A Song of Isolation

by Michael Malone

  Better?

  Not even close.

  She reached for the TV remote and switched it on in an attempt to distract herself. The screen flashed into life, and there she saw a male and female host sitting at one end of a large table. Her name was mentioned.

  What the…?

  Part of her mind searched for context, another screamed at her to press the red button, while the rubbernecker part of her psyche held everything still. She needed to know.

  The camera panned to a young woman at the other end of the table. Blonde hair cut in a short bob that was as even and straight as her teeth. The woman was wearing a black turtleneck sweater with a large, silver, peace-sign pendant over her chest.

  Amelie was aware of her mouth dropping open. She didn’t need to read the tag at the bottom of the screen to recognise Vanessa Court, a young actress she’d shared one scene with in her big movie, The Story So Far.

  ‘Tell us about your time working with Amelie Hart,’ the male host asked. ‘Were you friends?’

  ‘Initially, we really hit it off, like, massively,’ Vanessa breathed. Then the screen cut to an Instagram post of the two of them, big smiles, heads together, the sun a halo behind their heads, and with the hashtag #besties. ‘But it soon, like…’ Vanessa paused and adopted an expression that was designed to read, I’m trying to be kind here. ‘She wouldn’t talk to me on set … wouldn’t return my calls.’

  ‘Because you were a bloody egotistical nut job,’ Amelie screamed at the set. She finally got her thumb to work and she turned the TV off.

  Her phone rang. It was Lisa.

  ‘I hope you’re not watching Breakfast TV?’

  ‘I caught about a minute of it,’ Amelie answered.

  ‘What in the actual hell is going on with her?’ Lisa said. ‘Besties? And a black turtleneck? When did you ever see Vanessa wear anything that didn’t show off her tits? Anyone who knows her will see what she’s wearing and know she’s lying through her shiny little veneers.’

  Amelia couldn’t help herself. She turned the TV back on.

  It opened with a moment from the movie. It was from their one scene together. Sharing a hug. The camera cut to Vanessa’s face, which was arranged in a hopeful expression. Then it moved to Amelie’s face. She, in contrast, looked like she couldn’t wait to get away from this woman.

  ‘Oh, for crying out loud,’ Amelie shouted, aware how that might present to the viewing audience. ‘That was the character in a bloody movie.’

  ‘Have you turned it back on?’ Lisa demanded in her ear.

  ‘When Miss Hart turned her back on the movie industry, the whole world thought she had gone mad. She was on the brink of amazing things. A follow-up that was going to earn millions. More and more lucrative deals with fashion and perfume brands … Did she talk her retirement over with you?’ the female host asked.

  Amelie recalled a short conversation with Vanessa while they were both at a charity awards dinner. It was the last thing Amelie wanted to do but it was for breast-cancer awareness. Her mother had died from the disease so she felt she had to attend.

  ‘I told her she was nuts,’ Vanessa replied to the interviewer.

  Which was true. She had.

  ‘Her mother had just died a few months earlier after a long battle with breast cancer,’ Vanessa continued. ‘And I told her that to make such a massive decision during, like, such a difficult time might turn out to be a mistake.’

  Up to that point Amelie had told none of her acting colleagues about her mother’s illness. Why she had confided in this conniv­ing bitch in the ladies at the awards ceremony, was beyond her. The wine, it could only have been the wine.

  Vanessa’s interviewers looked sympathetic to this for just a moment, but then, as if he realised this wasn’t the agenda, the male host asked, ‘Did you ever meet David Robbins, the paedophile?’

  ‘Alleged paedophile,’ the female host corrected; an eloquently raised right eyebrow suggested she believed it was only time before the allegation turned into a conviction.

  ‘Just once at another charity affair. I didn’t like him.’ Vanessa made a face.

  ‘As far as I could see you were thrusting your boobs into his face every time he came near you,’ Amelie shouted.

  ‘Turn it off,’ Lisa said.

