A Song of Isolation

by Michael Malone

  ‘I’m sorry,’ she mumbled while pulling her sunglasses from her handbag and putting them on. ‘I have to go.’ She pushed through the pack and ran down the stairs, saw that Peter had had enough time to bring his car round and ran towards it.

  ‘Thanks,’ she managed when she got in the back.

  Faces and cameras were all round the car, peering in, mouths moving in shouted questions.

  ‘How do you put up with this?’ Peter asked. ‘Parasites.’ And as if he didn’t care if he ran someone down he revved the engine and pulled away from the kerb. ‘Do you want to come to ours, Amelie, or are you going back to your hotel?’ Peter asked her as he looked in the rear-view mirror.

  ‘The hotel, please, Peter. Thanks.’

  ‘You sure, dear?’ Norma said. ‘It’s no trouble.’

  ‘Thanks, Norma.’ Amelie reached to the front passenger seat and patted her on the shoulder.

  ‘Hotel rooms are so impersonal, I find,’ Norma said.

  Amelie was so used to them in her old job, their impersonal nature sometimes suited her. Besides, once she’d disgorged the contents of her suitcase around the space it did sort of feel like her bedroom at home.

  ‘I just need to close the curtains and crawl under the covers for a few hours,’ Amelie replied. ‘But thanks. I appreciate the offer.’

  She pulled her phone out of her handbag and switched it on. There were two messages. The first was from the old lady with a cottage the other side of the courtyard from her: Mrs Thomson. She was seeing to George while Amelie was staying in town. Mrs Thomson let her know that George was fine and that he’d even mastered a new sound to let her know he was hungry.

  Amelie smiled at this, and found a moment’s relief in that simple pleasure. Bless you, Mrs Thomson, she thought.

  Her next text was from Lisa, telling her to check what was hap­pening on Twitter. Amelie sighed. She still thought of this as a ‘new’ online platform although Lisa had been using it, she said, ‘for ages’ and struggled with the point of the whole thing. Amelie replied with: Really?

  Almost immediately a reply pinged on her screen.

  There was a leak to the press re Mamma Brown. Would you believe it?

  Realising what this meant, and wondering what it might mean to Dave, she brought the app up on her phone and started scan­ning through it.

  People were talking about the migrant crises, the possible spread of Ebola into the West, and with Prince Harry turning thirty-one people were speculating if he’d ever get married.

  What was she supposed to be looking for here?

  Trending topics. That was the term Lisa had used during her short tutorial. She scrolled to where they might be and found her name was highlighted. With a surge of worry she tapped it and a long list of entries appeared. One was for an article from the Telegraph. The headline read ‘Mother in Robbins Trial in Shock Literary Approach’. Below that it provided more detail, giving the date of the alleged assault and the date of the emails she sent out to literary agents.

  The article had been shared over two thousand times and had a massive run of replies. The first one questioned Claire Brown’s motives, so with that acting as a reassurance Amelie scrolled down. More tweets asking what kind of mother would be that callous. Then there were a few that echoed the prosecution lawyer’s stance: it wasn’t illegal.

  Then the replies took a turn for the worse.

  Momma Bear tweeted, SFW, Robbins is a paedo. Deserves to be hung.

  Candy said, Amelie Hart, movie star in a shit movie, knew what was happening. I betcha.

  DanTheMan asserted, I’ll shoot Robbins. Hart can fuck off and die for all I care. After she sucks my cock.

  She threw her phone onto the seat away from her.

  ‘Everything okay, Amelie?’ Norma asked.

  ‘Fine,’ Amelie replied. She was hit by a massive wave of fatigue. Closing her eyes against it she filled her lungs and found some energy to finish her answer. ‘It’s just people on Twitter being nasty.’

  ‘I don’t understand that twittering thing,’ Norma said.

  ‘Load of nonsense,’ Peter echoed, and Amelie caught the look of concern he shot his wife, as if he was checking her to see how she was bearing up. Even from Amelie’s angle, Dave’s mother didn’t look in a good way. Amelie hoped Peter would manage to persuade her to go and see her doctor.

