SHADOWS OF REGRET: If your life was ruined, would you seek redemption or take revenge?

by Ross Greenwood

  ‘Sounds like a plan.’ I flop onto the sofa next to Irina. It’s hard to believe my life has come to this. I planned to live a peaceful existence when I left jail. Clearly that isn’t going to happen. My demons need facing. I blurt out the obvious. ‘I must speak to them.’

  ‘Who?’ they say together and finally smile.

  ‘The ones who did this to me. I must find out exactly what happened that night. It’s important.’

  ‘I’ll help you.’

  ‘Thank you, Radic, but I don’t want any more violence. There can be no more death on my hands.’

  ‘I think you’ll feel differently after you talk to them.’

  ‘Maybe. But I’ve seen enough lives ruined. I don’t think revenge is in my heart. What I need is answers.’

  Radic picks up his car keys off the table where he’d thrown them what seems like a long time ago. I watch him lose himself in his own past. He turns to me with a sad grimace.

  ‘Perhaps you’re right. Do you know what I realised from before? Revenge is the ultimate pleasure, but you still don’t win. Think about it. I’m happy to help in any way, Katie. We’ll see you in the club tonight.’

  I wave him away with a superficial smile. Bone-weariness prevents me from analysing his words. Those responsible are best approached individually. I’ll see Bill last. I reckon he lied to me. About what, I’m not sure. It doesn’t matter, because I will do whatever is necessary to uncover the truth.

  52

  Love

  I lie face down on the bed after Radic has gone. Irina snuggles me into her bosom. She kisses the top of my head while I search for the dusty images of Chloe that lurk in the furthest corner of my mind. There are so few now. I recall her in the incubator at the hospital. She was thin with such long feet. They fascinated me. Maybe she’s a swimmer? I shudder again and resolve not to think like that.

  Chloe often slept with one arm out of the cot and a face free of worry. I was jealous. The pictures I keep aren’t all happy. The country lanes were rubbish for pram wheels. It sometimes made me scream. I had days when nothing quietened her. We cried ourselves to sleep together.

  The years have withdrawn the venom from those thoughts. They hurt but it’s more an ache than a fresh cut. My final vision is her tired face waving from a closing prison door. I did the right thing. Will that be the last time I ever see her? I told them I didn’t want reminders. She might get in touch when she’s eighteen.

  A gut-wrenching realisation hits me. I’ve left the system. Chloe couldn’t trace me now even if she wanted to. Perhaps that’s for the best. It’s unlikely anyone would yearn to meet their murdering mother anyway. Nevertheless, despite all those years of solitude, at this moment, I’ve never felt more alone.

  I unfurl, rest my head next to Irina’s and make a strange snuffling sound. She strokes my face. Irina knows she doesn’t need to say anything. It’s comfort I need. Another sob sneaks out and Irina giggles. I look at her through moist eyes, and hiccup. She laughs again. And kisses me gently.

  I’ve had sex with women before but this is different. In prison, some girls wanted to be rubbed as though I was trying to remove a stubborn stain from a worktop, and they’d moan as if they were giving birth. I wondered if they liked it that way, or just watched porn and thought that’s how it was done.

  My mind frees itself from worldly concerns. Irina worships, desires and adores me in equal measure. Even the bitter, hard, secret part of me melts under her caresses. The birds quieten, traffic slows, and the clocks stop. Time means nothing, life means nothing. All else ceases to be.

  * * *

  When I wake up in her bed afterwards, it’s as though I’ve rested for a year. The clock on the wall makes it less than two hours. Irina is on her side, facing me, fast asleep, and making little bubbles from her mouth. I gently run my hand along her hips and admire her lines.

  The concept of whether I’m a lesbian escapes me. I seem to get similar pleasure with a man or a woman, or at least I did until today. Did my fragile state accentuate everything with her? Did our trust in each other magnify our orgasms or were we just relaxed? The sunlight through the curtains highlights her beauty, and I have an urge to do it again.

