‘It’ll be okay.’
Martha looked doubtful. ‘He won’t like being interrupted at work.’
‘But he is there today?’
‘I think so.’
‘So it’s worth a try, isn’t it?’ On impulse, Fran reached over and lightly touched Martha’s chin, raising her face.
Dom’s surprise was overlaid with confusion.
Fran tried to reassure him. ‘We’re sorry to turn up unannounced, but this is important. Have you got a few minutes?’ He looked dubious. She persisted. ‘I promise that I’m not here to cause any trouble.’ Not like last time.
He showed them through. It was the first time she’d ever been to Dom’s place of work, which was odd really, given how long they’d known each other. Despite the awkwardness of the current situation, Fran couldn’t help noticing how neat and streamlined his office was. Very stylish, as you’d expect of Dom, minimal and utterly anonymous. She and Martha sat opposite him, the chrome-andglass desk between them. She was about to try and explain to him, and to herself, why she was there, but he got in first.
‘Why aren’t you in school?’
Martha bit her lip, but spoke up. ‘Because I decided that speaking to Fran was more important.’ Dom’s expression radiated disapproval. She bravely faced into it. ‘I needed to speak to someone, and you weren’t listening.’
‘So you went to Fran?’ The comment was designed to sting. It did.
‘Dom.’ Fran drew his attention back to her. ‘Please. I really don’t want to get between you and Martha. That’s not my place. I know that. And I know the last time we spoke, it all got out of hand and things were said that I regret.’ Perhaps he didn’t regret anything, but she did. She ploughed on. ‘And this is going sound strange coming from me, but Martha has told me that Harry wasn’t good, when you spoke to him last night.’
Dom flashed Martha a look of complete bafflement, which was understandable. ‘I really don’t see how Harry’s situation, or his mood, is any of your business.’ He was restraining himself.
Of course he was right. Fran felt, rather than saw, Martha sag in her seat, which gave her the impetus she needed. ‘That’s fair enough, Dom. But Martha is very worried about her brother.’
Dom had had enough. ‘This really is nothing to do with you. I appreciate your “concern”, but Martha shouldn’t have got you involved.’ He went to stand up. ‘I’ll drop you back at school, Martha.’
The need to make something – anything – better swept through Fran. Martha shouldn’t be the one paying the price. She blurted out, ‘She’s right to be worried about Harry. He looked…unwell when I saw him.’
Dom sat down. He knew full well what she was talking about, but she pressed home the point.
‘The restorative justice meeting was on Friday. It was very difficult, for everyone, but especially for Harry. He got very upset. I think he may need your support, now more than ever.’
Dom looked at her for a beat, then spoke with an exaggerated politeness. ‘I’ll thank you not to tell me how to take care of my own children, Fran. We’re supporting Harry through this as best we can. And let’s not forget, it wasn’t so long ago that you were the one baying for blood.’
‘Dad, please.’ Martha sounded utterly miserable.
Dom stood up, took his jacket from the back of his chair and put it on. ‘I think it best if you leave, Fran.’
She had tried. She stood up as well. On impulse, she bent and kissed Martha’s cheek. Her reward was a brief, intoxicating waft of teenage girl. ‘Take care, Martha. I hope Harry is on better form next time you speak to him.’ She walked across the slate-grey carpet. Before leaving, she acted on a second, inexplicable impulse. ‘When you do talk to him, please can you tell him that I was asking after him.’ She left the door open on her way out.
Chapter 79
THE LETTER postmarked HMP Darlington arrived three weeks later. Marcus recognised the handwriting. He left the envelope on the side for them to read together when Fran got back from work. The thought of it nagged at him all day. When he let himself in that evening, he was sorely tempted to rip it open, but he didn’t. Promises, made on both sides, were worthless unless they were kept.
Fran didn’t even take her coat off when he showed it to her.
The letter was handwritten and short.
To Fran and Marcus,
I hope it’s okay for me to write to you. I’ll understand if you throw this in the bin. But I wanted to let you know that my dad brought Martha in to see me for the first time yesterday. It was so good to be able to talk to her face-to-face and give her a hug. She told me it was you who convinced my dad to let her come. We’re both very grateful.
She also said that you asked after me. I don’t understand what that means, or even if it means anything. Anyway, I suppose it doesn’t matter. I just wanted to say, ‘Thank you.’
I also want to say, again, that I’m so sorry. I know that isn’t enough. That they’re only words, and saying sorry will never be enough. But I am really sorrier than I can ever say, for everything – for betraying your trust, for behaving so badly and, most of all, for what happened that night.
I don’t know what else to say.
Harry
Chapter 80
IT WAS his sister coming to visit that stopped Harry going under.
Seeing Martha, being hugged by her, talking to her, promising her that he was going to be okay, that he could hack the remainder of his sentence, that he would be coming home in one piece and that life would, at some point, get back to normal – all of it had been good for him. It had given him the motivation to keep going.
