by Jane Bidder
Simon couldn’t bring himself to look up at the gallery to see Ben’s reaction. Instead, he concentrated on a knot in the wood of the dock. It looked like a face. Not dissimilar from Joanna’s. And it was laughing at him.
Shaking he looked up – straight into the eyes of Hugh. Of course. That was why he wasn’t in the audience gallery. He was a witness.
‘And do you deny, Mr Goodman-Brown, that you tried to grab the steering wheel?’
‘Absolutely.’ The man’s pug-like face with his steel-rimmed glasses was fixed on the jury. ‘Why would I do anything so stupid? I will agree that I shouted at him a bit.’ He took his glasses off for a second and a tear slid down his cheek. Then he put them back on. ‘I had to. He was driving too fast round corners, ignoring my instructions. I was scared for the sake of my wife.’ He clutched the edge of the dock and held up a piece of card. ‘My beautiful, beautiful wife.’
Christ! It was a picture of Joanna. Joanna laughing, her neck back and her hair tied up in that chignon knot which showed the lovely lines of her shoulders. The woman juror with the severe haircut had got out her handkerchief. So much, Simon told the wooden knot, for the ‘stupid bitch’ comments which Hugh had aimed at his wife during her final journey.
‘What will you do, Simon,’ she seemed to say , ‘if the prosecution drags up that stuff from school? They could do it, you know, unless you plead guilty. What would Claire think then? ’
‘To sum up …’
‘Stop!’
He heard his voice ring out as though it was someone else’s. ‘Stop. I want to change my plea.’ He brought his fist down on the dock and one of the women jurors shuddered. ‘I’m Guilty.’
A sea of faces turned towards him. He could see shock written all over Claire’s face. Up in the gallery, Alex and Rosemarie were actually standing up to get a better view of him.
Patrick was staring as though he had gone mad. His barrister was looking at him, a nervous expression on her face as though unsure what to do next. ‘My Lord. I request some time with my client.’
The judge looked at him. ‘May I ask if the defendant is sure about his plea?’
‘Yes.’ Simon heard his voice ring out. ‘Yes I am.’
‘Then I do not see any need to delay proceedings any longer.’
Simon listened, staring straight ahead as his clearly fed-up barrister made her mitigation pleas. ‘This is a man of previously good conduct,’ he heard her say tight-lipped. ‘If he is sent to prison, his wife and stepson will suffer.’
So what, he could just imagine the judge thinking. And then there was a short break while the judge re-read various reports and statements. After that, he would be sentenced. He deserved it. Not just because of Joanna. But because of the other thing which he couldn’t mention.
They took him downstairs during the break. An armed police officer stood outside the cubicle as if he might leg it.
‘Why did you change your plea?’ Patrick snapped when he came out.
‘Because I did it,’ replied Simon shrugging, just as he used to in front of his father before a beating. Honesty, he recalled, used to make his father even more heavy-handed. ‘I drove dangerously,’ he added, to enforce the point.
Patrick’s eyes narrowed. ‘I have to say, Simon, that I think you did the wrong thing.’
Simon wanted to laugh. He almost felt on a high. The man was clearly pissed off because he’d been deprived of the glory that came with winning a case. ‘Yes, Patrick but you’re not me, are you?’
Then it was back to the court. Staring at that knot of wood. Don’t look at Claire. Or the boy. Or Hugh. In particular, don’t look at that picture of Joanna.
‘I determine that Simon James Mills should be imprisoned for two years,’ said the judge. ‘In view of the two months already served, this will be reduced to one year and ten months.’ There was a gasp from the gallery; it sounded like Claire’s. There was another shout too – a man’s roar. ‘Not enough! Not long enough for a life!’
Two years! Simon tried to take it in. It might not sound long to someone else but he knew, from his clients, that two years could feel more like ten years. Yes, he would probably only serve half of that if he behaved himself. But to think that he could be walking out scot-free right now if he’d kept his mouth shut.
‘You did the right thing!’ tinkled Joanna approvingly. ‘After all, you owe me, darling!’
