The Sinner

by Martyn Waites

  Sheridan didn’t even have to time to acknowledge he was dying before his body hit the ground.

  His phone started ringing.

  33

  Tom stood in the queue, waiting patiently. Three people in front of him, one already on the phone, turned away from the rest, trying to create what privacy he could.

  He was back on the wing. He had been sitting in his cell on the seg block, staring into space, doing nothing. He had tried exercises, push-ups and sit-ups, until his arms felt useless, his stomach cramped. He could smell his own sweat, soaking through his T-shirt. Sour. Just like every other inmate in the prison. I’m one of them now.

  And he was. Like he was ticking off a list of things he expected inmates to do. Get into trouble and be put into segregation. Be constantly on the phone. Have tearful, depressing visits with loved ones. His disguise was complete. He had become his cover story.

  Tearful, depressing visits with loved ones. That wasn’t how it had actually gone with Lila in the visiting room, but afterwards, alone in that Spartan cell designed to crush his spirit even more than the ones on the wing, he hadn’t been able to stop himself. Tears came as he thought of Lila walking away from him, being able to breathe clean air and go where she wanted to. Able to go home, sit in the living room, watch TV. Go to bed when she wanted. He had come close to losing himself then, breaking down so much that he wondered whether it would be possible to pull himself back together, get into shape and finish this job.

  It would have been so easy to just give in, lie there with the walls closing in on him and let himself go, acknowledge defeat. So he tried to bring himself back, compartmentalise his emotions. He used to be so good at this. Concentrate on the task in hand. Stay alive. Get the information out of Cunningham. Gradually he had done so, pushing his feelings about seeing Lila out of his mind, but it had been a struggle. Brought the old days back again. Reminded him that this line of work wasn’t something a person could do for long, not without losing themselves to it, possibly for ever. He had started exercising then, pushing himself as hard as he could, hoping the pounding of blood round his system would drown out his thoughts. He kept going until he couldn’t move anymore, slept that night on the floor of the cell.

  And then the key in the lock, an officer looking in, telling him it was time to return to the wing.

  He got up, went outside. He had expected to be told to stand and face the wall once more but the officer wasn’t alone. Louise Bradshaw was there. As was a small, balding, suited man, staring at him.

  ‘Hello Tom,’ said Louise.

  ‘Doctor,’ he said, giving a formal nod.

  ‘We’re going to return you to the wing now,’ she told him, ‘put you back in general pop. We think you’ve served enough of a punishment for your action.’

  Tom said nothing.

  ‘Do you agree?’

  ‘Obviously.’

  ‘But I don’t want to hear of any more incidents like this one, right?’ It was the small, bald man who had spoken.

  Tom turned his attention to him. ‘Sorry, I don’t think we’ve been introduced.’

  Silence froze the group. It was clear the officer, the bovine one Tom had interacted with previously, wanted to teach him a lesson in respect. Or a lesson in anything, any excuse to inflict physical pain. Even Louise looked taken aback and Tom realised that, for all her talk and her offers of help, she would never be totally on his side.

  ‘Governor Shelley,’ said the small man. ‘I run this place.’

  ‘Right. I’ve never met you and I genuinely didn’t know who you were.’

  Shelley scrutinised Tom for any signs of sarcasm. Tom had been sincere. He said nothing more. Waited.

  Shelley turned to Louise. ‘You think this . . .’ He searched for the right word to describe Tom. ‘. . . one is ready to return to the wing, then?’

  ‘Yes, I do. I’ve talked to him and believe this won’t happen again.’ As she spoke her eyes alighted on Tom’s, as if asking him to agree with her. Or at least not disagree. ‘He’s agreed to see me for sessions in how to handle his anger.’

  Shelley turned back to Tom, squared up to him. ‘You going to do that?’

  ‘Yeah,’ said Tom. He didn’t elaborate. Didn’t feel it necessary.

  Shelley appeared to be making up his mind. ‘OK, then. But if I hear of one incident involving you, just one, then you’re back down here, busted down to basic, you got it?’

  ‘Absolutely.’

