The Guilty Mother

by Diane Jeffrey

  From that evening on, three became my lucky number. It started off with little things. Lying in bed that very night, I crossed and uncrossed my fingers three times. I told myself that if I didn’t, I’d never hear from Amber and Ellie again. The next day, I twisted my wedding ring around my finger once, twice, three times. Of course, they’d confiscated the real one when I arrived. For my own security, they’d said. So I had to turn the ghost of my gold band around my wedding finger. Otherwise something bad would happen to Callum. I couldn’t take that risk. I knew then that before long, I’d have to do everything three times. Or else.

  To begin with, I spent as much time as possible in my room, still do, really, although we’re allowed out for several hours a day and encouraged to take part in “purposeful activities” during unlock. But I find that in my cell, I can escape from prison – in my head, at least – by losing myself in the fictitious world of novels. HMP Haresfield Park has a good library.

  It took me a while to muster up the courage to go into the recreation room. I’ve never watched much television, but I thought I should make an effort to fit in. Insults were hurled at me as soon as I entered the room and the air buzzed with hatred. All eyes were on me instead of on the screen.

  I sat at the back, leaving two seats free between me and the next girl, who promptly got up, turned her nose up, as if I was giving off a foul stench, and moved further away from me to another chair. Everyone else laughed at this, and I wished I hadn’t come. Scanning the room, I wondered if the girl from the cell next to mine was there.

  Thankfully, Downton Abbey was on, and soon my fellow prisoners lost interest in me and focused their attention on the television. After a few minutes, a waif in her early twenties walked in and sat down next to me. A couple of the others turned round and stared. I could feel my heart thumping against my chest and the pounding in my ears drowned out the voices of Hugh Bonneville and Maggie Smith, as if someone had switched the volume down. What was she going to do to me?

  But then she smiled and I sighed with relief. She didn’t care who I was. As she flicked her shoulder-length, dark hair, I was reminded of Bella. A wave of sadness broke over me as I realised I’d probably never see my stepdaughter again.

  ‘You’re new,’ she whispered.

  I nodded, hoping to avoid striking up a conversation with her, even though I’d come in here intending to start to blend in. I could see several white scars on her left forearm – shallow, parallel and of uneven length. A lot of the prisoners had similar marks, although, again, I didn’t know if they’d self-harmed before or after being sent to this place.

  ‘There’s another newcomer,’ she continued. ‘The copper who slaughtered her twins.’ Her voice was louder and a few of the women in front of us made angry shushing noises. ‘Have you heard about her?’

  I couldn’t reply. I realised that it wasn’t that she didn’t care who I was; she didn’t know who I was. But she knew about me.

  ‘I’d like just five minutes alone with her,’ she continued, thumping her right fist into her left palm. ‘I’d teach her a lesson. That baby killer bitch!’

  I got up as she spat out these last words and made my way back to the safety of my room. It was clear to me I was going to have to confine myself to my cell, a prison within a prison.

  But the next day they came to me in my room. Five of them. Four to hold me down and one – the dark-haired girl with the scars – to do the dirty work. Or the “handiwork” as she called it. They called her Gemma when they egged her on.

  I lifted my head to see what she was doing. She was holding a pen and a needle, a little bigger than an ordinary sewing needle – a tapestry needle, perhaps.

  One of her friends pressed a razor blade to my neck. ‘Lie down and keep still, pig!’ she ordered.

  I could hear whimpering. It took me a few seconds to realise it was me.

  ‘Yeah. Shut the fuck up!’ Gemma said and then she laughed. The others joined in. I was slow to get the joke. Then it dawned on me. Those were the words I’d shouted through the wall at her the other night. Gemma was my neighbour and it seemed she’d taken it into her head – once she’d stopped using it to bang on the wall – to get me back for yelling at her.

  My hand was pushed down into the bed while Gemma worked on it, poking her tongue out in concentration. I clenched my fist, but that didn’t stop her. I was utterly helpless. As I lay on my bed, writhing and squealing in pain, thoughts chased each other through my head. Had that needle been sterilised? Somehow I doubted it. What was she drawing on the back of my hand? Would I get an infection?

