The Man Behind Closed Doors

by Maria Frankland

  Nothing.

  “Have you been told about Mummy?” Saying her ‘name’ out loud makes him feel more dreadful. She doesn’t reply again.

  “Emily, are you alright?” Still she says nothing. Paul wonders if she is crying. “Can you remember that night? Or were you sleeping?”

  “Paul.” The gentle voice of the chaplain sounds behind him. “I’m afraid you can’t ask questions like that.” Paul feels his hand on his shoulder. “I will end the call if you keep going down that road.”

  “OK … Emily, the angels are looking after Mummy now, but she loved you, and …” he chokes back the sob sticking in his throat. “Daddy loves you too.” He pauses for a response that doesn’t come. He has to know what she saw or heard.

  “Paul.” David’s voice returns to him. “She’s not right at the moment. Perhaps she needs more time. She’s having a few days off school.”

  “I wish she’d have spoken to me.” Paul is more devastated than when the call began. “They finally let me talk to her, and …”

  “I know but she has a hell of a lot to cope with. She’s only six.”

  “I know how old my own bloody daughter is! Has she really not said anything to anyone? About what she might have heard or seen that night, I mean?” Paul speaks quickly, avoiding the eye of the chaplain.

  “Paul,” his voice is stern. “I’m afraid you’ll have to end the call.”

  “But I’ve hardly been on.” Paul needs to know. It will make all the difference.

  “Say goodbye Paul.”

  “David, I’ll see you soon. You’ll definitely come, won’t you?”

  “Of course.”

  “Give her a hug from me, won’t you?”

  “I’ll try.” David lowers his voice. “She’s not letting anyone near her.” He lowers his voice further. “But like I say, Susan’s keeping a close eye on her. And I’m going to as well.”

  “Thanks. Let me know if she starts to talk.”

  “Paul.” The chaplain reaches for the phone. “Now.”

  “I have to go mate.”

  “I’ll see you next week then. You keep your chin up.”

  Chapter Nineteen

  A chink of optimism nudges through Paul’s desolation like a spring shoot. Today, Nick is going to visit him. Paul’s name has been read out as he queued to escape for morning exercise.

  Few opt for it as it means waking an hour earlier. But his sleep is erratic anyway. This isn’t helped by the frequent checks they still do on him through the night to make sure he hasn’t ‘done himself in.’ The constant disturbance is annoying Stephen too. This morning Paul’s been awake since five, tortured again by that final day. He can’t shake Michelle’s face from his mind. But as he tries to recall that night, it’s all a blur. Like his subconscious has blocked out the pain. So, he can either lie in his cell, gazing at brick walls or enjoy some fresh air on his face and see daylight.

  Each time he comes out, he is reminded he has built the ‘exercise’ session into something it is not. The prison yard is barren. Nothing to do but think. Nothing to see apart from walls and seething barbed wire. No reason for hope. Apart from Nick’s visit … he would have been amused a few weeks ago to have thought the prospect of seeing his friend would have such a monumental effect on his state of mind.

  Paul waits in the inmates’ holding area. There is a cheery ambience, as one by one, prisoners are summoned by surname, before being given the table number where their visitors are waiting. They literally skip towards their loved ones who are either at the table or in the queue for a drink. This is what keeps everyone strong.

  Each time one of the officers enters the room, they are set upon by several pairs of eyes. Is it me yet? The mood diminishes as the waiting room empties. Paul has heard from other inmates about the despair when a visitor doesn’t show up or perhaps isn’t let in. Maybe they haven’t brought enough ID, or they have forgotten their visiting order. Or perhaps they’ve arrived late or can’t remember their visit reference number.

  Time is ambling by. Three become two. Paul and the last remaining inmate survey each other. They sit for another five minutes. Paul’s spirits soar as the officer re-enters the room. Dobbs 37801. Then sink again. Surely Nick wouldn’t let him down?

  “Jackson?” A voice jerks Paul from his misery. “Table three.”

