The Sinner

by Martyn Waites

  ‘And what way is that?’

  ‘Like someone else is getting my revenge. Doing it for me without me asking.’

  She regarded him silently once more, face unreadable.

  ‘I’m being honest with you. I didn’t have anything to do with it. I was as surprised as you.’

  ‘It didn’t work.’

  ‘No, it didn’t. He was too good for them. I could have told them that.’

  ‘Told who? The ones who carried it out or the ones who ordered it?’

  ‘Both.’

  ‘But they didn’t ask you. That’s what you’re saying.’

  ‘No. They didn’t.’ He felt anger rise within him again. This time unsure whom it was directed at.

  ‘And how does that make you feel?’

  And there it was. The question he had asked himself repeatedly since the attack on Killgannon. And he hadn’t been able to give himself a satisfactory answer either. But he had to be honest now. He had given his word. Dr Bradshaw would expect nothing less. He would expect nothing less.

  ‘Tired,’ he said. Then reached down for his cooling coffee so he didn’t have to elaborate.

  ‘In what way?’

  He replaced the coffee mug. Swallowed the last little bit down before answering. ‘Just tired. Of all of it. I just want it to end, I just want some peace.’

  ‘You want all what to end?’

  He thought once more before answering, trying to articulate just what his subconscious had been trying to tell him for a long time now. ‘You know who I am. What I am. In this prison and outside. If I was on the out I’d still be doing what I did and enjoying it. Loving it. Don’t get me wrong. But I’m not. I’m in here. And I’ve tried to keep things going the way they should. Like they would if I was still outside. But sometimes . . .’ He sighed, faded away.

  ‘Sometimes what?’ she prompted.

  ‘I still want everything like it always was. The respect. The reverence. The fear, even. But I just want . . . quiet. To be left alone. And no amount of money or influence in here is going to do that. I just don’t want . . . to do this anymore.’

  ‘I see.’

  ‘I mean, don’t get me wrong, I still want everything that comes with being top dog, I’d be stupid not to. But I just . . .’ He sighed. ‘It’s hard work, keeping this up. In here, especially.’

  ‘Like King Lear.’

  He frowned. Was she taking the piss? Was this a joke he didn’t understand?

  ‘King Lear,’ she elaborated. ‘Shakespeare. He doesn’t want to be king anymore but still wants to be treated like a king. All the trappings that go with it.’

  Is that really me? he thought. ‘What happened to him?’

  It looked like she didn’t want to answer. ‘Civil war over his empire. It didn’t end well, shall we say.’

  They sat in silence. Foley eventually broke it. ‘Was it worth it?’

  ‘Was what worth it?’

  ‘This. All of this. Ending up here. My old man. What a cunt he was, pardon my French, and all that.’

  Louisa shrugged.

  ‘I was wondering what he’d have made of all this.’

  ‘I know he’s overshadowed the whole of your life, Dean.’

  ‘Yeah.’

  ‘And I’ve suggested coping strategies to deal with his pervasive influence. To try and stop you feeling you have to compete with him all your life.’

  ‘Yeah.’ Unsure of the words but understanding the meaning, he nodded. ‘I’ve just been thinking a lot about him lately. And being inside. Questioning, like. Would he be proud of me for what I’ve achieved? You know, everything I did on the out, and that? Or would he think I was a failure for getting banged up all this time?’ He fell silent once more.

  Louisa spoke quietly. ‘And what conclusion did you reach, Dean?’

  Foley couldn’t look up from the floor, couldn’t meet her gaze. ‘Failure.’

  She waited. Eventually Foley spoke again.

  ‘I’m just tired. I get no joy out of any of it. Not anymore. Like the thing with Killgannon. You may as well know his name. You probably do anyway. There was a time, not so long ago, when I could have ripped him apart with my bare hands. Happily. Got right stuck in, really made him suffer for what he’d done to me. Now, when I hear that someone’s had a go at doing him over I’m just . . . I don’t know what to think. I mean yeah, if anyone’s going to do it, it should be me. Not someone else fucking with me.’

  ‘Is that what you think they were doing? Couldn’t someone else have held a grudge against him?’