  I know why I slept with women in prison. Adapting to life inside is the key to survival. Many like me had no family. We created our own. If there had been men available, maybe it would’ve been different, but there was no competition for their attention. Many girls realised they simply found other women attractive, although our affairs aren’t to be simply dismissed as reactions to imprisonment.

  It was far from being all about sex. We shared emotional comfort and social respect. I knew little of adult relationships because I hadn’t had one. Sexual experience had been taken, not given. That said, my upbringing was hard, but it was literally child’s play compared to the extreme abuse many of the women I’d met along the way had suffered.

  For many of us, it was the first occasion in our lives that we were loved even when they knew our history. Prison, incredibly, was valuable in helping develop a positive self-image. Okay, it was fun and passed the time too. One girl asked me if I was interested because she fancied trying it. For her, the opportunity arose.

  That’s how it will be in the future. There’ll be no gay or straight, bi or whatever. You’ll dress how you like, act how you want, be who you are. Then find someone, anyone, that you fancy, and have sex with them. Marry, or don’t, raise kids, or go solo. Run your own life, be free.

  Irina’s eyes ease open.

  ‘You okay?’ she asks.

  ‘Better than that.’

  I place my finger on her lips and shuffle down the bed. As Radic said, it’s only polite to reciprocate.

  53

  Secrets

  The club is quiet tonight, leaving Irina and me time for small talk. She skips between the tables, collecting glasses and smiling at the guests. How did I end up here in the underworld? I can’t help thinking there’s been some kind of mistake. This wasn’t who I was supposed to be. That said, I do not believe in fate, only luck, and mine’s been awful.

  ‘Do you like your life, Irina?’

  ‘It’s fine. I have a job and I’m safe. This wasn’t what I hoped to be, but I’ve been in worse situations, so I appreciate it. Why? Aren’t you happy?’

  ‘I thought if I started a new life I would be content. The thing is, I don’t understand this situation. Radic is clearly up to no good. I’m not sure I want to know what he does to pay the bills which include our wages. Regardless, I feel like a criminal even though I’m not one.’

  ‘You got a life sentence. I’ve been to prison too. Doesn’t that make us criminals?’

  ‘I don’t see us as that. You were exploited and made a horrifying mistake. I was abused, and under intense provocation I made a stupid decision when not in my right mind. We didn’t set out to rob banks or sell drugs. We’re not burglars or thieves.’

  ‘We did the crimes though. All the girls inside had a sob story.’

  ‘That’s my point. Most of them were victims too. How many of those women were bad? Desperate is more appropriate. They were drug addicts and shoplifters. There was no one to help them before they went in, and when they got out again, they had even fewer chances.’

  ‘What are you saying?’

  ‘I’ve ended up here almost without being conscious of it. I crave a normal life with an average job.’

  ‘You want to clean houses? I can’t imagine you on a checkout.’

  ‘Why? I’m not proud. I want to do something completely innocent.’

  Her smile slides from her face. I wonder if she had plans for me and her. I don’t know enough about myself to be of use to anyone else. With a toss of her hair, she lights a cigarette and pulls hard. ‘Leave then. You don’t have to be here.’

  She’s right, but I need my new ID. Radic has offered me a Ukrainian passport. Katerina Vaselka. He said the English ones were less suitable under scrutiny. They would look for records of ta
xation and employment, bank details and a credit file. If I took an immigrant one, I could start from scratch. The fact I didn’t speak the language was met with indifference. Who the dead girl was didn’t matter.

  I realise I don’t know these people. I doubt their intentions. Am I being too cautious? Is Irina’s first loyalty to me or Radic? Actually, that’s obvious.

  ‘I’m just talking out loud. This isn’t what I expected.’

  Her expressions soften. ‘What did you wish for?’

  I consider her question. For a long time, I searched for oblivion. Hope hurts those who can’t control their lives. I learned that quickly. It’s different now because I can do anything. First, I must understand what happened. Bill said Simon remains in Peterborough. Justin and Jordan could well still be on the farm and I know how to get hold of Bill. I’ll start with Simon. He could never hide his feelings. Bill and Jordan were liars. And perhaps poor slow Justin might fess up if Simon doesn’t come clean.

