‘And he thought he’d convince you he was innocent by breaking into your house and attacking you?’ He picked up her phone and handed it to her. ‘Call the police.’
She did as he said and once they’d told her someone was on their way they sat back to wait.
It was strange without bars between them. Hannah realised that although her security button was upstairs, although right now Jem could do anything, she wasn’t afraid.
Sometimes, the body knows first, it just takes the head a little time to catch up.
They stared at each other, Jem’s gaze steadfast. It was like he was trying to tell her something and ask her a question, all at the same time. The room was quiet but Hannah’s ears bellowed with blood and she pulled the blanket higher to hide the bloom she could feel spreading from her neck to her face.
The scream of an approaching siren brought them to.
‘You need to go back downstairs,’ said Hannah, looking out of the window.
‘No way. What if he comes round?’
‘The police are pulling up, I’ll be fine. Go,’ she said, ushering him toward the stairs. ‘They mustn’t find you out of your cell. How would we explain? We’d both be in trouble.’
Jem was about to protest some more but then he seemed to think better of it.
‘Pull the door to,’ she shouted after him. ‘I’ll come and lock it after they’ve gone.’
Outside she could hear voices and the beep and crackle of a radio as the uniforms made their way down the path.
She waited for the metallic clank of the cell closing and then, drawing the blanket around her shoulders, she went to let them in.
It was late afternoon when Hannah finished giving her statement. An officer dropped her home and after dumping her bag and coat in the hall she went down to the kitchen.
The dormouse’s name was Harry Gascoigne. The desk sergeant had taken her to one side and had a word with her on the quiet, told her about his history of stalking and sexual assault. An estate agent from Highbury, he was now under arrest for ABH. He was also being questioned about his involvement in Aisling’s murder.
Hannah had already decided not to press charges for her own attack but she was comforted by the thought that, were he to be found responsible for Aisling’s death, her family would not have to agonise over whether to carry that burden. New Zealand, who still operated a traditional prison system, would fund a place with a Foster Host and he would serve his time there.
Jem was lying on his bed, reading. Seeing Hannah, he put down the book and came to stand behind the cell door.
‘You OK?’
Hannah mirrored his position.
So close they were almost touching. In the real world it would have been odd for them to stand like this, but the bars seemed to legitimate the proximity, to let them pretend there was nothing out of the ordinary.
‘I didn’t have the security necklace on,’ she said, voicing the thought that had troubled her all afternoon. ‘You could have done anything, but you didn’t.’
‘I would never hurt you.’ His words were scratchy, sandpapered by his earlier shouts up the stairs.
‘If you hadn’t come up when you did . . .’ She shook her head, trying to rid herself of the image, and grabbed one of the bars for support.
Jem cocooned his hand over hers.
‘It’s OK, you’re OK.’
His skin was warm, his hand heavy. She looked up and there it was again, the roar of blood in her ears. Heat in her chest.
A beat and she dropped her hand to her side.
His face crumpled. Embarrassed, he was about to turn away, to make out like the moment had never happened, when Hannah pressed the button on her necklace and, after retrieving the manual key from its hook, unlocked the cell.
The door swung open.
Jem didn’t move.
‘What are you doing?’
‘Come here,’ she said quietly, ‘please.’
He searched her face, only stepping forward once he was sure of her meaning.
Hannah brought his mouth to hers.
They kissed slowly at first, Hannah circling her arms round his waist, but as her fingers grazed the stripe of skin between his T-shirt and jeans he pulled away.
‘Wait.’ He raked his hands through his hair and puffed out his cheeks, stepping forward and then retreating, in some battle with himself.
Now it was Hannah’s turn to cringe. She’d thrown herself at him only to be rebuffed. How could she have been so foolish? But then he was coming toward her, taking her hands in his, smiling shyly. They kissed again and then he was lifting her up, wrapping her legs round his waist and carrying her over to the table.
Over his shoulder she could see the empty cell, the door still hanging open.
Morning and Hannah lay in bed half-asleep, unspooling the events of the night before. The shame came in waves. Images crashed over her, relentless and cold.
She knew that, in theory, John’s affair with Aisling had given her permission to do what she liked. That, even if she hadn’t learned of his infidelity, she was a widow, free to be with who she liked.
In reality though she was nauseated by what she saw as her betrayal of John and his memory. He’d been dead less than a year and she’d slept with someone else. Developed feelings for them. She’d thought more of herself than that, more of her marriage.
It was scary to realise maybe you weren’t the person you thought you were, that sometimes you weren’t in control of who you loved and when you loved them.
She recalled the moment Jem had pressed his mouth against the soft hollow of her inner thigh and hid her face with her hand, overcome by another wave. When her brain raced ahead, to what happened next, she found a hand over her face was not enough and muffled her blushes under the pillow instead.
Being intimate with a prisoner was dangerous, too.
What if he thought what they’d done was a mistake?
What if he told someone?
Afterwards, they’d fallen asleep together on the floor. Hannah had stirred around 2 a.m. and nudged Jem awake. They hadn’t spoken, there hadn’t seemed any need. He’d known he had to go back into his cell and Hannah to her room.