  A prison guard burst in, but not before Gemma had finished her task. I was taken to the prison infirmary. It wasn’t the GP who had examined me during reception. This doctor was a small, round young woman with hamster cheeks, pulpous lips and flawless skin. She had very long auburn hair, held back by a bright red Alice band. I read the name on the lapel of her white coat. Dr Nolan. She looked like an older version of the BBC Test Card Girl and she spoke with a soothing Irish lilt.

  The prison doctor dabbed at the back of my hand gently. ‘The good news is, stick and poke tattoos fade quite a bit over time,’ she said. She had a pleasant voice. She didn’t ask me what BKB stood for. Maybe she already knew. Baby Killer Bitch. It was my moniker now. I no longer had an identity or a name. Just a nickname, carved onto the back of my hand, and a prison number.

  I nodded and bit my bottom lip to stop it wobbling.

  ‘What will happen now?’ I asked. I meant, what would happen to me. Would I be tested for AIDS? Would I have to go back to my room or could I stay here a while? That sort of thing.

  But Dr Nolan assumed I was asking after my fellow inmates. My attackers. ‘Well, Gemma was due up for parole in a fortnight or so,’ the doctor said. ‘I think the prison guards wanted her to be released more than she wanted it herself.’

  I wondered how they got hold of razors and needles inside.

  ‘I probably shouldn’t tell you this,’ she said, ‘but you’ll learn soon enough. There’s a blind spot when you’re outside in the exercise yard. Sometimes family and friends throw small packages over the wall. This prison is understaffed and overcrowded. The guards work hard and they do their best, but you know …’

  I wasn’t sure why she told me that. I didn’t think I’d spoken my question aloud, but her words made me think maybe I had. Or did she tell me that so I could defend myself? Retaliate?

  Doctor Nolan kept me in the infirmary for the evening. Under observation, she said, but I think it was probably out of kindness. It was far better than my cell. As I dozed, my mind wandered to my home. I imagined I was in my big comfy bed with the soft sheets, next to Michael, before any of this happened.

  When I’d phoned Michael on arriving here, he told me he was going to put our house on the market. He said it was too big now. I suppose it was. With the twins’ deaths and my arrest, and Callum, Bella and Clémentine all gone, Michael would be living there on his own.

  But I’m sure that was only part of it. Our home housed spectres and shadows now. The bad memories had eclipsed years of good times, leaving in their wake shattered dreams and broken hearts that would never heal. And it occurred to me that even if I was released from prison one day, I no longer had a home to go back to.

  Chapter 11

  Jonathan

  June 2018

  For once, the boys don’t bicker in the car on the way to school. I let Noah choose the radio station on the condition that he speaks to Alfie only if he has something nice to say. Noah doesn’t say a thing to his younger brother the whole journey. Result! Parenting is all about bribery. According to my elder son, no one listens to the radio anymore, so Noah plugs his smartphone into the USB port and we’re subjected to ten minutes of hip-hop from a streaming app. Compromise. Another essential ingredient to bringing up kids.

  I am such a crap dad.

  After dropping my sons off – on time for a change, I smile to myself. I decide that the day has
got off to a good start.

  But then my mobile goes. The ringtone is so loud I jump.

  ‘Jonathan, there’s been a bit of drama,’ Claire’s voice trills through the car speaker. She’s too loud as well. I turn the volume down. ‘A car hurtled off the M5 and plunged fifty metres down an embankment about – ooh – an hour ago now.’ I imagine Claire looking at her watch as she paces around the Aquarium in her heels. ‘A driver and one passenger.’ She sounds oddly excited. I hate the fact that other people’s misfortunes make great fodder for our news stories. ‘The driver is still trapped in the wreck and fire crews are on site.’

  ‘OK, on my way,’ I say, trying to keep the reluctance out of my voice. Great. I can only imagine what the traffic will be like. A road accident at rush hour.

  ‘M5 northbound, just after Junction 15.’

  ‘Got it,’ I say chirpily.

  Or, as Alfie would say: Bring. It. Off.

  I don’t get into The Redcliffe Gazette offices until way past two in the afternoon. As soon as I burst through the door, Kelly waves to me from across the room, which is still, after about three months of construction, more open-plan than booths. Thankfully, the workmen seem to be taking yet another day off, so at least it’s peaceful. Kelly appears to have been looking out for me. The last thing I feel like doing right now is proofreading another of her articles.

