Guilty

by Jane Bidder

Simon felt his fists clench. It wasn’t fair. You could even get phones Inside if you knew who to speak to. ‘It’s because I’ve been in prison, isn’t it?’

  The boy’s eyes glanced away. ‘I don’t know. The credit people just say you’ve been turned down.’

  ‘I’ve done my time.’ Simon was aware he was shouting now but he didn’t care. ‘I’ve done my time and now all I want is a bloody mobile phone.’

  He felt an arm at his elbow. If the shiny plastic label on his upper pocket was to be believed, it was the manager. ‘Let me escort you to the door, sir, or else I will need to call security.’

  Security. Simon’s heart began to pound again. He had to check in at probation in an hour. If there was trouble, he’d be back Inside again. They’d made that quite clear. ‘Sorry,’ he mumbled. ‘I’m not feeling very well this morning.’

  ‘If I were you, sir,’ said the man wearing the manager label, ‘I’d think about going to see your doctor.’

  The confusion in the phone shop almost made him late for his probation appointment. It didn’t help that he got the wrong boulevard. How many were there in this place and who was the piss artist that dreamed up these names for a concrete jungle?

  ‘Tut, tut. You never used to use four letter words beginning with “p” before you went in.’

  Joanna seemed much more talkative now they were Out. Eventually, after asking the way several times, he found the right place. It was another red-bricked building just like all the others around it, a small sign saying ‘Probation’ on the outside. Was it small on purpose so it might be missed easily and lead to the ex-offender getting into more trouble? Or was it to make it less embarrassing for the person going inside?

  Furtively, Simon looked around him feeling as he had done at Ben’s age when he’d first gone into a sex magazine shop. The door was heavy so he pushed it rather too much and it swung against the wall, making him look as though he was being aggressive.

  ‘Sorry.’

  The middle-aged woman behind the desk was staring at him in exactly the same way as the information girl and the phone manager. ‘Take a seat,’ she squeaked.

  Idly, Simon picked up a magazine which was dated around six months ago. There was a profile of a famous actor who had just got divorced. When he’d gone In, the actor was about to get married to his now ex.

  ‘Simon Mills?’

  A skinny boy who had a slicked-back black fringe emerged from a door. He reminded him of one of the more youthful prison officers.

  ‘Sign here, can you?’

  Simon’s hand wobbled as he wrote his name in the register thrust before him. Too late, he realised he’d failed to read the small print at the top.

  ‘Call yourself a solicitor?’ chided Joanna.

  ‘I’m not any more.’

  ‘Sorry?’

  Simon gathered himself. ‘I was just saying that I’m not a solicitor any more but I need a job.’

  The kid was rustling through his papers. ‘We can help you sharpen your CV and put you in touch with some training courses. There’s nothing to stop you trying the Job Centre over the road, either, although you’ll need to tell them about your record. You won’t be able to take a job unless we’ve liaised with your employers.’ He looked sombre. ‘Otherwise there might be a risk of a former prisoner working alongside a member of the victim’s family.’

  He got the point. Still, it was worth trying. The Job Centre door was heavy. The last year had been made up of doors, he reflected. Mostly locked; even those that seemed open. A girl told Simon to take a raffle ticket from the machine on the wall. The only thing he might win was an interview, provided his number came up on the light before it was closing time. If he was lucky.

  ‘Simon Mills!’

  It was the same girl who’d directed him to the ticket machine. She led him to a desk surrounded by others, without privacy. Then she glanced at the forms in front of her.

  ‘You’re a solicitor?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘But you can’t work as one any more?’

  ‘No.’ He lowered his voice. ‘I’ve been in prison.’

  She edged away.

  ‘Nothing violent,’ he added hastily. ‘It was a driving offence.’

  ‘NOTHING VIOLENT?’ roared Joanna.

  Simon gripped the edge of his chair tightly to drive her voice out of his head.

  ‘Would you say you have people skills?’

  He nodded, watching hopefully as she ticked a box.

  ‘Admin skills?’

  ‘Up to a point.’

  ‘IT skills?’