It had all seemed fine, normal even.
Now though, fear began to creep in.
Jem was a convicted criminal in her custody. She was his Host.
What they did had felt consensual – she was sure it had been consensual – but he was her prisoner. In theory, she had all the power. The thought came like a brick through a window. Last night had meant something to her but what if he’d done it because he felt like he’d had to, or for entertainment, just another way to relieve his boredom and isolation?
She checked the time and after getting dressed headed downstairs. Mr Dalgleish would be arriving soon to supervise Jem’s biweekly shower. She needed to talk to Jem before then, to find out where his head was at, to reassure herself he was OK.
He greeted her with a careful smile.
‘Morning.’ He seemed nervous but happy and kept meeting her gaze and then looking away, only to look at her again.
‘About last night,’ said Hannah, ‘I want to make sure, I mean, I realise that maybe you felt like—’ She was interrupted by a knock on the door. Mr Dalgleish.
She huffed hard, loosening the tension in her body.
‘Let’s talk later?’
Jem gestured at the cell and smiled.
‘I’ll be here.’
Mr Dalgleish followed her down to the kitchen, fussing with his forms and clipboard. She’d seen him only two days ago but today he was noticeably thinner, his eyes sunken. White crop circles of skin were now visible on his skull and his mouth was cracked and dry. He crossed his arms.
‘Something you need to tell me,’ he said, his words loaded with meaning. Hannah watched Jem’s face drop and realised hers had done the same. ‘About yesterday?’
She blinked fast, her throat dry.
How could he possibly k
now?
Had someone seen them through the window and reported them? Unlikely. Her mind raced to ever more ridiculous scenarios. Had the prison service installed CCTV at the same time as the cell and omitted to mention it?
Although notoriously hard to prove, the penalty for sexual contact with a prisoner was serious. A crime against the state, the Ministry of Justice in this case, it was dealt with in exactly the same way as crimes perpetrated against individuals. If someone was found guilty, the state would take them into custody – in one of the prison cells that now existed in the nearest civic centre or relevant government building – and the workers in that office would be responsible for them for the duration of their ten-year sentence. Were Hannah and Jem to be caught, Jem’s sentence would be paused while the pair of them went off to serve their time elsewhere and then, once it was complete, they would return and pick up where they’d left off.
‘I heard you had an intruder?’ he went on when she failed to speak. ‘The prison service gets a notification as a matter of course whenever the police are called out to anything in connection with the Host or their property.’
The reprieve was fierce.
‘Yes, that,’ she said, her voice high. ‘All very frightening.’
While she recounted what had taken place Jem gathered his washbag, towel and clean clothes.
‘Well done on fighting him off by yourself,’ said Mr Dalgleish, giving her a double thumbs-up. ‘Very brave.’ He opened the cell and then they were gone upstairs.
Friday was sheet changeover day. Normally, Jem left his dirty linen in a pile by the door for Hannah to take away and then leave a clean set in a pile on his mattress. Now though she saw he’d forgotten, and so set about stripping the bed for him. After freeing the duvet and pillowcase from their covers she tugged at the fitted sheet, but it had got stuck around the bottom corner of the bed and so she lifted up the mattress to unhook it.
She smiled. There, lined up neatly on the skirting board, was a collection of her sugar figurines. She realised that although Jem ate the cakes she sometimes gave him, for whatever reason he’d decided to preserve the sculpted figures. He would see them before he went to sleep and then again when he woke up.
She decided not to mention it – she didn’t want to embarrass him – and was about to drop the mattress back into position when she saw something that gave her pause.
A clear plastic bag filled with objects had been tied to one of the slats.
Her first thought was drugs. She had no idea how Jem could have smuggled them in but she also knew that people often found a way.
Emptying the bag out onto the mattress, though, she saw no evidence of narcotics. It was just a random, seemingly nonsensical collection of items: a small piece of fabric, a gold watch, a hair scrunchie. She had no idea why Jem would feel the need to keep such things hidden and was about to reattach the bag to the slat when her eye caught a flash of navy in the fabric. Opening it out flat, she saw it wasn’t a scrap of material but a square hanky monogrammed with a set of navy, copperplate initials she’d seen before.
W.D. The hanky belonged to Mr Dalgliesh.
With a growing sense of unease, she turned over each object in turn, trying to make sense of how and why Jem would have these things in his possession.
And then in the clutter she saw something that made her heart lurch.
A business card. Pink with grey text, it spelled out a name, number and occupation.
Aisling Finton
Massage Therapist
07791 299350
Hannah had seen them in Aisling’s wallet many times. She’d carried them with her to hand out to prospective clients. But how and why would Jem have one in his possession?
Was it possible he knew her before he came here, before the trial?
She gathered the items back into the bag, shoved it in her pocket and stumbled out of the cell. In her haste she collided with the kitchen table, and stopped to steady herself. Looking around the room, she felt sick at the thought of what she’d done here the night before. How she’d lain back on the scrubbed pine. How she’d fallen asleep on the floor.