  The car pulled over to the side of the road, and aware of the movement Amelie looked around. They’d arrived. A small group of reporters were standing at the entrance to the hotel.

  ‘Is there a back way?’ Peter asked.

  ‘There’s probably going to be some there as well,’ Amelie said. ‘Don’t worry I’ll just barge through them. I’ve got sharp elbows, you know.’ She managed a laugh.

  ‘Give one of them a prod for me, dear,’ Norma said.

  ‘For sure,’ Amelie replied and put a hand on Norma’s forearm. ‘It’s a waiting game now, I guess.’ Peter and Norma both nodded. ‘Keep in touch, eh?’

  She got out of the car and, head down, waded through the re­porters, ignoring the shouted questions and the cameras. Once inside, she picked her key up from reception, all but ran to her room and flung herself on the bed.

  Her phone rang. She fished it out of her bag to see Lisa’s name appear on the screen.

  ‘Well, did you see it?’ her friend asked.

  ‘I wonder where that leak came from?’ Amelie replied.

  ‘Heaven only knows,’ Lisa replied in her butter-wouldn’t-melt voice. ‘Anyway, I doubt now that any self-respecting agent will touch her with the proverbial long pole. I hope the bitch loses everything.’

  They were back in court. The jury had taken three days to reach a decision. Three days, during which Dave had no idea how he had managed to handle the tension. He couldn’t stay still. In his cell he moved from his bed to the small chair at the desk, to the floor.

  What if they found him guilty? Then he’d be in here, branded a convicted paedophile. What kind of sentence would he get? Bain told him the minimum sentence was twelve months, and the maximum was life.

  ‘Life?’

  ‘When it’s a child under thirteen, yes. But don’t worry; it’s rare that a judge goes that long.’

  ‘What determines the sentence length then?’

  ‘Lots of things. The risk of reoffending, previous convictions – and your conviction for assault won’t help here…’

  ‘But that was years ago. I was a stupid lad and I’ve been a law-abiding citizen ever since.’

  ‘Other factors could be remorse shown for the crime, pissing off the social worker who reports to the court…’

  ‘Remorse shown? How the hell…?’

  ‘Not going to happen, David. You’re innocent and the jury will find in your favour.’

  That was a conversation they’d had weeks ago when they were still preparing for the trial. Now, in the moment when he was waiting for the jury spokesperson to be called it seemed like a million years ago.

  His pulse thundered in his ears. Every part of him trembled.

  Someone was on their feet.

  ‘Have you come to a decision?’ the judge asked.

  ‘We have, M’lady,’ the woman answered.

  ‘What is your verdict?’

  Chapter 33

  Dave felt like he was suspended in the air. Remote from every­thing. Noise was muffled, every breath came to him as if through a layer of cotton wool. He couldn’t feel the slight cushion of his seat on his back or thighs, or the wooden floor under his feet. The edges of his vision were blurred as if he was viewing the world through some kind of filter. Everything looked as if the lights had been turned down.

  He assessed the spokesperson for the jury. She was just an or­dinary woman. Someone’s mother. Someone’s daughter. A touch of grey in her hair and a slight waver in her voice as if she had just become aware of the importanc
e of what she was about to say.

  ‘On the charge of sexual assault of a child under thirteen years old.’

  She paused, eyes fixed on a spot in front of her.

  ‘Guilty.’

  The noise around Dave grew louder.

  A roar.

  People were gasping. Someone was crying. Someone was cheer­ing.

  ‘No, no, no, no, no,’ a voice said. It might even have been him.

  It was him.

  Reality slammed down on him like a hammer of thunder and light.

  ‘On the charge of causing a child to watch a sexual act.’

  Pause.

  ‘Guilty.’

  ‘No,’ Dave shouted. ‘No, how could you get this so wrong?’

  ‘Mr Robbins, you will control yourself or you will be removed from my court.’