  Thank heavens for the computer workshop in the prison. ‘Not bad.’

  Spotty girl raised her chin disdainfully. ‘Do you have any qualifications?’

  ‘Sure. A degree. My legal qualifications …’

  She broke in. ‘I mean in IT?’

  ‘No.’ Too late Simon wished he’d taken the certificate which the computer workshop had offered.

  ‘Driving licence?’

  Joanna snorted in his ear.

  ‘I can’t drive for a year,’ he ventured.

  A cross.

  ‘We’ll let you know if something comes up.’

  Fine. Just fucking fine.

  Simon used part of the £20 that Claire had given him to buy a phone card. None of the phone booths were private. The huge woman next to him had rolls of bulk above her waistline that almost protruded into his booth. She couldn’t have been very old, but she already had two small children in a double buggy and one in a sling.

  Lydia’s mobile was engaged. He waited a few seconds and then tried again. Still engaged. There was someone behind him now, waiting. Just one more time. Engaged.

  After dithering for so long, he was desperate to speak to her. Simon felt like kicking the phone like the one on the left had been, judging from the buckled metal.

  ‘Finished, mate?’ The boy who was waiting said it in a friendly way.

  ‘Sure.’

  Now what? Claire wasn’t due to pick him up for another three hours. He could get the bus back but then she’d worry if he wasn’t at their agreed meeting place. Without a mobile, there was no way of contacting her.

  It was then that he saw Ben walking past and going into a Costa Coffee. The boy was absconding again!

  Swiftly, he followed. ‘Ben?’

  ‘Simon!’

  ‘What are you doing here?’

  ‘It’s a free period.’ Ben was looking at him in exactly the same way as the information centre girl, the mobile phone manager, and the spotty girl in the job centre. ‘You thought I’d copped off, didn’t you?’

  ‘No.’

  It didn’t come out strong enough.

  ‘I told you, Simon, I like college.’ He and Ben were already at the queue. ‘They treat you like adults. And my courses are cool.’ He looked around him. ‘I’m meeting some of the others here in a minute.’

  Simon felt a flash of compassion, remembering how his own father used to embarrass him at times in front of friends. ‘I won’t hang around and cramp your style, then.’

  ‘No. It’s OK. Want a latte?’

  He found himself allowing his stepson to buy him a coffee and together they sat at a table overlooking the centre. We should have done this before, Simon thought suddenly. Before the accident. They might have got to know each other better instead of reserving contact to heated discussions about bed times and allowance and DIY jobs.

  ‘I’m sorry,’ said Ben suddenly.

  Simon hadn’t been expecting that. ‘What for?’

  ‘Ringing you. You know. On that night. If I hadn’t, you wouldn’t have answered and then …’

  Simon wanted to reach out and touch Ben’s hand but didn’t feel able to. ‘It’s OK. It was my fault, not yours. If …’

  He stopped as a crowd of teenagers swarmed in. One of them – a girl in an impossibly short red skirt and black jeans underneath, called out a greeting as they queued up for baguettes. ‘Got to be quick,’ she
called out. ‘French starts soon.’

  Immediately, Simon felt ashamed at having doubted his stepson. ‘I’ll leave you to it.’ He got up.

  ‘You can stay if you like.’

  He shook his head. ‘Thanks for the offer but I think I’m too old.’

  Ben grinned. Then his face grew serious again. ‘I know we haven’t always been good friends but I’ve been talking to someone and she … well this friend said that it’s never easy for anyone when one of your parents gets married again.’

  Simon really wanted to hug him this time. ‘It’s not. Maybe I should have tried a bit harder. I’m sorry.’

  And then he left, not trusting himself to say any more in case he burst into tears.

  The phone booth was empty now. There was no one else around. Perversely, now there was nothing to stop him, Simon wasn’t sure if he wanted to go ahead.

  ‘If you don’t make the call, you’ll regret it!’ sang Joanna.

  So he got out the letter and carefully dialled the number. It rang out and Simon’s heart flipped. He’d been hoping it might be engaged again.

  ‘Hi,’ said a voice brightly. ‘Lydia speaking.’

