Guilty

by Jane Bidder

  ‘You see?’ Hugh’s hand was tugging at his lapels again. ‘I’ve ruined your life and I’ve ruined Joanna’s. There’s no point in going on.’

  ‘Yes there is.’

  Joanna’s voice was so soft that he could barely hear her.

  ‘Yes there is,’ he repeated more loudly.

  ‘If I can forgive you,’ whispered Joanna, ‘you can make a new start.’

  The Virgin Mary’s plastic face beamed innocently. The woman in the pew across the aisle was singing louder now.

  ‘If I can forgive you,’ he said quietly, ‘you can make a new start.’

  Hugh’s grip tightened. ‘Can you do that?’

  He nodded. ‘Yes.’

  Hugh put his arms around him with a whiff of whisky and cigarettes. Then, over Hugh’s shoulder, Simon saw a doctor in a white coat at the door of the chapel, waiting.

  Chapter Fifty-eight

  Ben limped along the corridor towards Poppy’s ward. It had been a month since the accident – only another week until the plaster would come off. He hadn’t been able to take Slasher for his usual walks but Simon had done that for him. He was glad Simon had moved back in. Mum was much happier.

  ‘You’re late!’ Poppy beamed up at him from her bed. She looked less pale than last weekend.

  ‘Sorry.’ He made a face. ‘Coursework. Mum made me do it first.’

  ‘Quite right!’ She patted the side of the bed, even though the nurses kept telling him to sit on the chair.

  Quickly, before anyone went past, he leaned down and kissed her. She tasted soft and warm.

  ‘You two up to it again!’ The nice bustling Irish nurse was on duty, thank goodness. She was all right. ‘Make the most of it, if I were you. There’s nothing like young love, is there Mabel?’

  Mabel was a sweet old lady in the bed opposite Poppy. Ben would often go over and have a chat.

  ‘How are you feeling today?’

  ‘Great.’ Poppy’s eyes sparkled.

  That was one of the things he loved about her. She was always bright. That’s why he knew she’d pull through, even when Mum and Simon had said she might not make it. People like Poppy didn’t die.

  ‘In fact, I’ve got some news!’

  ‘They’re letting you out!’

  ‘Not so fast! They’ve moving me. Down to a hospital in Devon where Dad can see me. Don’t look like that. He says you can come and stay at weekends.’

  He nodded, trying to hold back his disappointment. This hospital was so much closer and, besides, Dad had a new girlfriend so he might not want him there.

  Poppy was stroking the inside of his palm. ‘Just another year and then I’ll be able to join you!’

  Poppy’s eyes sparkled and he felt a funny lurch inside. They’d both agreed to go to one of the London universities. Then they could get a flat together and, as Poppy said, see what happened. He couldn’t wait.

  ‘How’s Slasher?’

  He nodded. ‘Great.’ There was a pause as they both remembered that terrifying moment when the van had plunged into the side of the car. The left had been clear. But the right hadn’t.

  ‘It’s incredible really,’ said Poppy softly.

  Ben nodded. ‘He was just sitting there apparently, by the side of the road, waiting for them to get us out.’

  They’d said this before but they still needed to say it again, every now and then to reassure themselves.

  ‘No sign of his horrid owner?’

  Ben laughed. ‘Simon says he was so scared by the police car that he reckons he’s scarpered for good.’

  ‘That’s good.’

  He nodded. ‘So is this.’

  And then he kissed her again.

  ‘How’s Simon?’ said Poppy a few minutes later.

  ‘OK.’ That reminded him. ‘He’s taking his driving test again. It’s what you have to do after …’

  He stopped.

  ‘Poor Joanna,’ said Poppy quietly. ‘She didn’t deserve it.’

  That was true.

  ‘Simon reckons she’d want us all to get on with our own lives now.’

  Poppy nodded. ‘Reckon he’s right.’

  There was another bomb that week. This time in Knightsbridge. It injured three but killed no one. A miracle, said the headlines.

