by Karen Osman
*
Kate dressed carefully. She had found some of her old clothes from years ago and was surprised they still fit after she’d had two children. But she still had a decent figure, she had just been too busy to notice, covering it up in whatever was closest to hand, usually leggings and warm jumpers. High heels had also become alien to her but the heeled boots she had paired with her jeans made her legs look long and lean. The girls had been in bed since 7 p.m. and she’d had a little time to get ready. Her husband was already immersed in the TV, which she could hear from her bedroom. Some car programme, by the sound of it. As Kate said goodbye, picked up her bag and left the house, she felt a pang of sadness that he had barely even noticed that she was dressed up. But this was immediately superseded by stirrings of excitement, her previous resolution completely forgotten now that her children were safely tucked up in bed.
The North-East weather was harsh, especially in January, and Kate braced herself for the cold. But nothing could chill that slightly giddy feeling her newfound freedom had brought her. Mr Barnes had offered to meet on Elvet Bridge so they could walk to the book club together. She had had every intention of telling him she couldn’t make it but when she rang to cancel, he sounded so excited that she was going that she didn’t have the heart to disappoint him.
He had explained that it was held at a different member’s house each month. This month it was at Cara’s. Cara worked at the main library. ‘Bohemian and eccentric’ was how he had described her, and Kate had imagined an older lady who wore mismatched clothes and her hair in a long plait. However, the curvaceous but petite brunette who greeted them at the door was in her early twenties and had the dewy skin of someone who got a full eight hours’ sleep each night. While her long hair was indeed plaited, it fell to the side with escaped loose waves framing her undeniably pretty face. Rolled up jeans exposed her slender ankles and painted toenails, while the woollen crop top gave a hint of firm, tanned skin. Isn’t she cold? Kate thought, and then mentally chastised herself for slipping into the mother role so easily.
‘Welcome!’ greeted Cara, kissing Mr Barnes on each cheek. ‘Hello! You must be Kate – come on in!’ Kate idly wondered how the two of them had met.
The house was warm and inviting. Hues of pastel peach covered the walls, while two Venetian masks hung over the fireplace. A sensual line-up of black-and-white Athena posters framed the back wall, while the bookcase was stuffed full of books. It was the type of place Kate might have chosen, should she have lived on her own, she thought wistfully: a feminine retreat where there was nothing to do but relax and enjoy your own company.
Seated on the sofa were two young men, one of whom was playing with a Rubik’s Cube and didn’t bother to look up when Cara introduced Kate. The other, a student called Ronald, stood up to greet her. Along with his good manners, Kate noticed his clothes looked expensive. Despite political and cultural boundaries being pushed to their limits in Thatcher’s Britain, university was still much more accessible to the rich.
Cara inserted herself between Ronald and the Rubik-playing guy on the sofa, while indicating to Kate to take a seat on the cane Cesca chair. Playfully pushing ‘Rubik’ from the couch onto the floor, Cara indicated that Mr Barnes should take his place, embracing him again warmly before animatedly involving him in conversation. That left Kate to talk to Ronald.
‘So, have you been to a book club before, Kate?’ asked Ronald.
‘Actually, no,’ replied Kate, slightly distracted as Mr Barnes leant his head in to hear Cara speak.
‘Well, we actually don’t talk about the book much,’ continued Ronald. ‘We have a few drinks, listen to some music, talk about politics and chill out. Are you a student as well, then?’
‘No, well, not really. I have been attending Mr Barnes’s writing class.’
‘Ah, that explains it,’ Ronald said, so ominously that Kate wondered what he was referring to.
‘He’s never brought someone before,’ explained Ronald as he caught Kate’s quizzical look. ‘And Cara knows all his usual students. She was curious.’
Kate glanced over at Cara and Mr Barnes. Fully engrossed, Rubik had his head bent over the cube, furiously trying to match the colours, while Cara absent-mindedly stroked Rubik’s hair, much like stroking a dog. Well, he had got the eccentric part right. Cara was speaking passionately but quietly to Mr Barnes, who was listening intently. Glancing up, he smiled at Kate as if to say, See? I told you she was slightly strange! Mollified, Kate turned her attention back to Ronald, who was asking her what she thought of the book.
