“I’ve ordered us a Chinese.” Michelle descended the ladder.
“Cool.” He brightened, anticipating an evening curled up with his wife on the sofa. “I’ll tidy up.” He looked around. “It looks great in here. We can sit down soon and admire it.”
As Michelle went to answer the doorbell, he set about moving the furniture back.
“That smells good.” He clasped his arms behind his head, stretching as he entered the kitchen. “I’m starving … how much of that wine have you had?” He watched as she drained her glass and something plummeted inside him. Couldn’t she last five minutes without drinking bloody wine?
“Only a bit. I thought we could warm this up later.” She pushed the food containers to the back of the worktop as she gave him a flirtatious glance.
“What do you mean, ‘warm it up.’ It’s hot already isn’t it?” He removed a lid from one of the containers.
“I thought I could take you to bed for a bit first.” She moved towards him whilst flicking her hair behind her shoulders. “Emily’s sleeping now.”
Paul put his arms around her. “I’m knackered Michelle. I haven’t stopped all day. I’ll have to give you an IOU this time. I want something to eat and to chill out on the sofa with you.”
“Ah come on. You’re always giving me the brush off.” She pouted. “It’s not as if you have to be up for work tomorrow.”
“That’s true. I could make it up to you in the morning then.” He had solved it, he was sure. “Is it a date?” She stiffened in his arms and anxiety prickled at him in a way he wished his sex drive would again. But the months of constant rows were having an effect and if he was honest, although he loved her, he wasn’t sure he fancied her anymore. They were calm today but things had a habit of suddenly deteriorating.
“What’s wrong Paul? Why are you always rejecting me? Don’t you fancy me anymore?”
“I do, honestly.” Maybe he could try and switch it on. “Look, we’ll go upstairs, I’m sure you can get me going … that sounded wrong, I didn’t mean …”
“You might as well tell me to fuck off.” She stepped back. “What’s up with you?”
“No, look, it’s not like that…”
Before he could avert it, food rained down the sides of his head, burning his face. He clenched his fists whilst trying to suppress his temper. He was close to thumping her, or a wall, if she was lucky.
“You … no!” He ducked as she removed the lid of the other carton to fling at him. Yellow curry sauce, mixed with sweet n sour, dripped down the wall. He strode towards her, anger masking the burning pain.
She backed away and made towards the door.
“Come back here.” One way or another, she would regret this.
“If you don’t want me, I’ll find someone who does.” She stormed through the hallway and slammed out of the house. Still wrestling with the urge to punch something, he squatted down against a cupboard as he tried to steady his breathing. Within a few minutes, he had composed himself slightly and considered how a pleasant day could have gone so wrong.
Emily appeared in the kitchen doorway, with an expression of bewilderment. “Daddy, why’s Mummy shouting?” Her hands rested on her hips, in the same way her mother often stood. “What’s all this mess?” Carla, who had followed her into the kitchen, made straight for the splattered food. Paul shooed her away with his foot.
“Just a bit of an accident.” He tried to force normality into his voice. “I’m going to clean up. But first I’m going to tuck you back in.” He tugged a towel from the laundry pile to clean sauce from his neck and chest. “I’ll be right behind you; I don’t want to get food on you.”
“Love you Daddy.” She whispered in the darkness. “And Mummy.”
“Love you too. And so does Mummy.” His voice cracked. “Go back to sleep.”
The stench of sauces walloped him as he neared the foot of the stairs. He was reluctant to tackle the mess. Why should he? Then, realising it was likely to infuriate Michelle further if he didn’t; he decided to sort it.
The steam of the water curled towards him, bathing his face as he watched the bucket fill. The mess had splattered into every corner, invading the kitchen like a disease. The smell as he dabbed at it was nauseating; Chinese curry and sweet ‘n’ sour combined with the lemon cleaning solution he had added. It all slimed against the cloth. As the wall and floor became cleaner, his self-disgust grew, what on earth was he doing, cleaning this up? What a man you are! Shame snaked around him.
