by John Nicholl
I leant across the table to throw my arms around them all as they huddled together. And then she intervened, that same need-to-be-liked guard, out of spite, out of malice. That cow, that fucking cow!
‘No touching!’
I didn’t let go. What harm could it do? Such stupid pointless rules.
‘I said no touching!’ Louder this time, playing to her audience, wallowing in her power.
I held on, but Mum tensed inexorably. She was shaking. The woman was actually trembling, as if close to freezing. I wasn’t going to win this one.
‘Better listen, love. I think that’s best.’
I slowly released my grip, took a single step backwards and sat on the very edge of my seat, craning my neck to be as close to them as possible. ‘Okay, Mum, if you say so.’
She nodded and smiled unconvincingly.
I took a deep breath, dabbed at my eyes with the back of one hand, and looked at each of my wonderful girls in turn. Elizabeth was crying quietly and focussing on her hands, whilst Sarah was very close to tears and edging ever closer to her grandmother. Perhaps they don’t look forward to their visits as much as I do.
I forced a playful grin, attempting to lighten the mood. ‘Perhaps they think you’re smuggling drugs in your knickers or something?’
Nobody laughed. Nobody smiled. Why would they? Such a stupid thing to say.
Mum glanced in the direction of the guard and reached across the tabletop, touching my outstretched fingers with hers. ‘How are you, love? Are they treating you well?’
‘Not too bad, thanks, Mum. How about you?’
‘Oh, we’re just fine, aren’t we, girls?’
The two girls nodded in unison, but didn’t say anything in response. Isn’t it strange how a fleeting momentary look can sometimes say a thousand words?
‘Wow, you two have grown so much.’ And they had, they really had. I was missing so many milestones.
Sarah met my eyes for a fraction of a second, before looking away. ‘When are you coming home, Mummy?’
I bit my lower lip hard, tasting blood and fighting back the tears. What could I say? What on earth could I say? ‘We don’t really know, do we, Mum?’
‘Oh, come on now, love, things aren’t that bad. No need for tears. Over a thousand people have signed the petition at the last count. You’ll be out of here before you know it.’
‘You’ve been saying that for three years.’
She looked flustered, close to panic. ‘I’ve spoken to that nice MP again, love. He’s still looking into your case. He says you can appeal your conviction.’
‘We’ve talked about this, Mum. All the petitions in the world aren’t going to make any difference.’
‘Of course it will, love. It’s just a matter of time.’
‘I’ve discussed it with the solicitor. You know that. It’s only possible to appeal if there’s new evidence. I really wish there was, but there isn’t. We have to accept that. Denying reality isn’t good for any of us, the girls included.’
‘But, Mr Bamford said…’ She bowed her head, focussed on the floor and quietly mumbled the remainder of her sentence. We’d had the exact same conversation so many times before.
Not again, surely not again. It was always the same: Mum clutching at the same predictable straws, the girls trying to be positive, but surreptitiously watching the clock above the door, me doubting the value of false hope whilst trying not to lower the mood still further. The four of us sat there in virtual silence after that, glancing at each other tentatively, smiling reticently, searching for the right thing to say and somehow resisting the temptation to reach across the table to link hands.
And then there she was again, that same needy guard, strutting, preening and indulging her authority to the nth degree. That cow, that fucking cow! I can hear her voice now, as if she’s yelling into my ear at touching distance. ‘Time! Bring your conversations to an end please. No touching. I said, no touching!’
That cow, that hateful cow! My heart sank, Mum looked crestfallen and apologised for arriving late, but I fear the girls may well have felt relieved that the usual hour was over prematurely. Prison is no place for children. It’s no place for family reunions. But what choice did we have? There weren’t any alternatives, no better options, none whatsoever.
I stood and watched as Mum and the girls stood and walked away in a close-knit huddle. Sarah looked back and raised an open hand in acknowledgement as she left the room, but neither Mum nor Elizabeth looked back. Maybe it was too much for them to bear. It certainly was for me.
16
Dr Galbraith held an ancient black umbrella high above my head with one hand, whilst unlocking the front door with the other. ‘Right then, my dear, in you go, in you go, there’s a light switch on the wall to your left, as I recall.’
I fumbled for the switch in the orange sodium glow of the streetlamp, causing an opaque pale-blue glass-clad light to burst into seemingly enthusiastic life. He handed me a single key on a red leather fob, raised a hand and pointed towards a second door halfway along the passageway. ‘It’s the ground-floor flat, the best of the three by far, you’ll be glad to hear. Go in and make yourself comfortable, my dear. I’ll fetch your case.’
I approached the door, but waited for him to return with the suitcase rather than open it. It just didn’t seem right to open someone else’s door on first visiting.
‘Come on, in you go, in you go, welcome to your new home. No need for formalities.’
I grinned nervously, turned the key, pushed the door open and walked in.
‘I’ll just put your case in the bedroom before giving you a guided tour of your new abode.’
I nodded. ‘Can I use the bathroom?’