  As I make my way over to my workstation, I notice Claire has a visitor – or a victim – in the Aquarium. Sinking into my swivel chair with a sigh, I pull the hanky out of my pocket and wipe the sweat from my brow. I can feel my shirt sticking to my back.

  ‘Hot out?’ Kelly asks as I sit down.

  ‘Just a bit.’ I’ve been regretting booking up our family holiday in the South of France this year. If I’d known we were in for this heatwave, I’d have chosen a different destination. Like Iceland or Greenland. Or Kazakhstan.

  I’m not just hot; I’m hungry, despite the sandwich I bought from the motorway services on the way back. Not to mention grumpy.

  ‘Not now, Kelly,’ I say, as she pushes a green cardboard folder apparently containing a wad of papers across my desk. At first glance, I’d assumed she was handing me her latest work, but there are a lot of pages in that folder, so it can’t be that. I don’t have time to surmise about what she wants to show me. I need to get to work. ‘I’d better get this online first.’

  ‘Oh.’ Her face falls.

  ‘I’ll take a look later. Handing the folder back to her, I connect my laptop to the docking station. ‘Who’s that with Claire?’

  ‘It’s Superintendent Simon Goodman.’

  ‘What?’ I whirl round. So it is. ‘What’s he doing with her?’

  ‘No idea.’

  As I watch, Simon gets up and shakes Claire’s hand. I turn back to my computer, pretending to be hard at work. Out of the corner of my eye, I watch him cross the room.

  ‘Jonathan, have you got a moment?’ Claire calls from behind me.

  ‘Ah,’ I say in a low voice to Kelly. ‘All is about to be revealed.’

  ‘What have you got for me on that car accident?’ Claire asks before I’ve even closed the door behind me. Straight to the point as usual. I want to know what Simon Goodman was doing here, but that will have to wait.

  ‘Well, luckily, neither the driver nor the passenger – husband and wife – died in the crash,’ I begin. Claire doesn’t comment, but her face clearly says, lucky for some. ‘The man – he was the one behind the wheel – managed to get out of the car by himself. He’d already been taken to Southmead by the time I arrived. Minor injuries. Scrapes and scratches, according to the paramedic I spoke to.’

  ‘Oh dear.’ I’m not sure exactly what has caused Claire’s disappointment. Was she hoping for a fatality? Or at the very least severe injuries? Or is it because I arrived too late at the scene to get a photo of one of the casualties?

  ‘I’ve got some good photos of the fire crew freeing the woman from the wreck with hydraulic cutters.’

  Claire brightens at this. ‘Right. Get those uploaded and posted. Perhaps you can go to the hospital tomorrow for a follow-up. See if you can blag your way in to see the husband or the wife and get a quote? That’s all.’

  This is my cue to leave, but I haven’t finished. ‘Was that Simon Goodman in your office just now?’

  ‘Yes.’ She doesn’t offer an explanation.

  ‘Anything to do with the Melissa Slade appeal?’

  She spreads her arms, as if to say, what else? but it’s obvious she isn’t going to enlighten me.

  I’m halfway out the door when Claire calls me back. ‘Oh, Jonathan? I nearly forgot. Someone rang The Gazette and asked to speak to you. She said it was important, so the call was passed to me. A Jennifer Porter? She wouldn’t say what it was about.’

  The name rings a bell. Jennifer Porter. Then it comes to me. Melissa’s friend Jenny. Michael Slade mentioned her. She was one of the guests at the dinner party in their house the evening Amber died. ‘Did she leave a number?’

  ‘No. She said she’d try again later. I gave her your extension.’

  ‘OK. And she didn’t say what she wanted?’

  Claire glares at me through bottle-green eyes that make it clear she has better things to do than repeat herself.

  ‘Right. Thanks.’ Now I have two unanswered questions. What was Simon Goodman doing here? And why did Jennifer Porter call me? ‘If I miss her again, give her my mobile number.’

  Sitting at my desk, I start work on this morning’s story about the car accident. I’m suddenly aware that beads of sweat are forming on my face again, but it has nothing to do with the heat.

