Forgive Me

by Susan Lewis

  He came to her, cupped her tragic face gently in his hands, and looked so deeply into her eyes, both of them, that it was as if no one else was present. “I’ve missed you,” he told her softly, “and one day soon I’ll forgive you for not letting me come to see you.”

  Her awful smile trembled as he touched his lips to hers, and she didn’t resist when he led her to the chair next to his.

  Glasses were passed around and in order to hold hers she had to slip her right hand from Henry’s, because her left wasn’t able to hold a drink.

  Graeme proposed the toast. “Marcy,” he said, “I know I speak for every one of us here when I say how happy we are to have you home. You’ve been through a very traumatic experience, one that most of us here can’t begin to imagine, but we want you to know that our respect and affection for you has deepened a great deal these past months—and given how profound it was before, that’s pretty deep.” As they all smiled and laughed, she was aware of Henry turning to look at her again and felt glad that he wasn’t on her left side, then sick that it was even an issue. “We also want you to know,” Graeme continued, “that each and every one of us will be there for you anytime you need us, whatever it might be for. You are and will always be our dear and treasured friend. To Marcy, welcome home.”

  As everyone echoed the last words Claudia said, “Can I just quickly add that as well as being a dear and treasured friend, she is a deeply loved mother and grandmother, and is, without any shadow of doubt, the most special person in the entire world. To you, Mum.”

  “To Nana,” Jasmine put in, teary-eyed.

  Marcy looked at her drink and tried to say some words of her own, but in spite of how grateful she was none came. It didn’t seem to matter, for everyone was drinking and repeating the toast and seeming to understand that she might feel a little overwhelmed.

  She did—and when she sipped the champagne, she felt dizzied and strange, as if the world around her was receding into a distance, or she was detaching and moving away. She realized it was the alcohol, not having had any in months, but even when the conversation started up again the feeling didn’t quite go away.

  It was Wilkie who finally grasped the nettle and asked about her ongoing treatment, and Marcy was relieved; she didn’t want her condition to become the elephant in the room, always there, never mentioned. However, she didn’t want it to be the only thing anyone ever discussed with her, so she made herself a promise that after today she’d try to change the subject soon after it came up.

  For now she left it to Claudia to explain about her physiotherapy, how her hand and neck needed to be splinted at night to prevent too much tightening of the skin, and the possibility that her new left eyelid might retract over time, and if it did the graft would have to be done again.

  “Where do they take the skin from?” Leanne wanted to know.

  Glancing at her mother, Claudia said, “The first time they took it from under her arm, but the second time it came from her other eyelid. Isn’t that amazing, because looking at her other eye—what they call the donor area—you’d never know, it’s healed so quickly.”

  It was still noticeable, Marcy was aware of that, but when compared to the rest of her face it was a smudge in a devastated drawing.

  The conversation inevitably turned to other cases of plastic surgery that had been performed on friends or relatives, or read about online. Though Marcy listened, and allowed Henry to hold her hand again, she wasn’t really there. She didn’t seem to be anywhere, she realized as she gazed out at the jungly back garden, where two lovely palms were being choked by the unchecked spread of the trees around them. Was she really feeling like one of them now, as if she was being overpowered by her family and friends?

  She wasn’t sure how long everyone stayed, maybe half an hour, perhaps longer; she only properly registered them again when they started to leave. She felt rude and bemused and so bone-achingly tired that it was hard to make herself stand up.

  She’d been warned about how exhausting this first day would be. She’d been warned about a lot of things, such as how she wouldn’t be able to dress and undress herself (Claudia was already aware of that). She’d also need help in the shower and with rubbing E45 (from the fridge) into her burns. There was no special diet, other than abstaining from alcohol, but there was an ongoing concern about her post-trauma symptoms, so she must call Angus if she felt herself falling into a black hole.

