My Husband's Wife

by Jane Corry

  ‘I’ve been reading about this new case of yours,’ says Dad. ‘Sounds very interesting.’

  He flourishes a copy of the Daily Telegraph at me and my heart quickens. There it is. A large article on the second page.

  MOTHER OF BOILING BATH VICTIM LASHES BACK

  I scan it quickly. There are the usual gory details about the crime, a picture of Sarah Evans that I try not to look at, and a quote from her mother: ‘I can’t understand how anyone can defend this evil monster …’

  Below are two pictures. Me and Tony Gordon. We each have a smile on our face. Not very suitable under the circumstances. Great. Where did they get them from? A listed professional profile perhaps, in the public domain?

  ‘Sounds like you’ve taken on something very big.’

  My father’s voice swells with pride as he pours me a gin and tonic.

  ‘How do you know this man is innocent?’ asks my mother quietly, sitting next to me on the sofa, a glass already in her hand. She’s gazing wistfully out of the window, across the garden with its bare trees and down towards the paddock.

  When I was a child, I had been the apple of her eye. I can remember her cooking with me like I bake with Carla. We’d cuddle up together and sing songs. Go for long walks to find chestnuts. But then Daniel had come along and there’d been no time for these normal things any more.

  How do I know Joe is innocent? My mother’s question catches me out.

  Because there are similarities to Daniel, I want to say. Because he can’t help telling the truth even if it’s rude. And because my gut feeling tells me that I need to save him.

  I select the only part that would make sense. ‘Some new evidence has emerged that shows …’ Then I stop.

  ‘She can’t talk about it. You know that, love.’

  My father might be retired (after Daniel, it proved impossible for him to carry on), but as a social worker he dealt a lot with lawyers. He understands the etiquette. To me, however, he’ll always be Daddy. The man who read me stories at night and assured me that there wasn’t anyone hiding under the bed.

  ‘Are you staying over?’ My mother again.

  ‘Sorry. I need to be back for Ed.’

  Their disappointment is tangible.

  ‘Lunch is almost ready now.’ She rises and, en route to the kitchen, tops up her own glass.

  The meal is a torment. We talk about everything else except the reason I am here. My mother tops up her glass frequently. Meanwhile, I pick at the fish pie, my brother’s favourite.

  Afterwards, my mother melts away for her ‘rest’. My father is looking weary from the effort of keeping the peace.

  ‘Mind if I go upstairs for a bit?’ I ask.

  He nods, gratefully.

  The stairs creak, just as they did when Daniel used to come down them at the dead of night and I would follow, to make sure he was all right. His room is exactly as he left it. Toy cars perfectly positioned on the bookshelves along with Palgrave’s Golden Treasury and old copies of the Beano, which he still read in his teens. Posters of scantily dressed models on the wall. Clothes neatly folded in the drawer – jumpers mainly and the odd T-shirt. I pick one up and press it to my nose.

  At first, it used to smell of him. But the scent has worn away over the years.

  Unable to stop myself, I turn to the cupboard where my brother kept his ‘special things’. The pile of sticker albums – ranging from oceans of the world to the stars in the sky – is stacked in perfect order. So too are the Lego models he used to spend hours making. Woe betide anyone who touched them. Once I recall a cleaning lady ‘having a bit of a sort out’. She had to be given a hefty tip in order not to report the bruise on her wrist, courtesy of my brother.

  Now, I reverently take out a sticker book. It’s about birds. Daniel used to save up his pocket money to buy packets of stickers. He would spend hours carefully placing each one in exactly the right position within the frame marks. Robins. Thrushes. Blackbirds. Pigeons. (He’d spell the latter with a ‘d’ in the middle because, as he rightly said, it ‘sounded as though it should have one there’.)

  Swiftly, I slip the book into my bag. And another two. Then I glance out of the window at the old brown cob horse grazing on the winter grass. I ought to go and see Merlin. Nuzzle my face against his. But I don’t feel strong enough.

  There’s a noise at the door. It’s my father. ‘I’ve been wanting to have a quiet word.’

  My heart sinks. What now? What fresh piece of bad news is waiting for me?

