The Marriage

by K. L. Slater

  The door creaked open slightly and Barry craned his head around, raising his eyebrows to show it was time to sit down. Tom took a step back and let out a breath. God, he wanted her so badly. It had been so, so long.

  ‘I secretly hoped you might ask,’ Bridget said, dabbing at her eyes. ‘But I thought it would be after your release. I never expected this!’

  ‘I … I had to ask you now. I’m sorry there’s no engagement ring yet but I’ll put that right as soon as I can,’ Tom said, his body still tense and hot. ‘I think the last six months of my sentence is going to feel like six years, but now that I know we’ll have each other when I’m out, it makes it all bearable.’

  They’d sat back down and talked about practicalities.

  ‘I can organise everything my end. We just have to decide when,’ Bridget said. ‘When and where and … how we’re going to tell our families.’

  The stubborn throb of desire drained from Tom in seconds.

  ‘Yeah, I know,’ he said. ‘I’ve been thinking about that.’

  They agreed it would have to be done soon after his release. ‘There’s going to be a backlash,’ Bridget warned. ‘Best not to give them too long to think about how they can cause enough trouble to change our minds about the wedding.’

  When Bridget left, Barry escorted Tom back to his cell. ‘I’m guessing congratulations are in order, judging by the lady’s reaction.’ The officer winked.

  Tom grinned and nodded. ‘We’ve just got to decide how to tell our families now. I’ve got six months to work out how to stop my mother starting World War III when she hears the news.’

  On the landing outside Tom’s cell, Barry hesitated. ‘You know, don’t quote me, but you could get married in here. Mind you, your good lady might not be impressed. I mean, there are definitely more romantic venues, but it’d solve your problem about family kicking off, ’cos there wouldn’t be a thing they could do about it, would there?’

  He opened the cell door and went off along the landing whistling the ‘Wedding March’.

  And now here they were, just minutes away from their nuptials.

  The prison staff had more than risen to the wedding challenge.

  One of the senior officers had brought in his son’s navy three-piece suit and a white shirt for Tom to wear, and Barry had loaned his own brand-new brown leather brogues for the day. Tom’s neck felt uncomfortably damp under the starched collar of the shirt.

  Jesse’s face flashed into his mind’s eye, the way it often did when he was nervous. Since the moment nearly ten years ago when the two investigating detectives came back into the claustrophobic interview room to tell him Jesse had died, his friend’s image had been forever seared into his mind’s eye.

  The expression on Jesse’s face was always the same too, the one he’d worn the split second before Tom had issued that fateful punch. The exact point in time when he might just as easily have chosen to turn around and walk away. If only.

  But now he had a second chance at life.

  The door opened and the chaplain entered. He was a small, rotund man with thinning hair and dark-rimmed glasses. Around his neck he wore a buttermilk satin cassock. He held regular weekly services at the prison, but Tom had attended none of them.

  Today, the chaplain clutched a sheaf of paperwork in one hand and balanced a purple velvet cushion on the other with the ring on it. Tom had worked more hours than he could count in the prison kitchen and also on additional cleaning duties to raise funds and the governor had allowed the chaplain to purchase a modest ring on Tom’s behalf.

  It occurred to Tom that this, the morning of his wedding, was another of those life-defining moments when it was in his power to slam on the brakes or freewheel all the way into a tempting new life. A better life this time, filled with love and redemption.

  The door opened again and there were hushed voices. Reedy classical music began, filling the corners of the room with its thin sound. Bridget walked in and Tom’s breath caught in his throat. She looked an absolute vision. Stunning. She wore a mid-length plain white satin sheath that clung to her toned, shapely body. Tiny sparkles played around the delicate straps and she clutched three calla lilies, their vibrant green stems elegantly bound with silver ribbon. On her feet were dazzlingly high silver sandals that showed off her glossy French-manicured toenails and neat, lightly tanned feet.