  ‘Hello.’ His voice came out cracked and just as he spoke, there was a burst of loud music behind him, forcing him to speak louder. ‘This is Simon.’ There was a pause. ‘Simon Mills,’ he added.

  There was another pause during which Simon considered slamming the phone down and running.

  Then she spoke. ‘You rang,’ she said, a distinct joyous catch in her voice. ‘You finally rang.’

  Chapter Forty-nine

  Simon had been home for over a week now. How are you doing, Alex had asked when he’d rung unexpectedly during one of her college breaks. Luckily there was no one else around in the staff room. Personal calls were discouraged. Personal calls about husbands who’d just been let out from prison were on an even more elusive level.

  ‘We’re managing, thanks.’ As soon as she said it, she realised she wasn’t fooling anyone. Least of all herself. And certainly not Alex.

  ‘It can’t be easy,’ he said, his voice laden with sympathy.

  It wasn’t! In fact, Claire blurted out, it was like being married to a completely different man. Instead of the strong, confident, clever hero she’d married, he had become nervous, always looking over his shoulder. He didn’t seem to like going out of the house, either, preferring to stay inside and ‘tidy up’ as he put it.

  ‘It’s almost becoming an obsession,’ she told Alex, feeling horribly disloyal. ‘Simon’s even taking over the kitchen, telling me what I should and shouldn’t do. It’s driving me nuts. He’s happy to talk about domestic stuff yet he won’t tell me how he’s feeling inside himself.’

  Alex’s voice was sombre. ‘Has he got a job yet?’

  She laughed hoarsely. ‘He’s signed on at the Centre but apart from going down once a week to see them and the probation officer, he just mooches around the house. Keeps closing the curtains because he says he doesn’t want anyone to know he is here.’

  ‘Weird.’

  ‘Exactly. He gets me to buy all the tabloid papers and every morning, he goes through them pointing out some criminal who’s just been released or a crime that’s referred to. The other day, he claimed to know one man who’d just been released after spending all his time in the prison library to launch his own appeal. When he’s not doing that, he paints all over the kitchen table.’

  ‘Paints?’

  ‘There were art classes Inside and apparently the art teacher told him he had talent. ’

  ‘Do you think he has?’

  She snorted. ‘He’s awful! Really, Alex, you should see some of his stuff. It’s like a child’s painting – in fact it’s like having another teenager around the house.’

  ‘I’m sorry.’ Just the acknowledgment made her feel better. ‘Have you suggested he sees the doctor?’

  ‘He won’t.’ Claire looked up as someone came into the staff room. ‘Look, I’ve got to go now. I’ve a class to teach in ten minutes.’

  Alex seemed reluctant. ‘I’ve got to come up to London in a couple of weeks. Shall we meet?’

  ‘That would be good. Thanks.’

  Quickly, she put the mobile away and tried to concentrate on her notes for the next class. Alex’s voice had been reassuring; Charlie too, had become quite a rock. Every now and then she couldn’t help wondering what might have happened if she’d turned a blind eye to his affair …

  ‘Still using the photocopier?’

  The question came from the tall thin woman who had just come in.

  ‘Not now.’ She smiled, trying to show that she was open to a friendship. So far she hadn’t really bonded with the rest of the staff. ‘I’ve finished thanks.’

  ‘Then make sure you turn it off.’ The other woman made a point of striding over and pressing the orange button.

  Claire nodded an acknowledgment that she had broken one of the ‘rules’. The college was all right but it didn’t have the same relaxed atmosphere that she’d had in the school back in Devon. Perhaps it was because she was the only art teacher; the others seemed to see her as an invader in a world of IT and maths and more traditional subjects.

  Still the kids were great! Ben too was happy. She could only hope his grades would be all right.

  ‘Morning, Claire!’

  A sea of faces met hers, grinning. Teaching gave her such a buzz! Sometimes she was almost grateful for the terrible circumstances which had led her down this path. But the best thing was that it took her mind away from Simon doing his crazy child-like paintings on sugar paper in the kitchen, with Slasher growling suspiciously from the corner of the room.

