About five weeks before Paul’s twenty-years tariff was up, he applied for parole. This meant appearing before a discharge board. If granted, it didn’t mean that Paul was now exonerated of his crime of capital murder; he would be under a life sentence until the day he died, and one misdemeanour on the outside would have him back in prison before he could take his next breath.
Four weeks after Paul’s meeting with the discharge board, a prison officer appeared at Paul’s cell door and took him to reception where he was allowed to see the personal things he had handed over when he arrived at Parkhurst almost twenty years earlier. His clothes were no longer a good fit, and neither was the ring that Kate had given him on his twenty-first birthday. He was fitted out with suitable clothing for life on the outside and was told that he would receive sixty pounds in cash on release. He was asked if he had somewhere to go or if there was anybody he needed to contact. Paul said no to both of these questions and went back to his cell where he would wait a day or so before being handed his discharge grant and the clothing.
Paul thought back over the years and the names. Moxey, Maisy, Isaacs. He thought of the rough times he had been through, the deprivation, the solitary and the pain. He remembered how the cheers went up when they were told that Parkhurst was to be modernized and soon all cells would have private facilities. It didn’t mean you could shit in private, but you could sit with half a modesty screen covering you. And no more slop-outs: great joy, then, for everybody. But prison was prison, and there was no getting away from the fact that it was hard, it was a punishment and no one, not even the screws, enjoyed being there.
Paul’s day finally arrived. He picked up his new clothing, his cash and a small, drawstring rucksack from reception. And as he was let through the prison gates, the officer wished Paul good luck.
It was cold and there was a hint of rain in the air. One piece of advice Paul had received was to head for London. He reckoned that staying on the island would be limiting, particularly as he had no friends or family there, and no prospect of employment considering where he had just come from. He was about to set off down the road when he heard the main gates open. A van pulled out. Paul flagged it down and asked the driver for a lift.
‘Where to?’
Paul shrugged. ‘Anywhere away from that place.’
Twenty minutes later he was dropped off near the ferry terminal where he bought a one-way ticket. He had enough money of his own without touching the sixty pounds grant he had received. It wasn’t a fortune by any means, but he hoped it would cover the price of a train ticket to London.
The journey to the capital was effortless and in some way was an absolute joy for Paul. Everything was so different from the way he remembered it from all those years ago. The trains were different, the cars were different, and there were more of them. Even the people looked different. He heard several languages on the train journey and knew then that life had changed on the outside considerably: it was like landing on another planet. And when the train pulled into Waterloo station, Paul was in for a bigger shock. He knew stations were busy places, but this was manic. He put his hand into his coat pocket and pulled out a slip of paper that one of the cons had given him. It had an address written there. All he needed now was a street directory for London and he would be fine.
He wandered out of the station and saw a policeman. Paul froze in his tracks for a moment and had to kick himself into motion. He had no reason to be afraid, but mentally he was looking at authority and remembering the brutality he had experienced in the nick. He crossed the road and headed over Waterloo Bridge and into the Kingsway.
That evening Paul found himself in a soup kitchen being handed a bowl of soup and a large chunk of bread. He was told that he could have a bed for the night which he would have to pay for, and a small breakfast in the morning.
Paul looked around at the motley crew wandering past with their soup bowls and bread in their hands. They also carried their belongings with them. Paul learned how to do that too. He found a crappy table to sit at. He looked around as he ate his meal. He noticed there was a tea urn on a table with what looked like plastic cups beside it. That was good, he thought: a cup of tea.
By nine o’clock, the volunteers were beginning to usher people to the door. Paul realized that unless he paid for one of their beds, he would be on the street. He dipped into his pocket and produced enough cash for one night. He was taken to a large room upstairs where he found about twenty beds with soiled mattresses on them. There were no pillows or blankets. The look on his face showed his profound disgust at what he saw. The elderly man who had taken Paul to the room asked if he wanted to buy a blanket. Paul had no option. He knew there was no way he could sleep on any of those mattresses without some kind of protection. He paid and rolled the blanket up into a pillow then lay on the bed, fully clothed, with the thin blanket beneath his head. He spent the rest of the night half-asleep, half-awake, listening to loud snoring, farting, swearing. He heard the sound of someone drinking from a bottle. He could smell alcohol and piss and wondered what on earth he had come to. He wished he was back in prison.
Paul came to refer to his life on the streets as his ‘open prison’. As much as he was free to travel, the restrictions placed upon him were no less severe than if they had been laid down in some imaginary book of rules. He began his apprenticeship looking for work and places to sleep. He found menial work, but often this lasted no more than a few days. He managed to stay in one job for a week, but as soon as the bar owner found out he was an ex-con, Paul was out on his ear. Slowly Paul’s money dwindled until he was forced to supplement his daily food intake with a trip to the soup kitchens dotted around the city. It wasn’t long before Paul was like so many of the dossers, the homeless, who trudged into these places every evening and then departed to find a safe place to sleep for the night. There was an irony there too: often the homeless who slept rough were beaten up and robbed by thugs who prayed on the defenceless ones. Paul could handle himself and had managed to fight off these attacks, but the fear of losing was always there: the fear of being robbed or waking up with a knife at your throat.