  ‘I’ve got a strict no tolerance policy for people coming into my prison and taking the piss. Play by the rules and you’ll do all right. OK? Don’t and you’ll have to be dealt with.’

  He’s so much smaller than me, thought Tom, I could rest my arm on his head. Stretch my arm out and hold his forehead while he tried to swing shots at me. ‘I understand.’

  ‘Something funny?’ Shelley was still staring at him.

  ‘Just pleased to be going back to the wing,’ said Tom, slightly annoyed that he must have let his feelings show.

  Shelley stared once more. So did the bovine officer. They both looked like they were waiting for Tom to do something so they could keep him on the seg block. Shelley looked towards Louise, then back to Tom. And that look told Tom everything about Shelley’s attitude. He was clearly a misogynist. The way he had been looking at Louise – dismissively, disrespectfully – told him that he didn’t like psychologists, especially female ones, deciding what was best for the prisoners. His prisoners. But he knew he had to go along with it. Perhaps, thought Tom, this doctor might actually be an ally after all.

  ‘Doctor Bradshaw’s going to take responsibility for you,’ said Shelley, ‘But you’re also to take responsibility for your own behaviour. I don’t want to see you back here, right?’

  Tom agreed.

  Shelley walked off. Louise nodded to Tom, followed Shelley off the wing.

  *

  And now Tom queued for the phone. Only one person in front of him now. Not wanting to intrude, Tom looked away.

  Some old faces had left the wing, new ones had arrived. And a different atmosphere. Towards him. He could feel all eyes on him as he was escorted back from the seg block. Like there was a sense of anticipation, waiting to see if he would kick off again. If they were hoping for that, Tom disappointed them. He did everything the officer told him, stood away from the doors, turned his face to the wall while they were being unlocked, everything. A model inmate. But he could still feel the eyes on him as he walked the length of the wing towards his old cell.

  It was association time. Hard-eyed men standing and sitting, watching. Searching for an angle to everything, everyone, some leverage to be made, some advantage gained. Keeping up that level of vigilance was exhausting but necessary. No one could show weakness. No one could be seen to back down from a challenge. No one could show disrespect or accept it. It was a near silent battlefield, a war of attrition, of glances and muttered words, of body language and silences, all conducted under the eyes of the watching officers.

  And now they were all watching Tom, taking the measure of him. Seeing what he would do now that he was back. Wondering whether to challenge his growing reputation as a hard man, like the Navajo warriors of old, believing if they defeated someone in combat they bested not only them but the souls of those they had in turn bested, advanced up the rankings, became a feared presence in their own right.

  Or seeing him as a potential ally, someone to get onside. Barter favours with to keep them protected. Do whatever they could for Tom – contraband, sex – to get him to rid them of other predators. Tom ignored all those eyes, even Cunningham’s, who had seen him approach, expecting him to enter their cell. Tom had nodded as he walked past. Made straight for the phone queue.

  The person in front put the phone down, walked away. Tom’s turn. He dialled the number by heart, waited. It was answered.

  ‘Sheridan?’ Tom asked.

  ‘Try again.’ It was a female voice.

  Tom froze. So surp
rised by not hearing Sheridan’s voice, he couldn’t place it at first. Then he realised. Blake.

  ‘What’s happening, Blake?’ Careful not to use her rank, give things away.

  She laughed. ‘Nothing. Nothing’s happening.’

  Tom was more confused than annoyed at her words. ‘What d’you mean?’

  ‘Nothing, Tom Killgannon. Or should I say Mick Eccleston?’

  Tom froze again.

  ‘This phone line is dead. Sheridan is dead. And so are you.’

  She hung up. Tom was left staring at the receiver. He quickly dialled again. Nothing. And again. Nothing.

  A dead line.

  He stared at the receiver. Behind him, other inmates in the queue became vocal. He placed the phone back in its cradle, walked dazedly to his cell.

  He was alone.

  34

  ‘Get rid of this.’ Blake prised the SIM from Sheridan’s phone, handed it to Quint.

  ‘Glad to,’ he said, taking it from her and pocketing it.

