Humber Boy B
Page 5
“I’d like that.” He smiled for the first time, and she saw that his adult teeth hadn’t grown straight and weren’t gleaming, prison not being known as a haven for excellent dentistry, but his smile was broad and genuine.
“It would be really good to get a job. Thanks, Cate.”
“Thank me when I’ve found something. In the meantime you just get used to Ipswich, okay? And no contact with anyone from Hull, no family or friends. I can’t stress that enough. There are people out there who would hurt you given half a chance. You can’t risk anyone finding you, especially now when your case is bound to hit the press.”
“Why?”
“Because you’re free, Ben. And that is headline news.”
12
Ben
“Yeah, man. That’s the first thing I’ll do when I’m free.”
I heard it again and again. Wherever the secure unit, whichever the prison, the other lads all spoke about getting out and what they’d do. You’d think they’d be planning on going to college, or being married and having kids, something big and life-changing, but mostly they talked about getting a burger, a proper one, from McDonald’s.
I never told any of the others that I’ve never tasted a Big Mac or a McFlurry, it was too shameful to admit. McDonald’s existed when I was a kid, so maybe I did go, but if so, I can’t remember it. I can’t remember us ever going for a meal anywhere, what with Mum always being strapped for cash and two hungry boys to feed. Sometimes one of her boyfriends might chuck us a couple of quid to get us out of the house and we’d buy chips with extra scraps that we’d eat in the shop, but that doesn’t really count as a restaurant. Stuart could have taken us out, I suppose, but he always came home from the Arctic carrying his own weight in fish so when he was back it was fish pie, fish stew and towards the end of the supply it was curried fish. Stuart said fish was good for us, and he liked to be fit. He said his strength was what kept him alive when he was reeling in those massive nets while being battered by twelve foot waves, so when he was home he lifted weights too. He kept them in the bathroom and when he was gone they’d just get in the way. I’d fall over them when I went to the loo in the night but I never dared move them because I knew he’d be back, and if he thought I’d touched his things there would be trouble. At least when Stuart was around we ate, even if I got so sick of fish just smelling it made me gag. It was better than when the cupboards were empty. Adam would search down the sofa for some money and then it was economy bread and beans, washed down with milk nicked from someone else’s doorstep.
But no Maccy D, not ever.
What this meant was that when the other prisoners described the thin yellow fries and the thick juicy burgers with sloppy cheese and gherkins (whatever they are) my mouth learned to water and I would agree and say, “Me too. I’m going to go large.” It was their desire, but I made it my own.
I feel like I owe it to them, to do what I said I would, and find a McDonald’s.
Three days since I left prison and so far I haven’t been far from the flat, only to the post office for money and the supermarket for food, and I’m guessing I’ll have to go right into Ipswich town centre. I’m nervous about it, because I don’t know this town, I’ve been to the probation office but that’s not in the centre. I can’t shake the feeling that I look like I am, that even the person who serves me fries will be able to see right into my tar-black heart. I push the thought aside and start walking, in the same direction as the line of cars that must be heading for the busy part of the town. It’s twelve o’clock and lunchtime, or at least it would be in the prison, so my stomach is growling and I walk quickly.
The cars seem to be driving too fast, and even though I’m on the pavement I flinch when I hear the revving sound that means yet another car is just yards away from my back. My legs feel wobbly and I’m breathing hard, the sun seems to be right above me and I’m wearing my thick hoodie, my first pair of new jeans. In prison the uniform was thin and worn-in by other bodies, so these jeans feel stiff. But I love the hoodie, the thickness and feel of its fleece layers, even though it’s wrong for this weather. Sweat gathers in my hairline and I wish I was fitter. The PE teacher at school always said I was useless, a wimp, and no-one ever wanted me on their team in games. PE was a big thing in secure unit too, and the popular boys wore the coloured bibs over their T-shirts and got to pick the team. I was always last to be chosen, and if I could get out of PE, volunteer to help in the library or give one of the teachers a hand, then I would.