The fact that it had been Fran who had intervened on his behalf – though incredible – was what gave him hope. He didn’t understand what had happened, how Fran could have changed so much since their meeting; but that she obviously had was enough to pull him away from the grasping dark. It was that unexpected splinter of kindness that had given him the confidence to risk sending his letter. He hadn’t expected a reply, that would be too much to ask; but maybe he had– deep down – hung on to a tiny shred of belief that if Fran cared enough to help Martha then she might, just, find it within herself to write back to him.
His hope was rewarded a week later. A letter arrived, addressed to him in Marcus’s loopy handwriting. Harry took it to his cell to read, conscious of his banging heart.
The letter was much longer than his own pathetic note to them.
Dear Harry,
We received your letter.
We’re pleased that you finally got to see Martha. We know she was desperate to see you. We hope the visit put her mind at rest, at least a little. She sent us a thank-you card, which wasn’t necessary, but was appreciated.
Knowing what else to write is difficult, but we felt we should.
Firstly, Fran wants to apologise for hitting you. She knows she shouldn’t have done that. I should have come to the meeting. That is something I deeply regret. I should’ve been there for Fran. I gather it was very difficult. Fran has told me what you said, and what she said. There was obviously a lot of anger and sadness in the room.
There still is.
But…however bad the meeting was on the day, it has had some benefits. We thought you should know that, in a strange way, it has helped us.
We know more about what happened now. That’s always been a huge frustration for us. Not knowing the chain of events that led up to the crash, and what happened in those last few hours of Jess’s life, has been such a source of pain. From that first night in the hospital, and all the way through the legal process, we’ve been shut out – by the system, by your dad and, worst of all, by you.
It felt like it was all about you, not our daughter, and that wasn’t right. It caused a lot of anger. We are Jess’s parents. We had the right to know everything possible about how she died, and why.
But there’s been a lot of hiding the truth, hasn’t there, Harry?
We know, now, that you and Jess ha
d some form of a relationship before she died. That you were together obviously came as a shock to us. But it won’t come as a surprise to you, will it? Because you and Jess lied to us about it. For months and months! Fran and I want to know why you lied? Why it was such a secret? Why our own daughter didn’t confide in us?
We also want to know what you really felt about our daughter. No more lies this time. We want the truth.
Fran says you were very cut-up at the meeting. Is that because you did love Jess? Or is it because you feel guilty about the way you treated her? It’s confusing to us how you could’ve been Jess’s boyfriend, yet at the same time have been carrying on with Tish. We want you to explain that to us. If you can.
But, even if you can’t, we think it is important for you know – it does matter that you are genuinely sorry for what happened.
Fran and I have talked about everything that has happened a lot these past few weeks.
This is where we’ve got to.
We believe you regret driving when you’d been drinking.
We know you didn’t mean to hurt Jess or the others. But you did, and nothing can ever change that.
We think you cared for Jess, maybe even loved her. Only you know the answer to that. Jess seems to have loved you.
And, finally, that the guilt and the sadness you’re feeling are more punishment than any time you’ll spend in prison.
We think of you often.
We think of Jess all the time.
Marcus and Fran
Jess seems to have loved you. As much at their words hurt, having Fran and Marcus finally know about, and acknowledge, his relationship with their daughter mattered to Harry. He read the letter five times, before hiding it away in his cupboard, underneath his clothes. At the next opportunity he got, he asked the screws for some writing paper and an envelope.
Chapter 81
THEY FILLED in the application form together online.
After weeks of exchanging letters with Harry, it felt like the right time.
The volume and length of his letters had been a surprise; reading them had been a trial, but, in a peculiar way, it had also been a cathartic experience for both of them, something they shared and discussed and used to help them talk about their own emotions. With each letter exchanged, Harry grew in his willingness to tell them things. He came clean about how his relationship with Jess had shifted from being friends – almost so familiar that they took each other for granted – to something far closer. How Jess had been the trigger, the one to reach out and suggest that she wanted more. He wrote about how both of them had been shy at first, embarrassed, not knowing what ‘it’ was, but how quickly it had become the most important thing in their lives. He wrote about his feelings for their daughter; his reliance on her; his regrets; his sense of their mismatched, but somehow well-suited personalities; and, above all, about his love for her.
Despite the confession of so much subterfuge and deceit, Fran and Marcus found themselves looking forward to Harry’s letters, because within each one there were nuggets of Jess tucked inside his words. When they caught themselves laughing one day at a story Harry told, about how Jess had got sucked into a conversation about incontinence with two old ladies on the bus, they’d been shocked and delighted. It was a rare, precious moment – a happy, shiny new anecdote. Some of it was hard to read, the worries that Jess hadn’t shared with them about the future, especially her stress about their expectations, but with the arrival of each of Harry’s letters they added to the store of knowledge of their girl. Finally, Marcus felt he was completing the jigsaw of his daughter. That he was doing it with Fran was more important than she would ever know.
The online application asked all the basic questions they’d expected. Harry’s prisoner number and DOB were top of the list. It was a shock to be reminded that he was still only nineteen; an adult in the eyes of the law, but only a boy really. They whizzed through the form until they came to question nine: Relationship to Inmate. Marcus left that one blank. He moved on, filling in their names, ages, address, occupations and the date of the requested visit. It was complete in ten minutes. Then they circled back to question nine. Marcus sat, cursor hovering over the tick boxes. ‘What shall I put?’
