by Jane Corry
After that, Carla pulled the chain to make it look as though she had ‘been’, washed her hands, and walked back to the classroom, holding the scissors by the side of her swinging, pleated brown skirt. Quietly, she slid back into her seat and began cutting round a picture of baby Jesus in his crib.
Then she queued up at the desk to take another picture from the pile of magazines and papers.
‘What does this word mean?’ asked the girl in front of her. She was pointing to a picture of a boy and some writing underneath: M U R D E R.
Carla listened intently. She liked the way that questions were encouraged at this school. No one teased you for asking things. You could learn a lot.
‘Dear, dear. That shouldn’t be there. Let me take it away.’
‘Murder,’ piped up another girl who was near the front of the queue. ‘That’s what it spells.’
‘What does it mean?’
‘Murder, dear, is when someone takes away the life of another, just as they took away the life of our dear Lord. It is a sin. A grave sin.’
Carla heard her voice rise into the shocked classroom air. ‘Does it have to be the life of a person?’
Sister Agnes shook her head. ‘No, dear. It applies to the life of all the dear Lord’s creatures too. Look at St Francis and how he cared for every tiny living being.’
Carla felt bile rising into her mouth. Charlie had been a living being. She had murdered the new Charlie just because he was ‘old-fashioned’ and because her friend had pitied her.
‘Is there anything people can do to say sorry for murder?’ she asked in a small voice.
Sister Agnes’s forehead erupted into a field of frowns. ‘They can pray.’ Then she let out a sigh. ‘But there are some crimes that God cannot forgive us for.’ She crossed herself. ‘Remember, girls. Murderers go to hell.’
The nightmares began again after that. Sometimes Carla saw the new Charlie crawling around heaven in three pieces, his head looking for his other end. Sometimes, she saw him staring at her. ‘You murdered me. You murdered me.’
Sometimes it was the old Charlie, which was even worse.
‘What is wrong, my little one?’ Mamma kept asking. ‘You are happy at school, yes?’
She nodded. ‘Very happy.’
‘Your friends, they are kind to you.’ Mamma picked up the pink kitten pencil case that Carla was about to put in her bag. ‘And the nuns, they teach you good manners. You must stop dreaming about the old school now. Thanks to Larry, it is a thing of the past.’
If Mamma wanted to believe that her nightmares were about the old school, there was no need to put her right. At least that’s what Kitty told her. I am your friend now. You must not worry about Charlie.
So Carla tried. But it was not as easy as it sounded. She’d often noticed before that when she learned a new word, it began to appear everywhere. It was the same with this new word. Murder. Carla began to spot it in newspapers on the bus. She heard it on the television. And it kept coming into her dreams, night after night.
Meanwhile, she and Mamma had to get an earlier bus because it meant Mamma could get into work before anyone else and borrow some of the new lipsticks to ‘try out at home’.
One morning, Lily got on at the same time! Carla was beside herself with excitement.
‘Do you like my new uniform?’ she asked, smoothing down her brown blazer. ‘It had to come from a special shop and it cost a lot of money. Luckily Larry –’
‘Tsk,’ said Mamma sharply. ‘You must not bother Lily. Look, she is working.’
‘It’s all right.’ Lily put down her big pile of papers and gave Carla a lovely smile, which also included Mamma. ‘It’s only homework, like you have to do.’
Carla peered at the papers. ‘Is it arithmetic? I could help you if you like. I didn’t understand it at my old school, but now the nuns have explained it and …’ Her voice trailed away.
‘What is the matter?’ asked Mamma.
But Lily knew. Carla could tell. Quickly, she was putting the papers away in her bag. Yet it was too late. It was that horrible word again.
Murder.
What was it doing in Lily’s homework? Did that mean her friend had killed someone? A real person? Not just a pencil case?
A cold shiver crawled down the middle of her back.
‘Nice people aren’t always as good as they seem,’ the Mother Superior had said at assembly, only the other day. ‘The devil can creep into their skin. We must all be vigilant.’