  When she got back that night, there was a pile of unopened post. Simon had washed up breakfast but neglected to make their bed. That was another thing! He was fanatical about being tidy in some areas and incredibly untidy in others. Plastic bags could sit on the kitchen surface for weeks unless she removed them. But if she tried to do the washing up herself, he would move in and insist on doing it himself.

  He hadn’t been like that before. Was it, as she’d been reading on the net, an attempt to be in control of certain areas of his life because he couldn’t be in control of others?

  No! She stared at the official letter on top of the pile. ‘We’re not covered for home insurance.’

  Simon neatly re-folded the tea towel and glanced over her shoulder. ‘It’s because I’ve been Inside,’ he said calmly, handing it back to her.

  She stared at him incredulously. ‘You knew about this?’

  ‘Someone told me. Spencer I think.’

  He kept talking about that man!

  ‘Why didn’t you say?’

  He folded the tea towel again. ‘I forgot. Sorry.’

  ‘But that means that all this,’ she waved her hand around ‘isn’t covered. So if someone burgles us, we can’t get it back.’

  ‘Sorry.’

  ‘Anything else I ought to know about?’ She hadn’t meant it to come out in a sarcastic voice but it did.

  ‘Probably.’ He laughed. ‘I expect other things will come up. They usually do, don’t they? What’s for supper, by the way?’

  He was the one who had been at home all day. Did he expect a meal to appear on the table as it had in the prison? ‘Tell you what,’ she said through gritted teeth. ‘Why don’t I give you some money and you can go to the shop round the corner and buy something.’

  Instantly a look of terror took over his face. ‘I can’t.’

  ‘Why not?’

  ‘I don’t like going out.’ He sat on the chair. ‘I’m sorry but I don’t. I want to stay in and be safe.’

  His face began to crumple and instantly she felt sorry for him.

  ‘It’s all right,’ she whispered. ‘You’re safe here with me.’

  ‘No,’ he whispered. ‘You don’t understand. Please. Just leave me alone.’

  He pushed her away and ran upstairs, locking himself in the bathroom. />
  Stunned she sat there for a moment and then opened a kitchen drawer for the piece of paper she’d been keeping for emergencies. To her surprise, a woman answered instead of an answerphone.

  ‘Hello?’ Claire heard her own voice trembling. ’Is that the charity that deals with families of ex-offenders?’

  It was a non-profit–making organisation, apparently, which gave advice to women whose husbands were in prison and had also left it. The woman on the other end of the phone listened patiently while Claire told her in hushed tones about Simon’s behaviour.

  There were things she might be able to do, to cope, said the woman when she’d finally finished. The charity ran mentoring groups all over the country and there was one in Milton Keynes. Would she like to meet up with the leader?

  When Claire got off the phone, she still felt better even though the bathroom door was still locked and Simon, from the sound of it, was having a very long shower.

  That was something else he kept doing. ‘Constant washing can denote a need to clear up past regressions,’ said the site on the net.

  Claire leaned against the wall, closing her eyes, wondering just how much more she could take.

  The following day when she got back from work, the post was lying there neatly on the table, the envelopes ripped into tiny squares and the contents sitting next to them.

  There was also the smell of baked beans.

  ‘You’ve made a snack,’ she said slightly irritated. ‘I bought soya mince on the way back – now you’ll spoil your appetite.’

  Ben was stirring something in the saucepan. ‘Simon and I have cooked dinner as a treat for you.’

  She raised her eyebrows. ‘Baked beans?’

  Simon had his back to her. He was chopping something on the sideboard without using a mat but she stopped herself from criticising him. ‘Save it for the big things,’ she told herself.

  ‘Not just baked beans,’ he added. ‘It’s got tomatoes and garlic and peppers in it too. Spencer taught me how to make it.’

  That man again. A common thief from what Simon had said. Yet he seemed to revere him.

  ‘Besides,’ he added, ‘I told you. I don’t eat meat any more.’

  Simon had always loved his steaks! ‘I thought that now you were out, you might change your mind.’