  ‘I know it was aimed at me. I just know. Like that job on that guy in the hospital wing. Clive Bennett. That was against me, too.’

  Louisa frowned. ‘Clive Bennett? That was natural causes. He was in bad shape. His heart gave out.’

  He gave the kind of smile that pitied her naivety. ‘That what they told you? Shelley would say anything to stay in charge of his little fiefdom, even getting a doctor to lie about cause of death. No, Clive was one of mine. But it wasn’t me. I didn’t give the order.’

  ‘So you’re saying that your power is slipping, is that right?’

  He smiled once more but there was no condescension in it this time. Just a kind of weary acceptance. ‘Civil war. And it doesn’t end well . . . And before you ask, it makes me feel . . . well I should say powerless, shouldn’t I? Or scared. Or furious. And I was when I first heard about both things happening. But I don’t feel any of that now. I just feel tired. Like I want it all over with.’

  He felt Dr Bradshaw regarding him differently. Sadly? Was that it? Or compassionately, perhaps. He hoped it wasn’t pity. He had never wanted anyone’s pity in his life.

  She leaned forwards, spoke. And before the words came out, Foley knew he had been right. He wasn’t just being paranoid. There was something she had wanted to say to him. Had been since he sat down in the chair.

  ‘Dean,’ she said, ‘Would it help if you and Tom Killgannon got together and talked?’

  He just stared at her, didn’t know what to say.

  ‘I just think it might help you both if you found somewhere neutral to talk, away from everything and everyone else. Sorted out your differences. Just the two of you. What d’you think?’

  ‘I . . .’ He began to speak, because he thought it was expected of him. But he really had nothing to say. He hadn’t finished processing her suggestion.

  ‘Take your time.’

  He did. Tried to work out for himself what he could gain from talking to Killgannon-Eccleston. Whether he would try to kill him then and there, or if he wouldn’t do it, let the opportunity go to waste.

  She waited.

  ‘What are you suggesting?’

  ‘The two of you. In this room. Talking. Seeing if there’s any common ground, if you can both find a way forwards for yourselves. Put the past to rest, even.’

  ‘Steady. That’s a hell of a lot to ask.’

  ‘Would you be prepared to do it, though?’

  A smile appeared at the corners of Foley’s mouth. ‘Would this count towards my parole?’

  Dr Bradshaw kept her face impassive. ‘It wouldn’t hurt it, let’s say.’ She waited for his answer.

  ‘Yeah all right,’ he said. ‘Yeah. Let’s do it.’

  ‘Good. I’m glad you feel that way.’

  ‘I mean,’ he said with a smile that looked like it belonged to his old self, ‘What’s the worst that can happen?’

  Louisa wondered whether she had made a very big mistake.

  46

  Another night in Blackmoor. And Tom was trying to chase down sleep.

  Other inmates didn’t seem to have a problem. Some would sleep round the clock if they could. With their bodies, their lives, rendered down to basics, being locked up for most of your twenty-four hours a day, alone with just the thoughts and impulses that had got you inside in the first place, then sleep was the only free, legalised oblivion on offer. And you took it willingly. But not T
om. His head was whirring too much.

  The terror of losing control of his environment had dulled but not disappeared. He no longer lay awake worrying whether he would burn to death if there was a fire, whether they would forget to unlock his cell door in the morning. It had become part of the low-level, constant anxiety of negotiating prison life. He couldn’t sleep because he was terrified he might never leave.

  He worried that he might end up like Charles Salvador; in for something minor but his constant aggression ensured he would never be released, so he changed his name to Charles Bronson and styled himself the most violent man in prison. He could see how something like that could happen. Looking for threats around every corner, challenging anyone who stepped in front of him. He could understand how that would escalate, but he also worried he would be forgotten.

  After returning from Pearl and Lila’s visit, Cunningham seemed to have slipped back into his own sullen mind. The progress Tom had made now reversed. Tom knew why, even though neither had expressed it: because Tom had visitors and Cunningham didn’t. He might consider Tom his friend, but having visits from his ‘niece’ reminded Cunningham he was truly alone.