  He knew what the lags and certain officers here were saying behind his back. He had purposely kept himself to himself inside, but there were a couple of guys he trusted and had bonded with. They’d told him things they’d heard when Tom wasn’t around. That he must be crazy to marry someone so old and it would never last. That she must be of unstable mind, as the mother of the man he’d killed … no decent woman would ever do that.

  But what did their petty, spiteful opinions matter in the scheme of things? Soon he’d be a free man and he’d never have to see these lowlifes again.

  People didn’t understand that the bond he and Bridget shared was special. Unbreakable. People outside were going to have similar concerns, and as Bridget had said many times when they’d discussed the issues they’d face, that was their problem.

  In Tom’s opinion, Bridget looked a good ten years younger than her age. She’d barely changed from the days when he used to spend a lot of time at Jesse’s house. She was still a gorgeous-looking woman.

  She walked slowly into the chapel, her eyes meeting his and the hint of a smile playing on her lips. Her ash-blonde hair had been curled and gently pinned up at the back so that soft ringlets hung down here and there. Carefully placed white flowers framed her delicate features.

  Sometimes when he looked at her he saw Jesse’s eyes, his profile. But not today. Today she was Bridget Wilson, his soon-to-be wife. Mother of the young man he had killed with a single punch almost ten years ago.

  Bridget had found it in her heart to forgive him, and through that decision she had saved him. She was his past, his present and his future all rolled into one, and he made a silent vow to himself that no matter how difficult things might be outside, he would let nothing and no one get between them.

  He couldn’t wait to start their new life together. He just had one final hurdle to overcome.

  He had to break the news about their marriage to his mother, Jill. And it would not go down well.

  Four

  Jill

  October 2019

  I stared at the neat array of paperwork and the foil of paracetamol set out on the polished mahogany coffee table in front of me and felt a warm glow spread into my chest. I’d been waiting ten long years for this moment and now it was finally here. Tom was coming home.

  I tapped each piece of paper and mentally checked through the list once more.

  Details of a two-bedroom flat just a ten-minute walk away from this house. One call and the letting agency would prepare a tenancy agreement for signature. Tick.

  A new bank account with an opening balance of one thousand pounds. Tick.

  Details of a temporary job offer, courtesy of my contact at the central library archives. Tick.

  Last, but not least, an appointment with a highly recommended counsellor in two weeks’ time. Tick.

  I sat back and closed my eyes. I’d been thorough and I really needed to relax now to give the tendons in my neck a chance to loosen. I had to simmer down a bit, otherwise the headache I’d had for the last twenty-four hours would never go away. Waking up at five o’clock this morning hadn’t helped matters, and that was after popping one of the new sleeping tablets the doctor had recently prescribed.

  ‘All sorted?’ Robert walked into the room carrying two cups of tea. He placed one on the low table and sat down in his chesterfield leather armchair with the other.

  ‘It’s all done,’ I said, swallowing two paracetamol with my tea. ‘We’re finally ready for him. Have you organised the car?’

  Robert performed one of his mock salutes. ‘Exactly as instructed, ma’am. Full tank of petrol, his favourite playlis
t, and enough water and snacks to last us three times the journey.’

  But my husband’s cynical reassurances did nothing to stop the fluttering in my chest. I just wanted – needed – everything to be perfect for my boy’s homecoming.

  I returned to my list.

  ‘I’ve bought him two pairs of jeans, a sweater, three T-shirts and a tracksuit, but I wondered whether I ought to get him a pair of smart black trousers and a nice shirt? You know, just in case we go out for a meal or if he meets up with an old friend for a drink. I’m sure he’ll have lots to catch up on.’

  Robert traced the rim of his cup with a fingertip. ‘Tom will have his own ideas about what he wants to wear, and I doubt he’ll feel up to socialising for a little while. Hopefully he’ll spend some time reflecting on what a mess he’s made of his life so far.’

  ‘He’s had plenty of time to reflect on that in there,’ I said tersely. ‘He needs our support now, and to put it all behind him.’

  Robert sniffed. ‘Started again already, have you? Defending him, making flimsy excuses for him. I’ve not missed all this one bit.’