He placed a hand on each of his hips, leant backwards at a slight angle and adopted a thoughtful expression, as if choosing his words carefully. ‘Now, let’s make one thing clear from the start. I want you to feel comfortable here. I want you to consider the flat your home. Is that clear?’
I felt like a child in the classroom as I stood in silence.
‘The bathroom is the second door on the left.’
‘Okay, thanks.’
‘See you in a minute or two.’
I flushed, washed my hands with scented soap, checked my hair and makeup in the illuminated Art Deco style oval mirror above the sink, and rejoined him in the lounge a couple of minutes later.
‘Right, I’ll show you where everything is before we enjoy some much-needed refreshments. Is it warm enough for you?’
I nodded and smiled, warming to his convivial banter.
‘Right, follow me, my dear, this shouldn’t take too long.’
And it didn’t. Within a short while, the guided tour was over and we were sitting at an oak table in the spacious kitchen, drinking filter coffee from chocolate-brown cups.
He asked me what I thought of the flat, and I got the distinct impression that my opinion mattered to him. That felt good. I think that’s fair to say. We all need to think our opinion means something to someone. I told him I was impressed, which I was, because the place was beautiful, with generously proportioned rooms, high ceilings and large sash windows through which the light would pour come dawn. Every wall was white, pristine, not a blemish, everything immaculate, everything in its place, precisely in its place. ‘It’s lovely, really lovely.’
He beamed. ‘I’m glad you like it, my dear. What did you think of the art? It’s a real passion of mine.’
To be honest I hadn’t really taken much note of his pictures, and I sat there with a blank expression on my face.
I thought I noticed his demeanour change just for a fraction of a second, but he relaxed his powerful shoulders and said, ‘Photography is one of my passions; let me show you the photos in the lounge.’
There were large, framed black-and-white pictures hanging vertically on each of the four walls. He placed a hand on my elbow, and gently guided me to the centre of the room so that I could revolve slowly in a ci
rcle and appreciate each in turn. I didn’t know what to say, to be honest. They didn’t seem in any way remarkable, but he wanted me to like them. That was blatantly obvious. He really wanted me to like them.
We stood there staring at each in turn while I searched for something meaningful to say. ‘Do they all feature the same boy?’
‘Yes, yes, he’s the son of a good friend.’
There was an abstract quality to the photos. The boy was playing with one toy or another in each photo, but I couldn’t make out his features due to defined areas of light and shade. For some reason I couldn’t quantify, I thought there was an unmistakable sadness about him. A sadness that still haunts me today. ‘How old is he?’
He smiled warmly. ‘He’s five now, but he was four when I took the photos. A lovely lad. He was one of my patients for a time.’
‘A patient, really?’
‘Child psychiatry still forms the bulk of my work. I think I may have mentioned I lecture at the university on a part-time basis.’
‘Did the boy get better?’
He paused before responding, and raised a hand to his face, masking his eyes. ‘Sadly not, most regrettable. It’s not possible to help all my patients, however hard I try.’
I crossed the room and sat on the white leather settee, literally lost for words. Why would he indulge such an obvious reminder of his failures? ‘But, he’s only…’
‘Now, now, no more questions, patient confidentiality and all that.’ He pushed up the sleeve of his jacket and looked at his watch. ‘There’s an excellent Italian restaurant not ten minutes’ walk away. Why don’t we freshen up and get ourselves something to eat at about sevenish? I believe it’s actually stopped raining.’
I nodded enthusiastically, glad to change the subject and gratified by the prospect of a meal.
‘There are a few house rules I need to discuss with you at some point, but that can almost certainly wait until morning.’
‘Rules?’
‘Nothing to worry about, my dear, nothing whatsoever. We’ll get something down on paper at some point so that everything is crystal clear to both of us. I find that’s the best way of avoiding any unfortunate misunderstandings.’
‘I’d like to give Mum and Dad a ring to let them know we’ve arrived, if that’s all right with you?’
He smiled engagingly and shook his head. ‘There’s no phone, I’m afraid. It developed a fault some months back and I never had it repaired. I found myself rather enjoying the peace and quiet. Now, I’ll change here, you use the bedroom, and we’ll meet in the hallway in precisely ten minutes. There’s a clock on your bedroom wall.’
17
Mrs Martin flicked through the pages of my well-thumbed personal journal, stopped, began again, and then closed the cover before looking up and handing it back to me with an outstretched hand. ‘I have to say I’m impressed. You’ve clearly been putting in a good deal of effort. Very well done, Cynthia, very well done!’
‘It helps pass the time.’ Why did I say that? Why be flippant? Why not accept the well-intentioned compliment with good grace?
She screwed up her face. ‘Okay, I guess that’s got to be a good thing, but this should be so much more than a boredom-relieving exercise. Are you still finding the process useful?’
‘Yeah, sorry, I’m making light of things. I don’t know what on earth’s wrong with me sometimes. Obviously I’m only part way into my story, there’s still a lot to cover, but yes, it’s making me think.’
‘That’s good to hear. Tell me more.’
