ register. He won’t be allowed even to contact Kayleigh.”
“You’ve got great faith in the system.” She headed for the sitting room. “Perhaps I should take her out of boarding school, have her where I can keep an eye on her.”
Phil sighed. More upheaval. But it would be foolish to argue on two counts: one, he would much rather Kayleigh was at home, wherever that was going to be, because that way he could visit her whenever he liked, and two, he wouldn’t win. “Well, I’m all for that,” he said. “But not because I think he’ll come anywhere near Kayleigh.” He followed Lesley down the hallway. “I just think she’d be happier at home.”