  ‘That’s not what I’m doing. I’m just … I’m fretting that I’ve forgotten something important.’

  ‘Like you always do. Trying so desperately to control every detail before the panic sets in.’

  ‘Nonsense,’ I said, but of course, he was right.

  I couldn’t just let life happen. I’d seen the results of that attitude as a child, when my father had to declare himself bankrupt and we lost everything. At eight years of age I remember him sitting there looking like he’d turned into an old man overnight, endlessly repeating, ‘I took my eye off the ball, I’m an idiot. I thought the business would take care of itself.’ Except it didn’t take care of itself at all. The partner Dad had trusted for twenty years betrayed him.

  ‘You’re thinking about your father again,’ Robert said drily. ‘I can tell. You’ve got that haunted look in your eyes.’

  I watched as he put down his cup and ran a hand through his now mostly silver hair. The day Tom went to prison, ten years ago, it had been raven black. One thing that reminded me just how much time we’d lost.

  ‘I’m just making sure I’ve addressed everything for Tom coming home,’ I said quietly. ‘That’s all.’

  Robert said, ‘We’ve already talked endlessly about this. You should do the bare minimum. You’ve always had this notion he’s a helpless little boy, when in fact what happened all those years ago proved he can be a nasty piece of work.’

  I ignored the barb. As far as I was concerned, what happened to Jesse was a very unfortunate accident. Jesse had actually been the nasty one, he’d had a knife; Tom was simply trying to defend himself. Regardless, the jury had delivered a guilty verdict on the charge of manslaughter, though it wasn’t a unanimous decision. Upon sentencing, the presiding judge had said, ‘Thomas Billinghurst, you were a trained boxer and you used that training to position yourself to achieve maximum harm and to deliver a fatal punch.’

  If Tom hadn’t boxed, there might well have been a different result. We’d appealed, of course, but lost.

  I regarded my husband through narrowed eyes. Tom had never been his father’s priority. Robert had turned out to be that baffling type of man: the jealous father. He’d doubted and criticised our boy for most of his life, so it was no surprise to hear the old bitterness resurface now. He’d been quiet lately, nothing I could put my finger on, I just got the feeling he was a bit ‘off’. I decided I preferred him quieter than full of opinions like he was this morning.

  ‘I think I’ve remembered everything,’ I murmured to myself, ignoring Robert.

  ‘Well, I wouldn’t worry if you haven’t. Some ex-cons have no choice but to stay in a hostel when they get out of prison, with zero support from anyone else. Tom’s not a teenager any more, he’s a grown man who’s finally got to face reality. Some might say that’s long overdue.’

  Ex-con. Would he never let it go? Massaging my temple, I picked up the paperwork and leafed through it yet again, but I didn’t take any of it in.

  It was no use trying to talk to Robert when he was in this mood. We’d always been very different when it came to discussing our feelings. After a successful career as an architect that was cut short fifteen years ago, he’d retrained as a student counsellor at a local college on the outskirts of town. Considering his lack of empathy with his own family, there were raised eyebrows when he announced his decision, but he’d proven to be a popular, competent therapist able to build a rapport with the students.

  As a qualified librarian, I preferred perfect order, leaving nothing to chance, particularly something as crucial as Tom’s homecoming. Goodness knows we’d waited long enough for it. I missed my job; it had been one of the casualties of Tom going away. Many times I’d thought about returning to work, but my confidence had gone and I just couldn’t see myself performing that role any more.

  I’d let a lot of things go this past ten years. One of them had been driving. I was perfectly fine nipping out to the local shops, but I felt too nervous to negotiate the bigger, faster roads, and the motorway was completely out of the question. I’d had no choice but to ask Robert to drive us to HMP Nottingham today to pick up our son, though that had given him the chance to express his poor opinion of Tom. Again and again.

  I gathered up the paperwork and gently tapped it on all sides to get a perfect stack before slotting it inside a foolscap folder.

