Sweets From Morocco

by Jo Verity

  On the train home, he sketched out a plan. He would visit Tessa again at the weekend and, while he was in London, find out from the police details of what had happened. In the meanwhile, he would get in touch with Dan – the Costelloes would have a contact number – and tell him about the accident. He surely still had feelings for Tessa, so it was only right that he should know. Whatever else happened, as soon as she was well enough to leave hospital, he would bring her back to stay with them.

  Kirsty took an uncompromising stand. ‘She’s a middle-aged woman, Lewis, not a juvenile delinquent who’s going through a difficult phase. I agree she needs help, but from medics and lawyers not from an indulgent brother. And I don’t think she should come here. It won’t do her any good. Or us for that matter. It sounds callous but that’s how I feel.’

  Tessa was his sister not a client, and he’d counted on Kirsty bending a little, for his sake. She’d always been decisive, a quality that he admired, but she was assertive these days too and he wasn’t sure how to deal with that. Maybe she would reconsider.

  He got hold of Dan Coates who sounded concerned and sympathetic. He asked Lewis to pass his love to Tessa and wanted to be kept abreast of events, saying he would delay the sale of the flat until she was fully recovered and had found somewhere else to live. But he made it clear that he had no plans to return to England – and, by implication, Tessa – in the foreseeable future.

  As Tessa’s condition improved, her head became less fuzzy and memories of the crash started to firm up. Wipers, flicking across the windscreen; red tail lights of the vehicle ahead, bright and blurred through the slanting rain; dreary rows of suburban houses. The radio droning on – something about negative equity. A jolt and the chilling din of grinding metal; the seatbelt biting in to her neck as the car spun.

  The tests showed that she’d had over twice the legal limit of alcohol in her bloodstream when the accident occurred. As soon as the doctors declared her strong enough, two policemen came to interview her. The impassive pair treated her with coolness verging on contempt. Hulbert seemed, at a distance of forty years, benign in comparison. No one would ever know whether she had fallen asleep or merely lost concentration. It didn’t matter because, either way, she had killed an old man and injured several other people. One of the injured – a young woman – had needed to have part of a leg amputated. The police told her that she would be charged with a serious offence and advised her to engage a lawyer. Kirsty said the same thing and recommended several firms. Tessa couldn’t see the need. She’d done what they said she’d done and she wasn’t intending to contest it.

  But what about Rundle? Why had no one mentioned him? She’d stabbed the man and left him, his dark blood pooling on the pale kitchen floor, her finger prints on the knife and all over the flat. If he were alive, wouldn’t he have put the police on to her? Could his body still be lying there? Had she phoned for an ambulance? It was all so hazy. She was sure of one thing though. It would be madness to raise the matter. She was resigned to being punished for killing and maiming innocent pedestrians but it had been her right to defend herself against a psychopath.

  Ted Knowles, aged eighty-two, widower and war veteran, was crushed to death by drunken author with tragic family history. Ted was on his way home from visiting his sister in hospital…

  The accident was pure gold for the tabloids. It had the lot. Pathos, bad luck, fate and wrongdoing in one tale that was ripe for the telling. Some of what they printed was true and a great deal of it wasn’t. On this flawed evidence the world would reach its conclusion and she would be judged. Black and white – no shades of grey.

  Single rooms were at a premium and she expected to be moved to the main ward. But they left her where she was. She worked out why when she caught a glimpse of someone peering at her through the pane in the door. She had become notorious and was corralled in this room, isolated from the other patients, to prevent any ‘unpleasantness’.

  An envelope arrived from America. The sight of the ‘Airmail’ sticker and the flashy stamps cheered her. But Dan’s shop-bought card and the few words that he’d scrawled inside were no more than she would receive from an acquaintance. They had been friends and, although their affair was over, she expected more from the man who had, not so long ago, proposed marriage.

  Other letters arrived, anonymous and vitriolic, saying that she should be locked up for life or, better still, hanged. A couple of them contained offers to exorcise the demons in her and save her soul. She kept the letters to show Lewis, thinking they might amuse him, but he insisted on informing the hospital administrators. There was talk of vetting her mail but she couldn’t risk that because one day a letter might come from Rundle.

