The Soul of Discretion

by Susan Hill

  ‘I don’t believe it now,’ Simon said. ‘I just went through that stage. And it is a point of view out there, there’s plenty of guys can argue from history – ancient Greece. You know.’

  ‘No, mate, I don’t, I didn’t go to your posh school.’

  ‘Will did.’

  A laugh.

  Will’s face reddened.

  ‘You don’t think there’s a bit of you that still likes to believe kids are enjoying it?’

  ‘No. I saw enough – I’ve … no.’

  ‘What got to you, Johnno?’

  ‘It all got to me.’

  ‘Must have been something, some kid, some time … when you woke up to it. You with me?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘When was it?’

  ‘When … once when I looked at … when I just thought, I was six years old again and it was happening to me. Remembering – what it felt like.’

  ‘You ever talked about any of that, Johnno?’

  ‘No. I can’t.’

  ‘You got to.’

  ‘I can’t.’

  ‘We’ve all had to face up to remembering stuff. Nothing unusual about you.’

  Simon stayed silent, head down, looking at the scuffed blue floor.

  ‘There’s something I want to say to you.’ Brian.

  Simon raised his head. ‘Sure.’

  ‘No offence and all that.’

  ‘No, of course not.’

  ‘All right – everything you just said … this story you told us … I don’t know … you’re covering something up, aren’t you?’

  His stomach lurched but his head remained completely clear and as he reacted he was working out his strategy.

  Someone else jumped in. ‘You only just started this therapy, and you’ve gone straight into what’s the hardest bit, in my view, and that’s working out what they felt – and then what you feel about what they felt. That’s a bloody great leap into the deep end and respect for that.’

  ‘Thanks. Thanks … I … trouble is, for me it isn’t the deep end, well, not the deepest. I – I don’t feel out of my depth, if that makes sense.’

  ‘And you’ve got to. You’ve got to feel yourself drowning and panicking.’

  ‘I know. That’s …’

  ‘Scary.’

  ‘Very.’

  Brian leaned forward and looked at him. ‘OK, maybe I was being a bit hard, but I just got a feeling you’d rehearsed all that, got it off pat, knew what you were going to say, and you said it, but it all felt a bit like you were skating over the surface, like you hadn’t had a shock yet.’

  Simon relaxed. ‘Right.’

  ‘You wait till you get to the play-acting. That’s when it strips you down to nothing.’

  ‘I’m not sure how I’ll take it.’

  ‘You’ll sweat blood, mate, but you’ll get nowhere till you do. I found that out.’

  ‘Didn’t notice you sweating anything. Stop making out you’re sorted when you know what happened last time, big-head.’

  ‘All right, cool it, Pat. This isn’t a competiton.’

  ‘Never said it was.’

  Simon leaned back, the pressure off him.

  An hour later, after a WCM about job assignments and some complaints about the plumbing and the bad taste in the last lot of tea, they were outside. A five-a-side football game had been started but it was too hot for the play to become very energetic. Those who were looking after the kitchen garden were already out there, harvesting potatoes and beans. There was nothing now until pod duties started at four. He lay on the grass. The place was set on a slight rise, from where he could look towards a circle of trees. Otherwise, this was flat land, still scarred by its past as a wartime airfield. There was brown dust and chalk dust, broken-up strips of concrete. Nothing grew for miles beyond the perimeter fence.

  ‘Nowhere to hide,’ Will said, dropping down beside him. ‘You OK after that grilling?’

  ‘I can look after myself.’

  ‘Sure you can.’ Will was sitting up. ‘Prison camp.’

  ‘Must be a bit like it. Worse food then.’

  ‘I miss a good steak.’

  ‘Fresh salmon. Crab. Mussels.’

  ‘You could hike from here, get some, have a swim, walk back.’

  ‘Bike.’

  ‘Rather walk. Or ride. You ride?’

  ‘Horse? Not bloody likely.’

  ‘Funny that.’

  ‘What?’

  Will shrugged. ‘Just have assumed.’

  Simon picked it up quickly. ‘Oh God, did all that bloody pony stuff as a kid and then had a bad fall at a fence. By the time I was out of hospital the fear was rooted.’