Fran, sitting beside him, read through the options again. After a brief pause she pointed and Marcus clicked on Family Friend.
Chapter 82
THE MOOD on the wing changed whenever anyone was coming up for release. The thought of someone else’s imminent freedom brought home the weight of the weeks, months or years that still pressed down on the other inmates. It made for a more charged atmosphere. Of course the men covered up their jealousies and resentments as they always did – with banter. There were a lot of nudge-nudge comments about binge-drinking, shagging and ‘all you can eat’ carveries. It was good-natured, for the most part, but Harry was still uncomfortable being the focus of their attention. He said his goodbyes quietly, thanked the staff who had helped him with a handshake and left the wing – for the last time – as quickly and unemotionally as possible.
It was a long walk to the holding area on the other side of the jail, where inmates were processed for discharge. The relief of being away from the herd was profound. He was one of six slated for release that day. Leroy he knew. He was a big lad, a bit weird, but nice enough. Kyle, who he’d avoided as much as possible during his sentence, was also there. Kyle was a gang member, with status and anger issues. Ricky was another one of the lads getting out. He’d only done a short stretch, for persistent non-payment of fines. He’d spent most of it in his cell, scared witless. The other two Harry recognised from the dining hall, but he didn’t know them by name or crime. The officers were efficient, bored. He was passed a sealed bag with his name and date of admission on the front: 5 June 2018. Twenty months and three days served. It felt so much longer, yet still not enough. There were cubicles. He stepped inside one and pulled the curtain across. Some privacy – another novelty. He sat on the narrow bench, ripped open the seal and slid the contents of the bag out onto his knee.
It was a time-capsule containing his clothes, his wallet, his watch and his phone, which was dead, of course. He stripped off his sweatshirt and sweat-pants – thought about leaving them on the floor, then picked them up, folded them and put the grey pile on the end of the bench. He had no intention of taking them out with him. Then he hesitated. Putting his old clothes on seemed like a big step: backwards. But he had no choice, not unless he was going to head out into the world in his underpants or his prison gear. He could hear the other lads talking, out in the communal area. He was holding things up. He pulled on his trousers – black, smart – and quickly buttoned up his shirt – designer. He shoved the jacket into his bag. He was never going to wear it again. His court appearance jacket, as dictated by his father, chosen to give the impression of an upstanding member of society. Socks on, feet shoved into his shoes. He was glad there wasn’t a mirror. He pulled back the curtain.
They signed the forms, agreeing to their different probation terms. They were all, with the exception of Ricky, being discharged on licence. Then they were led down the corridor, through another series of doors to the outside. The actual, proper outside.
There was a path down to the gatehouse. The officer escorting them made lame, tired conversation about the weather. No one answered him. It was a welcome slug of reality to be out in the open, with the wind gusting in their faces, after the perpetual staleness of inside. Through the fence Harry could see the other lads’ families and friends. A welcome party of relatives, who had all made the effort to be there to see them released on a blustery February day, in an asphalt car park, just off the A1. When the relatives saw them approaching, they started shouting and cheering. One woman picked up a small child and started waving its arm madly, which made the kid howl with shock and indignation.
One last ID check and they were on the other side. Out.
People rushed forward. One bloke barged into Harry in his rush to embrace
his son. He was big, tattooed, crying. Leroy’s dad? Harry moved out of the way, embarrassed by such open expressions of emotion. He scanned the crowd and was shocked to realise that his dad had been as good, or as bad, as his word and had not come to collect him. Thankfully, the others were far too wrapped up in their own loved ones to notice that there was no ‘welcome wagon’ for him. The bastard.
It was cold, but Harry’s jacket stayed in his bag. He set off walking, away from the prison, across the car park. There was a bus stop. Limited service. One an hour. They had all been issued with a photocopied sheet with the times on it. Harry had hoped he wouldn’t have to use it, but Dom was evidently as stubborn as he prided himself on being. He’d said he had an important work commitment that he couldn’t get out of. That must have taken priority. In Dom’s world, Harry completing his time and being discharged early, for good behaviour, obviously wasn’t something to be celebrated. Another ‘life lesson’, dealt out with clinical efficiency. That it still hurt – still felt like abandonment – surprised Harry. His capacity to want the one thing his father was incapable of giving him was tragic.
He shouldered his bag and walked on. The chatter and laughter of the other families followed him, carried by the wind. The bus it was, then.
‘Harry!’ Shocked, and for a moment elated to hear his name being called, Harry turned and scanned the car park. Had his dad had a complete personality transplant and brought Martha as well? ‘Harry!’ This time there was no uncertainty. It wasn’t Martha. Dom’s BMW was not one of the cars waiting to ferry him back home. But there was a blue Golf that he didn’t recognise, parked at the far corner of the lot. The driver’s door was open, and standing next to the car was a woman he did recognise. Fran. He should’ve been surprised, but he wasn’t. It made sense in a peculiar kind of way. He walked towards her.
One Split Second: A thought-provoking novel about the limits of love and our astonishing capacity to heal Page 28