One For Sorrow

by Sarah A. Denzil

  Of course I’d already done this once when I first started at Crowmont. But I’d stopped after reading the Wikipedia page, not wanting to go down that dark rabbit hole. This time I wanted to delve even further into the gory details.

  There were BBC news articles about the case and the trial. There were Guardian articles criticising the press for the coverage of the case. Some thought the coverage had been racist because of Maisie’s Indian ancestry. There were opinion pieces written about Isabel and what her punishment should be, ranging from hanging to rehabilitation.

  And then I found other opinion pieces. These weren’t news articles, they were blog posts about the murder and what followed Maisie’s death. Many of these were about how they believed Isabel Fielding was innocent.

  I sucked in a breath and leaned away from my laptop, needing to take a moment. It was after eleven, and I should be about to go to bed, but there was a fire inside me now and it wouldn’t go out until I’d read more. I went to the fridge, poured a glass of wine, and continued reading.

  For some reason, some of the blog post links were already purple, showing that I’d clicked on them before. But as I read them, the information seemed fresh. Had Tom been using my computer? Or perhaps I’d been reading this stuff when I’d sleepwalked down to the kitchen table. I glanced at the glass of wine in my hand. How much had I been drinking recently?

  Sipping slowly on my wine and determined to keep a clear head, I read some of the blog posts by a guy called James Gorden. All of them suggested that Isabel was either innocent, or that she’d been goaded by her brother, father, or both, and once I’d started reading them, I couldn’t stop. I devoured all the blog posts and the comments, and felt drunk by the time I came to the end. Drunk on wine, and drunk on the information I’d just read.

  Chapter Eleven

  Isabel considered the entry form with suspicion, turning it one way and then the other as if she was going to find new information on the back, despite it being blank. Her brow furrowed as she handed it back to me, now slightly crumpled.

  “It’s not very long,” she remarked.

  “It’s very easy to enter. Have you chosen which pieces you’re going to send?”

  She handed me the illustration I had posed for in the common room and a watercolour of a crow perched on the edge of its nest. “I feel bad for not sending in a drawing of Pepsi.”

  “Oh, I’m sure he’d understand.”

  We spent most of the morning packaging up her art and taking it to the post-room. I wrote the address for the Koestler Trust on the front of the envelope and put it in the outgoing pile ready for collection. I’d previously signed the form for Isabel so she could enter.

  And now I felt good. At least this way she was actively improving her situation rather than sitting back, taking her medication, and waiting for her life to pass her by.

  After finishing Isabel’s entry, I went outside for my cigarette break and stood with Alfie for a short time. He seemed tired and out of sorts, with circles of purple around his eyes. He didn’t speak for a while, but then he told me a new story.

  “The Angel of Death,” he said. “Otherwise known as Alice Stone. She was a young, aspiring starlet in the 1920s, living the highlife in London. When she was sixteen years old she gave birth to a child. But Alice was poor and living with an abusive father. She smothered the baby in its sleep and her father buried it somewhere. Don’t think they ever found it. Alice was a pretty little thing who turned the heads of a few casting directors in London. One of them went missing shortly after Alice went for an audition for the West End. A week later, Alice found her actor boyfriend in bed with his lover. In a fit of rage she stabbed them over and over with a kitchen knife. When the coppers found her, she was sitting out in the back garden staring at two shallow graves. They couldn’t get any sense out of her. She sat there, rocking back and forth on her heels in some sort of catatonic state. The bodies were still in the bedroom.”

  Alfie never failed to give me the shivers. “Did she kill the casting director too?”

  “They found his body half-undressed near his abandoned car out in the forest. They reckon he tried to rape her and she fought back, killing him in self-defence.”

  “The Angel of Death,” I whispered. “What chance did she have? Destitute, abused by her own father, and pregnant at sixteen.”

  “Yeah, but no one made her kill those people,” Alfie said. “That was her choice.”