  ‘Surprised they didn’t just bung you back on.’

  ‘They tried. I was no pushover when I was ten.’

  ‘Did you know the Gregorys? Lived at Barkford? The Cheney-Knowles lot? Six girls then David? You must have – all those bloody sisters …’

  Simon hesitated just long enough. ‘Rings a bell …’

  ‘The dad was killed flying a small plane over to Paris for lunch with his mistress.’

  ‘Nope, don’t think I do then. Why?’

  ‘Oh, you know … mutual acquaintances.’

  ‘They close friends?’

  ‘Kind of. Knew them when we were kids. Met up again in London – as you do. Ten, twelve years ago. Through Andrew Morson.’

  ‘Right.’

  At last? Will had been cagey about his past, except in a general way, mentions of the odd thing to do with school, Oxford. No names.

  ‘Andrew. Barrister. Top man.’

  ‘That’s where I’ve heard the name then. Andrew Morson, QC.’

  Will gave an odd laugh.

  They sat up and watched the game without much interest. The football standard was usually high but the best players spurned five-a-side knockabouts.

  Simon watched on. Waited. Nothing.

  ‘Was he your brief?’

  ‘What? Oh, Andrew? No.’

  Nothing.

  Nothing until the bell rang for the pod team to go in to work.

  There was no official lights-out time but not many stayed up beyond midnight. The games and recreation rooms were locked at eleven. Simon was exhausted at the end of every day, mainly because of the stress of keeping up his role, never relaxing his guard. Work in the pod was tiring, with the constant heat from the cookers, steamers, dishwashers.

  ‘You awake?’

  ‘What is it?’

  ‘Can I come in?’

  He sighed. ‘OK.’

  Will slipped in, barely opening the door. The security light from the corridor was only a few feet away, so that Simon could make him out in the yellowish glow.

  ‘I’ve got a joint.’

  ‘Don’t be so fucking stupid, Will.’

  ‘Oh, come on. Don’t tell me.’

  ‘Whatever, if you smoke a joint in here and they find out, which they will, you’re out, feet don’t touch the ground.’

  ‘So?’

  ‘What are you messing about for? You told me how long you’d waited to get in here and you want to blow it?’

  Will did not move.

  ‘Go on.’

  ‘To tell you the truth, I wouldn’t give a fuck if it got me out. I can’t hack it, Johnno. Thought I could. Can’t.’

  ‘You’d rather be back in Wandsworth? You’d rather be having to watch out every time you go for a shower in case they’re waiting to pin you to the wall and break your nose while two of them keep guard? You’d rather –’

  ‘Shut up.’

  ‘I don’t get you.’

  ‘No, I wouldn’t rather.’

  ‘So, what are you bringing a joint in here for? Where did you get it anyway?’

  ‘Easy when you know.’

  ‘Bloody stupid.’

  ‘Are you going to snitch?’

  Simon laughed. ‘Snitch! Seriously, stop playing silly buggers and get to bed.’

  Seconds later, Will had jump
ed him and they were wrestling on the floor, trying not to make a noise, laughing as they would have laughed if they had known one another as boys and teenagers, muckers and mates, same background and mores, same lifestyles. Simon threw him over eventually and had him pinned down.

  ‘Bloody hell,’ Will said, ‘you’ve got me in a vice. Where’d you learn that?’

  Simon let him go and they both struggled up, winded, calming down.

  ‘God, what are we doing in this dump?’ Will said.

  ‘Christ knows.’

  ‘I need a drink.’

  ‘Bad luck. Can’t even make a cup of tea at this time of night.’

  ‘Good behaviour for six months gets you a kettle in your room. You have to buy it yourself of course.’

  Simon swore.

  ‘Can I trust you?’

  ‘What with? Your sister, sure.’

  ‘A plan.’

  ‘What sort of plan?’

  ‘Shut up …’

  Footsteps. They didn’t usually do night patrols here. ‘Shit.’

  If Will’s room was found empty the alarms would go off.

  Footsteps. A long silence. The men had held their breath and now exhaled.

