by Tamar Cohen
To be frank, before last night it had been a long time since I really thought properly about you. I suppose it must be some kind of psychological self-preservation thing. One’s mind won’t allow one too close to the things one cannot bear to face.
But last night, it all unfurled again, that endless, nightmare carpet that led me here.
I knew I’d have to go through it again today. I knew everyone’s eyes would be on me, judging me, my day of reckoning.
To be honest, I’ve been shocked by the amount of interest there’s been in the whole thing. All those letters, all those messages. The few times I’ve ventured onto the internet I’ve found forums where people I don’t know discuss all aspects of it all—motivation, moral prerogative—as if you and I were characters in a play rather than real people. So I knew there would be a crowd, but I had no idea until I was driven there and saw the press of bodies outside, some with cameras, even TV cameras, exactly how big it was going to be.
You can’t imagine, Clive, how it felt to be in that room. Sitting trying to look as if I was concentrating on what was being said, but all the time aware that everyone was looking at me, crowds of jostling strangers, staring as if I was a character on their favorite soap, not as if I actually existed there in real life just feet away from them.
Oh silly me. Of course you can imagine it! You’re used to all that, you with your public-speaking background.
Mind you, the last time I saw you on the television, on the evening news, a few days ago, you were looking far from at ease, if you don’t mind me saying so. They’d filmed you climbing the steps of the courthouse, and you were almost hunched over as if not wanting to show your face. Just the top of your head was visible and I couldn’t help thinking how much thinner your hair has become. She was holding your hand, of course, and there was no matching shyness from her, as she smiled straight into the camera lenses, almost as if she’d been practicing. You must have been very proud of her, although I have to say you didn’t look it. You looked, and I almost hesitate to say this as I know how much you’ll hate it, but you looked smaller somehow. Diminished. She, in contrast, seemed enormous, an Amazon among women, gripping your hand with iron fingers.
Be careful what you wish for.
This room seems so hot, despite the cool October weather outside. I can’t get comfortable. I’m lying here propped up on one elbow, and all the muscles in my neck feel like they’re straining in the wrong direction. Yet one more consequence of getting older, I suppose.
There’s a photograph on the beside table, propped up against the reading light next to Jamie’s good luck card. It’s one Daniel brought me of the two of us with Tilly and Jamie on holiday in France seven years ago, so it predates you. I wonder if that’s why Daniel chose it. We’d rented a big house in the countryside near Bordeaux with two other families, an eccentric place that had once been a recording studio. There was a swimming pool outside and I remember we had to take turns to act as lifeguards because Jamie was only three or four and treacherously transfixed by the brilliant blue water. Tilly at eight was still young enough to be happy most of the time and to believe her parents were basically on her side. We are all sitting on the back steps of the house. Daniel and I on the lower step, Tilly and Jamie above us. I can’t remember who took the photograph. Must have been one of the other adults. Funny, I can’t even be sure exactly which friends they were. All the holidays from that time blend into one another in a blur of big Greek salads and chilled white wine.
Jamie is leaning over Daniel’s shoulder, laughing at something just out of sight. Possibly the person who took the picture was making one of those faces adults make when they want children to smile for photos. Daniel is looking slightly up at Jamie, and laughing probably just because Jamie is. Tilly’s still chubby arms are round my neck and her face is burrowed into my neck, blowing a raspberry most likely. But it is my own face I keep being drawn to. My mouth open in a roar of hilarity, my eyes all but lost to laughter lines. I am indisputably happy. I am unrecognizable.
Of course I know why Daniel chose this particular photo. To remind me, as if I needed reminding, of what I once had and what I’ve lost. I don’t blame him. I would have done the same.