  Simon read the paper as he ran back up the steps towards Lydia’s flat after being at the hospital. When he got to his daughter’s door, her face was streaked with tears.

  ‘Two men … two men …’ She was sobbing so much that he could hardly understand her.

  ‘Who? I don’t understand.’

  She was clinging to him and he tried to comfort her, patting her on the back. ‘Two men. They knocked on my door and said that if you said anything, we’d both be dead. Dad, you’ve got to do something, don’t you see? This is your chance. You say you ruined Joanna’s life. Now you can save others.’

  They took it very seriously. Yes, they could guarantee protection although Simon knew they were promising something that couldn’t be delivered. So he repeated what he had told the policeman already. He thought he recognised the man from the photofit. He had been in the Multi-Faith Room with two other boys his age and they had been chanting.

  The man from the special forces stiffened. Chanting what?

  Simon shook his head. ‘That was the weird thing. It wasn’t a prayer. It was like a rhyme that my grandfather used to tell me when I was a boy. It was in Urdu.’

  Could he write it down?

  He’d forgotten some of the words but then when he reminded himself of what was at stake, some of them came back.

  The man from special forces seemed excited. He didn’t say as much but Simon had the feeling that it was some sort of code; maybe an indication of where they would strike next. Meanwhile, said the special forces man, they would find a safe hiding for his family ‘just in case’.

  ‘No.’ Simon had already discussed this with Claire and Lydia and Ben. They all felt the same. ‘We’re staying put. We’re fed up with change, all of us. We’re not running away from anything, any more.’

  ‘Are you sure about that, Mr Mills?’

  And as he spoke, Simon realised something. Maybe now was the time to stop running from the other thing too. Picking up the phone, he made an appointment for the psychologist.

  ‘Why don’t you tell me the story from beginning to end,’ offered David. He was sitting next to him. None of this patient versus doctor across the desk, Simon noticed.

  ‘You’ll think badly of me.’

  ‘Does that matter?’

  ‘Funnily enough, yes.’

  ‘Simon, I don’t judge people. We’re all guilty of something. Now fire away. It so happens my next patient has cancelled. So we’ve got all morning.’

  He had been nearly eighteen. A boy in the smart set had invited him to the party. It was to be held in the school grounds to celebrate the end of A-levels. He was told to bring ‘some gear’ if he had it.

  ‘Gear?’ questioned Simon, wondering if he meant spare clothes or possibly snacks stolen from supper.

  ‘Cannabis, stupid,’ said the boy. ‘Or anything else.’

  He should have said no then. He’d never done drugs but had been swayed by the fact that the smart set – the in crowd – had included him. So he’d climbed out of the dorm window along with the others and threaded his way through the rugby pitches and then the cricket ground to meet the girls. Alice was going to be there. Alice, whom he’d already met through joint debates at the girl’s school and who, her blonde hair swept back in a hairband, had made it quite clear that she would like to see him again.

  But that night, Alice didn’t have a hairband on. She didn’t have much on at all by the time he arrived. One or two couples were already at it in the bushes, stark naked. She handed him what she called a spliff and for a while, they sat and snogged.

  Then she’d taken his hand and silently led him into the bushes. Simon could hardly believe his luck. Fumbling with his trousers he eased him
self on top of her. Oh my God. Oh my God.

  But then she screamed. Simon thought she was screaming at him to go on. He certainly didn’t think she was screaming at him to stop. Or maybe she was. Maybe it was because she had heard the teacher coming. Suddenly he was being thrown roughly onto the bracken.

  ‘It wasn’t my fault,’ Alice kept saying. ‘It was him. He raped me.’

  Simon stopped, looking across at David.

  ‘Go on.’ The voice was neither sympathetic nor disapproving.

  His father was called to the school of course. Simon was to be expelled immediately. But he was lucky. Alice’s family had taken legal advice and been advised not to press charges. Simon’s father had driven him home, shouting at him all the way. ‘Disgrace to the family. Don’t know how you can live with yourself. Don’t deserve your place at Oxford.’

  He was still shouting when they pulled up outside the house. And that’s when it happened.