  ‘Call this a court? It’s a travesty. You’ve fallen for their lies.’

  ‘Mr Robbins,’ the judge said, shouting above him.

  Dave felt strong hands on his arms. They pulled. He resisted. He heard cheers and jeers.

  ‘No, no, no,’ he shouted.

  Hands on his shoulders and legs. There were too many of them to fight. He felt himself being carried off, and before the door slammed shut behind him he heard a noise that almost tore the heart from his chest.

  A wail of pain and disbelief that could only have come from his mother.

  Chapter 34

  Amelie was sitting in another uncomfortable chair. This time in the waiting area of the intensive care unit of Glasgow’s big, shiny-new Queen Elizabeth University Hospital.

  Only now, as she waited while the medical staff worked on Norma, did she have the time to digest the verdict.

  Guilty.

  It was staggering. Beggared belief. Dave was a convicted pae­dophile. How could something like this happen?

  No wonder Norma had collapsed.

  Amelie had been sitting, stunned after hearing the words from the jury spokesperson’s mouth, when she heard a wail from Norma and then felt her fall against her. She and Peter turned to her, his face a vision of panic. ‘She’s not breathing.’

  ‘Clear the court.’ Bain took command. ‘Medical staff to me now,’ he shouted.

  They eased Norma to the floor. Bain checked her neck for a pulse.

  ‘She’s not breathing,’ Peter said in a panicked whisper.

  It occurred to Amelie as she sat in that sterile space that Dave wouldn’t know what was happening. He was being all but carried out of the court when Norma collapsed, so he would have had no idea that his mother was having emergency surgery. Perhaps Joseph Bain had been in touch.

  What would the protocol be there, she wondered? If Norma died would he get to the funeral? If she survived would he be allowed to visit her?

  She cringed at the realisation that her first concern had been what would happen if Norma died, and sent a silent prayer skyward.

  Hearing heavy footsteps, she turned and saw Peter coming towards her. He looked like a man at his own haunting. His eyes were heavy, his face the colour of bleached linen, and his suit, which earlier looked like it had been delivered direct from Savile Row, now looked crumpled beyond further outings.

  He sat beside Amelie, exhaling as if the action of sitting had taken his last remaining ounce of energy. ‘They’re still operating,’ he said. ‘She can’t die. She can’t die.’ He leaned forward, elbows on his knees, shoulders heaving with emotion.

  At a loss as to what she should do Amelie placed a hand on his back. ‘She’s in the best place, Peter. This part of the world is like Heart Attack Central. They get loads of practice.’

  ‘Dave won’t know.’ He pushed himself upright. ‘We have to let Dave know.’

  ‘I’ll get on to Bain. Perhaps best to wait until we know the outcome of the surgery?’

  He sat back in his chair. ‘I can’t believe he was found guilty.’

  ‘Me neither.’

  ‘My son’s a convicted criminal. A convicted paedophile.’ He looked in the direction he’d just come from. ‘And then this…’

  They each slumped into silence. Into a dead headspace where words were formless and fear chased them from one nameless emotion to the next. Where physical function was a matter of staying upright and in count with the breath.

  How long they waited, Amelie had no idea. A clue perhaps in the slant of the shadows on the far wall from the large window behind her, had she the wit to read them.

  A creak of a door. Heavy footsteps and an exhalation as weighty as the bearer’s dolorous expression. The surgeon stood before them, shoulders rounded in defeat, removing the surgical mask from around his neck.

  ‘Mr Robbins, I’m so sorry…’

  Chapter 35

  It was two weeks after he’d been found guilty, six days after his mother’s funeral, and Dave was being guided into a small room where a woman was behind a desk.

  ‘I’m sorry for your loss, Mr Robbins,’ she said.

  Dave sat on the seat opposite the woman. He crossed his arms and his legs, feeling that her offer of condolences were perfunc­tory. Just another box to be ticked.

  ‘My name is Andrea Davidson. I’m a social worker appointed by the court to compile a report that will be used in your sentenc­ing hearing.’