A shower made him feel more human. He watched the orange and yellow sauces disappearing down the plug hole, suspecting from the silence that Emily must have fallen back to sleep. He kept picturing her, wide awake, listening to them fight. As time was progressing, he was becoming further out of his depth in his relationship. Pacifying Michelle whilst attempting to maintain some semblance of normality for Emily was enough to grind anyone down. Not to mention having to give his all to a demanding job. And now she could be doing anything. She had always been good at chatting men up in bars. Something lurched within his belly as he contemplated this.
Raking a comb through his hair, he studied his expression. Lines were appearing in the corners of his eyes. Soon he would overtake his brother in their ‘contest’ of who looks the oldest! Before returning downstairs, he peered around Emily’s door. Her arms were draped around her bear.
Glancing up at the clock, concern washed over him. 11:35. Where the hell was she? She shouldn’t be out on her own at this time. Perhaps she would have calmed down. He cursed himself for caring after the way she had behaved.
“What do you want?”
“Where are you?” Pressing the phone to his ear, he kicked the lounge door shut as he raised his voice so she could hear him above the din of the dance music.
“I’m having a great time.”
“Michelle, come home.”
“Perhaps I should do this more often.”
“Do what?”
“Go clubbing.”
“Michelle. No. We can sort this out.”
“Maybe I won’t come back till tomorrow.”
“You’re being stupid. Tell me where you are, I’ll phone a taxi for you.”
“No chance.” The musical beat quickened, emulating his racing thoughts.
“Who’re you with?” Jealousy stabbed him as he heard a male voice in close proximity to her.
“Wouldn’t you like to know?” Then the line went quiet. He redialled her number. “Hi, this is Michelle. Please leave a message after the tone.”
“It’s me… I’m sorry… I didn’t mean to upset you.” It was becoming commonplace, him apologising for her tantrums. “Come home… make sure you ring a taxi… I’ll wait up.” He threw himself back into the armchair. “You’re a wimp,” he said to himself as he dug his fingers into his temples. “An absolute wimp.” After lots of pacing, he settled down with a bottle of beer.
A key in the door heralded her return. He glanced groggily at the clock. 4:24 am.
“Where the hell have you been?” He propped himself up on his elbows as he squinted at her. “Look at the state of you.” Paul’s attention was averted to the dog, who had been sleeping beside the sofa but was now slinking out of the room like an insect. Immediately Paul imagined that in her drunken state, Michelle had let some man take advantage of her.
“Going out tonight has made me realise what I’m missing.” She knocked her leg on the coffee table as she wobbled towards him. “I’m wasting my life with you.” The words slurred out of her.
“Go to bed Michelle.” His voice was quiet, masking his rising surge of fury. “Sober yourself up. You’re a disgrace.”
“I’ve been given three phone numbers.” She held up the same number of fingers. “See, I’ve still got it, even if you don’t want me.”
Michelle towered above him, wagging her fingers in front of his face. He could feel the waft of air generated by it as she continued ranting. He recoiled with the force of her hand as it
connected with his face. Michelle then sunk to her knees, sobbing. His anger gave way to bewilderment. She was behaving like a mental case.
“It’s all your fault. You make me act like this.” She clenched her fists in her lap. “You don’t do it for me. Not in bed anyway. You’re rubbish. You don’t get a proper erection. And you hate me, don’t you?”
Her words stung like her slap. “Please go to bed.” He leaned back against the cushions. “I’ve had enough …”
“I wish we’d never met.” She sobbed like a grieving widow. “We should split up.”
“Michelle. Go to bed. Please.”
She lurched towards the door. He listened as she stumbled up the stairs, clattering around for a while, before spending several minutes retching into the toilet. Normally he would go and see if she was all right and hold her hair out of the way. This time he lay, gaping into the gloom of the living room, hardly daring to breathe until he heard the creaking of the bed, reassuring him there would be at least a few hours of respite.