  Simon stopped.

  David waited.

  ‘My father got out of the car and fell. Just like that. Straight onto the gravel. They said later that it was instant. A heart attack. Brought on by stress.’ Simon’s voice came out coldly. It was the only way of coping. ‘Of course my mother blamed me.’

  ‘Just as you did yourself?’ suggested David.

  Simon nodded. ‘I never forgave myself. It took me a long time to ask a girl out again after that and when I did, I never allowed it to last. I always made sure she meant “yes” …’ He stopped, conscious that this sounded horribly crude. ‘But I also refused to allow myself to get emotionally involved.’

  ‘Until you met your wife?’

  ‘Exactly.’ Simon allowed himself to relax. ‘She was different. She was damaged just as I was. I wanted to mend her.’

  ‘But you couldn’t find complete happiness because …’

  Simon was beginning to understand David’s technique now. He would give him part of the sentence in order for him to finish.

  ‘… I was convinced that I needed to be punished. Don’t you see? I had killed my father. But I’d been allowed to get away with it. So when I killed Joanna, it was right that I should be punished. That was why I pleaded guilty.’

  David’s voice was low. Steady. ‘And now you know you’re a father yourself, do you still believe you were guilty of your father’s death?’

  Simon was silent.

  ‘Do you?’ David persisted.

  ‘I’m not sure.’

  ‘Consider this. Think of that time when you discovered your daughter was working as a prostitute. What if the shock or your medical history gave you a heart attack and you fell down dead. Would you blame Lydia?’

  ‘No.’ Simon didn’t even need to think about that.

  ‘Exactly.’ There was a look of triumph in David’s face. ‘So I suggest that you allow yourself the same treatment. Put your memories in a box, Simon. Tie it up with string and place it in a mental vault. Give yourself permission to get on with the rest of your life.’

  SIX MONTHS LATER

  Chapter Fifty-nine

  He was late. Claire lay awake, trying not to let monkey thoughts take over. That’s what Lydia called them. She was into tai chi and feng shui and goodness knows what else. Some of it helped. Some of it didn’t.

  So much had happened in the last three years. Simon. In and Out. Ben, now doing his A-levels. Poppy, finally walking. Hugh. Max, who had even come to visit in the hospital. Her mind went back to those terrible early days after the accident.

  Who was this coming towards them? Claire peered down the hospital corridor disbelievingly. Mrs Johnson? And Max?

  ‘Thank you for coming.’

  She flung her arms around the older woman who in turn, hugged her back. It felt good; rather like being comforted by a youngish aunt.

  ‘Max told me, my dear.’

  Confused, Claire turned to him, taking in her former landlord’s slightly abashed look and foppish hat pulled firmly down over his eyes as though worried that someone might see him here. ‘I saw it on Facebook – as a writer, one has to keep up nowadays with the youth of today, you know. Is the boy going to be all right?’

  Had he forgotten how he tried to cheat them both out of her royalties?

  Anger and fear made her snap. ‘What is to you?’

  To her surprise, his face crumpled. ‘Got quite fond of you both, I did. In fact, the house has been very quiet without you both. Look, I’m sorry about …’

  ‘Max,’ said Jean, putting a warning hand on his arm. ‘This isn’t the time or place.’

  He nodded, like a small boy who’d been rebuked. ‘Of course not. I just wanted to say that I’m afraid I let my ambition get in the way of my better nature. It takes an accident to make you put life in focus, doesn’t it?’

  ‘Yes,’ said Claire quietly. ‘It does.’

  He made a face that made him look surprisingly vulnerable. ‘I’m afraid, as my sister has pointed out in no uncertain terms, I’m just a crusty old bachelor who’d got too used to thinking about himself.’

  Then somehow she found herself putting her arms around him for the simple reason that it seemed the right thing to do.

  A few months later, rather astonishingly, their book– The Day My Dad Went To Prison – made it to the Bestseller List, leading to a contract for a series. When Mum Got Out was commissioned for the following year. The advance wasn’t huge but, as Max pointed out, it sent out a message. Prison could happen to (almost) anyone.

