One Little Lie

by Sam Carrington

  Connie reached forwards to delete the message before it played out, her finger hovering over the button. Curiosity prevented her from pressing it.

  ‘I know this might be a long shot,’ Jen paused, and Connie heard a sigh before she carried on. ‘But we’re in the shit here, really. You know how it is: lack of staff, too many prisoners to assess, parole board breathing down our necks. We’re swamped.’

  A worm of dread began its journey through her stomach. She knew where this was heading.

  ‘So, anyway. The psych department has had permission to draft in some help, by way of independent psychologists popping in to carry out some of the backlog of reports. Obviously, I thought of you. You’re local, know the job, the prison. It makes sense. There are only a few men to assess, but the money will be good.’ There was another pause. ‘I thought perhaps you might appreciate a bit of extra income at the moment?’

  Yes. She would. But, there was no way she’d be returning to HMP Baymead, no matter how much they paid her.

  ‘Think about it, eh, Con? Would be great to see you. Give me a call!’

  CHAPTER THREE

  Connie

  ‘It might not be such a bad idea,’ Lindsay said, sitting on the sofa with one leg tucked under her, both hands nursing her second mug of coffee.

  ‘Really? After everything that happened there? After leaving because of the fallout?’ Connie took a long, drawn-out breath. Even thinking about it was increasing her anxiety levels. Although if she was being honest, those levels had been elevated ever since listening to Jen’s message yesterday. The decision to leave her lead psychologist position at HMP Baymead had been the best move for her – she’d been off sick for months before she resigned, the fear of making another error of judgement too much in the end. She’d needed to feel as though she was contributing to something good, so made the focus of her new practice counselling those who’d been affected by crime. Victims, not offenders.

  ‘Think about it logically. And, you know – financially …’ Lindsay raised her eyebrows so they disappeared beneath her red fringe.

  ‘Yeah, I need the money. But I’m really not sure it’s worth putting my well-being at risk by going back in there. When I left, it was for good.’

  ‘Okay.’ Lindsay shrugged. ‘Say no, then.’

  Connie narrowed her eyes. ‘Are you trying reverse psychology on me, Wade? That’s not your area.’

  ‘No. Although, I am quite good at it. Picked it up from the best.’ She wrinkled her nose and smiled.

  ‘Well, stop it.’ Connie got up from the sofa and walked to the window. A crisp, white layer of frost covered the ground. She shivered. She wasn’t ready for this. Not ready, nor willing to go backwards.

  ‘How many reports is Jen asking you to complete?’

  ‘A few.’ Connie made quotation marks with her fingers.

  ‘So what’s that, in terms of time within the prison walls?’

  ‘Three, maybe four days. I’d only need to see each prisoner for two sessions, I reckon. Then the rest could be done at home.’

  ‘So not even a week. Easy money, then.’ Lindsay’s voice softened. ‘I’m here, you know, to support you. It wouldn’t be like before.’ She got up and strode towards Connie, embracing her in a quick, tight hug. ‘I must get going – don’t want to be late for the morning briefing. Mack will take the lead without me, and I can’t have him feeling too important.’

  Connie listened as Lindsay’s footsteps hurried through the house, grabbing her coat and bag. She heard the jangling of keys, then the slam of the front door. She didn’t relish the silence of the house when Lindsay wasn’t in it. She watched from the window as Lindsay got in her car and drove off, waving, as she always did.

  Lindsay didn’t understand the battle Connie was having inside her head. Not fully. It wasn’t only the thought of going back into the prison causing her anxiety, it was the responsibility of compiling the written reports. What if she got it wrong again? And by worrying about being too positive about the prisoner, she’d probably err on the side of caution and perhaps not give a balanced, objective report. Just in case. Whatever way she played it, she would be wrong. And she wasn’t prepared to chance having another person’s life – or death – on her conscience.

