Guilty

by Jane Bidder

  ‘Because,’ said Governor Harris, motioning that he should sit down, ‘I like to get to know my men. Especially when they’ve stepped over the line.’

  He might have felt the same, thought Simon grudgingly, if he’d been in the other man’s shoes. Ignoring the invitation to sit down, he crossed the governor’s beige carpeted office to look out of the window.

  It was a nice view for a prison. Outside was a lawn from the days when this place had once been a small stately home for a proper family. Although it was January, Simon could spot a couple of optimistic green shoots poking out of the large bed in front.

  ‘I used to have an office that wasn’t dissimilar to this,’ said Simon, still looking across the lawn towards the Visitors’ Car Park.

  ‘Tell me about it.’

  It seemed discourteous not to.

  ‘I used to be a solicitor.’

  ‘I know.’

  ‘Then I killed someone.’

  Governor Harris glanced down at the file in front of him. ‘That’s one way of putting it. Others might see it as a tragic lapse in an otherwise unblemished life.’

  Joanna’s shriek was so unexpected and high-pitched that it shook him. ‘Tragic lapse? Whose side is he on?’

  Simon struggled to shut out her voice. ‘I did something I shouldn’t have done.’

  ‘Better,’ sniffed Joanna.

  ‘What about the wall?’ persisted Governor Harris. He glanced again down at the file. ‘You’ve been exemplary since you got here. Joined the Listeners; polite to staff; an active member of the art group. So much so, it seems, that you ran out of canvas.’

  Was that meant to be a joke? The governor’s face wasn’t smiling but there appeared to be a twinkle. ‘A rainbow, I believe you were painting. Aren’t they meant to be a symbol of hope?’

  All Simon could remember was that he had felt the huge urge to lash out. The paints, together with a bottle of tomato sauce that Spencer had nicked from the dining room, had made quite a picture.

  ‘I’d just been on the phone to my wife. She was having Christmas lunch with her first husband and their son.’

  The governor’s face now took on a resigned look as though he had heard this before. ‘That must have been difficult for you.’

  ‘That’s what I was taught to say in my Listening training,’ said Simon urgently. ‘It’s called empathy. Well I don’t need your fucking empathy. I need to get out of here before that bastard gets back with my wife. He treated her badly but she still feels something for him. I know it. And they’ve got a son, Goddamit, who didn’t like me before I came Inside, let alone now. He ran away the other week because he’s being bulled about having a murderer of a stepfather. They’ve had to move house because there isn’t any money coming in to pay the mortgage. They’re living in a two-bedroom bedsit because someone put a brick through the window of the old house. And you want to know why I painted a bloody wall.’

  A cup of tea was being put in front of him. Was this a test to see if he would throw it at the governor?

  ‘My wife always says that a cup of tea puts things in perspective.’ The governor was sipping his. ‘One of the things we try to do is help to keep families together when they’re separated by a prison fence. I see from your notes that you’re quite a long way from your wife.’

  His right temple began to throb. ‘She only comes here once a month.’

  ‘And you feel she could come more often?’

  The throbbing increased. ‘Yes. She works and she’s got the boy but if the positions were reversed, I’d see her more often.’

  Governor Harris looked thoughtful. ‘Teenage boys need keeping an eye on. Your experience here will probably have shown you that already.’

  Simon considered Spencer.

  ‘What does your wife do?’

  He wanted to laugh. ‘She’s an artist. Illustrates children’s books.’

  A light lit up in the governor’s eyes. ‘Would I have heard of them?’

  Simon named a few titles and the Governor looked even more intrigued. Good. He’d really know he was different from the other men now.

  ‘Is that why you took up art? To compete with her?’

  For Chrissake! ‘Are you a psychologist?’

  ‘It was part of my training,’ answered the governor easily. ‘Look, Simon. I’m just trying to work out how we can resolve things without getting you shipped out.’

  ‘Said you’d be in trouble,’ butted in Joanna snidely.

  ‘You might not like it here,’ continued the governor, picking up his pen. ‘But if you were in a confined prison, you’d soon wish you were back in an open one.’