Yes but what about Claire and Ben. Too late, Simon wondered if he’d done the right thing after all. Now they’d have to manage without him …
Chapter Nine
Eight months? Rigid with shock and disbelief, Claire gripped the rail in front of her, watching Simon disappear down a flight of stairs by the side of the dock. Surely someone had made a mistake. It had been an accident! And why did he look so impassive, as though none of this meant anything to him?
So many questions. Not enough answers. And what would happen now? At the cinema, you saw the accused shouting out goodbye at his family or declaring his innocence. Come back, she wanted to scream out. Come back!
‘Claire.’ It was Patrick, white-faced and serious, walking up towards her. ‘You can come downstairs with me now to the courtroom cell to say goodbye, if you want.’
Relief washed through her. So she was allowed, at least to do that. But her legs wouldn’t move. Each foot declined to go in front of the other. Instead they stuck, resolutely, to the ground like leaden jelly. Patrick put a hand under her elbow but she indicated she was all right on her own, thank you. Somehow, she didn’t want this man – who had failed to save her husband – anywhere near her.
‘What the hell was he playing at?’ he asked her angrily as they were escorted down a flight of stairs at the back of the courtroom. ‘We had agreed. His original plea was ‘Not Guilty’. It’s as though he wanted to mess it up.’
His anger made her prickle. It was all right for her to be doubt him but not anyone else. ‘He must have had his reasons. Besides, he felt guilty about Joanna.’
Patrick made a noise as if to say that was beside the point. Then he stepped to one side and she was shown through a door and then another and into a room that led into another. And there was Simon; apprehension denting his face.
‘I’m sorry,’ he said.
She’d been going to tell him that it was all right; that she understood he’d been under pressure in the dock. But suddenly, all the anger that Patrick had shown, now came out of her own mouth. ‘Why?’ she asked harshly. ‘Why did you change your plea?’
He stared up at her, his eyes bloodshot, sweat bursting out on his forehead. It was like looking at another man. ‘I owed it to Joanna.’
‘Owed it to Joanna?’ she repeated. ‘What about owing us? Ben and me? You’re going to prison now. Where does that leave us?’
His voice was only just audible through his hands. ‘I don’t know. I’m sorry.’
Instantly, she felt a wave of contrition. She’d been wrong to have a go at him like that. ‘No. I’m sorry.’ She walked up to him and planted a kiss on top of his head. ‘It’ll be all right, Simon. We’ll get through.’
A sudden thought struck her; something she should have considered before but had avoided, hoping against hope that he would be released. ‘What happens now?’ She looked at the security officer who was just behind her. ‘Where will my husband go?’
The woman’s eyes were cold. ‘You will be informed.’
Claire wanted to grab this woman and shake her. ‘But when? How can I find him? When can I visit him?’ The words spilled out of her mouth in chunks, each one merging into the other in shock.
The eyes grew colder. ‘As I said, you will be informed.’
She sounded like an uninterested shop assistant! If it wasn’t on the shelf, it wasn’t there. But this was her husband they were talking about! Her Simon! ‘It’s not good enough.’ Claire, who hated confrontation, heard her voice rising. ‘It’s not …’
‘Time’s up.’ A voice at the door interrupted her. ‘We
need to move. This way, Mr Mills.’
Claire’s mind felt as though it was on a merry go-round she had once taken Ben on when he was little. She had sat side-saddle because she had three year old Ben on her knee. Too late, as the roundabout started, she felt him slipping and although she’d tried calling out to the woman who was parading around the middle, a money belt round her waist, no one heard.
‘Hang on,’ she’d said desperately to him but she could feel them both going. It didn’t matter about her, she’d thought, seeing the ground spinning beneath them beyond the circle of the roundabout. Only her son whom she had to save. Then, just as they almost went, the woman saw them and marched steadily over, supporting her just in time. Dizzy with relief, she’d staggered off, mumbling her thanks and determined never to get on a roundabout ever again.
And now she was back to feeling as though she was slipping from the horse, except that there was no woman marching towards them to rescue her. No Simon. And no Ben.