  I decide not to tell Irina my plans. That may be a mistake but my future isn’t with her. I recognise that now. There’s an undercurrent here that I don’t understand. If I’m not careful, I’ll be pulled in. I fell for the nice Uncle Radic approach. I believe he wants to help, but only a fool would think I haven’t got something he needs.

  Anyway, these decisions aren’t urgent. Maybe this is the best I can hope for, so I need to play the game. Irina eyes me up. Am I her opponent or friend, lover or competitor? It’s my move next.

  ‘You know what? I think we should have some fun. We’ve been moping around. What did you dream of inside?’ I ask.

  ‘Getting drunk in the sunshine.’

  ‘Apart from that?’

  ‘Getting drunk in the shade.’

  ‘How about football or horseracing?’

  ‘You want to play football and race horses?’

  ‘No, I want to watch them. Let’s go. Why not? I went as a child to see a game. Newmarket races is down the road. We’ll do both.’

  I’m in the swing of things now. We can do this. I need to live. Who knows what the near future will bring. There is danger ahead, of that there is no doubt. ‘And a pedalo. We should ride a pedalo!’

  ‘What’s a pedalo?’

  ‘A small boat where you pedal instead of rowing. I saw it on an advert and they have them here at Ferry Meadows Lake.’

  ‘Don’t you sail a boat? How do you steer one?’

  ‘Who cares, let’s find out!’

  She reaches over the counter and holds my hand. We look into each other’s eyes, both aware that things have changed.

  54

  July

  Simon

  Tony agreed to drive me to Milton Ferry. It was the location where Simon loved to fish as a boy. I suspected he’d have to work during the week but fishing was his life. If he was still in the city, then I bet he would use this place.

  Tony tended to hang around the bar during the day. He’d drink but slowly. I never saw him drunk. I’d put him in his late forties.

  ‘What’s your job, Tony?’

  ‘My work? I drive for Radic. Do odd jobs, not much.’

  ‘A driver? Does it pay handsomely?’

  He has a sense of humour beneath the granite features. ‘Pay okay. I need little.’

  ‘Did Radic tell you to watch out for me and Irina?’

  ‘If you want a lift, I help.’

  He could have been a politician. I hoped for answers today; I might as well start now.

  ‘Do you look out for your daughter?’

  The eye twinkle disappears. White hands grip the wheel.

  ‘I send money. No more.’

  He says it with finality. My interview technique needs improvement. I know little of men. Irina told me they like to talk, but she can’t have meant Tony.

  ‘Left here.’

  He grunts and complies. The track to the bridge and the river is steep, and he takes his time.

  ‘Park up here. I’ll walk the rest of the way.’

  He gets out at the same time as me.

  ‘Wait here, please, Tony.’

  Cold eyes glare back, and then a shrug. ‘Where you go?’

  ‘I’m going fishing.’

  I continue down the slope and through a gate. The stone bridge is the same as I recall; at least some things don’t change. A dog walker passes and wishes me good day. I admire his warm pleated jacket as the sun has vanished. My denim jacket is a poor choice.

  The peg, as he called the spot he fished at, is empty. Maybe the overcast weather is no good for bites. I stand at the edge. There was happiness here. I stood in this same spot and laughed. Simon would wade out, despite having no wellies, and cast under the trees on the far bank. He’d stand rigid and watch. We’d sneak up and throw stones at his float and run and hide in the reeds.

  I decide to walk further up as I can see a man about two hundred metres away.

  ‘Excuse me.’

  He is old. Ancient even, with an air of familiarity in the way he cocks his head to examine me.

  ‘Aye?’

  ‘I was looking for someone. A bloke who fishes here.’

  He removes his hat and gives me an unusual look. I dyed my hair blonde yesterday. With tight jeans and sunglasses, I must seem lost.

  ‘Plenty of people fish here.’

  I recall the boy and wonder how he’d now appear. I don’t think of ethnicity and colour anymore, this old-timer may.

  ‘He’s mixed race. Tall and thin.’