  ‘Holdfast,’ muttered Simon. ‘I was at Holdfast before the trial.’

  ‘Ah, yes.’ The governor’s words hung heavily in the air.

  ‘I’m sorry.’ The words came out desperately. ‘I’m really sorry. It won’t happen again, I promise.’

  The governor’s pen was moving across the page. ‘I’d like to move you to a closer Open Prison nearer your wife but there aren’t any spaces. You’ve got four months left of your sentence, right?’

  Four months, one week, and two days.

  ‘I’m going to recommend that you become a library orderly. A vacancy has just arisen. You’ll have a month of that and then you can start your community work.’

  Simon was just about to thank him but realised the man was still speaking. ‘I’m also going to agree with your art teacher’s request to include you in her team visit to Grimville next month.’

  Simon’s blood ran cold.

  ‘Actually, sir, I’d rather not. Caroline-Jane – I mean the teacher – mentioned it before Christmas but I don’t want to go over there.’

  Automatically, he glanced across the lawn to the left where the high metal fence divided the two prisons.

  ‘Why not?’

  ‘Because it’s full of murderers and rapists.’ His mouth tightened. ‘It’s disgusting.’

  The governor made a questioning face. ‘Don’t you believe that we should have a second chance in life? Your newly discovered talent – I believe that’s how your art teacher described it to me – might inspire some of them to change their lives. I’m a great believer in the power of art and literature.’

  Simon took another quick look at the books that lined the study.

  ‘OK. I’ll do it.’

  ‘Good.’ The governor stood up. ‘Just one more thing, Mills. When you get back to your hut, you’ll be given a bucket and brush to rub off your rainbow.’

  ‘Thank you, sir.’

  They were standing by the door now. ‘But you can still keep rainbows in your heart, Mills. No one can rub them off there.’

  ‘He’s a nice bloke.’ Mark the librarian was listening to Simon’s story. It was a week later and it had passed faster than any of the previous weeks, thanks to his new job.

  Carefully, Simon put another row of books back on the shelves. Already, he’d been surprised by the kind of people who came in. The Dog Man was a regular; always heading for military histories. Then there was the very quiet man on the other side of the corridor from him in the hut who got through a new comic book once a week.

  Once, the paedophile came in and Simon felt sick when he took out a book called How To Write For Children.

  ‘Can’t you stop him?’ demanded Simon after he’d gone.

  Mark shrugged. ‘Tricky one, that. Lots of people write here. They say they’ve got the time at last.’

  ‘Do you know what he’s in for?’

  ‘No. I don’t want to.’

  Simon felt sweat running down his back. ‘Maybe you ought to. Trust me, a book on how to write kids’ books isn’t really suitable.’

  ‘I’ll look into it. Thanks.’

  ‘Don’t say I told you.’ Simon felt nervous. ‘I don’t want any trouble.’

  ‘I won’t.’ Mark produced a new book from behind the counter. ‘Take a look at this. It’s Sebastian Faulkes’s latest. Thought we might give it
a try at the book club. What do you think?’

  It was at times like this, thought Simon, that you could almost – for a few minutes at least – forget you were in prison.

  For the last month (since Christmas) Claire had been sounding distant when he rang. Often, he could only get through to her answerphone. When they did speak, she didn’t seem to listen to what he was saying and when he asked her about her job in the school or how Ben was, her replies had been vague.

  It was clear as day. She was seeing Charlie again. The thought made him physically throw up in the loo, with its brown stains in the bowl from previous users.

  ‘You don’t know that, man.’ Spencer was lying on his back on the bed, working his way through a Quick Read that Simon had found for him in the prison library. It was a Sunday and some of the men were on a Visit.

  Those lucky sods who had been there for long enough to qualify for privileges were either out for the day or back home providing it was close enough for them to get back by 5 o’clock roll-call. If they didn’t, the punishment was no visits for three months and if it happened more than once, they could be shipped out.