  Connie flung herself back on the sofa and lay with both arms crossed above her head. The money would come in useful. Lindsay was right about that. Having her as a support, knowing she’d have someone other than her mother to lean on, was reassuring. Lindsay hadn’t let her down – she’d been through the Hargreaves situation with her. She’d been the detective inspector on the case, and, after the initial frostiness between them, they’d come together for the common cause.

  And then Lindsay had saved her. Literally saved her life.

  She trusted Lindsay implicitly.

  Connie pushed herself up. She’d give herself another day or two to consider it before calling Jen. For now, she had her own work to focus on. Her new client yesterday had been a woman whose son had been convicted of murder four years ago, and she’d presented with huge guilt issues. Her life had been upturned, she’d been hounded from the town she’d lived her life in, and although she was making progress in Totnes, she couldn’t get over the knowledge her own flesh and blood – a boy she’d brought up – could’ve ever committed such a heinous crime.

  After the initial consultation, it had become clear to Connie that she had an ethical dilemma on her hands. Her new client, Alice Mann, had spoken of her son’s crime and an alarm of recognition rang in her head.

  Her son was Kyle Mann.

  And Connie knew him.

  CHAPTER FOUR

  Alice

  My knees are wobbling. I’m glad I chose a long skirt – only I know they’re shaking as I reach to press the doorbell. I know it’s working because I can hear the tacky tune it plays within the house. I wait for movement, looking through the patterned glass of the door. I lick my lips; the roughness catches my tongue. I can’t swallow either, all moisture has left my mouth and throat.

  Maybe no one is in.

  I’m not going to be able to ring again. My heart is already dancing along at a rate that can’t be good for me. This is my second attempt. At least I managed the bell this time. Last week I only got as far as the gateway. This is progress.

  I turn, and, disappointed in my weakness, walk away from the house.

  I see a flutter of a curtain as I pass by the house next door. A nosy neighbour, no doubt. I wonder if they saw me last week, too.

  Oh well. Doesn’t matter if they did. I’m not doing anything wrong. In fact, what I’m trying to do is make things right. It’s all I want. I’m doing well so far, I reckon. I’ve set up the support group, I’ve even begun therapy myself. I’ve made huge leaps.

  None of it was my fault. I didn’t make him do it.

  I repeat this mantra a lot. I cannot be held responsible for his actions.

  But I am accountable for my own. And while I didn’t make him do it, I didn’t stop him either. That’s what they said in the newspapers. What people gossiped about at the post office, in the local shops. I saw it, heard it.

  It’s always the mother who gets blamed. Something she did, or didn’t do, when the child was growing up; some sort of neglect during that delicate stage of development. Lack of attention, lack of love, lack of stimulation. The list is endless. Who even decides this stuff? Who has the right to question the parenting skills of others? Probably some stuck-up university toff. What do they know about parenting?

  I did my best.

  Or is that another lie I tell myself every day?

  ‘Hatred stirs up conflict, but love covers over all wrongs,’ I say quietly, making a sign of the cross on my chest as I slowly head back to the bus stop.

  I get off the bus at a different stop than usual. I don’t want to go home. I can’t face that right now.

  I slip and slide up the road towards the café at the top end of Fore Street. I wish I’d worn trainers instead o
f these ankle boots. The sole has little traction, and although there are only a few frosty patches on the pavements, I feel vulnerable. What if I fall and break an ankle?

  I’m being silly. It’s not like I’m old, with brittle bones. I shouldn’t be worrying about stuff like this. I’m only fifty-five. If it hadn’t been for these past four years, I’d feel a lot younger, I’m sure. This has prematurely aged me.

  The familiar sensation of prickling begins at the top of my nose, my eyes water. The cold makes them sting.

  Don’t cry. Feeling sorry for yourself isn’t helping anyone. Neither is feeling guilty.

  My preferred table in the corner of the café, practically hidden from view, is taken. Now what? I hesitate. It might be better to leave. But no one really knows me here. My face won’t be recognised. I am anonymous. With a confidence I’m unsure of the source of, I position myself at the table by the window.