She always used that line: tell me more, tell me more, as if nothing I said was ever sufficient. ‘How best to put it? I’ve discovered an inner determination I didn’t know existed.’
‘And you’ve put that to good use?’
‘Going over events in a logical order, one by one, who said what, who did what, what I thought, the decisions I made, it’s cathartic. I’m beginning to recognise that events were largely beyond my control.’
She looked less than convinced. ‘Mmm… we all make choices, Cynthia. Every day we make choices that take us along one path or another. I doubt you were any different.’
I didn’t like the way the conversation was going one little bit. She was correct, of course, but there was more to it than that. It was more complex, not nearly as simplistic. ‘I made choices, sure I did, but I think they were reasonable choices in the circumstances. Hindsight tends to make things appear a lot clearer than they were at the time. You’ve said that yourself. Maybe I was a bit naïve, I’d accept that much, but I just didn’t see the warning signs. Why would I?’
‘You don’t think you were in any way complicit?’
I crossed my arms and linked them tightly across my chest. ‘No, no, absolutely not! I had no comprehension of what was going on, none at all.’
‘And you’re sure of that?’
I relaxed my arms and moved to the very edge of my seat. ‘Yes, I’m certain, I couldn’t be more certain. He was directing events. The man was in control.’
She smiled thinly without parting her lips. ‘I’ve been in this job a long time, Cynthia. There’s not much I haven’t heard before.’
The man was pure evil, the devil incarnate. I wanted her to believe me. I needed her to believe me. ‘The bastard was clever, really clever, an arch manipulator. He charmed and twisted and cajoled and threatened. I can’t properly explain it. Words just aren’t enough. If you’d met him, if you’d known him, you’d understand what I’m talking about.’
‘I’ve met manipulative men.’
‘Not like this one.’
‘So you’re saying you were manipulated?’
‘Yes, yes, gradually, minute by minute, hour by hour, day by day. He got under my skin and ate away at my self-esteem and independence. The bastard knew exactly what he was doing.’
‘From the beginning?’
‘Yes, from the beginning, the very beginning! From the first second he met me.’
‘So, you understand that now?’
‘Yes, yes, I do.’
She nodded twice and smiled, more warmly this time. ‘I’m beginning to get the picture. Keep thinking, keep writing, keep making sense of events. We’re making excellent progress.’
‘Okay.’
She paused, as if to emphasise the importance of her words. ‘Things are going well, I’m in no doubt about that, but I’m guessing it’s going to get harder from here.’
‘Yeah, you’re probably right.’
‘You think?’
I laughed despite myself. ‘It’s going to get harder. I know that.’
‘I realise I’ve said it before, but remember that I’m not here to judge you, Cynthia. Don’t hold anything back.’
‘You’ll understand when I write the rest of the story. Read it and you’ll understand.’
‘Good, that’s good, I’ll look forward to it. It may not feel like it at the moment, but as I said, we’re making good progress.’
I got the message the first time, but her good intentions were appreciated. She glanced at the wall clock to the right of her seat. ‘Right, we’ve got another ten minutes or so before bringing the session to a close. Have you heard anything from your family?’
I sat back in my seat, sucked in the stale prison air and tried to relax. ‘Mum brought the girls to see me last visiting.’
‘Ah, that’s good to hear, how are they all doing?’
I exhaled with an audible hiss. ‘I think they only come because they feel they have to.’
She took a paper hankie from her handbag and handed it to me as a single tear ran down my cheek and found a home on my jumper. ‘It’s never easy for relatives.’
I shook my head. ‘I sometimes wonder if they’d be better off without me. You know,just blank me from their minds and get on with their lives, try to put what happened behind them.’
She looked perplexed. ‘Now, come on, Cynthia, we’ve had this conversation more than once. Not too long ago we sat down and re
ad their letters together. Your mum loves you, the girls love you. That’s blatantly obvious. I thought you’d accepted that.’
I bowed my head, shamed by my uncertainty. ‘I know but this place…’
‘They come because they want to see you. They come because they love you.’
I agreed, more to bring the subject to a close than anything else.
‘Just keep rereading those letters whenever doubts enter your mind.’
‘I guess they provide a certain melancholic solace.’
‘I can tell we chose the correct English teacher.’
I grinned, pleased by the compliment.
‘You’re loved, Cynthia, that’s more than many here can claim. Now, is there anything else you want to talk about before we bring the session to an end?’
‘I was wondering how Emma’s doing. Is she coming back?’
‘You know I can’t go into any detail, but I understand that she’s making reasonable progress.’
‘And she’ll be coming back?’
‘As far as I know.’
‘I’m not looking forward to sharing a cell with the woman again, to be honest.’
‘Just try your best to get on with her. That’s all you can do. You don’t get to choose your cellmate.’
‘Yeah, I know that much.’
She glanced at the clock again, rose from her seat, and smiled a toothy smile. ‘That’s it for today, Cynthia, keep writing, and we’ll talk again in a week’s time.’
I stood to leave, glad of the opportunity to escape to the isolation of my cell. Doesn’t time fly when you’re enjoying yourself.
18