  ‘Apologies to our viewers.’ The camera focused on the TV hosts. The man was speaking, one hand pressed to his left ear as if listen­ing to a message from the team in the background. ‘This is a live case, and we have to cut that conversation off there.’

  His expression was apologetic, but his colleague was wearing a smile of pleasure. They’d got something on live television that people would be talking about for weeks.

  Chapter 18

  As soon as Damaris got in from school she ran all the way up to her bedroom, slammed the door shut behind her and fell onto her bed.

  Ever since … whatever happened, happened, all the teachers at her school had been acting weird. It was a relief to get away from their assessing eyes.

  ‘Everything fine there, Damaris?’

  ‘Anything we can get you, Damaris?’

  ‘Anytime you need to talk, Damaris, come and see me, eh?’ That was the head, in one sentence effectively tripling the number of words she’d spoken to Damaris all the time she’d been at the school.

  After Dave moved out – she couldn’t even say the words ‘went to jail’ in her head – her mum had kept her off school for a couple of weeks. But then Damaris had begged to be allowed to go back. At first it was cool, to be left at home to do what she wanted: watching movies all day, eating her favourite snacks at every meal. But, surprisingly, that grew boring and she wanted to be back with her friends, talking about the latest celebs, gossiping about the other girls – you know, normal life.

  ‘Honey…’ A knock at her bedroom door.

  ‘What, Dad?’

  ‘Can I come in?’ he asked as he opened the door.

  ‘Already are,’ Damaris mumbled and lay back on her bed, head on the pillow, hands clasped over her stomach.

  She watched as her father padded across the carpet and sat on the bed beside her.

  ‘How was school today?’ he asked.

  ‘Fine.’

  ‘Speak to any of the girls? What did you get up to?’

  ‘Nothing.’

  ‘What did you learn?’

  ‘Nothing.’

  ‘You were all day in school and you learned nothing? What subjects was the teacher covering?’

  Damaris assessed her father, his hands clasped before him, the way he tilted his head in her direction. Why was he being so awkward with her? Why was everyone so awkward with her?

  ‘Just the usual boring stuff.’

  ‘Like what?’

  ‘Nothing really.’

  Her father rested a hand on her forearm. She felt the weight of it, solid and reassuring, and she wanted nothing more than to jump up off the bed and into his arms for a good long hug. That’s what she always used to do, but now it felt different. As if it might not be welcome. As if there was something wrong with her now.

  Since…

  ‘You know you can talk to me,’ her dad said, his face long. He needed a shave. And to take off his tie and unfasten that top button that way he always did when he came back from work.

  ‘And you can talk to me, Dad.’

  At that he managed a chuckle, and gripped her arm a little tighter. Gave it a shoogle. But his smile was a weak, sad thing. A clown in half make-up.

  ‘Are we going to be okay, Dad?’ A remembered conversation jumped into her head, from where she couldn’t remember. ‘We’re not going to lose our house, are we?’

  ‘Whatever makes you ask that, D? Of course we’re not going to lose our house.’ He twisted in his seating position so that he was fully facing her. ‘Where on earth did you get that idea from?’

 
; Something told Damaris to make something up, and fast; she didn’t want him to know she’d been eavesdropping.

  ‘One of the boys at school. His dad … and something … and anyway, he lost his house and had to move in with his granddad.’

  ‘Oh man, can you imagine moving in with your grandfather?’

  Damaris loved her granddad and thought this was a strange thing to say, but sensing this was not a time to debate the issue she just smiled.

  Dad turned away for a moment as if there was something he wanted to say but wasn’t quite sure how to.

  ‘I just wanted to make sure you were … alright,’ he managed eventually.

  Damaris loved it when Dad used to lie on the bed beside her, both of them on their backs, staring at the ceiling, the weight of him at her side making her roll towards him slightly. Occasionally during their aimless chat he’d nudge her foot with the side of his leg, or he’d push at her gently with an elbow, then they’d turn to each other and share a smile.