  I’ve never been to the scene of a traffic accident – not to report on it, although I had to report on a motorway pile-up not long ago and I’ve covered a couple of drunk-driving collisions. This morning, at the scene of the accident, I felt strangely detached, and as I sift through my photos now, it’s as if I’m seeing the car wreck for the first time. In one of my shots, the woman’s face is very sharp despite the zoom on my camera. As I stare at her, her features blur and then I see Mel’s face, as if the woman has morphed into my wife.

  For a few seconds, I gaze at her lovingly, longingly. Mel was deemed newsworthy once. Briefly. Then something else came along, something more dramatic and more recent, and she became old news. That’s the way it works. Everyone gets their fifteen minutes of fame. Isn’t that what Andy Warhol said? Mel lasted a bit longer than a quarter of an hour. When she made the headlines, it was more of a one-day wonder.

  The smell of coffee, as Kelly places a steaming plastic cup on my desk, pulls me firmly back to the present.

  ‘You looked like you could use this,’ she says.

  ‘Thank you, Kelly.’

  ‘So, what was Superintendent Goodman doing with Saunders in the Aquarium?’

  ‘I’m none the wiser, Kelly. Our editor wasn’t very forthcoming about that.’

  ‘Maybe this will provide a clue.’ She thrusts the green folder into my hands. ‘He slipped me this when Claire wasn’t looking.’

  ‘Who did? Goodman?’

  Kelly nods. I see a yellow Post-it stuck to the folder with my name written on it in neat capital letters. I snap off the elastic and open the folder. It contains several printed pages, some of them dated.

  ‘It’s a journal,’ I say, skimming the first entry. Callum … beautiful baby boy … very different … something was wrong with me … bad mother … I couldn’t connect …

  I look up at Kelly. ‘These are Melissa Slade’s diaries.’

  Her eyes widen. ‘Ooh. Can I … when you’ve finished …?’

  ‘Photocopy it. That way we can both read it.’ I close the folder hand it back to her.

  Kelly gets up and I get back to work. I’ve just posted the story on the accident when a call comes through on my extension. It’s Jennifer Porter. She has the voice of a child, although, if she’s Melissa’s friend, she must be a fair bit older than she sounds.


  ‘Simon Goodman asked me to get in touch with you,’ she says. ‘He gave me your email address, but I thought it would be better to speak to you.’

  ‘I’m so glad you rang. Would you like to meet up somewhere? We could chat over a cup of tea?’

  ‘No. I … I didn’t want to get in touch at all,’ she admits. ‘Can I have your word that you won’t quote me on anything?’

  ‘Of course. All off the record. I promise. Where would you like to start? What did you want to tell me?’

  I hear a sigh. ‘I’m not sure, to be honest. I’d like to help – Melissa was my friend and Callum, her son, is still good friends with my daughter, Sophia.’

  ‘But?’

  ‘My husband, Rob, has been dead against me getting involved with the campaign for Melissa’s release. He thinks … well, you never really know anyone, do you? I don’t know if I’m doing the right thing.’

  I think I understand what Jennifer Porter is trying to say. ‘I know what you mean,’ I say. ‘I’ve been asked to write about Melissa and the appeal, but I don’t know her. I’ve never met her.’ I don’t tell her that I never want to meet Melissa. ‘I like to report the facts and it’s not easy getting to the truth with so much conflicting information.’

  ‘Exactly.’

  ‘Shall I ask you some questions and you can answer what you feel comfortable with?’

  ‘OK.’

  I slide a notebook towards me on the desk and pick up a pen. ‘Let’s start with the dinner party. Can you talk me through that evening?’

  Kelly has rolled her chair nearer to me and I put Jennifer Porter on the speaker so that she can follow the conversation.

  ‘It was just a normal dinner party to begin with. Rob and I arrived with our daughter, Sophia, at about seven. The food was lovely. There was good wine. Everything was going fine until we realised that Amber … was … It was awful.’

  ‘What about during the evening? Did everyone’s behaviour seem normal to you?’

  She doesn’t answer for a second or two. ‘I think so, yes. Melissa had told me that things weren’t great between her and Michael, and he didn’t say anything, but you could tell. He gave her black looks, that sort of thing. She slipped outside for a cigarette with me and he didn’t approve.’