Another battle Paul had was with his appearance. In Parkhurst, he was always able to keep his hair tidy and neatly trimmed. But now it was unkempt and unwashed. His beard had become a source of annoyance to him, but there was little he could do. Occasionally he would meet up with one of his kind who would trim it as best he could with scissors. But for all that, there was an unrelenting and unforgiving path to the bottom of the pit.
Paul often spent his time in Battersea Park. He liked to watch the people passing by, families out walking, children feeding the ducks and the swans. How often had Paul wanted to snatch the bag out of a kid’s hands and gulp the bread down rather than let the birds have it? On dry days, when the rain held off, Paul would open up his notebook and continue with the account of his day-to-day existence. The notebook was a continuation of Maisy’s diary, which Paul had kept going since the old queer’s death. The book was tattered and falling apart now: beyond redemption, in fact, but Paul kept it close and would often look through the pages and recall with a sense of irony the days he spent in the nick. He had also continued with the pages of a story in another exercise book, using Maisy’s as an inspiration. He enjoyed the world of make-believe and invention. All of this helped to fill his time and keep his mind active.
Paul had been wandering the streets of London for almost two years now and had become part of the invisible fabric that is woven into the city: as much a part of its heritage as the money traders who made their living there. He had moved from one shop door to another through those days, and now found himself a more permanent sleeping area outside the park. He had been unmolested there and for some reason the police had never bothered to move the dossers on. There was a convenient soup kitchen located close to the park, and Paul often arrived early enough to grab a meal and spend a few hours in the centre. He could enjoy a chat, warmth, some TV and engaging hospitali
ty from the volunteers who worked there. He liked it there and was coming round to believe he might be able to offer his service one day doing something, anything, that would help him to re-engage with people. The volunteers were mainly husbands and wives, and mostly from a Christian organization. One woman who Paul got on with quite well was Tanya Gains. Sometimes her husband would be with her. He was a tall, heavyweight man, always smartly dressed, even when wearing casual clothes. Paul guessed he must have worked away because of his infrequent appearances at the centre
As was his usual practice, Paul arrived early, picked up his meal and exchanged a few pleasantries with Tanya. She kept an eye on him as he made his way to a corner of the room, out of people’s way. She knew he liked it there because of the way he would finish his meal and then sit observing people for a while. He would then pull several notebooks out of his rucksack. Two of them he would set to one side but the third book he would open and begin writing. From time to time, he would open one of the smaller books, read something and then carry on writing. It was as though he was using the smaller books for reference. It intrigued Tanya immensely, but she was afraid to ask him what he was doing because she knew there were people like Paul who valued their privacy and jealously guarded their possessions. But eventually her curiosity got the better of her and she went across to him.
Paul was busy scribbling away in his book when he sensed Tanya coming over to him. He closed his book and looked up at her.
‘Hello, Paul,’ Tanya greeted him. ‘Mind if I sit here?’
Paul nodded and moved closer to the small table, making room for her.
Tanya sat down. ‘I hope you are not offended, but I’m awfully curious about your books. You are always writing.’ Her smile was quite disarming.
‘Oh, I keep a kind of diary.’ He held the notebook up, just lifting it above his knee. ‘A journal, some might call it.’ He tapped the biggest one of the books. ‘And that’s a story: something I’m making up.’
‘Part of your history, is it?’
Paul shrugged. ‘Not really. I’m just using my imagination.’ He picked up the two smaller books. ‘I’ve got a lot of material I can use.’
‘Do you mind if I have a look?’
Paul found he couldn’t resist the request. He offered Tanya the books. She took them from him and began to go through them carefully, particularly with what was obviously the oldest of the three books. From time to time, she glanced over at Paul, who was watching her intently. Soon the world of dossers and drug addicts began to fade into the background as Tanya read through Paul’s writing. The noise and movement in the centre was no longer intrusive and the only people who existed in her world at that moment were the characters created by a master wordsmith.
Suddenly a voice boomed out: ‘Centre’s closing! Centre’s closing!’
It startled Tanya and she jumped, clutching her hand to her chest. She looked around as though she was unaware of what was happening. Then she sighed and closed the notebook. She gathered up the other two and handed them back to Paul.
‘Well,’ she gasped. ‘I was miles away then. Lovely writing, Paul: exquisite. What will you do with them?’
Paul shrugged. ‘Don’t know; just carry on writing, I suppose.’
‘Would you mind showing them to my husband?’ she asked.
He frowned. ‘Why?’ He put the books back into his rucksack and zipped it carefully.
‘That’s his business,’ she told him. ‘He’s a literary agent: a damn good one too.’
Paul had heard many tales of mugs being ripped off by con artists, and he had served time with some of the best. In his world of loneliness, there was always someone who was prepared to take advantage as soon as they spotted an opening. As much as he liked Tanya and appreciated the work she did at the centre, he wasn’t convinced enough to trust her.
He stood up, slinging the rucksack across his back. ‘If he wants to see them, he’ll have to read them here.’