  She was heading there now, and she wouldn’t have minded sinking into the darkness and never coming back up again, but Henry was holding on to her hand as though to stop her from slipping away. She wanted to tell him not to let go, but it would make him feel responsible for her, maybe even nervous, and though he’d do it gently, she was sure, he’d probably prefer to start the process of pulling away.

  Chapter Thirty-Four

  Three days had passed since everyone had gathered to welcome Marcy home, but this was the first time Andee and Dan had been able to get together. They were sitting in the small courtyard garden behind Andee and Graeme’s house enjoying a glass of wine, while Graeme fixed a salad and listened to their conversation through the open doors.

  “I think she’s convinced herself that she looks worse than she does,” Andee was saying, “the way she kept her head down as if it might upset us to see her . . . It was heartbreaking, and she hardly said a word while we were there.”

  Dan said, “Henry tells me he’s visited a couple of times since and she’s said a few words to him.”

  “Well, that’s a relief. Claudia assures me that she talks to her and Jasmine too, but nothing like the way she used to.” Andee sighed deeply. “You can imagine how worried Claudia is, but at least Marcy is still seeing the psychologist, so hopefully he’ll help to rebuild her confidence.”

  “And,” Graeme said from the doorway, “she’ll start to believe that no one is going to shun her, or think any the less of her for not looking the same as she did before.”

  “Hear, hear to that,” Dan responded, raising his glass. After drinking he said, “Henry’s visits, the psychologist, her friends’ support, all excellent therapy, but Andee, you, and I both know that there’s something more we can do.”

  Fairly certain she knew where this was going, Andee waited for him to continue, needing to hear it in case she was wrong.

  “What I’m going to suggest,” he said, “is pretty unconventional, in fact definitely not out of the playbook, but Marcy is our friend, we want to help her, and as we have certain skills that could be put to good use I feel that not to use them—or at least try to use them—wouldn’t do much for our self-respect.”

  Understanding exactly what he was saying, Andee replied, “So, you’re suggesting we start work on a restorative justice program for her and Archie Colbrook?”

  He nodded.

  “Just a minute,” Graeme interrupted. “You want to get Marcy together with the arsonist? Is that really wise? I’m not sure I can see her going for it.”

  “It wouldn’t happen right away,” Dan assured him, “and it won’t happen at all if she doesn’t want it to, but there might come a time when it could prove beneficial. At this stage it will simply be for me to try to make contact with Colbrook to find out if it’s a process he’d be willing to engage with.”

  Graeme said, “And if he is, and she isn’t?”

  “Then it would be like any other restorative justice case, it wouldn’t go any further. We can’t approach Marcy first because if he doesn’t want to engage it would make matters worse than they already are, and we definitely don’t want that.”

  “It could take weeks, months,” Andee explained to Graeme, “to get Colbrook to the point where everyone feels it might be helpful for Marcy to meet him, and by then Marcy could be in quite a different place to the one she’s in now. Are you going to mention it to Claudia?” she asked Dan.

  He shook his head. “It’s important to be certain that Colbrook is on our side before we say anything to anyone, even his mother.
Have you seen her recently, by the way?”

  “Only yesterday. She’s working at the café again, washing up and general chores. She’s so devastated by everything that Fliss is trying to get her GP or social services to help with some kind of support. She’s also letting her stay in a room upstairs because she doesn’t want to go home.”

  Shaking his head regretfully at that, Dan said, “So I know where to find her, should I need to. My next step though is to talk to Gould, to get his take on the usefulness of the proposal. If he supports it, I’ll contact Colbrook’s lawyer to try and get access to him. I’m told he’s on remand in Sellybrook, so not much more than an hour by car.”

  “And my role will be to support Marcy,” Andee said, “should we ever manage to get them together?”

  “Indeed. You’re already doing that as her victim support officer, so it makes sense for you to be her RJ practitioner, assuming we get that far.”

  “How are you going to persuade Colbrook that this is good news for him?” Graeme asked, coming outside to top up his wineglass.