  So Tom hadn’t pushed it. Just waited, with as much patience as he could muster, for the time to be right.

  Cunningham wasn’t making his quest for sleep any easier. His night terrors playing up once again.

  Tom heard the now familiar wailing coming from the top bunk, accompanied by the equally expected thrashing and punching. The crying crescendoed, the words becoming clear: ‘I’m sorry . . . I’m sorry . . . please, please don’t, I’m sorry . . .’ And yet more thrashing.

  Tom lay on his side staring at the thin strip of light coming under the door, showing there was some kind of life beyond his cell, that he was still connected to it. The lack of sleep here, as well as in the seg block, had built up within him. He felt like he would never rest again. Like his body would never be allowed to recharge. And now Cunningham. He had had enough.

  Anger coursed through him as he sat up and swung his legs down onto the floor. He sighed, stood up, turned to the top bunk ready to yell at Cunningham, make him shut up, just let him get some sleep for once, just once in his cretinous fucking life, just once . . .

  The cell was never truly dark. There was the twenty-four/seven light from the wing coming under the door, the glow of the perimeter lights through the smudged and filthy windows. Cunningham sat upright, staring at the wall. The shadowed corner of the room, the only true darkness in the whole cell. Tom knew what was coming. Cunningham telling him there were ghosts in the shadows, that he could see them, wanting Tom to see them also. Tom didn’t want to look again.

  ‘Cunningham, listen, why don’t you—’

  ‘Look. Just . . . look . . .’

  Cunningham stared at the corner, arm outstretched, finger pointing. Tom tried to fight it but couldn’t. He followed Cunningham’s gaze.

  ‘There, it’s . . . there . . .’

  ‘There’s nothing there, Cunningham, now—’

  Tom stopped. Stared. There in the shadows, something was moving.

  Like a gas trying to become solid or a dream trying to become real. A figure taking shape before his eyes. The rest of the room dropped away, the faint lights from outside and under the door dimmed. There was only the figure in the corner.

  ‘You can see it as well, can’t you?’ Cunningham’s voice, quieter now, almost calming.

  Tom didn’t reply. Couldn’t. Just kept looking.

  The figure became almost recognisable then drifted apart.

  ‘I’m sorry,’ said Cunningham, voice lowered, reasoning, not screaming anymore, ‘I really am. Please, let me make it up to you. All of you . . .’

  Tom didn’t know what Cunningham was seeing. He saw only one image. One person. A young woman. And he knew instinctively who it was.

  Hayley.

  ‘I’m sorry as well,’ he found himself saying. ‘I really am. I wish it could have been me and not you. I want that so, so much. Spent ages thinking that after it happened, tried to make it happen . . . but it didn’t. So I’m here and you’re . . . there. Wherever. And I’m sorry.’

  He was aware of movement at his side. Cunningham had moved his attention from the shadowed corner to Tom.

  ‘You really can see . . . You . . . your own ghosts . . .’

  ‘We’ve all got our ghosts, Cunningham.’

  ‘Mine talk to me. I tell them sorry, I’m always saying sorry. But I think they’re hearing me this time. They’re telling me . . .’ He cocked his head to one side, listening. ‘Yeah, they’re telling me . . . that they want to be put to rest. So do I . . . so do I . . .’ Almost crying with those last few words. ‘Yes, yes, I’ll do it, I’ll do it . . .’

  Tom kept staring. But he couldn’t see anything now. Just shadows. Whatever had been there – or he had imagined had been there – was gone. He blinked. There was nothing. Just a sleep–deprived man looking at a corner.

  Cunningham was still talking. ‘Yes I will,’ he was saying. ‘I will. I promise. And then everything will be all right. I’ll make it all right.’ Nodding. ‘Yes. Thank you. Thank you.’

  He turned to Tom, almost smiled. ‘Time for sleep now.’ He lay down and within what must have been seconds was out.

  Tom wondered whether he had ever been awake.

  *

  Next morning, Tom opened his eyes as the lights went on. He had slept. Actually slept. For the first time in ages.

  He got out of bed. Cunningham was already up. He sat on the chair watching him. Smiling.