Carla hadn’t known what ‘vigilant’ meant until she looked it up in the Children’s Dictionary. Now she edged away. Was it possible that Lily, who helped her to cook cakes and let her lick out the bowl, was really bad? Was that why she was always arguing with Ed? Because he thought she was bad too?
‘What is the matter?’ Mamma repeated.
‘Nothing.’ Carla looked out of the window towards the park, where the last lot of red and yellow leaves had fallen from the trees and were now dancing over the muddy grass.
Suddenly Lily didn’t seem so nice after all.
Maybe – what a scary thought – she was just being nice to Carla so she could hurt her too.
After that, Carla started to get a tummy ache on Sundays. ‘I want to stay at home,’ she told Mamma the first time.
‘But Lily and Ed are expecting you.’
Carla rolled over on to her side and made a groaning noise. ‘Lily is always doing her homework and Ed makes me sit still so he can draw me. I don’t want to go.’
Mamma begged and cajoled, but it was no good. Stick to your story, urged Kitty, her black beady eyes rolling. She will have to believe you eventually. Listen! It’s working already. Now she is on the phone to Larry, saying she can’t see him because you are sick.
Later in the afternoon, Carla felt better enough to go to the park. But Mamma was not happy. ‘Your stomach ache has gone very fast,’ she observed. ‘You are able to jump and skip now.’
The following Sunday, though, Carla’s stomach ache began again. This time, Larry came round, even though she was sick. He sat on the edge of her bed. His face was solemn. ‘What do you think would help your tummy feel better?’ he asked quietly.
Maybe a bike, said Kitty next to her. A pink one like Maria’s.
‘Maybe a bike,’ repeated Carla. ‘A pink one. With a bell. And a basket.’
Larry nodded. ‘We will see what happens for your birthday on Tuesday, shall we?’
Carla felt a little catch in her throat.
‘You will be ten then, I think.’
She nodded.
‘Old enough to stop playing childish games.’ Larry’s voice was low but firm. ‘After this, there will be no more silliness. Do you hear me?’
17
Lily
December 2000
Despite my brave words to my husband – ‘I can look after myself, thank you’ – I am shaken by the anonymous note and everything that’s gone on since. Earlier today, I found myself breaking my vow as I walked to the bus stop. Something made me look back. It’s dark on these nippy winter mornings, and there is ample opportunity for someone to hide in the shadows of the bushes.
But I couldn’t see anyone.
I haven’t seen Carla for some time now, either. I hope her tummy ache is better. We missed her the other Sunday, Ed and I. Missed the buffer she has become between us, the distraction that means we don’t have to talk to each other. Missed the role she plays as a muse for Ed – his new portrait of her is really coming on – and the permission it gives me to work on the case uninterrupted.
There’s little time in my life to do anything else. ‘The Court has allowed the appeal and we have a re-trial,’ Tony Gordon rings to tell me. ‘The date is set.’ His voice sounds excited but also busy and slightly apprehensive. ‘March. Doesn’t give us much time, but they’re catching up on their backlog. Prepare to cancel Christmas.’
I suspect he’s not joking. Not long now. The berries on the holly trees are already out in
force when I walk past them every morning.
Red for blood. Red for anger. Red for the jacket that Daniel was wearing that night.
‘Christmas is like a battlefield with mince pies thrown in,’ my brother had told me once. I had the feeling that this was something he’d heard, but he told it as though he’d made it up himself.
Either way, he’s right. Ed wants us to go to his parents for the day. I want him to go to mine. ‘They don’t have anyone else,’ I point out. We still haven’t come to an agreement.
As I speak, I wonder how Joe Thomas will spend the so-called festive season. Will anyone visit him? I also wish – too late – that I had never given him Daniel’s old sticker album during our last meeting. I’d crossed the line. What had got into me?
Today’s visit has to be different.
Joe Thomas’s eyes are blazing. They remind me of a tiger. ‘Tiger, tiger, burning bright.’ One of Daniel’s favourites. Joe’s almost snarling as he speaks. ‘Someone put a threatening note under your door?’