But you know the odd thing, at the very same time as I mourn that Sunday supplement family in the photograph, I’m reminded of another memory from that same holiday, or one very much like it. We are driving along the autoroutes of Western France. The kids are overheating in the back of the car, uncomfortably trapped by excess pillows and sleeping bags. My feet are wedged into one side of the passenger footwell by a bag of last-minute provisions that wouldn’t fit anywhere else. At the wheel, Daniel, oblivious to the clammy irritability pervading the rest of the car, is humming to himself. Every now and again, he breaks off to read out a road sign. He has always fancied himself a linguist and he pronounces the names of the French towns with obscene, though clearly sincere, relish. Veeeeeeeeeeeeeeeldeeyuh (Villedieu), Aavronsh (Avranches). With every utterance, my stress levels are rising. I will him to stop, but he carries on. Leeeeeeeeeeemowj (Limoges). I have lost the circulation in my feet, the kids are squabbling fretfully in the back as I look down at the map and see that the next turnoff will be for a town called Châteaubriant. As soon as I have seen the name, I hear Daniel’s voice in my head saying it out loud “Shatowbreeeeeonte,” and I know, beyond all doubt, that if he does, I will throw open the car door and run and run and never stop. My whole body tenses as we get nearer to the turnoff and I await the first signpost to Châteaubriant. My knuckles on the road atlas are white with anticipation. Now, all these years later, I can’t remember what happened next, whether Daniel lost interest in pronouncing the French names, or whether he did and I somehow let it wash over me. But I still remember that clenched dread, that conviction that a breaking point had been reached.
Of all the things in life that cannot be relied upon (of which there are, let’s face it, many) memory is the most treacherous. (“And mothers,” whispers Tilly’s voice in my head. She’s right, of course. Memory and mothers.)
It seems inconceivable now that there was a time when my children weren’t real to me. Now the thought of them, the physicality of them, their smells, their hair, the flush on Tilly’s cheek when she’s just woken up, crowd my senses every waking moment. Sometimes I can feel Jamie’s hot middle-of-the-night breath on my face, or hear Tilly’s long drawn out “Mu-uuuuum” just as if she were right next to me. We always crave what we no longer have. Have you found that, Clive?
And what of your children? I’m not going to lie to you, I’ve searched in the news footage and the newspaper reports for mentions of Liam. I can understand Emily staying away, but I’d thought Liam might be there to support you. Please don’t think it gave me any pleasure that he wasn’t. The days when your discomfort was my only solace are long gone, Clive. I hope you can believe that.
Susan came to visit me once. I wonder if she told you.
I could have refused to see her, but of course I didn’t. What, turn down an opportunity to flay myself alive, my skin stripped and bleeding? Why would I do that?
I couldn’t meet her eyes, yet I didn’t want to look anywhere else either. Everywhere I looked there was evidence of what I’d done, the sudden sagging around the mouth, the dullness of her skin.
I’m sure you can imagine the dialogue that passed between us. Well, when I say dialogue, I really mean monologue. And when I say monologue, I really mean just a few lines, repeated over and over, as if sooner or later she must, by perseverance alone, unlock the answer she was looking for.
“Why?” That one came up a lot.
“I thought we were friends.”
And me, hackneyed as ever, with my one-word response.
“Sorry.” Sorry, sorry, sorry, and sorry again. A thousand sorries and none of them even scratching the surface.
You know what was funny though? As she was getting ready to leave, she turned to me with the strangest of looks. “I could have know
n,” she said to me, as if I should understand what she was talking about. “Did it never occur to you that I could have known if I wanted, but I just chose not to?”
I was dreading seeing Susan again today, if truth be told. I knew it was unlikely of course that she’d come, all those people gaping, those dreadful memories stirring. But still I couldn’t help scanning the crowd for her white-blonde hair (so much whiter now than before) or a flash of navy blue. I knew I couldn’t have spoken a word if I’d thought she was there, listening. It was bad enough as it was, sitting there knowing I was going to have to get up and answer all those questions, bring to life all those ghosts. I don’t know how you do it, Clive, really I don’t, all that public speaking, with every eye, every camera lens fixed on you. I do admire you for that.