Chapter Seven
Not knowing how long fresh air will be robbed from him, Paul inhales deeply as he is escorted from the van into the prison’s holding area. The grey-stone building looks like a gothic castle from a Bram Stoker nightmare. As he glances towards the normality of blue sky, he catches sight of the razor wire topping the enclosure wall. In silence, he is led by the officer who he tries to keep in step with; his wrist stings from the handcuffs he has spent the last two hours wearing.
It is hours since he has received an update about Michelle’s condition, and he doesn’t know with any certainty how Emily is coping. He watches another officer stride in front of him. He’ll be clocking off soon, driving home to his wife, eating steak and chips for dinner, reading to his kids. Paul would do anything to swap places with him.
Two more prison officers perch behind a counter in an airless room. The man who has been leading him slides a form onto the counter with his free hand. “Paul Alan Jackson.” His voice bears no trace of either warmth or disgust – at least he’s civil.
The female desk officer scrutinises the paperwork then looks at Paul. He can’t read her expression but is sure it is one of aversion.
“Any property?” She glances towards the officer who is releasing the handcuffs. Paul notices how pale his own arm looks next to the other man’s sun-weathered arm.
“Just this.” A polythene bag containing Paul’s keys and wallet is pushed across the counter. A wave of misery sweeps over him as he observes the photograph of Michelle and Emily smiling out of his wallet.
“Right we’ll book you in. Sign here.” A form is thrust towards him.
Paul shudders as he contemplates the inmates he is going to be mixing with.
“Right, Jackson,” the desk officer rises from his position. “You’ll spend tonight in the induction wing. There’s a few more things to take care of first.”
“The induction wing?” Paul can’t be arsed with all this. He just wants to be alone with his thoughts.
“All ‘first nighters’ have a night there. To transition you in. But first, I want you to walk through the scanner, and into the shower room where you’ll undress.” He gestures towards a cubicle shrouded by a yellow curtain. “I’ll be through in a moment to do a search before you shower.”
“A search?”
“Yes. It won’t take long.”
With each article of clothing he removes, another scrap of dignity falls away. Fear claws at his chest as the prison officer reappears, his hands gloved.
“Surely you don’t have to…”
“It will just take a moment. I’m afraid it’s procedure for everyone. If you could drop yourself down into a squat for me.”
Fear mingles with fury, making the hairs on the back of his neck stand up. Scrunching his eyes, he braces himself to accept the inevitable.
Having showered, he is clad in his prison ‘uniform.’ The shirt flaps from his slim frame and the jeans are too short. He follows an officer as they progress through several sets of doors.
“Paul Jackson?” A woman peers at him over the top of her glasses as he is finally brought to a desk in front of another set of double doors. She’s dressed the same as her male colleagues. “I need to go through a few things with you. Firstly, you’re on remand. You don’t have to work, but you will be paid an extra two pounds twenty a day, on top of your weekly two pounds and fifty pence, if you do.”
“I don’t know.” Trepidation at having to work alongside the other inmates creeps over him. Maybe he should keep himself to himself.
“The time will pass quicker for you.”
“Right, I’ll work.”
“Or you could do education. There’s computer skills, literacy or numeracy.” She folds her arms as she awaits a response, flashing her wedding and engagement rings. The sight of the rings brings Michelle back to the forefront of his mind. Not that she has moved far from it.
“I’ll work.” The smell in here is making him feel sick, it’s a mixture of sweat, tobacco and cabbage, the unpleasantness exacerbated further by the heat.
“You have an hour’s exercise outside every morning at eight, and an hour’s association at six each evening.” Her voice is robotic, she’s clearly repeated this information many times. “You’ll be banged up from seven.” She pushes her glasses from her face so they rest on her hair, tightly scraped into a bun.
“What’s association?”
“You can play pool, watch TV, mix with the others and make phone calls; that kind of thing.”