  “The key,” Andee replied, “is tapping into a person’s natural empathy. The process can’t work without it, and at the moment we have no idea if Archie Colbrook possesses it.”

  “I like to think everyone does, to some degree,” Dan declared, “but I’ve been proved wrong in the past. Gould will probably be able to fill me in on what sort of character we’re dealing with in Colbrook’s case.”

  “You mean apart from one who sets fire to other people’s property while they’re inside?” Graeme didn’t mince his words.

  Unable to argue with that, Dan said, “I don’t think there’s much doubt in anyone’s mind that he was paid to do it, although as far as I’m aware he hasn’t admitted to that.”

  “He’ll be afraid to,” Andee put in.

  “Indeed, so maybe engaging with him, not as a criminal on remand, or a legal client, but as a human being, we’ll end up with the link to Huxley-Browne we’re looking for. I realize it won’t turn back the clock, or heal Marcy’s injuries, but if she’s able to feel that justice is being done it could go a long way toward helping her to move on.”

  “It could also,” Andee added, “satisfy Claudia’s need to make Huxley-Browne pay.” Her eyes moved to Graeme, inviting any further thoughts he might have.

  “OK, if you’re giving me a vote,” he said, “I’m in favor of at least talking to the lad to find out if this can go anywhere.”

  Turning back to Dan, Andee said, “Would you like me to see Gould with you?”

  He shook his head. “Thanks, but I think I can handle him. We’ve just got to hope that he’s willing to start paving the way, because it won’t be possible without him.”

  Chapter Thirty-Five

  Funny we should reach this point now when I’ve already written so much to you, mostly about my background and how I came to . . . well, we know what I did so no need to spell it out. Not saving myself here, saving you from having to hear it again.

  Anyway, I’ve already told you about my arrest, so now here’s an account of my first meeting with Dan. I know I touched on it before, but this is it in the order of things happening.

  By the time he turns up at Sellybrook I’ve been on remand for a few months and my trial date’s already been put back twice, so still no real idea of when it’s going to happen. I don’t fret myself about it, nothing to be gained from that, it’s more helpful in my circumstances to focus on the day-to-day and keeping out of trouble. I don’t go looking for it, but there are times when it finds me. You’ve just got to look at someone the wrong way in here and your head’s getting stuck down a toilet, or your balls are being crushed in a meaty fist. It’s not a good idea to beat anyone at table tennis, or to support a different football team, or to ask someone’s name, or to take a shower on your own, because you’re never on your own for long.

  No music in here, I miss that more than anything—not that I’m expecting you to shed any tears for me, just saying, is all.

  Anyways, there I am in my cell one morning, hurting badly after a smacking from a couple of GBH-ers who’d taken against me, when I suddenly get dragged out to see a visitor and it’s not a visiting day. I automatically think it’s my jerk of a lawyer, finally turned up again, or the cops wanting another little chat about how I can help them fill in the big picture.

  As I truck off with the Blimp—one of the screws—I’m hoping I might be about to hear that the charge of attempted murder has been reduced to attempted manslaughter, if there is such a thing, or even that it’s been dropped altogether. OK, I wasn’t holding my breath for it, but it was in my head.

  I end up in this room I’ve never been in before that’s a bit like the ones you see in cop shows for interviews, only bigger, and I can hardly believe it when I see who’s waiting for me.

  It’s only Superman.

  Or the Clark Kent version of him, with reddy-brown hair and black-framed glasses, and OK he’s not as muscular as the real deal, or as tall, but he’s deffo got a look about him that says he might like putting his pants on over his trousers.

  Joke. He doesn’t look like that sort of twonk at all.

  He looks kind of ordinary I suppose, and friendly, because he gets up and shakes my hand, says thanks for agreeing to see him—no one asked—and would I like to sit down?

  I see no reason not to, I don’t have anything else to do, and with any luck this isn’t going to be about ratting out the PC or BJ.