I know I’m not strong, not in that way anyway. But I survived, I got through eight years and there were others who didn’t make it. Suicide was an occupational hazard in prison, the posters were tacked up everywhere, and I’ve known boys end it with a shoelace or a sheet. It was something I never considered doing, though you’d think I would have, especially after Stuart told The Mail on Sunday that he wished I’d never been born, that I ruined our family unit and led Adam astray. But for me it was always about surviving, I knew there were people out to get me, that some would kill me if they had the chance, and maybe the fact that my existence was so uncertain removed the question of whether I’d end it myself.
I reached the finish line six weeks ago, it was the final meeting. I’d already been told I’d won my parole, but this was the official announcement, and everyone involved in the case was invited down to Suffolk to discuss the release. That’s when I found out that Noah’s mum had set up a Facebook page to try and find me.
My personal officer, Kevin, had written my parole recommendation and he got the job of breaking the bad news. We went to one of the education rooms before the meeting, just the two of us, and he unlocked his iPhone. When he showed me the page I was shocked. There I was, a headshot of me in my Bramsholme Primary uniform, missing two teeth at the front, pale skin and scruffy white-blond hair, blue eyes staring out at the camera like it was a gun. I hated having my picture taken, and I was shocked at how malnourished I looked.
“She’s asking people to look for you, Ben. You’re going to have to be very careful when you get out.”
Kevin scrolled down the page, and there were other photos, ones she’d cut and pasted from other websites, some she’d taken during those few weeks when Noah and me where inseparable.
I had to go back into the meeting, my joy at getting parole suddenly damned by fear because I knew that the outside world was still interested in me, that no-one had forgotten, they were waiting for me to walk out. In that meeting the talk was all about the danger I was in.
Mum said that wasn’t news to her, she’d been living it for eight years. She said people had spat on her in the street, someone had put dog shit through her letterbox. Then she glared at me, because it was all my fault. “You wait,” she said, as if she was looking forward to me finding out just how unpleasant the world was. I think she thought I’d had it easy, while she’d had to face the flack.
Right from the start Mum didn’t visit me much, but she came to that final meeting because two Hull police officers came too, the one who first interviewed me after Noah died and another who brought me cans of coke during the long hours I spent at the police station. I sometimes wonder if it was his own money he used, he seemed so kind. Until my solicitor arrived and told me to say ‘no comment’ to every question, and then he changed. There were no more cokes then.
They wanted to be sure I wouldn’t be returning to Humberside, and they drove her down. Maybe Mum wanted to see me, or maybe she just fancied a day out, but at least she came even if she barely looked at me. The kind officer said they’d been in contact with Noah’s mum, and they’d told her that if she posted anything to incite violence then they would prosecute her. Mum pulled a face.
“I bet that went down well. Jessica Watts is our local saint, people would go ballistic if you arrested her.”
The police officer said there was nothing else they could do about her page, I had to wait until someone posted a death threat or something. It didn’t sound promising.
It wasn’t the world I lived in. I’d never had a mobile or a laptop and had only used a computer in the education block for lessons. It was all a bit of a mystery to me, all I knew was that Noah’s mum hated me and I was in danger. The other police officer spoke then, he said that they believed Mum was also in danger, that if they couldn’t find me she’d become a target. She’d stayed in Hull, despite the dog shit and spitting, and brazened it out but once I was released they thought pressure would build, so they had a proposal for her. I realised then that this was why they had brought her here, to the Suffolk prison. To place an offer on the table.
“Once Ben is discharged he’ll be starting a new life in another part of the country. We’re offering you the chance to go with him.”
“Where?” Mum looked suspicious.
“We can’t say. It’s best if you know as little as possible, but it will be to a town with no connection to you or to his crime. A totally fresh start. If you choose, we could make it a fresh start for you too.” They looked at Mum hopefully, and I could see they thought that she’d say yes, especially with me in the room. They assumed that she loved me.