  But there was, thought Claire as she tossed and turned in bed, still so much more to come to terms with. Simon’s part in catching the men behind the bombing. Alex and Rosemarie moving to France but still inexplicably together.

  And now this. This final test.

  Six hours earlier

  The instructor handed Simon a piece of paper. He glanced at the Pass certificate, nodded briefly, and then got back into his car.

  He waited until it was dark. Then he drove to Beech Cottage. This is where he needed to start, to end it all.

  ‘Left,’ Hugh had roared.

  He was going past the exact spot right now. Why wasn’t Joanna saying anything? Simon slowed to a stop by the edge of the lane and then wiped his palms on the side of his trousers. He needed a break.

  Simon booked into a Travelodge to get some rest. After setting the alarm for 4 a.m., he rang Claire. It went through to answerphone.

  He woke before the bleep, keen to get off. Wide awake. As he drove smoothly and slowly along the motorway, he saw ambulance lights flashing ahead at the Winchester turn off. Simon waited for the usual sarcastic comment from Joanna, along the lines of: ‘ There’s some other poor soul, killed by a careless driver.’

  Nothing.

  In his head, he said a silent prayer. It seemed to make sense to have a faith now. It gave you something to live by.

  As he drove, Simon’s mind drifted back to the conversation he’d had with Hugh, after Poppy had pulled through.

  ‘I want to help,’ Hugh had said. ‘Tell me how I can make it up.’

  That’s when he’d told him about his idea. ‘It’s difficult to find a job when people come Out,’ Simon had explained. ‘People are scared of employing men who have criminal records. ‘

  Hugh had nodded. ‘I wouldn’t.’

  ‘But what if we started an employment business for people who have a record?’

  ‘No one would employ them!’

  ‘Some people are willing to give second chances.’

  ‘Could work, I suppose.’ Hugh’s voice was gruffly conceding. ‘Might get a grant for it too. What would you call it?’

  ‘Inside Out,’ said Simon promptly.

  ‘OK. I’ll put up the funding but only for a year. If it’s not self-sufficient by then, we shut it down.’

  ‘It’s a deal,’ said Simon.

  ‘But you’ll need to drive again.’ Hugh eyeballed him. ‘If you want me to get over my demons, you’ve got to get over yours.’

  And that’s exac
tly what he was doing.

  Nearly there now.

  When he’d moved back in with Claire again, a few weeks after Ben’s accident, they’d decided to stay put. Ben liked his college. She had her teaching. At some point, they agreed, they’d move back to the sea. Maybe near Jean.

  ‘It’s not the house you live in, it’s the person you live with,’ Claire had said. She was right.

  Now, as Simon looked up at their window, he could see the curtains were still closed. Quietly, he slid the key in the lock.

  Slowly up the stairs. Past Ben’s room where Slasher looked up from his bed, grunted his approval, and then nestled down back into Ben’s chest. Into their room.

  Claire had her back to him, her beautiful naked shoulders rising slowly up and down below the duvet, like the back of an elegant violin.

  Peeling off his jeans, he slid in next to her, breathing in her smell and holding her from behind.

  ‘I’m home,’ he whispered. ‘I’m home.’

  Published by Accent Press Ltd 2014

  ISBN 9781909624177

  Copyright © Jane Bidder 2014

  The right of Jane Bidder to be identified as the author of this work has been asserted by her in accordance with the Copyright, Designs and Patents Act 1988.

  The story contained within this book is a work of fiction. Names and characters are the product of the author’s imagination and any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, is entirely coincidental.

  Please note that I have tried to be as accurate as possible, regarding prison and legal protocol. However, prisons vary and rules are constantly changing so I apologise if there are any mistakes. On a small number of occasions, I have bent certain facts slightly to fit in with the plot.

  All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic, electrostatic, magnetic tape, mechanical, photocopying, recording or otherwise, without the written permission of the publishers: Accent Press Ltd, Ty Cynon House, Navigation Park, Abercynon, CF45 4SN