“I can make phone calls? Can I make some now?”
“You’ll need to wait until the next canteen order goes in on Saturday.” She pulls out a form and a leaflet from under the desk. “Then you can put in for a phone card. Your order will come in the Saturday after.”
“I’ve to wait nearly two weeks until I can ring anyone?”
“Only if we’ve verified all your numbers. You’re allowed five.” She points to the corresponding information printed on the leaflet. “We’ll ring and check them, they must be landlines.” She looks again at his paperwork. “You work in law, don’t you? You must be familiar with how it all works?”
“As a legal executive.” That life is a million miles away now. “In conveyancing. I’ve had nothing to do with criminal law.” Pausing for a moment, he wonders about this woman. Perhaps she will help him. It’s worth a try. “I’m anxious to know about my wife’s condition, she’s in hospital in Leeds. I haven’t heard since I was at the police station this morning. And my daughter. She’s been taken to my mother-in-law. Would you be able to find out for me how they both are? I won’t rest till I know. Please?”
He is sure the officer’s face softens. “If any messages come in for you, they’ll be passed on as soon as possible. Your solicitor can ring you too.” She twists her ring round and round. “As long as it’s during working hours, we’ll find you.” She slides the leaflet until it touches his fingertips. “This gives you details of all the rules and routines. If you’ve any more questions, ask one of the officers during association. You’re in time for dinner. For tonight, you’re on the induction wing so it will be brought to you. From tomorrow, you’ll join the others. If you’d like to go with my colleague, he’ll walk you to your cell.”
Paul follows the jangling officer along a quiet corridor towards a door that’s ajar within the green-bricked wall. A tray of food has been left on the table of the cell. Well food of a sort. It’s a kind of cold pie accompanied by a pile of what looks like vegetables and an apple. He takes in the white brick walls. Table. Chair. Bed. Cupboard. All are bolted to the floor. Behind a dividing wall is a toilet and sink. If an officer looks through the viewing panel in his door, they will be able to see him on the toilet. Great. He’s not going to be able to crap in peace.
“You’ll be in a single cell for tonight. We’ll double you up in the next day or two when you’re allocated your permanent cell.”
“I think I’d rather be on my
own,” Paul contemplates the possibility of who else might be lurking on the wing he will be moved to.
“You don’t get to choose.” The officer’s voice is flat, cold. “I’ll leave you to settle in.”
“Settle in? Thanks.” Paul mutters into the draught caused by the heavy door as it clangs shut. He stares miserably at the tray. Images of Emily and Michelle will not leave him. Dropping his head into his hands, he weeps with a ferocity he never imagined existed. This is really not happening.
Chapter Eight
Standing in a line of similarly dressed inmates, Paul could be hallucinating. This is like something from a crime drama. There is no way he is standing here, queuing alongside God-knows-who, in for God-knows-what. He’s spent the whole night and the following day barely moving, laid on the bed, thinking. Mulling over how the hell he’s going to deal with this. Sometimes dozing off. It’s been an endless twenty four hours, spent with officers opening the observation flap on his door every thirty minutes. Probably checking he’s not trying to do himself in.
“I’d give the peas a miss,” the inmate in front mutters, appraising Paul from head to foot as he speaks.
“Why?” Paul clutches his tray, feeling anything but hungry but knowing he must eat something if he is going to survive until his trial.
“You’re new in here right?” His greasy dark hair is combed over his forehead. It is hard to see any areas of tattoo-free flesh on his arms.
He is, Paul decides, what he had always imagined an inmate to look like. “Yeah?”
“The lads behind the servery.” The inmate rolls his eyes towards them. “They sometimes mess with the food.”
“Mess with?”
“You’re pretty safe with sandwiches, burgers, meat, you know, that kind of thing … solid stuff. But peas, custard, stay well clear unless you want to swallow someone else’s snot, or worse. What you in for?”
The Man Behind Closed Doors Page 4