  But was it? Did any of us have much choice in life, or were we all marching to the beat of our own circumstances? Once she killed that child she became traumatised and troubled. Then she was corrupted again by the casting directors, used and spat out, given a stomach full of empty promises. Finally, the one person she thought she loved betrayed her in one of the worst possible ways. She’d given him her body. She thought he’d given her his. But then she realised he was giving his body to another, and she couldn’t stand it. She couldn’t bear it.

  “You’re rather sympathetic to murderers.” Alfie exhaled smoke and grinned at me.

  “Murderers are created,” I said. “There’s always a reason for what they do, if you look hard enough, if you dig deep enough.”

  Alfie turned towards me, leaning his shoulder against the wall. There was a curious smile on his face. “Is that true of all bad deeds?”

  “Like what?”

  “Like stealing, or lying, or hitting your partner in a fit of rage.”

  I didn’t like it. Did he know about my father? No, he couldn’t know. I was being too sensitive. “I suppose so.” But that didn’t mean I had to forgive my father for what he had done. I never would, and I would always cling to that.

  “Interesting. I do so love our chats.” Alfie stubbed out the cigarette and walked away.

  *

  Later that afternoon, Isabel stepped triumphantly from the scales after weighing herself.

  “Five pounds down so far,” she said. “My joggers feel a bit looser already. And my skin is clearing up. I’m so glad I decided to do this.”

  Chi, who was walking by, stopped to give Isabel a high five. “Keep up the good work.”

  “I intend to,” she said with a grin.

  “Lasagne and chips, or pasta salad for dinner later, what do you reckon?” he asked.

  “You should have a word with the cafeteria, Chi. We get way too many carbs here. I was watching a cooking show on the television yesterday and they talked for ages about carbs and how bad they are.”

  Chi looked at me in surprise and jabbed a thumb at Isabel. “Check out this girl, here. Watching cookery programmes, getting in shape. Where has the old Isabel gone?”

  “It’s Leah,” Isabel said with her smile broadening. “She’s helped me a lot. I’m so glad you hired her.”

  “Well, I do make the best decisions,” he said. “Now, Ms Smith, with me, please. We’re having a staff meeting.”

  “All right then. See you later, Isabel.”

  She waved us off as we made our way down the corridor.

  “She certainly seems to be improving,” Chi said. “I mean, we’ve never had much trouble with her, but recently she’s been coming out of her room more and even watching what she eats. It’s setting a good example to the other patients.”

  “They aren’t very kind to her. I doubt they pay much attention to what she does.”

  “Oh, they do,” Chi said. “They pay a lot of attention to everything she does. A young girl like that, from a good home and everything else, doesn’t get accused of murder every day. I know they give her some issues but they’re also in awe of her, you know?”

  I followed Chi into his office, surprised that we weren’t meeting in the staff room or one of the small meeting rooms usually reserved for patients when they met with their psychologist.

  “Everything all right?” I settled into the chair opposite his desk, suddenly concerned.

  “Yes,” he said. “And no.”

  “Okay.”

  “First things first, y
ou’re a good nurse, Leah. I’ve been working here for a while. I see good and bad nurses step through those doors. You’re a good nurse. You care about the patients. You’re able to see around their past crimes or their difficult upbringings, and you talk to them like they’re human beings.”

  “Well, they are,” I replied, wondering what was coming next.

  “Quite right.” Chi tapped the surface of his desk. I didn’t like it. He was nervous and that wasn’t like Chi. “But there are some issues.”

  “Okay.” I leaned back, bracing myself.

  “You’ve been late a couple of times. It’s not that bad… a few minutes here and there. Usually I wouldn’t be too concerned, but you also spend a little too long on those cigarette breaks of yours.”

  “I can fix that. It isn’t an issue,” I said. “I’m sorry I’ve been late. With the move and getting my little brother settled into a school I haven’t been sleeping well. But things will be less stressful soon and I’m sure I’ll get back to normal.”