  ‘How is married life?’ he asks.

  I hesitate. It’s just enough for him to notice.

  ‘I see.’ He sighs and pulls me to him. I’m a teenager again. Raw with grief. ‘Remember what I told you?’ he says. ‘You have to start again. Put the past behind you. Otherwise you’ll end up like us.’ He doesn’t need to spell it out. His words take me back to less than a year ago, when I’d admitted to Dad that I didn’t go out very much and spent most of my time in the office.

  ‘You need a social life,’ he’d advised. ‘A new century is dawning, Lily. It’s time to move on, Daniel would want that.’

  And that’s when my then flatmate suggested I go to a party with her. The same one where I met Ed. I could hardly believe it when this tall, handsome man began to talk to me and then – miraculously – asked me out. What did he see in me? I thought of saying no. I’d only get disappointed.

  But at the time, it seemed like my escape route to sanity.

  ‘Crisps? Sellotape? Sugar? Sharp implements?’ barks the officer the following week.

  I watch Tony Gordon go through the process. It’s clearly familiar to him, just as it’s becoming increasingly familiar to me. Prison, said Tony on the way here, can grow on you. It can also, he added with a warning look, be curiously addictive.

  I’ve realized that already. Meanwhile, we’re following the guard across the courtyard, through the set of double doors and gates, down the long corridor past men in green jogging bottoms, and finally into D wing.

  The HOPE poster has a big rip on the bottom right-hand corner. Joe Thomas’s arms are folded, as if he has summoned us.

  ‘This is Tony Gordon,’ I say, plastering on a smile to hide my nervousness. After my trip to my parents’, all I can see is Daniel sitting there. The same clever face, which at the same time manages to look vulnerable. That sideways manner of looking at you as if working out whether you’re to be trusted or not.

  ‘He’s your barrister,’ I add unnecessarily, because Joe has been told this already.

  ‘What have you got to say to me then?’

  I’m almost embarrassed on Joe’s behalf at his lack of social grace. But Tony proceeds to rattle through the defence – the boiler company data, our proposed cross-examination of the Joneses (the neighbours who testified against him last time), the other expert witnesses – before proceeding to ask Joe more questions. Some of them I’ve wanted to ask too but haven’t quite dared. Some of them I haven’t considered at all.

  ‘Why did you usually run the bath instead of allowing Sarah to do so?’ I’ve asked this before but I want to make sure. Maybe catch him out.

  There’s an ‘Isn’t it obvious?’ stare which reminds me of a look Joe had given me when we’d first met and he was declaring his innocence over Sarah. ‘I have to. It’s what I do.’

  I’m reminded of the ritual side of obsessive behaviour that I’ve been reading up on. Fleetingly, I wonder if Tony runs his wife’s. Not to control, but to be kind. Somehow I don’t see it.

  ‘Would you say you have some habits that others might find strange?’

  Joe glares at Tony challengingly. ‘What might seem strange to you isn’t strange to me. And vice versa. My habits are quite normal in my book. They’re my rules. They keep me safe. If someone wants to be part of my life, they have to accept that.’

  ‘Did you tell the defence this at the first trial?’ Tony glances at his notes. ‘Because there’s no record here.’

  Joe shrugs. �
��He thought it made me sound too controlling. Would make me unsympathetic to the jury.’

  ‘Did you hit Sarah during that row when she came home drunk?’

  ‘No.’

  ‘Did you turn up the temperature on the boiler?’

  ‘No. I told you before. But the water was still hot when I found her, which suggests the water was near-scalding when she’d turned it on, earlier. That’s why I had burns on my hands. They came from getting her out of the bath.’

  The questions go round and round, as though we are in court already. Vital preparation for the real thing.

  If Tony is irritated that each of these replies is addressed to me, he doesn’t show it.

  ‘Right,’ he says, getting up. ‘I think we have enough now to be getting on with.’

  ‘Think?’ Joe Thomas’s keen eyes train themselves on my colleague. ‘ “Think” isn’t going to be enough to get me out of this place. Trust me.’

  ‘And trust me too.’ Tony Gordon’s voice comes out as a low growl. A ‘leave my ball alone’ warning growl that reminds me of our old dog, who used to limp along with Merlin.