  Paul stops himself from running towards Nick who rises from his seat when he sees him. “I thought you weren’t coming.” Outstretching his hand to Nick, he is surprised to be enveloped in a bear hug.

  “No contact.” A voice barks from behind him. “Sit in the yellow seat Jackson and remain seated at all times.”

  “Bloody hell,” Nick looks around. “I can’t believe you’re here. It would have been easier to enter Buckingham Palace. I’ve been scanned, searched, sniffed, I’ve been in four different waiting areas, and they’ve photographed me, taken my fingerprints …”

  “What?” Paul feels guilty. “No wonder I’ve been waiting so long. When did you arrive?”

  “They take visitors through in dribs and drabs. I’d say about an hour and a half. It’s like waiting to be hung, drawn and quartered. It must be awful for the wives who are here all the time.” Nick glances up and down the room.

  The chairs are all fastened to one another and the floor, with tables fixed in the middle. Partners and kids occupy some of the red plastic seats. Paul follows Nick’s gaze to where it rests at the children’s play section. “At least they have that. It must be boring for the young uns.”

  “Who’d bring their kids in here?” Emily’s face fills Paul’s mind. “There’s some right types in this room.”

  “Have any of them said much about what they’re in for?” Nick, again, looks all around him, an expression of disgust evident.

  “I don’t ask, and I don’t want to know either. Luckily my cell mate is OK. He’s in for manslaughter – driving when off his face but he regrets it. Nice bloke really.”

  “What the hell are you doing amongst these people?”

  Paul stares at the floor. “It’s a bloody nightmare.” Cheerful voices echo around them. It could be a Saturday morning in a café.

  “Do the others know what you’re in for?”

  “Yeah. It’s been in the news, hasn’t it? Nothing stays secret.”

  “What happened mate? One minute, you’re on holiday … the next, well, the phone’s ringing…” Paul is uncomfortable as Nick stares into his eyes.

  “I didn’t do it. I don’t know what happened. I’m convinced she stabbed herself.” Paul’s voice shakes as he tries to read Nick’s expression.

  “Stabbed herself? How? Is it even possible?”

  Paul tries to blink away the image of her blood-soaked hair fanned on the kitchen floor as she had lain dying. “I wish I knew what had been going through her mind. I might have been able to help her.” For a moment, he reconsiders the plausibility of whether she could have inflicted her own injury as he recalls the knife lodged, deep within her chest. “Part of me hates her for what she’s done. I know she was ill but she’s deprived Emily of a mother and landed me in here in the process. I’m trying not to be angry with her but it’s hard.”

  “I don’t see how or why she could have done this to herself.” Paul thinks Nick looks uncomfortable. He’s shifting around in his seat and avoiding eye contact.

  “I’ve told you. She used to cut herself when she was young. And she was doing it again.”

  “There’s a difference between cutting yourself and shoving a knife into your own chest. There must have been someone else involved.”

  “How could there have been? We were on holiday.”

  “I, more than anyone, know what was going on between you.” Nick’s jaw hardens. “You knew my thoughts on her – the way she was with you. If you snapped, it would be understandable, you know. She’d have driven a saint …”

  “Cheers mate.” Paul’s fears are confirmed. They’re all suspecting him. If this is coming from his friends and fa
mily, what chance will he have with the court? “I didn’t kill her. I don’t care what any of you think. It wasn’t me.” There is a sudden hush all around them and Paul realises he’s raised his voice too much. He wants to tell them all to do one, to stop looking at him.

  “Easy mate. I’ll buy us a drink.” Nick reaches for the little stack of pound coins on the table between them. “Do you want some chocolate or anything with your brew?”

  “No, I couldn’t eat a thing. A coffee will be fine.”

  As he watches Nick queue at the kitchen area, he doesn’t know whether to feel better or worse for seeing him. He’s wearing new jeans and trainers. Paul looks down at his own prison clothes. He’ll have to contact John, quick. Go over his defence a bit. The prospect of being found guilty is real.

  “There you go buddy.” Nick places the cup in front of him. “All I was saying there is that we all make mistakes.” He clicks the lid off his coffee and takes a sip. “What’s done is done and we have to support you through it.”