  ‘Not around here,’ she told him, ‘I’ll deal with the phone.’

  They both looked at the body of her colleague slumped by the side of his car. Blood had sprayed all over the window and roof, and left smears where his body had slid down to the ground.

  ‘What we going to do with him?’ asked Quint. ‘You thought of that?’

  ‘Yep. Put him in his car and leave him here.’

  ‘He’ll be found.’

  ‘He will. But not till tomorrow and I’ll be involved in working his case. Now go on. Get him in there.’

  Quint bent down, manhandled Sheridan into the driver’s seat, careful not to get any blood on his clothes. Blake stood there, watching him.

  ‘Don’t bother to help,’ he said.

  ‘I won’t. You’re off back to Cornwall after this. I’m not. I don’t want his blood on me.’

  He finished his task, crossed to his bike, hidden in the bushes. Got on it, checked no one was watching them then roared away.

  Blake watched him go. Looked at Sheridan’s car. Tried to decide what she was feeling.

  He was her partner. No, had been her partner. But that didn’t mean she should be upset at his passing. Yes he had a wife and children who would be heartbroken at his death. And she would be lying if she said she didn’t feel a pang of remorse for them. But it had to be done. Had to. Once he realised what had been going on it was either him or her. And it wasn’t going to be her. He would never understand. That was the heartbreaking thing. If he had been any other kind of copper, more able to turn a blind eye or even, for a cut, help her, it would have been different. But he was straight by the book, boring Sheridan. Well, some of the things she had planned for him in death would put the lie to that. Tarnish forever his image as the perfect cop. Yes it was sad, but again, she had no choice.

  She took out her phone. Not her usual one, a cheap pay as you go burner. Unregistered. Untraceable. Called a memorised number. Waited. It was answered.

  ‘It’s me. Sheridan’s been dealt with. You can move on Killgannon.’

  She cut the call, didn’t wait for a response. Pocketed the phone and walked away.

  35

  The door slammed behind Lila. She placed her bag in the hall, keys on the hallway table. Unzipped her coat, hung it up. Same routine as always. Getting used to it. Even starting to enjoy it.

  ‘That you?’ a voice called from the living room.

  She yelled a reply as she kicked off her boots, entered. Pearl was sitting in the armchair, flicking through one of her glossy magazines. Lila hadn’t found the point in them at first, thinking they were a waste of time and money, just full of photos of emaciated, bored or angry-looking women in expensive clothes, and adverts for watches and handbags she could never afford, or even want. Then an interview with some celebrity who was using their platform – or so they claimed – to make the world a better place. If that was so, she thought, their platform didn’t extend to Cornwall. Then more pictures of, and adverts for, shoes. But lately she had been picking them up when Pearl wasn’t around, glancing through them at first, then looking more concertedly. Even imagining herself in the clothes, the feel of the fabric next to her skin, skipping along some tropical, white beach, smiling against the sun . . .

  That’s how they get you, Anju had said. And then it’s a slippery slope to conformity. Bit ironic, Lila thought, a rich doctor’s daughter lecturing her on the perils of conformity but, as she knew from experience, finding your own path in life took many forms, regardless of your background.

  ‘Hey,’ Pearl said, looking up from where she was sprawled over the armchair, legs dangling to one side. ‘Good day?’

  ‘So so.’ She sat down on the sofa opposite her. ‘Shouldn’t you be at work?’

  ‘Got Briony the new girl doing the dead zone. I’ll pop over later when it’s busier. Anyway.’ She closed the magazine, sat up fully. ‘I haven’t seen you properly to talk to since you went to see Tom. How’s he getting on?’

  Lila thought of the visit. How Tom had tried hard to look like prison hadn’t changed him, even in such a short space of time. How his wounded eyes and damaged face had given away that lie.

  Or how she had fought back tears as she left. Sat in the car silently sobbing, Anju’s arms around her, pulling her close. Crying on her shoulder. Anju stroking her cheeks, kissing away the tears. Feeling Tom’s absence like a physical thing, but glad she had someone there to comfort her. It was a feeling she wasn’t used to.