  Bain had briefed him on this. Warned him to co-operate if he wanted to limit his eventual sentence, but confusion and resent­ment at being in this situation bubbled in his veins so much it was a wonder he could sit still.

  ‘Do you understand this part of the process, Dave?’ she asked.

  He nodded.

  ‘Any questions?’

  He shook his head.

  ‘I see from your records you were given a suspended sentence for assault in June of 2005. What can you tell me about that?’

  ‘I was a stupid kid.’

  ‘And?’

  ‘And nothing. Lesson learned. I wasn’t in bother ever again.’

  ‘Until now. What happened to make you attack this other lad, Dave?’

  Play the game, he told himself.

  ‘It was a night at the local rugby club. Letting off steam after end-of-year accountancy exams. The barmaid’s boyfriend took offence when one of my mates had a leer down her top. He pushed my pal. He was too drunk to defend himself. I stepped in.’

  She read for a moment. ‘It says here it took five men to pull you off him.’

  Dave felt his face and neck heat at this. All these years later and he was still taken aback at the force of his anger. ‘Not my finest hour, Miss Davidson.’

  ‘Where was that anger coming from, Dave?’

  He looked at her – really looked at her for the first time, trying to see the human being beyond the representative of the judicial system. He could smell cigarette smoke on her. She’d had a quick ciggie before coming in to see him. Was this an attempt at self-soothing before meeting someone she saw as potentially troubling, or simply an answer to a craving?

  She was slim-shouldered, her wrists no thicker than a child’s, a prominent vein stretching down the back of her freckled hand. Her nails were long, manicured, painted in a clear lacquer.

  Her clothes were sombre, as if she was on her way to or from a funeral tea. Light-blue shirt buttoned to the neck, navy-blue car­digan. Was the cardigan an attempt to soften her look. Project a caring attitude?

  Her long hair – light brown, threaded with grey at the temples – was pulled back in a ponytail at the nape of her neck. Femininity neither suppressed nor heightened, simply there, like ozone in the sky.

  Was their calculation in any of this? Or did she simply get out of bed in the morning, see to her family – there was a wedding ring; did she have kids? And then see to her personal grooming in a way that was expedient? Whatever was in the wardrobe, cleaned and ironed, was enough?

  She was eyeing him as if to ask, finished?r />
  He offered her a small smile. How awful would it be to spend her working day, working life with people who’d committed some of the worst crimes imaginable.

  ‘Throughout that whole period no one asked me about that,’ Dave replied. ‘They just sent me to a guy who was to help me control myself.’

  ‘Where did that anger come from?’

  ‘I was an angry young guy.’ Memory presented an image of his father in his kitchen with another woman. The neighbour’s wife. A betrayal he’d learned to push back into a dark space in his mind. ‘When I was in my early teens I caught my dad with the neigh­bour.’ He’d never told anyone this before.

  ‘Did you confront your father?’

  ‘No.’

  ‘Did you tell your mother?’

  ‘Jesus, are you kidding? You’re only the second person I’ve ever told about it.’ And why now, he wondered, in this place?

  ‘Yeah, a death in the family can dislodge all kinds of things,’ she said, providing a possible answer to his internal questioning. ‘You didn’t reoffend. The anger-management course worked then?’

  ‘I think that explosion in the bar was enough. Got it out of my system. Besides, I was ashamed that I’d hurt that guy. He was just looking out for his girlfriend.’

  She wrote something down on the pad in front of her.

  ‘Back to the present.’ She coughed into the back of her hand. ‘You were working in your father’s business at the time of your arrest. When you get out of prison do you expect to pick up where you left off?’

  ‘I don’t think I’ll come away from this unchanged, do you?’

  She gave a little smile as if acknowledging she’d framed her question in the wrong way. ‘Will you go back to work as an ac­countant?’

  ‘My father has lost some clients because of this, and that was before I was convicted. Provided the business doesn’t haemor­rhage clients that would be my plan.’

  ‘If it would damage the business irreparably?’