  “That’s good. I’m glad.” He tapped a finger on his chin while thinking, and then met my gaze directly. “The other issue is that you’re spending a good deal more time with Isabel than you are with your other patients. That needs to change.”

  “I have? I didn’t realise.” The revelation was a shock to me. I had spent time sitting for her so she could draw me, but I didn’t know I was with her longer than the others. Now that I thought about it, I could see that Chi was right. I had been dedicating more time to Isabel than Tracy or Emily. “She’s been a bit vulnerable recently. Some of the other patients called her names in the communal area and it was my fault. I encouraged her to go out there.”

  “Which was good. Isabel needs to spend more time with other people, and I’m glad you’ve given her the confidence to do that. But don’t you see that you could give Tracy and Emily confidence too? You need to spread yourself out a little more. I want to see Tracy and Emily improving over the next few weeks.”

  “Sorry… I… I didn’t realise I was doing that. I don’t have favourites. I mean, at least I try not to.”

  Chi started to get up from his chair. “We all have favourites, Leah. Come on, let’s get back to work.” He glanced at his watch. “Oh holy Mary, I’m late for a meeting with the governor.” He rushed towards the door and swung it wide open. “Now, remember what I said. Just because Isabel is innocent doesn’t mean you get to prioritise her. Treat the others the same.” He hurried off down the corridor away from me.

  It was only when I started making my way towards the patients’ communal area that I realised what he’d said: Just because Isabel is innocent.

  Innocent.

  Chapter Twelve

  Chi’s words reverberated around my mind as I drove back to Rose Cottage. I hadn’t had a chance to ask him about why he thought Isabel was innocent. Had it been a slip? Did he mean what he said? Did everyone at the hospital think she was innocent? The nurses certainly seemed to be warming up to her. They even made jokes with Isabel now that she was spending more time outside her room.

  But on the other hand, I was mortified to realise that I’d been putting Isabel ahead of the other two women I cared for. Chi was right—why hadn’t I applied the same enthusiasm to my work with Tracy and Emily? Why was I so drawn to Isabel?

  Tom had left me a note on the fridge door. After school dissertation meeting. I knew he was nervous about his English dissertation so my stomach sank when I realised I’d forgotten. I sent him a quick text with some love hearts added on the end and glanced at my watch. I wondered how it had gone with Seb. The sight of one of the Braithwaites with him might frighten the little bullies enough to make them stop.

  I had a couple of hours before I needed to pick Tom up. A couple of hours alone to read more of the blog posts by James Gorden. Surely, if so many people were suspicious about the day Maisie Earnshaw died that must mean it was worth investigating.

  A blur of movement caught my eye, lifting the fine hairs on the back of my neck. A skinny line of ants crawled in procession up the kitchen counter, bold as brass despite the many methods I’d tried to kill the little buggers. I snatched open the kitchen cupboard to find the ant killer, spraying some in the air around them, watching them struggle against the toxic gas. The dry, acidic fumes hit the back of my throat and elicited a coughing fit. I backed away, staring at the wriggling ants.

  “Isabel would never kill an ant,” I whispered to myself. “She wouldn’t harm a fly.” And yet here I was, reaching for the ant killer like it meant nothing.

  Feeling woozy, I sat down at the table and wiped my forehead with the back of my hand. The thought of Isabel being innocent had got to me, so much so that I was tense from head to toe. Perhaps it was the amalgamation of everything: the slow-burn build-up of everyday stresses. Tom’s bullying, moving across half the country, living in a rundown house, a new job, Isabel’s innocence… There it all was chipping away at my sanity like a woodpecker on a tree. Chip. Chip. Chip. And itch, itch, itch went my past at the same time.

  What happens when we’re being slowly chipped away? All I could think about at that time was carrying on. I stood up, cleaned down the kitchen side, and sat back down to do my internet research, keeping one eye on the time. I had James Gorden’s site bookmarked and opened it immediately. There wasn’t much time, so I quickly browsed his blog for his contact details and sent him an email.