“Any road, what would I do?” she asked, folding her arms over her bony chest. “In this new town?”
As she spoke I felt my heart get heavier as the prospect of having my mum – really having her, in a way I never had before – became less and less likely. I could see from her face, her posture, she’d already decided. Mum would never leave Hull. Not for me, not for her safety, not for anything.
“You do realise,” the police officer said, “that Ben won’t be able to visit you? There can be no contact. He won’t be allowed into Humberside at all.”
Mum looked at me and her sad but cold eyes told me that she’d lived nearly eight years without me in her life, what would the rest of it matter? She was always a pragmatist.
“Can’t Adam come with me?” I asked the officer, even though I knew it was impossible. My brother was also my co-defendant and I had more chance of fitting into my new world if I was on my own. But I was holding on to this last scrap of hope that Adam would give up his life in Hull for me. Mum may not love me, but he did.
“You need to wash your ears out, our kid,” Mum snapped, irritated so much that her face reddened and beads of sweat appeared around her nose. “You can’t move in with Adam. You can’t even see him, or any of us. This is goodbye, and there’s nowt more to be said.”
I don’t want goodbye, so I push the Congratulations card into a red post box. I didn’t write much, just that I’m safe and that I’ve been shopping. But I write my address too, because what if Mum changes her mind and then she can’t find me?
By now I’ve reached what must be Ipswich’s high street with its shops and delicious-smelling roasted nut stands, too many people, mothers forcing sunhats onto babies’ fat heads, men in suits walking alone, shouting and mad-looking until I see an earpiece and realise they’re on a phone. No children, of course, they will all be in school. There are a group of men, all wearing red tabards, holding clipboards. One sees me looking and I realise my error when he makes a bee-line for me, holding his clipboard like a shield. “Can I tell you about the work we’re doing for child soldiers in Africa?” I put my head down and walk quicker, but not so quick that I can’t hear him say “Wanker” to my back. In my haste I knock the shoulder of an old man who has paused to take off a jumper, “Watch it!” he tells me.
I turn, hot and sweaty, confused about which way to go, wishing I was back at the flat, but the crowd moves me along and I walk past shops I haven’t seen in years, Poundland, WHSmith, shops they had in the centre of Hull. We had a corner shop on our estate, with a sweet counter. I went there with Adam if either of us had any coins, and if we didn’t we’d slip a chew in our pockets or dare each other to grab a Mars bar. We were never caught, or maybe Mrs Patel who owned the shop felt too sorry for us to say anything.
And then I see it. McDonald’s. Red and white and yellow, glass frosted with condensation.
I’ve seen the adverts and can whistle the theme tune, but I’ve never been in one and the door is unexpectedly heavy. Inside are lines of customers, so long I can’t see the till, and I’m unsure which line I should join. One moves forward and I stand behind an old woman who leans heavily on a walking stick which is pressed into a sachet of tomato sauce that someone dropped on the way to the bin. The woman’s head is shaking as she peers into a battered leather purse.
“Oh, my eyes,” she mutters, then offers the open purse to me. “Which is the two pound coin, dear? They all look the same without my glasses.”
I hesitate, doesn’t she know I’m not to be trusted? And then I worry that I’m also unfamiliar with coins. Luckily, there are only a few in the purse so I reach for the largest and place it in her palm. “Bless you,” she says, and I feel something weaken, right under my hoodie, under my skin, inside my ribs. Because she trusted me and now she’s blessed me and I’m about to have a burger.
The menu is mind-boggling, choices and options, meals and sizes. In the end I order the simplest thing I can see, a hamburger, and still a torrent of questions are fired at me about fries and sauce and meal deals and drinks, and I just nod, say yes to everything, watching as the bored-looking server presses buttons and shouts my order with a speed that leaves me breathless. This is one place I know I couldn’t work.