  It’s only when I have ordered my latte that I allow myself to look outside. I can see the psychologist’s building from here – down the hill a bit, on the left, before East Gate Arch. I have another session with Connie Summers on Monday. Our first meeting involved a lot of background information, a setting up of expectations. Talk of objectives and goals.

  I told her about Kyle.

  I don’t mind talking about him. It makes me feel better to talk about what he did. I told Connie that, and wondered if she thought me odd. I bet she thinks I’m off my rocker. Maybe I am. It’s not normal to feel better when talking about how someone murdered another mother’s son, is it?

  But I am beginning to feel better. Talking about it is all I can do at this present time. And now I have two outlets. Two opportunities to make right.

  The third way will come. Any day now, I’ll be brave enough. It’s building, this inner strength I’ve found.

  Soon, I’ll be strong enough to face her.

  CHAPTER FIVE

  Connie

  Alice Mann was quite still. She didn’t fidget, didn’t flit her eyes about; she wasn’t nervous in her demeanour. She appeared calm, confident – keeping her eyes squarely on Connie’s as she told what seemed to be a well-rehearsed retelling of her story. Her experience of finding out her son had committed a murder. Connie’s decision to accept Alice as a client despite her earlier misgivings was made after carefully deliberating the pros and cons. Now, as she sat opposite Alice, listening to how her son’s actions had such far-reaching implications, Connie felt confident she’d made the correct choice. She could help this woman. She could make a difference to her life.

  ‘I tried, you know? I tried so hard to encourage him out of his bedroom, to go out with his friends, not just chat to them over the internet. I literally took his door off its hinges once – I wanted to know what he was up to, all those hours with his eyes fixed on that screen, earphones plugged into his ears – it wasn’t healthy. He could get nasty, would shout at me to leave him alone. So, you know, I let him put the door back on eventually. Not like I had much choice, as I couldn’t stand up to him physically. You understand?’ Alice took a breath.

  Connie took advantage and jumped in before she set off again. ‘It sounds as though you had a difficult time with Kyle. Had his behaviour been challenging before, or was it new?’

  ‘Oh,’ Alice sighed, ‘it had been since his dad left, about two years before … you know. Anyway, I noticed that he was beginning to take on a different character, really. Like he was now the boss of the house. He took over where his dad left off. Looked after me, in his own way.’

  For the first time during the session, Alice lowered her head, staring at her lap. She traced the flower pattern on her skirt with her index finger. Connie noted a small bald patch at the crown of her head, or maybe it was where her dyed ash-blonde hair had become white-grey at the roots. What did she mean by ‘looked after me, in his own way’? She made a mental note to come back to that in a later session.

  ‘That must’ve been hard, to manage on your own. Did you seek any help?’

  Alice gave a guttural laugh. ‘Help? What kind of help? He wasn’t a child, he was sixteen. No one was interested in helping.’

  ‘You said before that he was always in his room, that you tried to get him to interact with others, but failed. How then did he come to commit the murder?’ Connie spoke softly, in an attempt to take the hard edge off her question.

  ‘Well, they said the victim was someone he met online.’ Alice straightened. ‘On some stupid gaming site. He spent hours on it. I could hear his low voice, even through the soundproofing he’d put on the walls. Always chatting – you know, on the headphone mic, into early morning.’

  ‘What was he talking about?’

  ‘Not sure. On the few occasions I was allowed to be in his room when he was talking, it was mostly about the game. Tactics, medi-packs – or something like that … Killing. The game was about killing.’ Alice closed her eyes. ‘It was only a game, though. How could I have known he was going to go one further – take it into real life?’

  ‘Do you think you should have known?’ Connie said.

  ‘I’m his mother. Yes, I should’ve known. I should’ve seen something bad coming. Done something about it.’

  ‘What do you think you could’ve done to prevent it?’