  ‘If something’s addressed to me, I have every right to see it,’ she said.

  Doctor Briscoe, who had become an ally in her occasional run-ins with the staff, supported her. ‘You’re right. Anyway, people who write this filth are deranged.’

  ‘I’m not so sure they are,’ Tessa replied. ‘If some drunken woman killed my brother, I wouldn’t stop at letter writing.’

  He seemed alarmed by what she said, ‘Look, if you’d like to talk to someone, I’m sure it can be…’

  She smiled and shook her head. ‘I don’t want to talk to anyone, thanks. I don’t want some shrink digging around in my head or some do-gooder nagging me to stop drinking. I’m quite capable of working out why I feel the way I do. Just take away my driving licence and car keys – not that I’ve got a car any more – and leave me to get on with it.’

  At weekends Lewis travelled to London. He stayed at Dan’s flat and, although he didn’t mention it, Tessa guessed he was dealing with the muddle of bills and final demands that had accumulated. Each time he came, he brought a bag of thoughtful gifts. His choice of books – Kidnapped, Gone with the Wind, a biography of Mary Stewart – was perfect. He remembered how much she loved anemones and chocolate-covered ginger. He dug out her Walkman and bought new tapes – stuff she’d never heard before but immediately loved. He made her laugh with stories of his week at school and the goings-on in the village. He relayed titbits of news. Uncle Frank hadn’t been well; there were new tenants at Cranwell Lodge – a doctor and his family from Iraq; Sarah had been offered a place at Southampton University and Jane was auditioning for the County Youth Orchestra.

  They reminisced, swapping memories not only of dens and make-believe but also the permanent cloud cast by their brother’s disappearance. When they were talking like this, she came closest to telling him about Rundle. The whole story. But not sure how the story ended, and terrified of losing whatever respect he still had for her, she couldn’t do it.

  When her misery spilled out, Lewis was there to soak it up. ‘I killed an old man, Lewis. And because of me a woman’s going to spend the rest of her life hobbling around on a hideous false leg. Everything I touch turns sour. I must be a bad person.’

  Lewis was the only one she wanted to see. She couldn’t imagine why the others came. Were roles reversed, she wouldn’t visit them. But they did turn up. Lotte, loud and smelling of gin, took the ‘what’s done can’t be undone,’ approach; Liza, more other-wordly than ever, prattled about karma and fate; Jay shot her nervous smiles, perhaps wondering why he’d ever got into bed with such a wreck; Cora, her skinny editor, turned up laden with sickly-scented lilies, ate a grape or two then had to dash. Amelie was the only one who talked about the accident. ‘It could have been worse, darling. The guy was over eighty. Think how bad you’d feel if you’d killed a child.’

  Kirsty visited just once, wanting to know what the police had asked her and how she’d replied. ‘Give them honest answers but don’t volunteer any additional information. Put the onus on them to find out,’ was her advice.

  When Kirsty sent Lewis to the cafeteria for some sandwiches, Tessa knew something was coming.

  ‘I won’t beat about the bush. You realise, don’t you, that you have great power over Lewis? I’m not interested in discussing how or
why, it’s enough to recognise that you have.’ She was sitting straight-backed, holding Tessa’s gaze. ‘I’m asking you to stop exerting that power. Ever since I’ve known him, you’ve been lurking in his life, ready to step in and call him to heel. It has to stop now. Once and for all. You’ve got yourself into serious trouble this time. Really serious. Drag him in with you and he’ll lose everything. Job. Me. Everything.’ Her voice was restrained but full of passion.

  ‘I thought that you and I were supposed to be friends,’ Tessa said.

  ‘We once agreed that friendship between us was dependent on honesty.’ Kirsty shook her head, ‘Tessa, you haven’t been honest with me from the moment we made that pact. If you recall, we also said that should we ever fall out, we’d fight for Lewis and the winner would take him.’

  ‘You’re turning him into a trophy and making me sound like a monster. You know how much I love him.’