With the paper bag in my hand, I leave McDonald’s, hoping to find somewhere cool to eat my meal. There are benches along the high street, but I daren’t risk sitting on one, it’s too exposed with all the people passing by, prams and dogs and wheelchairs. So many of them are peering at their phones and I wonder if any of them is on Facebook, right this moment looking at my photo. I want to get back to my flat.
I walk back quickly, urged on by the thought of food. The burger wrapped in its white paper, the carton of yellow chips, a few of which I can hear rattling at the bottom of the bag. In my other hand is the sweating cup of coke, and I sip it as I walk, tasting how the melted ice has watered the drink but glad of it all the same. The traffic is less now, though the sun is as strong, and I keep to the shadows where it’s cooler. Finally, I’m back at Wolsey block, wearily climbing the stairs as though I’ve run a marathon. My arms tingle with the effort, and I wish I was brave enough to use the lift. I wonder if I’ll ever conquer my fear.
Inside the flat is cool and, when I split open the bag, so are the chips and burger but I’m determined to enjoy them. I sit on the sofa, the torn bag in my lap, first sucking the salt from the chips. I bite their crispy layer and tell myself they’re delicious while a part of me is wondering what the fuss is about. The burger isn’t thick, either, but a floppy slice of meat under an orange gummy slice of processed cheese. It tastes of nothing, sweet and salty, greasy, but no real food flavours as it hits my tongue in all the right spots. In twenty seconds the whole meal is gone and I still feel hungry but I have nothing in the kitchen. I crunch the bag into a ball, ready to toss, then reach into my jean pocket and look at how much money I have left. Thirty-two pounds and eighty pence. It sounds a lot, but in prison the wages were low and all there was to buy was shower gel and chocolate. I look around my new home and think of all the things I’d like to buy. Top of the list is a TV. Every day, after tea, we watched the telly in the association room and I miss this dip into life, the news, EastEnders, Coronation Street. I don’t know how much a TV would cost, but it must be more than what I’ve got. And anyway, my priority should be bowls and cutlery and proper food. If I’m going to make a life for myself, I need to stop eating like an animal. I put the rubbish in the kitchen
bin and tell myself that, from now on, I only eat on a plate.
13
The Day Of
It was only when Roger Palmer led his daughter from the house to the car that he saw she was wearing a thin party dress, white and delicate, with sequins along the hem. He saw too how her flesh was pressing into the fabric, new breasts spilling out of the sides of the straps.
“Go get changed, Cheryl. Now!” He was annoyed with her, embarrassing him like this. She had surely done it deliberately.
“I like this dress.” She tugged it down so it sat better at the waist, but it was still hopelessly small for her and revealed too much thigh. He saw, as he’d seen a few times the last few months, that she was changing. No longer his little girl, but a teenager. Puberty had filled her out and she had started to adopt that stubborn expression, so very like her mother, that he had to fight the urge to shake her.
“We’re going fishing, it’ll be muddy. Please go get changed.”
“Alright! Why are you so narky?”
Cheryl didn’t wait for his reply, turning quickly as if afraid of his response. He watched her walk back towards the house as if the weight of the world was on her shoulders, and felt a sting of guilt. This was her day off too, and his breakup with Jess wasn’t her fault. She wanted a step-mum as much as he wanted a wife, maybe more. To have another female around, someone to chat with about what was happening to her body, about boys. Someone she could talk to.
“And bring a towel,” he called, as a peace offering.
She turned, her face broken by a half-smile, not quite believing her luck.
“We’re going swimming?”
“We’re going to the river, so you can paddle. Now quick quick!”
If Roger switched on the TV he’d no doubt see coverage of the rally, which would have reached Trafalgar Square by now. His teaching colleagues campaigning for a pay rise that he certainly wanted, and believed that all teachers deserved, but he wouldn’t be missed in the crowd. Was Jess missing him? She’d said she loved him, even last night, when she was breaking his heart.