  He smiles. ‘Simon, you mean Simon. I’ve fished here with him since he was a lad.’

  It falls into place. This old fellow was often here back then. I never knew his name. He used to tell us to bugger off for scaring the fish.

  ‘Does he still come here?’

  ‘Aye, most Sundays. He said he’ll be here again this week. Who wants to know?’

  ‘A friend.’

  He takes his own sunglasses off and grins.

  ‘Get here early, he’s usually gone by eleven.’

  I leave him fiddling with his rod and walk to the car. Later today, I have an appointment at the tattoo parlour. I drove the owner crazy looking through his designs. In the end, he created one. It defines me; a large image of a female angel and a fiery demon, locked in a lovers’ embrace, to cover my back. The hunt for that is over while the search for the truth is just beginning.

  Tony pretends to be sleeping in the driver’s seat. I watch his chest rise and note it’s going too fast. He opens an eye. I give him a grin.

  ‘Do you have plans on Sunday?’

  55

  Sunday

  The Catch

  It was a late one at the club and I’ve only had snatched sleep. Tony hung around until the early hours as well. He insisted it was no trouble to pick me up and is outside my place as agreed at seven a.m. We’re greeted by a bright morning without any breeze. A good day for fishing. Tony says nothing on the drive. No change there, although I detect a focus that isn’t always present.

  Only one other car is parked up when we arrive. It’s a battered truck with a tarpaulin loosely pulled across the cargo box. I hop out and sneak a look underneath. There’s an umbrella and a few bait boxes. Anyone could own the vehicle, yet my gut says it’s Simon’s. Tony distracts me by getting out.

  ‘Shall I come with you?’

  ‘No, it’s fine. Wait here like last time.’

  Again, he’s unhappy with that idea. ‘Do you have a weapon?’

  That’s very perceptive of him. I haven’t said what I’m doing, yet he’s aware that it might be dangerous.

  ‘I won’t need one. I’m only going to talk to him. Stay in the car. I shouldn’t be long. He may not even be here.’

  I stride down the slope. I wear my running gear with my newly blonde hair in a tied-up ponytail pulled through the back of a baseball cap. All this and wraparound sunglasses would make identifying me impossible. Have I dressed this way for anonymity? Or due to the fact I could need to run or fight?
r />   I considered taking a knife, but that seemed extreme. Simon wasn’t the violent one. The view of the river from the top of the small stone bridge is marvellous. The water resembles a millpond. I jog to the other side and trot along the bank. Up ahead, the section where he used to fish is empty. Simon was a creature of habit so that’s disappointing. I decide to stretch my legs for a while. Tony can wait.

  I pass a big shrub and Simon stands up with his rod. My steps tail off. I’m surprised by my stunned reaction. It’s been a long time but Simon’s journey must have been an arduous one. A scraggly beard and beaten up fishing hat can’t hide the lines on a weathered face. He hasn’t noticed me. I step down onto the gravel and stones next to the edge of the stream and stifle a laugh. Then I recall my serious business.

  He has the biggest pair of waders on and doesn’t hear me as the water runs much faster than I thought. He sloshes into the river. It’s deeper than I imagined and he’s soon up to his waist. He stops and, with a flick of his wrist, plops his float on the far side under the overhanging branches of a leaning tree.

  A flicker of anger has me on my tiptoes. Nothing has changed for him. Well, I’m about to ruin his day.

  ‘Simon!’

  He turns around and immediately looks shifty.

  ‘Who’s asking?’

  ‘It’s Katie.’

  He remains a statue. All I can hear is the drone of the cars on the motorway beyond us and the trickle of water at my feet.

  ‘I don’t know a Katie.’

  I take my cap and sunglasses off but he knows who I am. Did the old man tell him someone was looking for him, or, perhaps, he’s always been waiting for a tap on the shoulder.

  ‘You are Simon Salmon, aren’t you?’

  A barely imperceptible nod of his head confirms his identity. I realise that even though I imagined what he might do, I hadn’t expected him to remain silently in the middle of the river. There’s no rush, and he’s not going anywhere. After half a minute, he pipes up.