  More than anything she wanted that to happen.

  That was normal, but it felt like her life would never get back to normal ever again.

  Chapter 19

  The small TV in his cell was on pretty much twenty-four hours a day. It was the only way he could hope to dim the sounds in his head. Even then he could watch several hours of shit daytime television and lose track of who was getting what trinket at auction, how many letters there were in the word ‘countdown’, and who preferred home or away for their future living.

  He’d tried, and failed, to meditate; and you could only do so many press-ups and sit-ups, so despite the many ways he attempted to distract himself, his mind ran on a loop: How could this happen to him? How could Damaris accuse him of this? Why would anyone believe it?

  He had wondered about throwing himself down the stairs on the way to rec, but thought he’d probably only break an arm or something. Then he’d tried to choke on a piece of fish at dinner, fantasising as he did so about all the people who would queue up to apologise at his funeral for not believing in him. Of course it failed. How could you force yourself to choke? All he ended up doing was bringing up his dinner and giving himself a sore throat.

  And he hated himself for succumbing to suicidal ideation. He was better than that. He would see this out and show himself to be the man of character he believed he was.

  Thoughts of Amelie were bittersweet. They had such a good time together and he had so many good memories, but while he still loved her he was clear-sighted enough to notice her moods and read that their relationship had soured.

  In the weeks leading up to the incident he had wasted a lot of energy trying to convince himself that everything would turn out okay. That all Amelie needed to do to return to a sense of herself was go back to work.

  ‘You didn’t end your career on your own terms,’ he had argued.

  ‘What do you mean?’ Her words were clipped with a defensive tone.

  ‘Sorry, sweetheart, I don’t mean to—’

  ‘What do you mean?’

  ‘It was your dream, yeah?’

  A nod as she crossed her arms.

  ‘The non-stop online abuse, the letters from that freak, all the catty comments from TV hosts, and your mum dying…’ As Dave recounted the words he also remembered the trepidation he was feeling at the time. Amelie wouldn’t want to hear this, but he felt he had to say what was on his mind. ‘That was a pretty potent combination of events, and it all kind of got jumbled in your head.’

  ‘Oh, give me peace.’ She lay back on the sofa. Examined her nails. ‘Those letters were awful, to be fair.’ A shadow cut the light in her eyes, her skin paled to the colour of putty and it made Dave wonder if there was more to this than she was telling him. What else had happened to her?

  The letters arrived every day for months. At least ten pages, hand written in purple ink, on A4 lined paper, all of them detail­ing what sex acts the writer would like to do to her.

  ‘He must have spent all day, every day writing them.’

  Amelie shuddered.

  ‘And then your mum died.’

  ‘Don’t, Dave,’ she warned.

  ‘Can’t you see? You have this massive sense of disconnection or something…’ And it feels like I’m bearing the brunt of it, he wanted to add.

  ‘I do not.’

  ‘And it comes from that big stew of horribleness.’

  ‘Sounds like our school meals.’ Amelie tried to laugh it off.

  ‘I think you should think about going back to work.’

  She’d looked at him for a long moment, shook her head and stood up. ‘I could murder a coffee. Want something?’

  Conversation over.

  Twelve o’clock. Lunch. His stomach rumbled and he groaned at the thought that he was already being conditioned to jail time. His cell door opened, but he waited for a moment before going out, bracing himself against the thought of being back among his fellow prisoners. Or beasts as the rest of the prison population termed them.

  His stomach rumbled again, and thinking, Let’s get this over with, he stood up, stepped out, and made for the pantry at the end of the section.

  As he passed one cell door he noticed the inhabitant was stand­ing at the doorway as if frozen. The man was hunched over at the waist, fingertips trailing the floor like a life-size puppet waiting to be reanimated.

  Unsure what to do, Dave paused. Instinctively he reached out and touched the man on the shoulder, then realising what he had just done he retrieved his hand, wiped it on the side of his trousers and asked, ‘Need a hand?’