  He tells me his name, Dan Collier, and when he says he wants to talk about you, because of the way he says it I straightaway want to run. I don’t, mainly because there’s a screw outside the door to stop me. I think he must be a cop, or . . . Actually, I don’t know what else I thought he might be . . . A vicar?

  Even after he explains what he does I’m still not sure I’m fully clued in. Restorative justice has never been on my radar before, but I listen to what he has to say, and I kind of get it, but I just don’t see it working. So I tell him he’s wasting his time and probably ought to give up now and go home.

  He doesn’t argue or anything, or get worked up when I start tapping my hand to let him know I’m bored (what a muppet I was then). He just keeps going, talking, talking, or he stops and looks at me like he’s expecting an answer to something he’s asked. When he doesn’t get one he starts up again. Next thing he’s answering his questions himself as if it’s me doing the talking, and I’m starting to feel a bit like one of those ventriloquists—you know, I keep my mouth shut and all the words come out of him.

  It starts to get entertaining after a while, and I end up laughing at something, can’t remember what, and by the time he gets around to asking me about the attempted murder charge I don’t mind telling him what a toerag my lawyer is and that no one’s told me anything almost since I got put in here.

  I’m gobsmacked when he says he’ll look into things for me, because it sounds like he means it, so I ask him if he’s a lawyer. Turns out he is, just not the sort I need, but he tells me not to worry about that, he’ll be back again soon and by then he should have my legal representation better sorted.

  So, he is Superman.

  I don’t see him for another week, but in that time a different brief turns up to chew things through with me, a woman this time, who puts on a good show of being interested and has some encouraging things to say, although I know what’s really going on. She’s chasing her legal aid fee, just doing it with a better attitude than the other one. I definitely qualify for legal aid, by the way, because neither me nor my ma are over the earning threshold, not even combined, which is a good thing, because I wouldn’t want to think of how many life sentences I might get if I had to stand up there and defend myself.

  A few days later I get a second visit from SuperDan.

  This time we talk about all kinds of different stuff, like he’s trying to get inside my head and find something buried deep that’s not there. I don’t suppose I mind, he’s not the kind of bloke you fee
l bothered about knowing your shit, or some of it anyway.

  I’m not sure how many times he comes before he first brings up the subject of me writing to you, probably two or three, but I do know that when he said it I told him he was off his head, it was never going to happen. I mean, if I start blurting out stuff like sorry and regret, then it would be like me telling everyone I’m guilty. (OK, I am, of arson, but I think you get my drift.)

  He just sits there and looks at me like he’s waiting for me to morph into the person he wants me to be, and I look at him like he’s a knob, because he is. But he’s also Dan, so I end up saying I’ll give it a go, and then he’ll see that it’s a menstrual period, which is a way of saying a waste of time.

  It was that at first, a mega lost cause, mainly because I’d never written anything down before, I mean outside of lessons at school. Texts were my thing, and maybe the odd phone call or IM, not pen and paper. He tells me just to write the words the way I speak, so that’s what I do, trying not to cuss and swear too much, but he says not to worry about that. If it’s really bad he’ll get me to explain what I mean in another way, and if he thinks some of my language is obscure—his word—he’ll get me to explain that too.

  It takes some getting used to, I can tell you, but once I get into it, it turns out to be something I find myself looking forward to doing. Weird, huh? It also means I get to see Dan on a fairly regular basis and if he can’t come I send in my homework, as I call it, and he brings it with him the next time he comes so we can discuss it.

  During all this time he doesn’t mention much about what’s going on with you, but I know he’s building up to it and I’m bracing myself. Finally, he gets around to telling me that even though you’ve been out of hospital for a good while, you’re still not doing all that well. He says physically you’re healing the way you should, although you’ll always have scars, but upstairs you’ve still got the curtains pulled. I feel myself shrinking up inside when I hear that, like I need to get away from it, but there’s also a lot I want to say to you, I just don’t know how to find the words.