  ‘Jeez. You get back while it’s clear.’

  ‘Right. Just wanted to ask if you kept secrets.’

  ‘Depends what, but for Christ’s sake, Will …’

  ‘Going.’

  He slipped out of the door.

  Thirty-four

  ‘Need to talk,’ Will said, passing with a trolley of crockery steaming hot from the dishwasher.

  ‘Now what?’

  ‘Plans.’

  Simon shrugged and poured a second lot of potatoes down the funnel into the peeler. It was the hottest day of the year and the temperature inside the pod was well beyond reasonable levels. Jokes went round about trade unions and health and safety demanding a walkout. The cooler fans made no impression, merely swirled the hot air about.

  He wiped his brow with his sleeve. The cotton cap he had to wear was soaking wet round the band. He glanced up. Will Fernley was hauling out a second load of crockery. It was surprising. Everyone worked well in here, it was as professional as any other institutional kitchen, the grumbling was cheerful enough, the banter and jokes flew. If people walked in from the outside world now and were asked to guess what these men had in common, not one would get it right. Prepping veg, cracking eggs, boiling water, cutting meat, opening huge cans, swabbing down, loading and unloading machines – and every one a man who had abused children, raped, committed murder, in here to try and master their urges.

  It occurred to him that they were courageous. That maybe it was easier to stay in mainstream prison, keep your head down and the lid clamped on your inner imaginings and memories, get on with it day to day. The relative freedom they had here was more than balanced by the pain of digging down into their own souls and bringing up appalling thoughts and fantasies, by the shame of recounting in every detail the crimes they had committed, and of then putting themselves into the hearts and minds and bodies of their victims.

  He was play-acting, and, at moments, ashamed of the fact. He was deceiving men who were trying to be honest, whatever the horrendous nature of their crimes, and it felt dirty. Living in close proximity to them was making him search his own conscience, though in a very different way.

  They finished serving the evening meal, cleaned up, ate their own. Tomorrow, a different pod crew would take over and he would not be back in here for a week. He would be on grounds duty – mowing and rolling and sweeping up. He would also have three sessions in the library. He tried to get Will to open up without appearing to do so. Will, tight as a clam, rarely obliged. He had mentioned one name only.

  Andrew Morson, QC.

  He got a plastic cup of cold water and took it outside. The grass on the bank was yellowing and sparse. No one was playing football. Everyone sat or lay about, exhausted by the heat, shirts off.

  There was a low whistle. Will was sitting some yards away from the rest, close to the perimeter wire of the pitch. After a minute, Simon went to join him, in no hurry, wandering in the other direction before doubling back. Nobody took any notice. It was half past seven and still stifling, a haze filming over the sky.

  Will said nothing except ‘Ice-cold lager’.

  Simon groaned.

  ‘I’m serious.’

  ‘Ice-cold beer? Why torture yourself?’

  ‘I might get it.’

  ‘Shouldn’t think even the governor has a stash.’

  ‘Outside.’

  Simon looked at him. Said nothing.

  ‘Told you, Johnno. I’ve had it. Doesn’t work, doesn’t help, I can’t see the point.’

  ‘Sun’s got to you.’

  ‘No.’

  ‘Don’t follow you.’

  ‘Come on, yes you do.’

  Serrailler thought fast while lying back down and closing his eyes. ‘Don’t be stupid. If you made a move they’d have you in solitary, you’d have all your paroles cancelled for good, you’d be serving your full time –’

  ‘Assuming I was caught. But I wouldn’t be.’

  ‘Right.’

  ‘You think I’m joking,’ Will said.

  ‘No. Actually, no, I don’t. Just wondering if you’ve thought this all the way through. I mean, how often do guys even make the attempt? And how many of them get near succeeding?’

  ‘Ocean’s Eleven.’

  ‘Oh, it’s been tried, it’s been tried …’ Serrailler quoted the film.

  ‘One guy actually tasted fresh oxygen …’ They laughed.

  ‘Forget it, Will.’

  ‘Doesn’t involve breaking through the security of three casino banks either.’