  ‘Talked to him. Given him more of my time; attention.’ She sighed again, gently shaking her head. ‘I don’t know. Something. I could’ve done something. Instead, I went for the easy life, the easy option. When he was in his room, I could relax, I didn’t have to worry about any conflict. If I gave him what he wanted, we could get on with each other.’

  ‘What he wanted?’

  ‘Yes. Privacy, to be left alone. Not to be challenged about anything. Not to go on about him getting a job. No nagging.’

  Connie thought back to her own tempestuous teenage years. Her behaviour had got out of hand after her brother Luke was stabbed. She became unruly, disobedient. Promiscuous. Her parents’ numerous warnings and well-meaning interventions – their constant nagging – went ignored. The consequences of that had been far-reaching and had followed Connie into her adult life. A shudder shot along the length of her spine as the memory of That Night flashed in her mind. All she’d wanted after that was to be left alone – shutting herself away in her bedroom with only her shame and rock music for company. She’d not spoken to her mum or dad for days on end.

  Hadn’t Alice’s son behaved like a lot of teenagers? How could she have known, really, that he would go on to commit a terrible crime? Unless there were other indicators. Perhaps Alice wasn’t telling the whole story, yet. Connie had the feeling there was a lot more behind Kyle’s behaviour. It was one thing to kill in a game, quite another for that to escalate into killing in real life. Despite what the anti-gamers wanted people to believe, it was not common for violent games to make a violent person. There was usually something already in them, or something predisposing them to violence.

  Like growing up with an abusive parent.

  CHAPTER SIX

  Alice

  I think that went well. Connie is going to be helpful, I feel sure of that. I must be guarded, though. Be careful not to tell too much; think about how I’m saying things. She’s smart – she’s going to chip away, use her psychological knowledge to get under my skin. Attempt to get to the root of my issues. I want that as well, to a degree. But I need to protect my son, still. I know what he did is bad, and to some, unforgivable. But he’s my flesh and blood. A product of me. And him.

  We created him, and I nurtured him. Despite what I try to tell myself, it’s my fault he’s turned into this monster.

  The walk back to the house is slow. The sun is shining, and it’s quite pleasant – a mild day for February – but I feel heavy. Cumbersome. I stop a few times, looking into random shop windows. I know I’m not really seeing anything. My eyes don’t focus on the displays. It’s like I’m looking past them into the distance. Into my past. My future. Both are equally messed up.

  I need to jo
lt myself out of this mood.

  Should I attempt another visit to her house? I think getting to the next stage will pull me out from under this dark cloud. It’s been over a week since I was last there. Standing at her door full of dread, but with an inkling of hope.

  Hope is what I need right now.

  I turn and head back to the lower end of town. I’ll get the bus, go there while I’m feeling bold. No guarantee she’ll be there, of course. I should try to figure out her schedule so I don’t waste these bursts of courage by getting there and her being out.

  I need to be more organised if I’m to achieve what I want.

  CHAPTER SEVEN

  Connie

  Connie stared at the phone, one hand twiddling a piece of her sleek black hair around and around her fingers. She’d just looked at her accounting records – it didn’t make for good reading. Her client base was growing, but slowly. She needed an injection of cash for advertising.

  A piece of A4 paper was placed next to the phone with two columns: one showing the ‘pros’, one showing the ‘cons’ of going back to Baymead to do the reports. Connie picked it up. The only thing in the pros column was ‘extra money’. Not really the best reason for stepping back into the lion’s den, she mused. Maybe another pro could be that by going back, facing her demons, she’d be able to move on more successfully. Had she really put everything that happened behind her or was she avoiding anything that brought the memories back?

  Connie had often thought about her actions, examined them, considered what else she could’ve done – should’ve done – and, each time, she concluded that she wouldn’t have handled Hargreaves any differently than she had back then. She wasn’t the last gatekeeper either – as the psychologist, she’d merely handed her report to the parole board for them to make the final decision of whether to release him or not.