On the way to prison that morning, Tony had declared this was the time to come out with it. ‘We’ve got to squeeze him now we’ve got a court date,’ he says, his mouth tightening. ‘Get things moving. Provoke him, see if we can get more out of him. If there are any holes.’
It’s doing that all right. Joe’s jaw muscles are tightening visibly. His hands, on the table between Tony and me, clench into hard, ball-like fists. The HOPE poster is sliding down the wall.
‘What did the note say?’
‘If you try to help that man, you will be sorry.’
Tony pronounces each word very clearly, as though there is a large area of space around it.
‘I ought to add,’ says Tony with a half-laugh, ‘that it wasn’t spelled very well.’
‘Leave it to me.’ Joe’s eyes grow blacker, if that is possible. I’ve read about eyes changing colour before, but thought it was poetic licence. Yet here’s an example, right before me. ‘I’ll put out feelers.’
Tony nods. ‘Thank you.’
So that’s why, I suddenly realize. Tony wants to see if Joe has contacts on the outside. By playing on what my barrister has already referred to as ‘the client’s obvious empathy with you’, he’s confirming his suspicions.
‘How else could your feelers help us win this case?’ asks Tony, leaning across the metal table, rocking it so one of the legs comes down against my leg, laddering my tights.
Instantly, Joe sits back in his chair, arms folded. ‘What do you mean?’
‘Those figures that were sent to you in the post,’ says Tony softly, ‘they came from a mole, didn’t they? They must have. Someone working for the gas people or the boiler company or somewhere in the industry. Are you paying them, or do they owe you a favour?’
Joe’s face is a study of emotion wiped clean. I’ve seen it before on my husband’s canvases. An outline. Nothing more. Then Ed fills in the feelings: a curve of the eyebrow to indicate disbelief or amusement; a curl of the lip to imply irritation or longing. Joe’s face does none of these.
‘Why would I do that?’ he asks. ‘And why do you assume I’ll tell you if it’s true, even though it isn’t?’
‘Because,’ snaps Tony, ‘you need to help us in order to help yourself. I’m going to give you some time to think about this, Joe. When I come here next, I’d like you to tell me who your mole is and then we might stand a chance of winning your case. And before you start bleating about honour among thieves, I want to ask you something. Do you really want to spend another Christmas inside this place?’
He looks around the bare room with its DO NOT REMOVE notice next to the clock and the torn lino on the floor. ‘Because I wouldn’t, in your position.’
As we go out of the room, I shoot Joe an ‘I’m sorry’ look. I can’t help it. His reaction to the note has helped to convince me once and for all that he’s innocent. You can’t fake that kind of thing.
‘Thanks for the pictures,’ he whispers as I pass him.
I freeze, hoping the officer standing by the open door hasn’t heard.
‘I don’t get many gifts in here.’
I don’t dare reply.
Then Joe’s eyes go down to my legs; he’s noticed the ladder in my tights. He frowns. ‘You need to do something about that.’ And then he slinks off down the corridor in the opposite direction as though I have personally offended him.
Knees knocking, I follow Tony down the corridor, past men staring; wishing I could look as confident as my colleague with his straight back and arrogant air.
As we hand in our passes at security, I’m still trembling. ‘You did very well,’ says Tony, placing a hand briefly on my shoulder. ‘Prison isn’t easy. Don’t worry. Joe and I have built up an understanding now. I won’t need you to come with me on future visits. A secretary will be enough. The next time you’ll see that man is when we’re all in court.’
I glance back at the high wall with its rolls of barbed wire still visible through the window. Not see Joe until the court hearing? I feel an irrational rush of disappointment. But there’s something else too. He’ll think I don’t care about him. And suddenly I know that I do. Very much.
Joe Thomas represents my chance to save an innocent man.
To make up for not saving Daniel.
The phone rings when I am deep in the middle of my papers. Not the ones that I should be looking at: cases that my boss has piled on my already overloaded desk, about fraud and battery and shoplifting. But Joe’s.