‘Yes, the book,’ said Mr Barnes, catching wind of their conversation. ‘Cara, what do you think? Shall we try and spend at least half an hour discussing the book this time? We are a book club, after all,’ he teased. Joining in, Cara pretended to sulk, her bottom lip slightly protruding into a pout. The men laughed and Kate wondered what was so funny.
‘OK, but let’s get drinks first,’ said Cara. ‘Long Island Iced Tea, everyone?’
Without waiting for anyone to answer, Cara stood up and walked to the open-plan kitchen. As the men started chatting, Kate was unsure what to do. Eventually, she stood up, and asked Cara if she could do anything to help. Thatcher’s Britain it might be, but ingrained habits were hard to break.
‘Thanks – that’s good of you. That lot never lift a finger. If you could get the lemons from the fridge and the ice from the freezer—’
Her words were interrupted as music blared out from the speaker in the living room. Kate recognised the voluminous pump of ‘Rhythm of the Night’ and as she pulled out the lemons from the fridge, she heard Cara say to her, ‘So you’re the latest new student?’ More of a statement than a question, her words sounded false to Kate’s ears. She wondered if Cara was implying something else.
‘Yes, I’ve been attending his writing classes at the local college.’
‘Really,’ said Cara, her perfectly groomed eyebrows lifting a fraction. ‘Well, I hope you’re enjoying your studying?’ Did she imagine it, or was there a slight emphasis on the word ‘studying’.
‘Yes, it’s great to be back in a classroom again. I had a place at university but I didn’t take it up when I had my daughter.’
‘Such a shame,’ responded Cara, and this time there was no doubt that Kate could hear the pity in her voice. Cara was starting to make the cocktails when the doorbell rang. It was amazing they could hear it over the music.
‘Kate, could you get that?’
‘No problem,’ replied Kate, happy to escape further conversation. She opened the door to reveal several students standing on the doorstep, their cigarette smoke piercing the cold air.
‘Hello,’ said Kate. ‘Cara’s inside.’
With a quick nod, they trooped in without speaking, four boys and two girls. Two of the boys were dressed as punks while the girls looked like they were heading for a night on the town rather than to a book club. For a brief moment, Kate had a harrowing insight into what her future may look like with her daughters as young teenagers.
‘Everything all right?’ asked Mr Barnes when she joined him in the living room. Kate could hardly hear him. The music was blasting and she wondered what the next-door neighbours would think. Someone handed her a Long Island Iced Tea and as she looked around the room, she felt a decade older than the group instead of just a few years. Many of them were now dancing, their limbs matching the thump of the music.
‘Yes, I’m fine, thanks, although when you said the words “book club” I had imagined something slightly different,’ she shouted.
‘Yes, sorry about that,’ replied Mr Barnes, equally loudly. ‘Cara has failed one of her papers so she’s gone into party mode.’
Sipping her Long Island Iced Tea, Kate felt herself relax as the concoction of spirits began to infiltrate her blood stream. As the music continued, she began to sway to the music and Mr Barnes led her onto the space cleared as a dance floor. Drink still in hand, she sipped it through a straw and didn’t protest
when someone handed her another one. Mr Barnes danced with her and as the person’s face in front of her changed and became Rubik, and then one of the punks, Kate realised she was having a good time. When was the last time she had danced? She could see Mr Barnes in the corner talking to one of the students. She lifted her arms above her head and winked at him. Smiling, he winked in return before she turned back to the group, who were now dancing to Wham’s ‘Wake Me Up Before You Go-Go’. All of sudden, the music stopped and the sultry sounds of ‘Careless Whisper’ changed the mood. A chorus of boos went up, but Cara insisted, grabbing Mr Barnes by the hand and slow dancing with him. Before Kate could do anything Rubik grabbed her arm and tried to dance with her, though his glazed eyes told her he would have no recollection of her tomorrow. She saw Cara lay her head on Mr Barnes’s shoulder. Just how close were they, Kate wondered. The realisation that she knew nothing about her writing teacher sobered her up. Excusing herself from Rubik’s grip, she grabbed her boots, which she had flung off during the evening, pulled them on and headed for the door, collecting her coat on the way She opened the front door and slipped out into the night. The cold air was piercing, and she drew a sharp intake of breath, the sharpness sobering her senses. Turning to walk home, she thought how lucky she was to have got a glimpse of the real Mr Barnes before it was too late. It had been fun but she had children and a husband at home. Hearing footsteps behind her, Kate panicked. But the familiar call of her name made her turn round. Mr Barnes was jogging towards her.