  ‘You think I don’t? You’re in a mess but you got yourself into it so grow up and take responsibility for once. You’ve wasted your own life and wrecked several others. I’m asking you to set Lewis free – give him a chance of happiness.’

  ‘What’ll you do if I don’t? Disconnect my life support system?’

  Kirsty sighed and shook her head. ‘Don’t you get it? This isn’t about you, Tessa. This is about Lewis. I watch him when you’re around. He’s … he’s diminished. Reduced. Emasculated.’

  ‘I’ve never thought of my brother as a macho man.’

  ‘You’re determined to misunderstand me, aren’t you?’ Kirsty spoke quietly but her tone was menacing.

  ‘No. You’re making yourself very clear.’

  Tessa learned to use crutches and to walk without putting weight on her injured ankle. This was exhausting and frustrating, and it made her sweat. But it was a relief to be doing something and to be able to venture out of the room which had, for so many weeks, been her entire world.

  One evening, when the other patients were eating supper, she hobbled to the payphone in the corridor. Heart pounding from exertion and apprehension, she dropped a ten pence piece in the slot and dialled Rundle’s number. She’d rehearsed this moment dozens of times as she’d lain in bed. One of two things would happen – he would pick up the phone, or the answering machine would cut in. Either way she would remain silent. But instead of a ringing tone she heard a series of piercing notes followed by ‘I’m sorry but this number is no longer available…’

  At first Tessa dismissed Kirsty’s accusations and demands. But whatever else she might be her sister-in-law was honest and scrupulously objective. There was no doubt she loved Lewis, in her own competent way. Perhaps she should loosen the ties. Hadn’t Lewis intimated something along those lines once, suggesting that they’d become unnaturally dependent of each other after Gordon disappeared? The last thing in the world she wanted was to hamper Lewis’s chances. She’d always thought that he needed chivvying. Had she been wrong? Would he be happier, stronger, more successful, if she, to all intents and purposes, took the stabilisers off his bicycle, gave him a push and watched him wobble away?

  Perhaps it was.

  The first thing was to serve her sentence then, when she came out, she would move to a place where no one knew her. A city like Manchester or Birmingham. She’d take a job in a shoe shop or a supermarket, or clean offices at night. She’d rent a flat – a couple of rooms would do. She would check her bank balance regularly and live within her means – not impossible as most of her father’s money still lay untouched in her bank account. She might even change her name – people did it all the time. She’d had her fifteen minutes of fame.

  It would be unthinkable to cut herself off from Lewis altogether. That would be too cruel to both of them. But she had to put some distance between them. He’d hate it – she’d hate it – but it would give him a fighting chance.

  On the day of her discharge, the faithful Dr Briscoe, who she suspected was a little in love with her, came to say goodbye. ‘How d’you feel about…?’

  ‘Going to prison?’

  ‘You can’t be sure…’

  ‘I think I can. It’s not my first offence.’

  ‘You didn’t…?’

  ‘No. I wrote off the car that time. Lost my licence for a year.’

  ‘You don’t seem to be too…’

  ‘Worried? I’m not. It’s perfectly right that I “pay my dues to society” or whatever the phrase is. Once I’ve done that I can contemplate making a fresh start.’

  IX

  1991

  Chapter 38

  Four years and nine months. Tessa’s solicitor had warned her that she would go to prison but even she seemed surprised at the severity of the sentence. ‘Of course your previous driving record counted heavily against you. But even so…’ She frowned then reassembled her features in a consoling smile. ‘You’ll be out in three years, unless you do something foolish.’

  During the court procedure it was mentioned, more than once, that Tessa was a successful author and the newspapers, eager to wring the final drama from the notorious ‘Swinburne Tragedy’, reported the case extensively, frequently recapping on the past.

  ‘I expect the judge wanted to make an example of me,’ Tessa said. ‘Prove that even the rich and infamous are subject to the laws of the land.’

  The solicitor shrugged. ‘It shouldn’t work like that but God alone knows what goes on under those wigs.’ She glanced at her watch as though she’d done what she’d been paid to do and now needed to be elsewhere. ‘Well, good luck Miss Swinburne.’

  They shook hands and she left, the clip-clop of high heels fading as she hurried down the corridor.