  Standing up to leave the room, a new thought crossed my mind. Tonight, Tom would be right here, in this very house. Back home where he belonged after enduring a nightmare. Finally he’d be able to put it all firmly behind him and catch up on life’s milestones that had been on hold for the past ten years. A career, reacquainting himself with friends and, eventually, meeting a nice local girl and starting his own family, with me standing at his side to love and support them all.

  After years of putting my own life and dreams on hold, this wasn’t just Tom’s fresh start. It was mine, too.

  Five

  Bridget

  I folded the small, checked blanket beneath me and sat on the dewy grass next to my son’s grave, then reached out and pressed my fingertips to the smooth biscuit-coloured headstone that a local stonemason engraved a week after his funeral – ten years ago now.

  Somewhere down there, way below the dull grey slate chippings, lay the bones of my beautiful boy Jesse.

  There had been so many impossible decisions to make, when I’d been half mad with grief. Wood or fibreglass for the coffin? What colour silk for the lining? Many times I’d simply let some faceless person at the funeral parlour make the final call on my behalf. But I’d steadfastly refused to have him cremated as they’d suggested. I’d wanted to keep him whole and substantial. I didn’t want my strong, handsome boy, who had been so vibrant, so full of life, reduced to anything.

  I couldn’t bear the thought that his strong young body would be diminished.

  I slid my free hand into my coat pocket and pulled out a small, ornate silver frame: my favourite photograph of Jesse I’d taken about a year before he died, which I always brought here. We lived in the grubby two-bed semi on the rough side of town then that we’d called home since he’d been two or three. I couldn’t afford to buy a house back then, but I’d worked two jobs and rented the best place possible.

  When I’d had the film processed, he’d looked like a rock star, with his handsome face and mischievous grin. He’d liked the photo and had kept it on his bedside table.

  When he died, kind locals set up a GoFundMe page and raised what to me as a struggling single mother seemed like an enormous amount of money. Enough for a deposit on a house in a better area. But I still didn’t want to move from the home I’d shared with Jesse. The mere thought of doing that had felt disloyal, as if I’d somehow be leaving his memory behind too.

  Coral McKinty, Jesse’s girlfriend of about a year, was six months pregnant when he died. Coral was a local girl, pale
and skinny. She’d been in the year below Jesse at school and had been around to the house a handful of times with a bunch of other kids for one of Jesse’s pizza and movie nights, or just to chill and listen to music in the scraggy square of grass we called a garden.

  Coral looked attractive when she made an effort, but was so meek and unremarkable that Jesse’s choice had baffled me. He’d had his pick of local beauties, but had chosen to date a fairly ordinary girl he’d known for years.

  ‘Coral’s OK, Ma,’ he’d told me one time. ‘She lets me do what I like and doesn’t give me any trouble. She’ll do for now, anyway.’

  ‘Hey, cut that out!’ I’d said, shocked at his attitude. I’d raised him to have respect for women. Goodness knows, he’d seen me struggle enough as he was growing up. ‘You’ve made your choice and you’re committed to Coral and your baby now.’

  Coral was an only child and estranged from her own widower father, so when baby Ellis came into the world three months after his daddy’s death, Ellis and Coral would stay with me regularly overnight, sometimes several times a week. The time felt right to move on to a modest but slightly bigger house in a better area.

  They lived with me for a few months until I got Coral sorted out with a new-build terraced townhouse, just a five-minute walk away from my place. My grandson was the part of Jesse that lived on, and the bond I built with him encouraged me to grow strong again, helped me to start the healing process. Through Ellis, I still felt Jesse’s presence in my life, and I needed that like the air I breathed.

  When Jesse was alive, my love for him had been like a dazzlingly bright butterfly. Now, it was a quieter, darker love, a dull-winged moth.

  A chilly breeze skimmed over the flat ground and crept under my layers of clothing. I shivered now and clutched Jesse’s photograph to me, seeking comfort. I knew that today, after Tom’s release from prison, there would be stormy seas to cross.