I read a newspaper report just earlier this week where the reporter was describing your demeanor in the witness box. He said that you answered the questions put to you with a voice that was “practiced, but lacked conviction.” I thought that was a little harsh. It would be hard to rustle up much conviction in the circumstances.
The same reporter also described the way you arrived at the courthouse with her, yet didn’t look at her once during the entire proceedings. What was that about then, Clive? Guilt? Protectiveness? Surely not regret? He described her as “loyal” in her support. I had to smile then. The idea that you would place a premium on something like loyalty.
I’ve changed position now. My heart was beginning to race so uncomfortably I could almost see it moving through this formal, dark-gray jacket I still haven’t taken off. I was told to dress smartly, but as soon as I’d put it on this morning, I knew it was a mistake. It felt stiff and awkward, like I was wearing armor, which in a sense, I suppose I was. Still, I suppose it will come in useful. It’s a good funeral jacket.
My mind won’t switch itself off. I could murder a drink. You know some nights I dream I’m in the pub and when I wake up I can still taste the wine in my mouth, even though it’s been nearly fifteen months since I last had a drink. Other times though, I don’t really think about it.
Today has been an ordeal though, as I’m sure you can appreciate. All those long months shut up in that tiny room, all those meetings, all that preparation, knowing that it was all leading up to this one point. Well, it’s no wonder the pressure got to me. I know you’ll understand.
The first bit was okay, sitting there in my new funeral jacket, and safe last-minute black suede court shoes, while other people droned on (amazing how quickly even listening to talk about oneself can become boring). Looking down at my shoes, I thought of the girl I’d glimpsed on the way in, tottering past in towering red patent platforms, and suddenly I felt a stab of regret for all the shoes I’ll never wear—the ones with skinny gold ankle straps or purple velvet bows, or pencil-thin heels that wobble as one walks, like mini pole vaults clinging to the ground.
You know, every woman harbors hidden shoe aspirations. We may trudge around in our flip-flops or our comfortable UGGs, but in our heads, we’re convinced that some time in the future we’ll be transformed into the kind of woman who wears knee-high mock-snakeskin boots over jeans, or bubble-gum-pink high-heeled sandals. Accepting that I’ll never now be that woman felt like a kind of bereavement in a way. The shoes I’ll never wear, the paths I’ll never take—that kind of thing.
Imagine, thinking of shoes at a time like that! You must think I’ve completely lost my mind!
(Incidentally, I forgot to say how much I like the suit you were wearing in the news footage. Dark and sober, but with a subtle hint of pinstripe to give it that slight edge. Not your choice, I’d wager. You never were one for understatement.)
I could tell that it was getting near my time to talk by a gradual heightening of tension in the atmosphere and the way the people in the front started sitting up straighter and feeling around in their bags for tissues, for one last round of surreptitious nose blowing and coughing before the main event.
I’ve never been the main attraction before in anything and I have to say I found it quite terrifying. When my name was called, the woman squeezed in next to me put a hand on my arm and I realized it was visibly shaking. As I hauled myself to my feet, she gave me a look of such pure sympathy, my knees almost buckled. “The only way past it is through it,” she whispered, and it was strange how touching the platitude sounded to me, as if it was the very first time I’d heard it.
Looking out at all those curious faces, I thought for a moment I might not be able to go through with it. I longed to tear off this stupid jacket and bolt for the door (can you imagine how that would have gone down? Unhinged! they’d all have said, vindicated. We knew it all along!). But I fixed on a point on the back wall, and focused all my attention there just as I’d been advised, and somehow that seemed to do the trick.
Even so, when I started speaking, my voice squeezed from me in rough, dry lumps, like old toothpaste. I tried to pretend it didn’t matter and plowed on, hiding my trembling hands from sight.
At first the questions were gentle but, as I’d been warned, no sooner had I begun to relax than they became more probing, more insistent, until finally:
“Why did you do it, Ms. Islip? Was it for revenge?”
For a moment I faltered, swaying slightly, trying not to panic. Obviously it was revenge, replied the cynical voice in my head. Why else? But of course, I said nothing of the sort.
