Until now.
“So, Jude, I expect you’re wondering why I’ve asked you to meet with me today?”
“To thank me for helping boost circulation?”
“Not exactly.” He smirked. “Though I have to admit, it’s been a very good year so far, and you did make quite a sensational contribution to that.” He leaned forward. “I know the brouhaha has died down, but it’s still not too late if you want us to do a feature on your terrible experience?”
“No way.”
He snorted. “You’re one tough cookie, Jude.”
Tough cookie? More B-movie stuff. That made me think about Scorching Desert. I mentally pressed eject to rid myself of that memory.
“Right. I’ll come straight to the point. It’s Harrison.”
I’d been wrong about Harrison. I felt guilty about that. The notion of guilt made me think of Carol Roguski, Stan’s widow. Another casualty. One I totally blamed myself for.
“What’s he done now?”
“He’s left us in the lurch, Jude. Buggered off to India. He just went without saying a word. Young people today, what can you do with them?”
“So?”
“It’s left us seriously short-handed. I’m offering you your job back.”
I was stunned. I hadn’t seriously thought about getting back into press photography. I’d been so busy recovering from my injuries, dealing with Lara’s death and its aftermath, supporting Daniel through his A-levels, and gathering the pieces of my fractured life back together, I hadn’t thought seriously about anything. No, that wasn’t true. There was one thing I thought about constantly, and it wasn’t the Ravenbridge Evening Post.
“You want me to return as Chief Photographer?”
“Buzz is doing a pretty good job in charge.” Tony picked up a pen. He held it with the tips of his fingers, rolling it round and round. “How would you feel about a job share?”
“Have you asked Buzz?”
“No, but I’m pretty sure he’ll be cool about it. We plan to expand the department again, now that sales are up.” He grinned. “You know the old saying, a good picture is worth a thousand words.” He looked at me expectantly.
I had to smile. I still wasn’t sure whether I loved or loathed journalists. But I just didn’t see any way a civilised society could manage without them. I’d been reading about journalists in Russia, murdered for uncovering organised crime and corruption. I was full of admiration for the brave people who took their place to carry on the fight. Free speech was a right that was dangerous to take for granted, and I never would.
Who was I trying to impress? Damn it, I missed the energy of a newspaper office. I missed having something to get up for in the mornings. I missed having places to go, things to do, people to meet. But I wanted to see Tony sweat.
“I’m not sure.”
“We need someone really good like you. Harrison was hopeless. He did improve a bit, but you could never rely on him, do you know what I mean?”
“I could always rely on him.” To be lazy, inefficient and puerile, thank god.
“He was a useless wanker. I’m glad he’s sitting under a bloody banyan tree contemplating his navel. It’s the best place for him. Come on, Jude. What do you say?”
“I don’t think I can do it, Tony. The pay’s terrible. I’ve got a son at college now. How am I supposed to keep him in beer money on what I earn here?”
He slapped the table. “All right. I’ll get the board to give you a pay rise.”
I thought about that… or pretended to. Eventually I raised my eyes to Tony’s worried face.
“I’ll do it.”
He actually smiled. “When can you start? Tomorrow?”
“Tomorrow? That’s Friday.”
“So? There’s a big backlog —”
“No, I can’t do tomorrow. Previous engagement.”
“Monday, then.”
I picked up my bag and stood up. “See you next week.”
“Welcome back, Jude.”
Thirty
Next morning I woke early. I showered and dressed, emailed Daniel and drank two cups of instant coffee. I was too tense to eat anything. I was on the road by seven o’clock.
A light autumnal mist made visibility tricky. On the motorway there were heavy streams of traffic both ways, even at this hour. But I made good time. Every now and then I glanced at the letter on the passenger seat, complete with directions and hand-drawn map.
When I left the motorway I drove through a long featureless stretch of land until I saw the redbrick building emerge from the mist.
I left the Triumph in the visitors’ car park and joined the trickle of people beginning to queue up outside the gates. They were mostly women, many of them with young children. From a van nearby came the smell of hotdogs and fried onions. I was hungry but my stomach clenched shut. In any case, I didn’t want to lose my place in line.
When the gates finally opened we streamed through into a courtyard surrounded by tall cell blocks with small barred windows and razor-wire fencing. Warders with dogs patrolled the perimeter. We were marched through a mesh tunnel into the reception area.
I wondered whether to turn round now, get the hell out and never come back. But the surging bodies around me kept me moving forward. Then we came to an abrupt stop. One at a time we were shown into cubicles where we were searched. I was even asked to open my mouth. The prison warder that dealt with me was quite young, blonde and friendly. But she was thorough. She riffled in my bag and pulled out all the cigarette packets. She shook the fags out of every one of them, looking for concealed drugs.
I’d brought plenty of chocolate too. In his letter Matt had told me that fags and sweets were valuable currency in here. He used a lot himself, the rest could be traded for small luxuries. The warder examined every chocolate bar and pack of sweets. I held my breath as she rattled the small box of chocolate raisins. Matt’s favourites. She prised open the top flap and spread the contents on a tray. Satisfied, she sealed it shut again with sellotape and put it back in the plastic carrier with the rest. She hadn’t noticed where I’d carefully opened and resealed the bottom flap.