  ‘Good morning, Tom.’

  ‘Morning.’ Tom was instantly wary.

  Cunningham stretched, smiled. ‘This is a new day.’

  ‘Isn’t it always?’

  He laughed. ‘No. This is a real new day. The first new day in a long time. Praise God.’

  Tom didn’t answer. He stood up, made his way to the steel toilet. Cunningham loomed behind him.

  ‘I’m going to tell them where they’re buried, Tom. All of them.’ Still smiling like he had shaken hands with God.

  Tom paused, turned back to look at him.

  ‘What?’

  I’m going to tell them where the bodies are. Their souls have gone, but the bodies are still there. And I’m going to show them. Show them all.’

  Tom just stared.

  ‘And you’re coming with me.’

  And in that moment, Tom saw his way out.

  47

  ‘Oh, it’s you. Just passing, I suppose?’

  Quint stood at the door of the cottage. Lila had heard his motorbike approach and wasn’t surprised to see him. In fact she was ready for him.

  ‘Yeah,’ he said, slightly taken aback at the welcome. From his expression it looked like he had expected something warmer. ‘Can I come in?’

  Lila stepped back to allow him to enter. She managed to make the gesture seem so offhand he hesitated, not sure whether he actually was welcome or not. That had been her plan. He followed her into the living room.

  ‘On your own?’

  ‘Yeah,’ she said, sitting down on the sofa. The TV was on. She was watching Pointless. It was nearing its climax. The couple had opted for the category of American Crime Writers. She made no attempt to mute it or turn it off. Nor did she offer him anything to drink or eat.

  ‘No Pearl?’

  ‘At work.’

  Undeterred he sat down in the armchair. ‘Everything OK?’

  She shrugged. ‘Yeah. No problems.’

  ‘How’s Tom? Have you seen him?’

  He’s persistent, Lila thought. And he hasn’t lost his temper yet. If I’d turned up to someone’s house and they treated me like this, she thought, I’d have left by now. Or at least let them know how I felt.

  ‘Yeah,’ she said, ‘Went in the other day.’

  ‘How is he?’

  She thought. This answer required some emotion
. Or should have done. But she didn’t want to give anything away to him.

  ‘Well as can be expected, I suppose. We talked about you.’

  Something passed over his face. Lila pretended not to be watching him, keeping her eyes on the TV, but she was studying him. She tried to catch what the emotion might have been. Fear? Apprehension? Something like that. Nothing positive.

  ‘Jesus,’ said Quint, trying to make a joke of it, ‘you must have been short of conversation pieces.’

  ‘No, we chatted for quite a bit.’ Lila turned her attention away from the TV towards him. ‘He told us some stories about when you two used to be together. Back in the army, was it?’

  ‘Yeah, that’s right,’ said Quint, smiling. ‘Plenty of stories about that.’ The smile seemed superficial. Cracked ice on a barely frozen lake waiting for the slightest weight to break it.

  ‘Iraq, wasn’t it?’

  ‘Yeah,’ he said.

  Lila turned away from him, back to the TV. She didn’t think this couple were going to win. They had chosen the wrong category.

  Lila seemed to be about to pursue the subject but Quint jumped in, changed it. ‘Did he say anything else?’

  ‘Such as?’

  ‘How he’s coping, when he’s coming out, that kind of thing.’

  Lila’s smile was as fake as Quint’s. ‘He’s all right, I think. You know what prisons are like these days. Holiday camps, aren’t they?’ She forced a laugh for his benefit. ‘Probably having a better time in there than he would be out here.’

  Quint nodded in agreement even though it was clear he didn’t go along with her assessment.

  Lila kept watching the screen. The couple failed to win anything. They were given commiserations and that was that. The credits rolled.

  ‘Bad luck,’ said Lila, pointing at the TV. ‘You get all excited watching something, invested in it, and it ends like that. Nothing. Hardly fair. Although I suppose fairness has got nothing to do with it, really, has it?’

  ‘Not really,’ said Quint, unsure where the conversation was headed.

  Lila stared ahead at the TV, not really seeing it, but trying not to see Quint either.