“No,” said my lying, lumpy voice. “You’ve got it totally wrong.”
Funny how, in the days when you were still desperate for me, you’d tease me for being such a reluctant liar. Yet now, I speak fluent falsehood. It’s a foreign language I’ve recently mastered. I wonder if you’d be pleased at how I’ve progressed, how much more like you I’ve become.
Scanning the faces in the crowd, I could see no one was buying it. Well, who could blame them? Still, the pantomime continued.
“Can you describe your feelings now, toward Clive Gooding?”
Of course I’d been waiting for this all along. I thought I was prepared, but even so, your name, spoken aloud like that, hit me like a slap, like a spat expletive. Don’t take this the wrong way, Clive, but if the man had yelled out the word “CUNT” across the hushed room it couldn’t have felt more shocking. But you know, even the shock couldn’t completely prevent me appreciating the comedy of the question. One time if I’d been asked to describe my feelings for you, I could have listed every emotion in the dictionary—good, bad, appalling even, and it still wouldn’t have even come close. But now? Well, when my brain whirrs through all the options, I have to say I struggle to find even one that rings true. Do you know, I rather think the correct answer to the question “describe your feelings toward Clive Gooding” might well turn out to be “none”? But of course, that is not what I actually said.
“I’m sorry...” I mumbled, before collecting myself and remembering the lines I’d rehearsed.
“Mr. Gooding was a close friend,” I recited in my dried toothpaste voice. “I will always wish him well.”
There was a distant murmur then among the crowd after I said that, like tall, malignant trees rustling in the breeze. This, after all, was what they had come for. They were finally scenting blood.
I knew what was coming, of course. I knew what everyone was thinking. Prison is such a vested concept, don’t you agree? How the blameless thrill at the thought of the clanging of the doors, the stark clicking of locks, the clanking of key chains—the hard, metallic sound punishment makes. (Of course, you and I know different—the soft sound of boredom and of people crying into pillows.)
I could feel the anticipation in the room building. Would it be over the top to say it felt as if they were closing in for the kill? Of course it would. My apologies. Like I said, I’ve been so overwrought today.
Still standing, one of my legs started going into spasm, quivering like something battery operated. I wondered if everyone could see it, even those at the back. There was a woman in the third row chewing
gum. I watched her jaw move rhythmically and saw myself through her blank stare, the spectacle I had become, the spontaneous happening, Trafalgar Square’s Fourth Plinth, with out-of-control-leg. I tried to make myself breathe properly. What was that Helen Bunion used to say? Something about breathing and stomachs? Instinctively I inhaled a huge lungful of air and tried to let it out as slowly as I could.
Exhale. Exhale. Exhale.
While I was concentrating on exhaling the next question came, just as I knew it would.
“Ms. Islip, do you have any comment to make on Clive Gooding’s sentence?”
I want you to know, Clive, that I never wanted you to go to prison. It wasn’t me who pressed charges. I know you’re well aware of that, but I think it stands repeating. I wouldn’t want there to be any doubt. I wouldn’t want you thinking any of this was fueled by spite. Although, having said that, I can’t altogether feel sorry for you either. You puffed yourself up so big that it was surely inevitable you must eventually burst.
I did wince when I heard the charge though. Soliciting Grievous Bodily Harm. It makes you sound like a common thug! How you’ll hate that. But like I said before, the legal action wasn’t anything to do with me. The Crown Prosecution Service was like a dog with a bone, it really was. I have to say I rather think your high profile might have counted against you in this instance.
Anyway, I believe you might get a lot of mileage out of the whole prison experience when you’ve had a chance to come to terms with it. You’re something of a cell-block celebrity in there, so I’ve heard. Once you settle in, I’m sure you’ll find a way of making it work for you like you always do. Look on it as a kind of career break. That’s what I would do. It is possible to rebuild oneself from scratch, you know, even after something like this. That at least is something I have learned. And eighteen months really isn’t such a long time when you think about it.