  “Keep the lid on the cup please.”

  Paul nods towards the balding, overweight prison guard. “Sorry mate, I’m new in here and this is his first visit.”

  “One thing Jackson… I’m not your mate. Remember that.”

  “They’re friendly souls, aren’t they?” Nick leans back in his seat and clasps his hands behind his head. “Anyway …I know you didn’t tell me much about what was going on between you and your mental wife but I’m not stupid Paul.” He rakes his fingers through his floppy, dark fringe and pauses for a few moments as though he’s choosing his words. “She was making your life a misery mate. I’m sorry. I don’t buy that she did it to herself. I know she was some kind of schitzo, but…”

  “Well if you don’t buy it, who else will?” Paul can’t believe what Nick’s saying. He thinks he did it.

  “Are you sure you haven’t blanked the whole thing out? The mind can do strange things when something awful has happened.”

  “For God’s sake. You don’t know about her self-harming history. It’ll all come out.”

  “She’s stitched you up good and proper this time. I don’t know how you stand it in here. I wouldn’t last five minutes.” His eyes scan upwards. “Blimey, they’ve enough cameras. No one could get away with anything.”

  “For drugs, I guess.” Paul watches as Nick counts them. “Or to stop people getting it on.” Amusement stirs as he watches an officer pull a man and woman apart two tables down. The scantily clad woman, sits back in her seat, looking flushed and slightly sheepish, under her heavy make-up. He realises he’s smiled and allowed himself to feel something other than desperate misery. His thoughts quickly sober themselves though. “Have you seen anything of Emily?”

  “Ah mate.” Nick looks straight at him. “She’s not herself but then I guess she wouldn’t be. She won’t talk at all, according to Michelle’s mum.”

  “So she hasn’t said anything about that night? Hopefully she stayed asleep until I went into her room.”

  “Not a thing as far as I know. About what happened or anything else. Poor thing. Was she there the whole time?” Paul notices Nick’s avoiding his eye.

  “I wasn’t there the whole time.” Paul struggles to keep his voice steady. “I’ve already told you I didn’t do it. Whatever happened that night, there’s a good chance Emily saw or heard something. I need to try speaking to her face to face.”

  “I’ve already asked John about that.” Nick scrunches up his paper cup. “You’d be allowed to see her, but it would have to be in here. And it would apparently have to be supervised. She was going to be called as a witness but obviously won’t be if there’s no chance of her speaking.”

  “A witness! She’s six years’ old.”

  “I know, but she’s one of the few who might know what happened.”

  “I’m not having her in here, I’ve already said. Not amongst this lot. No way.” Paul’s eyes dart in all directions. “Besides, I need to talk to her on my own.”

  “I don’t think they’ll let you yet.” Nick rips his KitKat open. “Do you want some?”

  “No ta. My appetite’s shot.”

  “You need to put a bit of timber back on. Keep your strength up. You look really pale as well.”

  “I won’t tell you about how some of them supposedly tamper with food, for a laugh, apparently. I’ll let you eat your chocolate.”

  “Oh bloody hell. You’re joking, right?”

  “I told you, it’s awful.” Paul shakes his head. “But one way or another, I’ll make that court believe me. I have to.”

  Nick stays quiet.

  “Time, ladies and gentlemen, please.” The bald-headed officer parades up and down the central aisle like a peacock.

  “Anyone would think we were in the Black Horse.” Nick’s eyes flick up to the clock. “I’ve only seen you for about twenty minutes. What a joke. I’ve been in this place nearly two hours. I’m gonna complain on my way out.”

  “No point,” Paul shrugs his shoulders slightly. “You’re no-one to them … and we’re even less.”

  “If you could be making your way to the exit please,” the same voice bellows out. “No contact, you’ve already been warned.” Paul feels the rap on his shoulder from the officer as Nick pulls himself back from his brief hug.

  “Keep your chin up pal. I’ll be back.” Paul hasn’t seen Nick look this miserable since his mother’s funeral. “Hopefully I’ll be allowed in quicker next time.”