  Dear James,

  My name is Leah and I am a nurse at Crowmont Hospital. I would love to meet for a coffee to talk about your blog.

  How about Costa Coffee in Hutton, Saturday 11am?

  Best Wishes,

  Leah

  When I clicked send, my pulse began to race. A headache formed across my forehead from temple to temple, throbbing, foggy, intoxicating. What had I done? The number one rule of working in a high-security hospital was not to discuss the patients. Confidentiality was the big one. Talk to the press and you’re fired. Yet here I was, emailing a conspiracy theorist blogger about the most famous child killer in Britain. I felt sick. I tried to get the email back, but it was too late. I poured myself a glass of water, hoping to make the sickness go away, but I gagged on it. There were nurses who didn’t take this kind of stuff seriously. Some nurses joked about the most shocking things they’d seen in A&E or told their friends about the time someone famous came in with an overdose, but not me. I’d always taken my job seriously because it had always been the one part of my life that I could control—that I could make mine. And now I’d gone against everything I believed in.

  But deep down I knew I had to. If there was an innocent young woman incarcerated for a crime she didn’t commit, didn’t I have a duty to at least look into it? If that girl was facing a transfer into a dangerous prison, shouldn’t I help her? There was nothing to stop me meeting James, asking him questions and telling him nothing in return.

  I moved strands of sweaty hair out of my eyes and took a deep breath. There, now I had a plan. It was time to pick up Tom, so I grabbed my car keys and made my way to the kitchen door. With my hand on the doorknob, movement caught my eye in my peripheral vision on the right. Another ant was crawling its way up my wall. I ignored it and went out.

  *

  The next day at work I took the time to play draughts with Emily for an hour, talking to her about how she was feeling and how things were going at the hospital. Chi’s warning had resonated with me, and I wanted to do right by all my patients.

  “You’re not as good as Debbie,” Emily said. “I might beat you.”

  “I’m pretty rusty,” I admitted.

  “Why do you spend so much time with the child murderer?” Her eyes rose to meet mine and the challenge in them was clear. She was angry—furious, even—that I showed such sympathy to Isabel.

  “She’s a patient here too,” I replied, careful not to say the wrong thing.

  Emily shrugged. “When I realised I’d killed my own baby I wanted to die. I’ve spent years wanting to die.” She roll
ed up a sleeve for proof and a kick of disgust hit me in the stomach. Ugly red lines would later plague my nightmares. “But I was ill when it happened. I had no idea what I was doing, except that I thought it was the best for her.” She pulled the sleeves down with such force that I feared she’d hurt herself. “But that cunt knew exactly what she was doing when she murdered a little girl.”

  “Emily,” I warned. “Everyone in here is a patient. That means they’re here to get better. Isabel is ill and she takes medication like you do. She deserves to be treated like everyone else.”

  Emily rested her elbows on her knees and moved her face closer to mine. “They say she worships Satan. They say she carved a pentagram on the little girl’s back and bathed her in sheep’s blood. Isabel was making a sacrifice to the devil.”

  “That’s nothing more than malicious gossip, Emily. We weren’t there so we can’t make judgments about an event we didn’t witness. Aren’t you glad that you’ve been given a second chance and treated kindly?”

  “Yes,” she said. “But I was ill.”

  “So is Isabel,” I reminded her.

  “That was a different kind of ill,” she replied. “Sick. Isabel is sick.”

  I sighed. “I understand that the crime was devastating and that it makes people feel very strongly, but don’t you have any compassion for Isabel? If she did it, it’s because she was very ill.”

  Emily frowned. “‘If she did it’? If? You think she’s innocent!”

  “That’s not what I meant. I… I just meant that the only people who know what happened were Maisie, Isabel, and her brother Owen.”

  “Her brother told the police she did it!” Emily said. “Everyone knows she did it.”