  ‘Go on then, make me laugh.’

  ‘You kidding? Why would I tell you?’

  ‘Thought you couldn’t wait.’

  Will chewed a grass blade.

  Simon thought quickly. If Will was serious about trying to get out of Stitchford, his chances of succeeding were almost zero. It was the ‘almost’ that was a worry. One thing was for sure – he had to deal with this on his own. He couldn’t ask for advice, and getting a message to the governor would mean, everything else apart, an end to his chances of finding out more information from Fernley about others in his ring. Diversion, then, for the moment.

  ‘What was that about that QC – what was his name, Anthony Morson?’

  ‘Andrew. You said you didn’t know him.’

  ‘I don’t. Just wondering.’

  ‘Why now?’

  Simon shrugged. ‘Came to mind for some reason. Forget it. Think I’m going in. Test match highlights.’

  He got up. Will got up. The others were still idle in the last of the evening sun. They walked back slowly, amiable, relaxed. And yet, this is where we are, Simon thought, as they went inside.

  At his door, Will said, ‘I’m not joking.’

  Simon waited.

  ‘It’s all worked out.’

  ‘Listen, Will –’

  ‘Not in the corridor …’

  They went into his room. Some of the men had tried to make theirs homely. Will’s was as bare as when he had arrived. He had a small shelf of books but nothing else, not a family photograph or a calendar. He was meticulously tidy. The books were arranged spine exactly to spine and size-coordinated along the row.

  Simon said, ‘Listen, I still reckon you’re taking the piss, but if you’re not, think hard about this – how many men have ever escaped from any prison and stayed out for longer than a day. You can count them on one hand. What are you trying to prove?’

  ‘Nothing at all. Just trying to get out of here. The first thing is –’

  Simon held up his hand. ‘I don’t want to know. Then I can’t tell anyone else, can I?’

  ‘And would you?’

  ‘Might have to if I was questioned hard enough.’

  ‘The only reason I was going to tell you …’

  ‘Wh
at?’

  ‘In case you felt like coming with me.’

  Thirty-five

  ‘Tim?’

  ‘I don’t believe this.’

  ‘Are you on your own?’

  ‘I’m sorry?’

  ‘Is Shelley with you?’

  ‘As it happens, no, she’s not, but if she were it would make no difference. I’m not prepared to have a conversation with you.’

  ‘Listen, Tim … I’m in France, and it’s a bugger of a job to get a decent signal. I can’t waste it arguing. I need to speak to you.’

  ‘Apparently you are.’

  ‘Will you hear me out?’

  Tim hesitated. He was angry and insulted, but he felt he should at least hear Richard Serrailler’s side of the story. They had known one another for a long time.

  ‘Tim?’

  ‘Go on.’

  ‘Has Shelley said anything to you about the night we were at the ladies’ dinner?’

  ‘She has.’

  ‘I have absolutely no right to ask this but would you tell me what she told you?’

  Tim was silent.

  ‘She wasn’t herself. That’s entirely understandable. She may well have been confused or even incoherent.’

  ‘You mean “drunk”?’

  ‘No, no. We’d all had the usual quantity. I wasn’t entirely sober and I dare say nor were you.’

  ‘I was driving. So I was, actually.’

  ‘Listen, whatever Shelley has said –’

  ‘She told me that you’d raped her.’

  Richard spluttered at the other end of the phone. ‘For heaven’s sake! My dear Tim … well, I’m quite certain you don’t believe that.’

  ‘Why shouldn’t I? My wife isn’t in the habit of lying and why would she lie about something as serious as this?’

  ‘Tim, that is an extreme – actually, it’s probably a libellous accusation. Of course I didn’t rape her – what do you take me for?’

  ‘To be honest, Richard, I’m not entirely sure. There are words but I wouldn’t care to use them.’

  ‘That’s understandable, but as descriptions, do these words include “rapist”?’

  Tim sighed. ‘Well – no. It would never have crossed my mind but once Shelley had –’

  ‘Rapists are men who attack women not known to them. They are violent, and they do untold hurt and harm. They deserve everything the law can throw at them.’