It was like seeing things in negative.
The shapes were the same but that which had been light was now dark.
Jem
I’ve been here a month when I see Mr Tarker perform for the first time. It’s a Saturday afternoon, and Mrs Tarker has coaxed me and Lucas along with the promise of a free buffet and a play on the fruit machine in the hotel bar.
We sit at the back on gilt and velvet chairs lined flush against the wall and watch him work the room. He’s here to keep the diners entertained in between their prawn cocktail and filet mignon. Most people ignore him, but I am transfixed.
His stage name is The Great Saqisto.
While Lucas swings his legs back and forth, I watch my foster-father circle the tables, performing card tricks and dangling necklaces and wallets in front of shocked faces.
Hands reach toward empty necks and pat pockets as they try to fathom how he could have taken these things without them noticing.
I smooth my thumb across the bevelled glass of my Pokémon watch. A gift from my mum. I know I’m a bit old for it now but I don’t care.
That night, before bed, I go to where Mr Tarker’s drying up in the kitchen. He’s always on drying duty. He says the washing-up liquid irritates his hands.
‘How do you do that?’ I say, my brain fizzing with images of playing cards zooming from palm to palm, disappearing coins and the slither of handkerchiefs through a shirt cuff.
‘Close your eyes,’ he says, and flips the tea towel over his shoulder.
‘What?’
‘Just close your eyes,’ he says gently, ‘I won’t hurt you.’
I hold out a few seconds more and then I do what he says.
‘What am I wearing?’
‘What? Wearing? I . . .’
‘You were just looking right at me, so tell me.’
I try to remember, to visualise him in my mind’s eye.
‘Jeans and a T-shirt,’ I say, but it’s a guess.
‘Open your eyes.’
I blink and focus. He’s wearing a plaid shirt, red, white and grey, and jogging bottoms that hover around his ankles.
I huff, annoyed at my mistake.
He smiles, pleased.
‘Your attention is a limited resource. A resource that can be controlled.’ He darts his hand up toward his ear and then down to his waist. My eyes follow. ‘If you can control a person’s attention then you can do anything.’
He dangles my Pokémon watch in front of my face.
I try to snatch it from him but before I can get close he whisks his hand away.
‘I’ll teach you,’ he says, nodding at my right jeans pocket. Reaching inside, I discover my watch. ‘If you want?’
Hannah
When Jem and Mr Dalgleish came back downstairs from the shower Hannah had her shoes on and keys ready. She refused to meet Jem’s eye and, after locking him in the cell, she saw Mr Dalgleish out and then she was gone, the slam of the front door like a clap of thunder.
She spent the rest of the morning walking the Heath, trying to understand what she’d found. She had a good idea where most of the things came from but she couldn’t fathom why or how he’d come to have them in his possession. The watch with the dragon design had belonged to one of the guards who had delivered him into the cell that first day, she was sure of it; the hair scrunchie was hers, lost weeks earlier.
The watch aside, most of the objects weren’t valuable and even if they were, it wasn’t like he could trot off to the nearest pawn shop. So what did he want with them?
She returned just after midday, went down to the kitchen and laid each item on the table one by one.
‘Whatever you do,’ she said, ‘don’t lie.’
He paled, then steepled his hands through his hair, pulling hard on the roots. He seemed to be weighing up his options, wrestling with how best to respon
d.
‘I stole them,’ he said finally.
Hannah looked again at the objects.
‘No.’ She shook her head. It wasn’t possible.
‘I take things from people without them noticing,’ he said. ‘I’m good at it.’ He looked to the floor. ‘Once a thief, always a thief.’
‘You’re locked up, you couldn’t get near someone if you tried.’
‘There are always opportunities,’ he said, ‘you just need to look for them.’
‘Opportunities?’
‘It’s hard to explain,’ he said, coming close to the bars. ‘When I’m in a difficult situation . . .’ He gave up on that train of thought and tried again. ‘It’s about survival. That stuff might look like junk but for me, in here,’ he gestured at his cage, ‘it could be useful.’
Hannah got to her feet and squared up to the cell.
‘Tell me,’ she said, ‘that night with John. What happened? Really.’
He reached through the bars to touch her hand and when she recoiled he nodded, chastened, as if to say she had every right.
‘I didn’t find John’s wallet on the floor,’ he said eventually. ‘I stole it. I stole from lots of people that night. Had my hand in and out of their pockets, their bags, feeling for valuables. I’ve thought about it and that’s the only way I can explain my DNA being on the knife that killed him, that I must have touched it or brushed up against it while it was still on the owner somehow.’
Hannah shook her head, trying to understand.
‘You’re saying someone in the bar that night killed John?’
‘That’s the only explanation I have.’
‘So you stole his wallet, then what happened?’
‘When I opened it and saw his police badge I panicked. That’s why I ran after him, to give it back.’
She considered this for a moment.
‘That makes no sense. He didn’t know it was you that had taken it. You would have been fine.’
‘Not necessarily. Once he’d realised it was gone he might have come back to the bar. Caused a fuss.’
The Captive Page 19