  Daniel had been obsessed with horses, so, after considerable pestering, my parents had bought him one from a neighbouring farmer when we’d moved to Devon. This steady, safe, lumbering beast didn’t see Daniel as being ‘different’ from anyone else. Right from the start, he had forged a special bond with Daniel. It was my brother whom he would nuzzle first when we went down to the stables in the morning to feed him and muck out. When we took turns to ride him across the downs, Merlin seemed to take special care with Daniel, who visibly grew in confidence as a result. We even rode him along the beach. Once, Daniel was actually allowed to bring Merlin into the kitchen through the back door as a ‘special treat’.

  Bitter-sweet memories that had held me back from going into the paddock, let alone the stables, when I visited my parents.

  Now Joe looks at me. His eyes are nervous. I want to reassure him even though I’m scared myself, still spooked by the message under the door. This was not, Tony had told me firmly beforehand, the right time to mention the note to the client.

  ‘He’s good at his job,’ I whisper to Joe as we leave the room. ‘If anyone can get you off, he will.’

  And then I do it.

  Reaching into my bag, I take out one of my brother’s sticker albums. I’ve already worked out it will be small enough for Joe to slip into his pocket, although I’ve also told myself that I might not give it to him. Just show him. As he reaches for it, his hand brushes mine. An electric shock passes through me. So violent I can hardly stay standing. What am I doing?

  I’ve just crossed that divide which my boss and the officer had warned me about. I have committed an offence. Given a present to a prisoner for the simple reason that he reminds me of my brother. My reasoning is full of flaws. I can no longer comfort my brother. So I will comfort this other man instead. Yet in so doing, I have risked my entire career. My life …

  As for that brush of the hand, it was accidental. At least, so I tell myself. Besides, Joe is looking away as though it never happened.

  As Tony and I sign out in the office and make our way along the corridors and through the double-locked doors, I am convinced I’m going to be called back. Someone will tap me on the shoulder. I’ll be struck off. The case will be lost.

  So why do I now, as we leave the front gates, feel a definite thrill zip through me?

  ‘Thought that went quite well, considering,’ says Tony Gordon, running his hands through his hair as we finally find ourselves outside in the car park.

  I gulp in the fresh air. ‘Me too.’

  For the second time in my life, I tell myself, I’m a criminal.

  16

  Carla

  ‘Carla! Carla! Come and play! Come and play!’

  The little girl bobbing up and down in front of her in the playground had sticking-out teeth with a thick silver band across them, and ears that sprang out on either side of her head as though God had planted them at the wrong angle.

  If this had been her old school, thought Carla, this girl would have been heckled and teased mercilessly. But instead, she was one of the most popular in the class! More importantly, she was also really nice to everyone. Including Carla.

  When she’d started at the convent, Carla had been so terrified that she could barely put one foot in front of the other. She was the only new girl! Term had started ages ago. Everyone else would know each other. They’d be bound to hate her. But as soon as she’d walked through the gates with the statue of Our Blessed Mary looking down, Carla felt calmer.

  No one was spitting. No one was drawing pictures on the walls. No one started to mimic her Italian accent. In fact, the little girl with the brace, whom she’d been seated next to in class, had a daddy who had come from Italy many years ago.

  ‘My daddy is with the angels,’ Carla had confided.

  ‘Poor you.’ After that, her new friend made sure she was included at break-time. It was, thought Carla happily, as she joined in the skipping game, as though all her dreams had come true.

  Even the nun-teachers were nice, although their cloaks flapped like the witches’ in a book she’d just been reading. The nuns approved of the way Carla knew how to cross herself at the right place in morning assembly. ‘What a lovely voice,’ said one nun with a kind, soft face when she heard Carla sing ‘The Lord Is My Shepherd’ with a little tremor. And when she got stuck with long division, another nun sat down with her and explained exactly what to do.

  ‘I see,’ gasped Carla. Now it all made sense!

  No one told her she was stupid. Or that she was slow.