‘Kate, where are you going?’
‘Home,’ she replied.
‘I’m so sorry,’ he said. ‘I know that wasn’t the best introduction to the group – it’s usually a little more civilised than that.’
‘Not at all,’ replied Kate, coolly. ‘I had a good evening – it was just time for me to leave.’ She tried to take the ice out of her voice. What was her problem? She was a married woman and Mr Barnes could slow dance with whomever he chose.
‘I’m sorry about Cara,’ he said. ‘She was rude. She gets like that when things aren’t going well with her work.’
‘I thought she worked in the library,’ said Kate.
‘She does, but she’s also a Ph.D. student.’
‘Are you one of her lecturers?’ asked Kate.
‘Not officially, but she often comes to me when she needs help.’ Kate stayed silent, not really sure what he meant. ‘Hey,’ he said, gently. ‘Are you OK?’
As he turned her to face him, Kate saw the concern in his eyes. In the distance, the lights of the bars and restaurants glimmered, a perfect backdrop to Elvet Bridge. Neither of them spoke. She felt his hand gently on her cheek, their breaths showing up as clouds intermingling in the cold.
‘Are you happy, Kate?’ he whispered. Kate’s thoughts battled with each other, her head spinning. She wasn’t sure if it was from the cocktails or the closeness of him. ‘She means nothing to me,’ he went on. ‘You, on the other hand…’ His words trailed off. ‘From the minute I met you, I thought you were the most beautiful woman I had ever seen. Then I discovered you could write.’
Kate stopped thinking. As his lips came down on hers, she felt her own passion rise to meet his. Her hands ran up the bulk of his chest, while he cradled her face, his tongue probing deeper and deeper. After what seemed like a lifetime, they pulled apart. Breathless, Kate felt her hand in his as he walked her part of the way home.
‘Better not come any further,’ he said, when they had reached the end of her street. ‘I’ll call you.’ With a brief kiss, he was gone.
Chapter 25
Catherine
7 February 2011
Dear Catherine,
How are you? I’m glad to hear you had a great New Year. Normally, I would be happy just to tick another year off the calendar but I’m hoping this year I will be up for parole. I suspect I will have to meet with the parole board and plead a case. I don’t have an exact date yet, but possibly in June or July. I will keep you posted if I hear any news.
Your last letter really struck a chord with me and I thought about what you said for a long time: ‘Our unconscious mind will always bring the truth to the surface.’ Now at night, instead of being irritated with all the noise, I imagine a series of truth clouds floating around the prison as the inmates release their darkest, most hidden secrets through their shouts and screams. But the truth clouds have nowhere to escape and simply return to their owners, reminding them of their crimes.
I have been wondering if I contribute to the noise – if my crime causes me to release my own truth cloud. I’m sure it did at one point. Over the years, I have woken up on many an occasion with a pounding heart and also went through several periods of insomnia. Whether I was too frightened to sleep or kept awake by my imagination, it was torture. It got so bad, I ended up hallucinating and became so paranoid, the prison sent me to the psychiatric ward. Needless to say, that was a low period, which went on for months. I’m still prone to it now, but am able to manage it better and I think over the years, as the privileges increase, it becomes easier. But eleven hours a day in isolation, which is typically what most high-risk inmates do, certainly in the first few years, can incite a form of madness. Afterwards, I did some reading on the topic of isolation. It’s designed to make prisoners think and reflect on their crime. And I have to agree, it’s a very effective method.