It’s all very well Tony saying that he would take over from here, but I’ve got to carry on at my end in the office. Surely the more information I can give him, the better? And there is so much. Every day, the post brings more letters from people who’ve read about the impending case in the papers. A woman who had been burned horrifically when she’d taken a shower (‘I was told it was my fault for not checking the temperature first, but it was on the usual setting – and it had just been serviced’). A man whose face is scarred for life. (‘I was drunk when I turned on the water, so I assumed it was my fault when it came out scalding.’) A father who had almost – but not quite – placed his toddler in a bath where he had taken great care to run the cold along with the hot, only to find that the cold itself was boiling. Apparently, a part in the boiler had been faulty.
The case is building up, and with it the press fever. Time and time again, reporters call, pleading for updates – anything that will add fuel to what might well become a national scandal.
I’ve already just put the phone down on a particularly persistent female journalist. So when it rings again within seconds, I presume it’s her.
‘Yes? What?’ I bark down the line, realizing as I do so that I’m beginning to sound like my boss. It isn’t a thought that pleases me.
‘Your Joe Thomas has come up with the goods.’ It’s Tony Gordon’s smooth, deep voice. ‘We’ve got him. The writer of your note.’
My mouth goes dry. It’s hard to imagine a silent attacker. Someone who scares you without showing his or her face. Someone who haunts your dreams: dreams that make you wake up screaming.
‘Who is it?’ I ask.
‘The victim’s uncle.’
The victim! Such a cold, hard way of expressing it. I glance down at the folders on my desk. Sarah Evans smiles glossily up at me. She was a person. A woman who shared Joe Thomas’s bed. He may have been a control freak. She may have fallen out of love with him. Or she may not have known exactly what her feelings were for this man. Rather like how I feel confused about Ed.
But she does at least deserve a proper name.
‘Do you mean Sarah?’
Tony Gordon’s voice sounds amused. ‘I used to be like you once, you know.’ Then his tone hardens. ‘Let me give you a piece of advice, Lily. Don’t get too involved with your cases. If you do, you begin to lose touch with the real world and then everything can become a bit of a mess.’
I glance across the room at my boss in his glass office who’s ho
lding the phone and gesticulating wildly at me. ‘I’ve got to go,’ I say.
‘The man’s been cautioned. But I still want you to be careful. This case could release a flood of lawsuits. We are going to upset a lot of people, including the nutters that are always out there. Do you understand? Change your route to work. Lock your flat. Make sure that new husband of yours looks after you.’
I’m not sleeping. I’m not eating. I’m hardly talking to Ed. There is no time.
Our previous intimacy has become lost in this manic build-up towards the case. I’m home even later, especially now the Christmas lights are up in Regent Street and the traffic is slower because everyone is gawping. Ed and I no longer have discussions about what he might want for dinner. We both take it for granted that he’ll sort out his own. At least he seems to have cut back again on his drinking. That’s because he wants a ‘clearer head’ when he’s painting in the evening. It’s for that reason, I tell myself, that I decided not to tell him about Tony’s warning. I don’t want him worrying, getting distracted.
‘Your mother rang,’ Ed says one evening when I am back just before 11 p.m. He says it in the way a husband might speak when his wife is barely around and only merits a kiss dropped on top of her head instead of a proper embrace.
‘It’s urgent,’ he adds before returning to our little kitchen table. His sketchpads are everywhere. Pictures of a young girl twisting her hair. Skipping through the park. Jumping over puddles. Reading a book with a cardigan casually draped round her shoulders. Cooking in the kitchen. Another girl – more like a woman, actually – with an expressionless face. All studies for a bigger painting that he intends to work on shortly.
An unexpected flash of jealousy shoots through me. I’d like time to have a creative passion like my husband. But instead, I am stuck. Stuck in something that is too big: a web of lies and truths that I – with my limited experience – am expected to unravel. I’m not the only one. Another newly qualified lawyer in the office is currently grappling with a divorce case without really knowing how to do it. I pity her client.