  ‘I wouldn’t blame her.’ Simon was pretending to sketch something on a piece of paper he had smuggled back from art. ‘He’s got money. He’s Ben’s father. And he’s not in prison.’

  Spencer wrinkled his face. ‘Doesn’t mean she loves him though. Listen, Si, what does this say?’ He placed a thick stubby index finger on a word.

  Simon got down from his own bed and looked over the boy’s shoulder. ‘Opportunity,’ he said out loud. ‘Remember we had that the other day? It’s got two “p”s in it because opportunity is such a great thing that it deserves more than one “p”.’

  ‘Cool, man. Know what? You oughta be a teacher when you get out. Not a solishitur.’

  ‘Hah! Not with my record.’

  Spencer looked disappointed. ‘You could be a cleaner for London Transport then. That’s what I want to do, like my cousins.’ He grinned. ‘Helped you do a good job on your wall, didn’t I?’

  That was true enough.

  ‘You going to the Dark Side with that art teacher then?’ Spencer jerked his finger at Simon’s sketch pad. He’d learned, since sharing the cell with the boy, that the kid’s mind bounced from one subject to another.

  ‘I suppose so.’

  They both looked out at Grimville, glowering at them from over the wall. ‘Ain’t you scared of it?’

  ‘Sort of.’

  ‘You wouldn’t get me going in there, I can tell you. I’ve been in places like that.’ Spencer shivered. ‘Once …’

  He stopped as a low plaintive whine rose into the air, falling and rising in tone that set Simon’s ears on edge.

  ‘What’s that? It sounds like an air raid.’

  Spencer was pressing his nose against the glass like a child trying to make out what was going on. ‘Fuck me. Sounds like the prison alarm from next door. Something’s happened at Grimville …’

  Chapter Thirty-four

  Claire felt disgusted with herself! How could she have been so stupid? What on earth had possessed her to drink too much cheap bubbly and then pour her heart out to a complete stranger in the pub?

  Even Jean couldn’t find her usual positive words. ‘Maybe it might blow over, dear,’ was all she could come up with. As for Ben, how could she begin to explain to a child that his own mother had snipped on him by telling a reporter about him drinking and then running away?

  ‘Maybe you won’t have to, dear,’ said Jean as she sat there, shivering over the sweet cup of tea. ‘Teenagers don’t usually read national newspapers, let alone local ones.’

  But everyone in their small town was an avid reader of the bi-weekly paper that Garth worked for and when Claire went to buy some fruit and veg from the greengrocer, she was served in silence instead of the usual jolly banter.

  What would happen when she went back to school? Debbie had rung her on the day the paper had come out. ‘I’m so sorry,’ she said, with the emphasis on ‘so’. ‘I feel responsible.’

  ‘Why?’ she asked wretchedly.

  ‘I brought Garth along. He’s a neighbour and at a loose end. The trouble with journalists is that they’re never off duty.’

  Claire wanted to say it was all right but couldn’t. True, she had spoon-fed him the lines but it was still so wicked of him.

  ‘Mind you,’ added Debbie. ‘It was quite a shock to all of us. You did say you were separated; not that your husband was in prison.’

  ‘I didn’t lie.’ Claire found herself stammering. ‘I just didn’t feel able to …’ She left the rest of the sentence hanging in the air, conscious that her excuses were making things worse. Then she thought of something. ‘Have you got his email?’

  Debbie sounded hesitant. ‘Yes but …’

  She could feel her voice being firm. ‘Can you text it over, please.’

  ‘What are you going to say to him?’

  ‘I don’t know yet.’

  ‘There’s something I ought to tell you, Claire.’

  She knew it.

  ‘The headmaster wants to see you. Before term starts.’

  Maybe, Jean assured her, the head just wanted to reassure her; check she was all right. It was possible, wasn’t it? But now, as she entered his study, Claire felt less certain.

  ‘Ah, Mrs Mills.’ The head usually referred to his staff by their first name. ‘Please sit down.’

  She did so, uncomfortably aware of the local newspaper neatly folded in front of him.

  ‘Tricky business, this,’ he said, glancing down at it.

  Claire nodded.