  Nothing.

  He heard a scuff of feet behind him and then a chuckle. ‘He’s wasted, mate. Totally on the spice.’ Dave turned to see another prisoner, his face filled with glee at the thought of this other guy’s predicament. ‘He’ll be fucking ruined, mate, once he comes aff it.’ He chuckled again. ‘What a roaster.’ And continued down the corridor to be served his lunch.

  The callousness of the other man’s attitude set Dave back. Better get used to it, he thought. Then he thrust his hands deep into his pockets, as if he was pushing down his urge to help a fellow human being ever again, and made his way down to the pantry.

  Waiting in the queue there, he felt someone come close. Too close. The moist heat of their breath on his neck. The man spoke, his voice calculated so that no one else would hear. ‘Saw your missus on telly this morning. Fucking beautiful, by the way. Did she know you were a beast?’

  Dave stepped back, standing on the other man’s foot. Hard. And was rewarded with a grunt of pain. According to the gossip this guy was a serial rapist, with at least six victims.

  ‘Ya big prick. Ah’ll fuckin’ have you.’ The man was on one knee, face turned up to Dave, expression in a snarl as he nursed his sore foot.

  ‘Everything alright there, Mark?’ A guard moved closer.

  ‘Aye, boss,’ Mark replied as he got to his feet. He shot Dave a look that promised retribution. Dave stared him down, everything clenched, and it was all he could do not to launch himself at the man and give him the kicking of his life.

  ‘What about you, Dave? Cos I don’t want to have to remove TVs from anybody’s cells…’

  ‘Hunky dory, boss,’ replied Dave, forcing himself to relax. ‘This guy was just asking how to join my girlfriend’s fan club.’ He spoke just loudly enough for everyone around him to hear. ‘Think he got the message.’ Then he gathered his food from the passman and ignoring a tremble of adrenaline in his hands, he walked back to his cell.

  The attention from his fellow inmates was ramping up. He’d better brace himself, because the next time it would surely involve much more than harsh words.

  Chapter 20

  Damaris ran up to her attic bedroom, jumped on her bed and leaned over the far end to pluck out the notebook she kept hidden under the mattress there. She loved the thing, not because it was a
genuine movie star who bought it for her last birthday, but because it was covered in dark-blue leather, the pages were lined and the paper had a nice heavy feel to it when you turned them; and it smelled gorgeous.

  She held it to her nose to confirm that was still the case and breathed in.

  So nice.

  Then she found the pen that came with it – dark blue to match, with a tiny, pink voile tutu on the end – and thought about every­thing she needed to write down about that night’s sleepover.

  All the girls were coming – Vanda, Louise, Helen, Simone, and Jo – and she was so excited. It was so great that something nice was happening. In careful script she wrote down each girl’s full name on a separate line and then beside their name what she knew were their favourite snacks.

  Because you couldn’t have a sleepover without snacks.

  That was the law, right?

  Vanda and Jo loved Haribo. Simone loved chocolate. Well, everybody loved chocolate. And everybody loved cheese and onion Pringles.

  Pringles, chocolate, and Pepsi. Surely Dad could remember that much when he went out later for the shopping. It was a bit of a family joke that whenever he went to the supermarket he would forget something, even when it was written down for him. Three items would surely be okay. Four, with added Haribo. Everything was better with added Haribo.

  Food taken care of, Damaris tucked her notebook back in its place and headed over to the stack of DVDs at the side of her TV, where she ran a finger down the spines, wondering which ones to place at the top, and would therefore be more likely to be chosen. Which really wasn’t much of a decision. It had been a while since she’d watched any of the Twilight movies, and surely everyone would want to get back in to the Bella, Edward and Jacob mood?

  Next, she opened the blanket box at the end of her bed and pulled out two quilts and a sleeping bag. One of the girls – when they eventually went to sleep that was – could share the bed with her and the other three could pick from the other bedding and camp out on the floor.