I suppose the point I’m trying to make (in a very long-winded way) is that for some reason, I feel compelled to reassure you that I have spent time thinking. There’s not a day that goes by when I don’t remember what I did – all I can say is that I wasn’t in my right mind at the time. That’s not an excuse, just fact. Over the years, I have had so much time to try to make sense of it all and learn to live with it, as I’m forced to do every day. Some days are harder than others but that is my battle now and I choose to fight it.
The weekly visit of the priest helps. It’s twenty minutes of the week where I am not being judged, simply listened to. When you’re considered the scum of society with no understanding as to the reasons that led you to commit the crime in the first place, those precious minutes of confession, compassion and tolerance become a lifeline – much like your letters. I have to say you must be a very special person to reach out and volunteer. And if I haven’t said it before, I’d like to thank you for being one of the very few who is able to see me as a human being.
Michael
15 February 2011
Dear Michael,
That’s good news about your potential parole date and it will certainly give you something to look forward to and work towards.
Thank you for your last letter. I have to admit it took me some time to digest your words and I wanted to think as carefully as you have about some of the topics you raised.
While it must be difficult to go through such isolation, it’s good to hear that you feel it’s effective. So often we read in the newspapers that prisons are a waste of taxpayers’ money and that a whole new world of crime exists in such places. It’s even common to read about all the comforts an inmate receives, with some of the more sensational papers comparing them to a hotel!
I cannot pretend to empathise with your experience but your descriptions have given me a little more understanding about life on the inside. I’m just happy to hear that my letters are helping in some way and providing another touch point with the outside world. My reasons for volunteering – and I do a lot of it! – are purely for self-interest I’m afraid. It keeps me busy and gives me some sort of purpose in life. As I understand it, the letters are a way of preparing inmates for life after they’re released and it gives me pleasure to be able to help in some way. After all, as the rehabilitation centre told me, the more support a released prisoner has, the less likely they are to offend again, which can only be a good thing for everyone.
Catherine
Slipping into bed that night, Catherine thought about Michael’s last letter. His talk of thinking about his crime had surprised her, although
he hadn’t actually mentioned repenting. And what did he mean when he wrote: ‘… with no understanding of the reasons that led him to commit the crime in the first place…’?
She had read somewhere that prison staff checked most letters sent and received by prisoners. Perhaps this was a technique he had used to prepare for his parole board? They had to be convinced that he wasn’t a danger to society any more, and what better way than to gain empathy and make them believe the prison system worked? While a part of Catherine knew Michael would never really have a normal life, even after his release, he would still be a walking, living human being, unlike his victim. And there would never be a concrete guarantee that he wouldn’t do it again to someone else. The rehabilitation centre had warned her that writing to a prisoner – especially to one committed for such a serious offence – wouldn’t necessarily be straightforward. Catherine recalled the volunteer manager’s words over the phone:
‘Throughout the process of letter exchange, you will have negative thoughts, doubts, questions, fear, and judgement. At the other end of the spectrum, you may also start to develop positive feelings towards the prisoner. We had one volunteer who even fell in love with the inmate, despite never meeting him. As well as being volunteers, we are human, after all, but it’s important to maintain a sense of self and not become too involved in their lives. You are there purely for support purposes.’
The statement hadn’t meant very much to Catherine at the time – she was just keen to get her application approved to write to Michael – but now it was vividly brought to her mind.
Michael’s open, honest accounts and descriptive prose about life on the inside were so much more than she had expected. They had been writing for over half a year now and if his parole date did come in June or July, that was just five or six months away. She was glad she had managed to create some kind of connection with him and she had no doubt that letter writing, rather than email, made for a deeper, more personal relationship. While she had embraced the digital era – her tendency towards efficiency demanded it – she had secretly mourned the decreasing use of the more traditional pen and paper. Despite receiving an e-reader as a gift from Helen, she still preferred the solid comfort of a proper book and all her notes and lists were done by hand. She didn’t keep a diary any more – she had given that up years ago, telling herself she didn’t have the time or the luxury to write a diary. She suspected, though, that she just wanted to do a different type of writing – something that was more meaningful and had a result as opposed to the rather pointless chronicling of her own thoughts.