  Afterwards she hadn’t come straight home, even though Anju had dropped her off at the front door. Instead she had walked the cliff path, ignoring the cold persistent wind razoring through her too-thin coat, the rocks and mud underfoot making her lose her footing. Walking until it was too dark to see anything around her but the black, star-flecked sky, hearing nothing but the top line roar of the wind competing with the deep cymbal clash of the sea. Until she felt like she was alone in the universe, a tiny, galaxy-dwarfed speck clinging to a rock as it hurtled away through space. Completely insignificant yet somehow the centre of everything. She didn’t move, didn’t cry. Just stood there. Balancing. Holding on.

  ‘How is he?’

  Pearl’s question bringing her back. ‘Yeah, he’s . . .’ Lila didn’t know what to say. Be honest? Be brave? ‘He said he was doing OK. I don’t know. He looked a bit . . . you know. Like he didn’t want to be there.’

  ‘That’s a given.’

  ‘He asked after you anyway.’

  ‘What did you say?’

  Her question a bit too quick, Lila thought. ‘Asked how you were doing. How we were getting on. Told him we were watching Dynasty together.’

  Pearl smiled. ‘Sure he loved hearing that.’

  ‘Anyway, he says he hopes that it’ll all be finished and he’ll be back soon. That it won’t be long now.’

  ‘I hope so. Not that I’m not enjoying being here with you and having some company . . . I’m glad you’re here. I wanted to talk to you.’

  ‘What about?’

  Pearl dropped her eyes. ‘I’ve had an email. From my mum and dad.’

  ‘Oh.’

  ‘Yeah. And I don’t know what to do.’

  Pearl’s parents had been two of the main instigators behind the near murderous events that put St Petroc on the national news. Once the police had arrived they had disappeared, leaving the pub and hotel to Pearl. It had been a rough few months for her too. Lila thought with a pang of guilt, she didn’t give her enough credit for that.

  ‘Did they say where they were?’

  ‘No, but they wanted to meet me.’

  ‘Are you going to?’

  Pearl looked straight at Lila. And Lila knew that no matter what she had thought of Pearl in the past, how she hadn’t fully trusted her, their actions had bonded them. She may not be a friend by choice, but they were now bound by something deeper.

  ‘I don’t know.’

  ‘What did they say?’

  ‘That th
ey were sorry. That I shouldn’t worry about them, they were all right. They’d taken their savings and were trying to start again. They were abroad, didn’t say where in case someone was monitoring these things. But they hoped I could understand what they had done and why and forgive them for it.’

  Lila almost laughed. ‘Forgive them. They’d have killed me if they’d been allowed to.’

  Pearl said nothing.

  ‘So what do they want? You to go and join them?’

  ‘That was the impression I got.’

  ‘And are you?’

  ‘I wanted to talk to you first before I did anything else.’

  Lila frowned. Thought of that night on the cliff path, balancing on the edge of the world, the universe. ‘Why me?’

  ‘Because you . . .’ Pearl sighed, ‘you’ve been through shit with your parents. And it’s . . . I just . . . I don’t know how I’m supposed to feel about it. About them.’ Pearl seemed on the verge of tears.

  Lila paused, thought hard. Pearl was reaching out as a friend; perhaps it was time to put any lingering doubts about her aside and treat her as a friend. It’s what Tom would want her to do. ‘Yeah, it’s difficult. Conflicted. You’re brought up to think you should love them no matter what. And that you should forgive them anything they might do to you.’ Lila gave a bitter laugh. ‘Sometimes you have to learn the hard way that life’s not like that. Sometimes you have to just say “fuck you” and walk away from them.’

  ‘And that’s what you think I should do now?’ Pearl sounded like she genuinely didn’t know. It felt like Lila was the older, wiser one. And maybe, in terms of life experience, she was.

  ‘Families aren’t biological.’

  Pearl smiled. ‘Spoken like a psychology student.’

  Lila also smiled. ‘I’ve learned that the hard way. Living here with Tom, he’s my family now. Or I hope so. It takes a lot to trust after . . . you know.’