  ‘I have to say that I am disappointed you chose not to reveal your background when you applied for the job.’

  He raised his eyebrows, waiting for her answer. Claire felt her throat thudding. ‘I didn’t feel it was strictly relevant.’

  The eyebrows twitched. He had a bald head which made him look rather like an intelligent worm. ‘On the contrary. It is extremely relevant. Parents pay a great deal of money to send their children here and I’ve already received several phone calls, complaining that one of the teachers is married to a man serving time.’

  Claire felt her cheeks redden. ‘My husband is a solicitor.’

  The head nodded. ‘That’s as maybe but he still killed someone, albeit in an accident. It’s the sort of publicity which is not good for the school.’

  ‘But you can’t punish me for something that my husband did.’

  The headmaster looked at her sadly. ‘I’m afraid there is something else, too, Claire. You weren’t totally honest about your qualifications, were you? Even if it hadn’t been for this unfortunate business, we would have had to have let you go.’ He gestured towards a file lying in front of him. ‘We should have checked before you started but, as you know, we were desperate for someone. It has only recently come to my attention that you aren’t a qualified teacher at all.’

  Now he’d think she was as bad as her husband. ‘I’m sorry.’ She spoke quietly. ‘I needed the job so badly.’

  He made a wry face. ‘You’re a natural teacher, Claire. That’s the irony. But we have a duty to our parents and they expect people with the right paper qualifications.’

  Of course they did. ‘What do you want me to do about it?’

  ‘I’m afraid I will have to ask you to withdraw, Mrs Mills. You are a very talented artist but you were given the job on the understanding that you were a proper teacher. I am sorry.’

  ‘Mum. How could you?’

  Ben met her in the hall as she came back from the interview, hot with fury even though it was cold and rainy outside.

  She took one look at the paper in his hand and felt as though someone had punched her in the stomach. ‘I’m sorry.’

  His eyes glistened with tears. ‘I can’t go back to school ever again. Everyone will know.’

  As soon as he said it, she realised it was the truth.

  ‘I’ve lost my job.’ She spoke qu
ietly, both to Ben and to Jean who was standing at the kitchen door. ‘I’m not sure what we’re going to do.’

  His eyes were fixed on her. Steady. Trusting. Convinced she could make it all right again. The heaviness of the responsibility made her scared.

  ‘Dad will help us.’

  ‘No.’

  ‘He’s already rung me. He says we can live with him.’

  ‘Are you sure that’s a good idea?’ This was Jean. ‘Sorry. I shouldn’t have said that. It’s not my place. But I do have a suggestion to make. My brother lives in London and he’s looking for help. It wouldn’t involve too much – just cleaning and cooking his meals. He’s a writer; bit of a recluse really. Supposing I ring to see if he might take you in? Just until your house sells and you can find somewhere of your own.’

  The more Claire thought about it, the more she realised that it wasn’t a bad idea. London would be nearer Simon and it would buy them time and space away from this place. The downside was that Ben would have to go to another school at a critical point in his education. She felt terrible about that.

  ‘What about my band?’ Ben glared up at her from his bed where he’d taken to lying. ‘You can’t take me away from it.’

  ‘You could come down here at weekends and stay with Dad. That way you won’t miss the practices.’

  ‘OK.’ He looked slightly mollified but she still felt horrendously guilty. When was she ever going to be able to create a firm base for her family, or what was left of it, again?

  Charlie was very good! Claire had to give him that. He’d thought the move was a sensible idea too and was enthusiastic about having Ben down every weekend. Too enthusiastic. It wasn’t fair, she couldn’t help thinking, that he had been away for months on end with work without seeing his son and now expected to pick up the pieces as though he’d been a conscientious father all along.

  Just look at the way he was throwing himself into ‘the next stage’ as he called it, showing all the gusto of a project manager. ‘I’ve drawn up a shortlist of schools in Islington,’ he announced after driving Ben back from a cinema trip the following week. Islington was where Max Romer, Jean’s brother, lived. ‘We’ve been through them, haven’t we, son, and came up with this one.’