  There were only two problems. ‘We’re even now,’ Larry had whispered when he’d come over last night. ‘I had to ask a lot of favours to get you in there. So no asking for anything else. Do you understand me?’

  Did a new school equal a woman in the car who wasn’t Mamma? Carla wasn’t sure. It wasn’t the kind of sum she could ask her new teachers about.

  The other problem wasn’t as big, but something had to be done about it. After all, no one had a Charlie at school! Caterpillar cases were now last term’s craze. Instead, everyone had Kitty pencil cases. Soft furry ones in pink with plastic eyes that rolled and real whiskers made of plastic.

  No asking for anything else, Larry had said. But she wanted a Kitty! She needed one. Otherwise she’d be Different with a capital ‘D’ all over again.

  ‘If my daddy was alive, he would buy me one,’ Carla confided in her new friend Maria as they sipped their soup, taking care to tip the bowl away from themselves as instructed. They had a proper dining room at the convent, with wooden tables instead of plastic ones that wobbled. They also had to sit up nicely and wait until everyone was served. You had to eat with your mouth closed instead of open. And instead of dinner, they ate lunch.

  Maria leaned forward, the little gold crucifix swaying round her neck, and crossed herself. ‘How long has your daddy been in heaven?’

  ‘Since I was a baby.’ Carla stole another wistful look at her friend’s Kitty pencil case, which was sitting on her lap. It was even rumoured that Sister Mercy had one too that she kept in her office.

  ‘He broke a promise, you see,’ she added.

  ‘What kind of promise?’

  ‘I think it was a promise to stay alive.’

  Her new friend gave a little shrug of sympathy. ‘I broke my arm last term. It really hurt.’ There was a light touch on her hand. ‘My uncle gave me a Kitty for my birthday without realizing I already had one. I keep it as a spare at home. You can have it if you want.’

  ‘Really?’ Carla felt a thrill of excitement followed by a heaviness in her heart. ‘But everyone will think I have stolen it.’

  ‘Why should they?’ Maria frowned. ‘If they do, I will say it is a present. When is your birthday?’

  Carla knew that well enough. Hadn’t she been marking off the days on the calendar that hung on the kitchen wall? The on
e that had pictures of the town where Nonno lived, with its cobbled streets and fountain in the middle of the square.

  ‘December the ninth,’ she replied promptly.

  ‘That’s not far away!’ Her brace friend smiled toothily. ‘Then it can be a present. I got a new bike when it was my birthday.’

  Maria was as good as her word. The very next day, she brought in a brand-new kitten pencil case with soft pink fur and rolling black eyes.

  ‘My very own Kitty!’ So soft. So warm. So comforting against her cheek. So cool.

  Charlie scowled. That was all very well, but he should have talked more, like the old Charlie. It was time to move on. Now she could be like all the others!

  That afternoon, they had Art. There were more paints and crayons at this school. Carla loved it! Maybe, if she listened really carefully to the instructions, she might grow up to be a real artist like Ed.

  At the moment, however, they were making a collage by cutting out lots of pictures from magazines and sticking them on a giant roll of paper. It was going to be part of the Advent display, and all the parents would be coming! Mamma was even trying to get some time off.

  ‘May I have a pair of scissors?’ asked Carla casually.

  The nun – one of the younger ones – handed them to her carefully, holding the blade away from Carla. ‘Be very careful, dear, won’t you?’

  Carla treated the nun to one of her prettiest smiles. ‘Certainly, Sister Agnes.’

  She waited a little while before putting up her hand. ‘Please may I go to the cloakroom?’

  Sister Agnes, who was busy cutting round the Virgin Mary for another pupil, nodded. Now was her chance!

  Quickly, Carla grabbed Charlie with one hand and the scissors in the other. Holding her breath, she ran down the corridor towards the cloakroom. Then, shutting herself in one of the cubicles, she snipped off Charlie’s head. He didn’t make a sound, although his face, severed from the rest of his body, stared reproachfully up at her. Then she cut his body in half. Still no sound. Finally, she stuffed his three bits into the bin at the side that said ‘Sanitary’. (No one knew what that was exactly, although it was rumoured that the older girls placed blood inside as a penance for sins like kissing boys.)