My God! She’d been so busy worrying about Simon that she’d forgotten her own son! Her boy who’d been used in the evidence as an excuse for his stepfather’s behaviour. How could Simon have allowed that?
‘Two years isn’t too bad you know,’ said Patrick smoothly as he walked her to the car. ‘It would have been far more if the judge hadn’t taken the mitigating circumstances into account. When you take off his time in custody, it should probably go down to a year or maybe less if he behaves himself.’ He seemed almost upbeat now, she noticed, in contrast with his previous outburst. Maybe, Claire thought, he was pleased at the prospect of not having Simon in the office any more.
‘Have you seen Ben?’ she said, still stunned by the sentence.
‘Probably needs time to think.’ Patrick laid a brief hand on her shoulder. ‘I don’t know if this is the right time to say it but if I were you, I’d contact the office when you’re ready to discuss the financial implications.’
‘Sorry?’ She was still looking around for Ben.
‘This isn’t really my place to say it but they may not be able to continue paying Simon, given the situation.’
Not pay him? A shot of fear vibrated through her. Then how would they manage?
‘Don’t worry about it right now. I expect they’ll write to him.’
Claire drove home at 25 mph, disregarding the impatient driver behind her. If only Simon had done the same. As soon as she swung gently left into her driveway, she turned on the phone and pressed ‘Ben’, desperately hoping that he would pick up.
‘Hi. You know what to do. Leave a message and …’
Where was he? Turning the key in the lock, her heart leaped with relief. There were his trainers in the hall. So he was back! Racing up the stairs, she pounded on his door. No answer. Panic gripped her throat as she tried the handle.
‘Fuck off and leave me alone.’ His voice was furious. Livid. As though it didn’t want to touch the air between them.
‘Let me come in. Please!’
‘You tried to blame me. You made out it was my fault.’
‘Not me.’ Desperate to make him understand, she continued to hammer on the door while she pleaded. ‘Or Simon. It was the barrister. She said it might help to get him off.’
‘But it didn’t, did it? And now everyone thinks it’s ʼcos we had a crap relationship that caused the accident.’
‘NO! It’s just that …’
Oh my God. What was that noise? For an awful moment she thought that Ben had thrown himself through the window but then, glancing downstairs, she saw the brick on the floor of the hall and behind it, a gaping hole in the sitting room window.
White-faced, Ben opened the door, staring at the brick At the same time, her mobile rang. ‘Bitch,’ said a man’s voice that wasn’t Hugh’s. ‘Bitch. Anyone using their phone should be shot.’
‘Who is this?’ she said, her voice shaking. ‘How dare you talk to me like that.’
Ben whipped the phone out of her hand. ‘Give it to me. They’ve been ringing the landline too.’ His eyes locked with hers accusingly. ‘Different people. All saying the same stuff.’
‘Get your things,’ she said. ‘Quick.’
‘Too late.’ Her son gestured out of the window where a car had pulled up and a girl got out. Claire recognised her as the reporter from the local paper who had tried to grab her for a ‘comment’ on her way in and whom she’d managed to dodge on the way out, thanks to Patrick.
Already the doorbell was ringing! ‘The back door,’ said Ben, pulling her. ‘We’ll go out through the garden. Come on, Mum’.
Somehow they made their way through the spinney at the back and along the private road towards Rosemarie and Alex’s house. ‘Claire!’ Alex appeared awkwardly at the door. ‘We were going to call.’ His voice had a definite edge to it; a sort of guarded greeting. ‘I’m afraid Rosemarie had to go out but I’ll tell her you came round.’
‘We need help.’ Claire couldn’t stop shaking.
‘Someone put a brick through our window.’ Ben cut in. ‘Can we come in?’
Alex’s cheek twitched. ‘To be honest, I’m rather concerned about the effect all this is having on Rosemarie. Isn’t there someone you can ring?’
‘Forget it.’ The words clipped out of her mouth in bitter disappointment. ‘We’ll sort ourselves out.’