  The ‘sweatbox’ was parked at the rear of the court building, waiting to transport prisoners who had been sentenced that day. One of the less stony-faced policemen told Tessa that she was lucky to be going to Downham.

  ‘It’s okay, is it?’ she asked.

  He gave her a pitying smile. ‘I only meant that it’s near London. Easier for your family to visit.’ Then he locked her in one of the tiny cubicles within the vehicle.

  They’d been travelling for perhaps two hours – Tessa wasn’t wearing a watch – when they stopped, edged slowly forward and then stopped again. There was no mistaking the sound of gates slamming and with that, voices from within the van set up a chorus of jeering and shouting. Fists and feet pounded metal. The whole vehicle began to sway. It was terrifying. Isolated in the cubicle, she was without reference points or certainties. Closing her eyes, she clamped her hands over her ears and tried not to cry.

  ‘Swinburne?’

  Tessa stepped forward, accepting the drab tracksuit and ugly black trainers thrust at her by the warder. ‘One piece of jewellery. What’ll it be? Wedding ring?’ She sounded bored yet impatient.

  Tessa studied her own hands as though, by magic, a gold band might have appeared on her ring finger. Her hands were trembling and in an effort to steady them she clenched her fists, digging her nails hard into her palms. The only jewellery she was wearing was the broad silver bracelet that Dan had given her on the day she moved in with him and wearing it would deny the hurt she’d caused him.

  ‘Nothing, thanks.’

  She fixed her eyes on the back of the warder – a squat woman with beefy legs – who lead her across the hall, through the mob of women. Stillness and silence fell over the crowd. Then suddenly the questions came, loud and hostile, bombarding her from all sides. ‘Where you from?’ ‘Got any drugs?’ ‘Nice arse. Got a girlfriend?’

  This moment was critical, yet she had no sense of how to play it. Her ankle still gave her pain but she tried not to favour it in case it marked her out as a pushover. The long-ago screw-the-lot-of-you girl would have found a dozen gritty remarks to yell, or at least have given them the finger. As she climbed the metal steps to the landing above, it was as much as she could do not to soil herself.

  Her cellmate, Sandra, was a small, self-contained woman who looked as though she would be scared to
go out after dark. She seemed eager to tell Tessa that she had embezzled her employer – a road haulage company based in the Midlands – of two hundred thousand pounds.

  ‘That’s a lot of money,’ Tessa said. ‘What did you spend it on?’

  ‘Roulette mainly. And Blackjack.’ She shrugged. ‘Easy come… What about you?’

  ‘I killed an old man. And maimed a girl. I was drunk and I drove into a bus queue.’

  Sandra’s crime seemed heroic and harmless by comparison with hers.

  Nothing had prepared her for the indignity of sharing a cell. No bigger than the bathroom in Dan’s flat, it contained bunk beds, a small table and two upright chairs, two shelves fixed to the wall, and a radio. In one corner there was a lavatory and a washbasin. The window was a sheet of perspex planted in front of a barred opening. In this cell, she had to pee and snore and cry and fart, never more than a few feet from a stranger.

  It took less than a week to learn the routine. Meals in the canteen, ‘bang up’, roll counts, exercise, ‘association time’, lights out – all slotted precisely into the day. Letters were pushed under the cell door, as was the polythene bag containing the daily ration of teabags and condiments. Clean clothes were delivered on Mondays; clean bed linen on Fridays. Overall, the food wasn’t bad but plastic cutlery and plates did nothing to enhance it. On Saturdays, instead of a cooked supper inmates were served ‘finger food’ – sausage rolls, sandwiches, pork pie and cake. Tessa never found out why.

  ‘Screws’, ‘jam roll’, ‘diesel’. The crude slang was easy to pick up but Tessa avoided using it. To do so might be taken as a sign that she wanted to fit in.

  Everywhere stank of cigarette smoke, sweat and the stuff they used to clean the floor. Day and night, it was never quiet. Doors banged; shouts and screams and laughter echoed off bare walls; footsteps rang on the metal staircases. The flickering strip lights gave her headaches.