After a long wait in a holding area we were ushered into a room full of tables and chairs. The women and kids swarmed in, each family grabbing a table and colonising it. I waited until the rush had died down before moving to a small table with just two chairs. The furniture was fixed to the floor. The table had the same scarred defeated look of the one at the police station. I sat there, feeling small and bleak, not knowing how I would react when I saw him.
The prisoners entered the visiting room in ones and twos. They wore navy trousers and blue shirts with bright green tabards on top. The noise level rose gradually, the shouts, laughter and tears blending together in a subdued human roar.
He isn’t coming, I thought. He’s changed his mind. He doesn’t want to see me after all, despite his pleading letter. I got up to leave and that’s when I saw him standing by the door, blinking in the brightly lit room. He looked pale. Even from this distance I could see the livid scar on his forehead. I had no regrets about bringing the Nikon down on his head, except for the damage to the camera. It had never been the same since, and I deeply regretted that. Another casualty.
He walked slowly towards me.
I knew I ought to spit on him, in full view of everyone, then storm out. But my feet were rooted to the vinyl floor, my throat parched of spittle. I put my hands in my pockets so I didn’t have to touch him.
“Jude. Thanks for coming. Shall we sit down, or do you want to do it standing up?” His blue eyes were mischievous, but I knew the friendly sparkle was false. I sat down warily.
“How are you?” I asked.
“Pretty good. It’s not that bad in here. And I’ll be out in around… twenty years?”
“I thought the judge said life should mean life.”
“Things change,” he said blandly. “I’m working on it.”
I believed him. He would spend tho
se years charming everyone he met, convincing them that he killed Lara from pure uncontrolled sexual jealousy. That’s how it was portrayed at the trial. I knew his motive to be colder and far more dangerous. There was nothing uncontrolled about Matt.
“Have you brought me anything?” he asked eagerly, and his eyes lit up like a kid at Christmas as I unpacked the cigarettes and sweets and a few well-used paperbacks I’d got at a charity shop.
He lined everything up until it filled the small table.
“Brilliant. Thanks, Jude.”
He reached out to take my hand. Steeling myself, I let him hold it for a few seconds, feeling utter revulsion at his touch. He let go and I pulled my arm back quickly, knocking over the box of chocolate raisins. I bent down and picked it up from the floor. I shook it gently, making sure that neither flap had come open. I wondered which one was the chocolate-covered peanut I had inserted last night.
I held the box for a moment. It wasn’t too late. I didn’t have to do this. After all, justice had been done and seen to be done. But some primitive instinct told me it wasn’t enough. That was public justice, but this thing between me and Matt, it was personal.
“Come on, hand it over,” said Matt. “They’re my favourites.”
I placed the box in his palm. “Eat them when I’m gone and think of me.”
His eyes narrowed as he contemplated me. “No,” he said at last. “I want them now.”
He tore the tape off the box and spilled a pile of sweets into his hand. He shoved them in his mouth in one gulp and chewed noisily.
“They’re good. Want some?”
“No thanks. I brought them for you. Go on, you might as well finish them.”
He tipped the rest into his mouth, staring at me all the time.
He suspects, I thought. He’s eating them even though he’s not absolutely sure they’re OK. He reckons the odds are on his side. He’s so arrogant he doesn’t believe I’d ever do him any real harm. He thinks he’s still in control.
Cups of tea in plastic beakers were brought round. Matt drank his greedily. I left mine untouched. It wasn’t long before he began to cough. His eyes were watering as if he was crying. He pulled at his collar. His face grew red. He could hardly breathe. I saw the look of hurt and surprise on his face.
I watched him fighting for his life, resisting the urge to get help. I told myself this was for Lara and Stan and Adam Keele. And for me and Daniel too. He would have killed us without a moment’s regret.
A woman at the next table leaned across. “Is he all right?” Her toddler was staring at Matt with wide-eyed horrified fascination.
I could let him die. It was up to me. I had the power now. The coughing fit grew worse. He was gasping, choking, no longer in control. I waited until he collapsed forward on to the table, jerking like a landed fish.
I scraped my chair back. “Can someone help?” I called out. A warder came running, then another. They laid Matt on the floor, where he writhed and twitched as he gasped for air.
“It’s an allergic reaction — there must have been a trace of nuts in the sweets.”
“It’s OK, love. It’s what they call anaphylactic shock. We know how to deal with it. He’ll be fine, don’t you worry.”
As they stretchered him away, Matt opened his eyes. A hand fluttered in my direction. A farewell? A truce? An acknowledgement that I’d given him a fright?
Or a warning?
After all, he’d be out in twenty years.
But he didn’t scare me anymore. “Shall I come again?” I called after him. “I can bring more sweets. I know how much you love them.”
He turned his face away from me and the door closed with a clang.
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If It Bleeds Page 26