Chapter Ten
Claire, Claire, Simon kept saying over and over in his head in the back of the van as if the chant might bring her back to him. They were taking him back to his cell at Holdfast, they said. He’d be there overnight and then moved the next day to a Cat C prison where he’d spend ‘some time’, being ‘risk-assessed’. As if he was likely to deliberately hurt someone else!
But all this meant nothing, compared with Claire’s stricken face when the verdict had been announced.
‘How did you get on at court, ducks?’ asked Georgie, passing him in the corridor as the prison officer escorted him back to his cell.
‘Two years,’ he said tightly. ‘Should be released in one if I don’t do something stupid.’
Georgie, who was dressed in purple jogging bottoms as though on his way to the yard for his half-an-hour exercise, made a sympathetic face. ‘Poor you, ducks.’
Joanna’s voice tingled in his head. ‘If it was up to me, Simon, you’d have got life. That’s what you took from me.’
Simon shook his head. ‘I pleaded guilty. I might have got off if I hadn’t.’
Georgie’s eyebrows rose. ‘You’re crazy, ducks. You haven’t done bird before. Don’t know what you’ve let yourself in for.’
‘Get on with it,’ said the prison officer moving Simon along.
‘See you around!’ Georgie called out over his shoulder. ‘And good luck!’
‘You’ve never done bird before.’ The words echoed in his head as the officer slammed the cell door behind him, giving the instruction to ‘get your kit together’. He hadn’t. And now he was going to find out what it really meant.
Later, when Simon looked back, he found himself unable to recall the exact details. Maybe his mind had blanked it out in protection. Only stark skeleton details stood out. Locked up in a cell with a man who wouldn’t – or couldn’t – talk. Never-ending physical and mental tests as well as questions on whether he felt suicidal. Sloppy pasta. Mattress like a rock. A phone call to Claire telling her she wasn’t on any account to visit him in this place.
Then – much sooner than was usual apparently – Simon was informed he was eligible for a D cat prison. An open prison where he wouldn’t be locked up all day. Relief was tempered by apprehension. ‘Does my wife know?’ was his first question.
Claire, Claire. It was beginning to feel like a prayer now; the type he had said as a child when he hadn’t understood the words but which had made him feel good inside. If things had gone differently at the trial, he could be back home with his wife and Ben. Could be sitting right now at the kitchen table, having supper with them.
Maybe they would be talking about mov
ing and making a fresh start because after all they couldn’t continue living where they were after The Accident. They could go back to London and merge into suburbia where no one would know what he had done.
‘No way!’ sang Joanna. ‘ You did the right thing, Simon, trust me. You need to pay for what you did to me. It’s the rules!’
She was right. But at the same time, he felt furious with the legal system. How could the jury have ignored the contribution made by Hugh with his stupid fat, drunken hand on the wheel or by Ben and his slap-happy dowsing of the rum syllabub? And what about the driver of the car, parked without thought? How could he, Simon, have spent most of his working life supporting a system which had now let him down so badly? There were no answers to any of that let alone the question which meant more than the others put together.
The one which he couldn’t even voice out loud.
Half an hour later, he had packed his few possessions in the large see-through polythene bag they gave him. Not much because there was a limit on what was allowed. His radio. A spare pair of jeans. A photograph of Claire laughing at their wedding, his hand on her waist. Longingly, he thought of the Ian McEwan novel which Claire had tried to bring in but had been confiscated by the prison officer in case drugs had been somehow hidden in the paper.
Then came the knock on the door. ‘Mills? We’re off.’
It was one of the women prison officers; a stout woman who had a substantial chest and hips to match. ‘But I didn’t think I was being moved until tomorrow.’
‘It’s changed. Come on.’
The prison officer gave him a sharp look. ‘You’re the one what killed someone when you were on the phone, weren’t you? My niece was run over by a hit and run. Still not right, she isn’t. Scum like you shouldn’t be allowed to live.’
He bent his head in acknowledgement. ‘You’re right. Absolutely right.’
Her eyes flashed furiously. ‘Don’t take the piss out of me, Mills.’
‘I’m not. Honestly. Look, I need to let my wife know what’s happening. She’ll be worried out of her mind. May I ring her, please, to tell her I’m being moved?’