‘I understand, Paul,’ she said. ‘Next time he’s here, if you’ll let him, I’ll ask him to look at your books.’
A week later and Paul was in his usual corner when Tanya’s husband, Jonathan Gains, came over and introduced himself. Paul had both notebooks on the table and was writing in his own story book.
‘Tanya told me about your work. Do you mind if I have a look?’
Paul got up from the chair and invited him to sit in his place. He sat down and began going through the books, just like Tanya had done a week earlier. He showed punctilious care as he went through them, handling them like old parchment.
His actions fascinated Paul. He watched as Gains compared the two books, first one page then the other. ‘You can tell the accounts in the two diaries have been written by two different people,’ he said at length. ‘Your notes are so much more imaginative and provoking. The others are, well, childlike.’
Paul thought of Maisy and grinned. ‘He wasn’t a well-educated man.’
‘But this one,’ Gains said, holding up Paul’s story book. ‘This is riveting. Could I hang on to it?’
‘No.’
‘Please?’
Paul shook his head. Gains handed the books back grudgingly and looked away from Paul. ‘Let me bring my wife over here for a moment.’ He was almost talking to thin air, his voice was that quiet. He looked back at Paul very quickly. ‘Don’t go away.’ He got up and disappeared across the room. He came back with Tanya.
‘If you agree to let me read your books,’ he started, ‘I’ll put you up in a decent hotel for a couple of nights where you can restore yourself, for want of a better word, and I’ll return them to you once I have read them.’ He turned to Tanya and touched her briefly on her arm. ‘I’ve spoken to my wife about it, so you will have both our words on it.’
It was a generous offer, but not one that Paul was willing to accept. He declined.
‘Can you imagine what I would be like after two days in a hotel? How could I come back to this?’ He shook his head. His beard flicked back and forth. ‘No, thanks. I’m not letting these books out of my sight.’
To a homeless person, possessions were more important than life itself. Paul’s life was wrapped up in those books. Although they didn’t represent the sum total of Paul’s history, they were a record of what made him and what characterized him. The point where Paul could identify a change in his values began somewhere inside Maisy’s notebook. In there, the man had written much of what he understood to be a maturing in Paul’s humanity, and how he, Maisy, valued his friendship. Paul had originally planned to use the dichotomy of Maisy’s sexuality and his true nature to extend the poor man’s life through his own by using the written word. The books were really meant to be a tribute and a reminder, but only for Paul’s benefit. He could never hand them over to a perfect stranger.
Tanya tapped her husband on the shoulder. ‘You’ll just have to read them here, won’t you, my dear?’ She looked at Paul. ‘Would you agree to that?’
Paul thought he saw a pained expression run across Gains’s face, but the big man conceded. He sat down on the empty chair beside Paul and held his hand out.
‘Well?’
Paul was still clutching the notebooks. He handed them over. Jonathan opened up the older of the two books very carefully. Paul watched him and wondered what it was the man was after. Time would tell, he thought. And time was something he had plenty of.
Gains was a particularly apt surname for someone who made money. He finally persuaded Paul to part with his notebooks and his own storybook. Having read through them at the centre over a couple of nights, and not without much complaining, he practically begged Paul to finish the story he was writing, telling him that he had a gift, one that he should be proud of; one that was God-given for the benefit of those who didn’t have that gift. He told Paul he had complete faith in his ability to finish the story. He was like a runaway juggernaut in his efforts to persuade Paul to give up the streets and write. In the end, Paul agreed but he didn’t
want to stay in a hotel, so Gains and Tanya agreed to let Paul stay with them, where he could concentrate on writing his book without the day-to-day distraction of wandering round the streets.
It took Paul a further two months to complete the book. By that time, he was a fully restored human being. Tanya had furnished him with a wardrobe far in excess of anything he needed, and gradually weaned him off the mawkish independence he had treasured as a dosser, and turned him into a very confident man.
Within a week of completing his manuscript, Paul had been presented with the good news that Gains had found him a publisher. Paul had known this was going to happen simply because of the man’s enthusiasm for his work. The celebration meal that evening was a double joy for Paul because he had received an advance of £10,000 and was at last able to pay them back for all their trust and faith in him, and the selfless hospitality shown to him.
It was the night he was introduced to the woman who was to become his wife.
TWENTY
Michael, 2008
Kate found Michael sitting in his office. He was staring out of the window at the sweep of the lawns that provided a cathartic backdrop to his working environment. In the corner of the room, the television was on but the sound had been turned off. His laptop flickered on his desk with a screensaver sketching coloured patterns across the screen. There was something sombre about the expression on Michael’s face as he turned towards Kate. He said nothing but she could see he was very tearful. She approached him slowly, her body stooped slightly as she peered towards him, puzzled by his demeanour.
‘What’s up, Michael?’ she asked softly.
On the desk was a copy of the Financial Times. It was open. He put his hand on the paper and spun it round slowly.
‘We’re broke, Kate.’
She looked down at the article beneath the tip of Michael’s finger: LEHMAN BROTHERS COLLAPSE! Kate read a few words of the newspaper article stating that the United States investment bank had gone bankrupt.
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