  “Thanks for coming. I’ll send another visiting order out. Keep trying with Emily for me, won’t you?”

  “Course I will. I’d better go.” Nick shrugs away from the hand an officer is trying to place on his shoulder. “Catch you soon.” Paul watches his retreating figure and fights the familiar heat behind his eyes as he gives him a parting wave at the exit. Nick’s fingerprint is checked on a machine and then he’s gone. Paul rises from his chair.

  “Remain seated until you’re told. And pick that rubbish up.”

  Paul doesn’t look up to see who the authoritative voice is originating from. He fears he will tell him where to go.

  “Tables one to ten, make your way back to the holding cell.”

  Paul trudges back the way he came.

  “Jackson, you stand over there please. We need to do a search.”

  “A search. What do you mean, a search?”

  “Physical contact. Unnecessary studying of CCTV cameras….”

  “What?”

  “We’ll be with you in a minute. If you’d like to step in there and put your clothes in this basket.”

  All fight, if any is left, seeps out of Paul as he accepts the basket and moves into the cubicle as directed, bracing himself for the inevitable.

  Chapter Twenty

  Paul rubs his eyes as a box of cereal, a banana and carton of juice is dumped onto the table beside him. “Eight o’clock Jackson… Little. Here’s your breakfast packs. And there’s a paper here for you Jackson. Room service, eh? You don’t know how lucky you are!”

  “Sarcastic pillock.” He smiles as Stephen’s voice sounds from the other bed. “Fancy a game of cards over breakfast mate.”

  “Nah. Maybe later. Can’t be arsed pal. I just want to read the paper.” On a Sunday, it usually keeps him going for a bit. By the time he’s read through it, it will be exercise time. He has nearly survived into August.

  The sun blinks through what masquerades as a window in the top corner of the cell. As he glances at the front page, he wonders if Emily’s talked today. He notices the date on the paper. July 29th. How could he have forgotten her birthday? Gloom creeps over him.

  Her gran will be making a fuss of her but hell - he should be there. He can’t believe he hasn’t sorted a card out. Discarding the newspaper, he flops back onto his bed. Bollocks.

  “Time for exercise gentlemen. Nice day for it.”

  Stephen jumps up from his bed and heads towards the door. “You coming mate?”

  “I’m stopping h
ere.”

  “Suit yourself.” The hatch slams behind the voice of the screw.

  For the rest of the day, Paul remains slumped on his bed, absorbing rubbish on the TV as he thinks about Emily. Reliving walks in the park, trips to the swimming pool, her last birthday party. Stephen doesn’t come back. He’s got a visit. And he’s having education. He likes to keep himself out of the cell. Paul is glad they’re amicable, knowing he could have been padded up with anybody.

  When night finally comes back around, he sleeps fitfully, having not exerted any energy the previous day.

  “Jackson?” Paul squints in the darkness as the hatch in his door is yanked open. Stephen’s bed creaks as he turns over with a sigh. “Raise your arm. Good. That’s fine. Go back to sleep.” Hourly checking of his ‘well-being’ has been reduced to two hourly at least.

  “Will you just leave me alone?” Staring into the void of the night, he contemplates how much longer he can survive without physically cracking up. Finally, the darkness permits him some peace, allowing him to fall into a shallow, restless sleep.

  “Daddy!” Emily races towards him, folding her arms around his neck and planting a kiss firstly on his forehead, then on his cheek. “I’ve missed you. I’m seven now, you know!”

  “I know. I didn’t forget!”

  Holding her at arm’s length, he gazes at her. She has grown at least an inch and her face is dusted with more freckles. Her eyes sparkle at seeing her father.

  “Mummy’s with the angels,” she announces sadly. “You won’t leave me again, will you Daddy.”

  “No. Of course not.” He draws her onto his lap.

  “Where were you? Where did you go?” Her warm tears drip into the crook of his neck.

  But they are his own tears. He opens his eyes in the mist of the emerging dawn. Monday. A new day. A new week. Hell continues.