Guilty Innocence

by Maggie James

  Some small part of her protests, however. She remembers moments of tenderness, rare and thus precious, from Mark. Sometimes he seems like he’s holding his emotions on a leash before temporarily setting them free, his smile soft and warm as he bends down to kiss her. Moments like these have kept her going every time he’s shied away from her hints about seeing each other more often, perhaps getting a place together. They’re now insisting she allow Mark a chance to explain. Either give her some credible explanation as to why he has Linda Curtis’s letter to her grandson in his bedside cabinet, if he’s not Joshua Barker. Or, if he is, explain Abby Morgan’s death to her. How he was just a child at the time; how he never intended anything so dreadful to happen.

  Natalie looks at her watch. Four o’clock. Mark won’t be home until six. Decision made; she’ll wait, and confront him when he walks through the door.

  She’ll have to skip any more comfort food, though. She recalls again how she’s hoped this man will father a baby with her, and with that, the image of a bloodied and battered Abby Morgan forces its way into her brain. Her stomach clenches and heaves and she only just makes it to the bathroom in time. A vile mess of bread, ham and biscuits surges up from Natalie’s guts as she retches over the toilet bowl, one thought hammering through her brain. Dear God, let it be a mistake. Don’t let him be Joshua Barker. Please.

  2

  SEVEN, EIGHT, LAY THEM STRAIGHT

  ‘We need more sacks of bonding compound, the twenty-five kilo ones. Ditto for six-mil gravel. Sort it before you leave, would you? Twenty of each should do us for the Wilson order.’

  ‘On it, boss.’ Where the hell is his order pad? Anxiety rises in Mark Slater, flooding him the way it always does when he’s mislaid something, the order in his cubbyhole office mirroring the neatness in his flat. As does the lack of dust, the scent of lemon air freshener. Natalie, ever the untidy one, likes to tease him about being a neat freak, as she calls him. He can hear her in his head now, the laughter in her voice as she speaks. ‘A place for everything and everything in its place,’ she mocks. ‘Just like me. Or not, as you’ll have realised now you’ve been to my flat. Did you get this from your parents?’

  Mark’s at a loss when Natalie asks questions about his life before her. Often his only refuge is a lie. ‘Yes,’ he replies, not caring to be more specific, changing the subject, understanding Natalie is only teasing and doesn’t expect anything more than a joking response. She’ll never know his answer isn’t true. OK, his mother always demanded tidiness from him, but the urge for greater regularity comes later on for Mark, after her flinty brand of maternal care no longer features in his life. For him, methodology represents a desperate attempt to impose control on a world that so far has proved unpredictable.

  He finds the missing pad under some invoices in his filing tray and breathes out the tension he’s been holding. All is well in his world again. He glances at the clock. Nearly five; just enough time to order the gravel, file the day’s paperwork and then head for home.

  Once he’s off the phone, he tears off the completed purchase slip and places it on top of the others he’s done that day, squaring the edges up so they align perfectly. Seven, eight, lay them straight, he chants to himself in his head. He batches them in groups of ten, a nice, round comforting number he likes, and lines them up in his hole punch as close to the exact middle as possible. He squeezes hard, and then slides out the purchase slips, sticking reinforcements over the holes before filing everything away in date sequence. Order has been imposed once more on his office, meaning Mark can breathe more easily.

  ‘You got anything planned for tonight, mate?’ It’s his boss, Steve Taylor, again. A good guy, someone prepared to take a gamble on him four years ago. Something for which Mark’s always been grateful. Steve hasn’t a clue who his assistant manager really is, beyond knowing he’s an ex-offender, but the man has grown to trust him. As have his colleagues. The official story is that Mark has served time for burglary offences and nobody’s ever enquired too deeply. Not the most exciting of jobs, working at Steve’s building supplies firm, but Mark, at twenty-five, has had enough excitement in his life, and he’s quietly proud of the way he’s transformed himself from raw ex-offender to assistant manager in four years.

  ‘Going for a run, as per usual.’ He doesn’t mention his plans with Natalie. Mark’s never told Steve about her. If his boss wonders why his employee never mentions dating women, thinks perhaps he might be gay, he never says anything, never poses awkward questions. Truth is, Mark’s had a slew of women since his release from prison four years ago, his body eager to catch up with the fantasies he’s had to make do with throughout the long years of incarceration. He doesn’t allow his innate shyness to hold him back when he’s first let out; although not classically good-looking, he’s got that certain something that reels women in, and they’re not shy about coming forward about it. They drool over his cropped mahogany-hued hair and his matching eyes. They like his height, all six feet of it. They’re partial to the tuft of dark hair peeking over his T-shirt, promising a manly, hairy chest. Mark gives the impression he knows how to deliver a good fuck, even though he’s clueless when first released. With practice, though, his level of expertise rapidly rises.

  He never allows himself to get too close to any particular woman, though. Too risky. He’s bound under the terms of his release to inform Tony Jackson, the police officer who monitors him, if he gets into any relationship that goes beyond a few quick shags. Mark realises that if he does, Jackson will grill him relentlessly about the woman concerned. Why? Because preserving his anonymity is crucial.

  His new identity. He’s only been Mark Slater for the past four years, ever since his release from the adult prison he’s transferred to after Vinney Green. Joshua Barker vanishes that day, replaced by Mark Slater, the name effectively erasing all traces of his old life. A transformation contingent on him severing all ties with the past, including his family, although of course everyone involved in creating his new identity is aware his father is dead and his mother long gone. Only his grandparents, Roy and Linda Curtis, remain, assuming they’re still alive. As a result, Mark’s always been as tight-lipped as a clam about his past. The threat of vigilante action hangs over him like a malevolent cloud, along with the need to avoid even more taxpayers’ money being used to forge a second fresh identity.

  As for personal relationships, any woman he dates has to be someone who won’t go running straight to the press if she ever finds out the truth. Mark’s not allowed to tell her, of course. He’s supposed to mention he’s on the Violent and Sex Offenders Register, at which point most women will run in the opposite direction. Prospective partners need to deal with the fact that, although Mark’s unable to give specifics, he’s either a violent offender, a sexual predator, or both. Not many women are prepared to accept a skeleton as big, ugly and undefined as that in someone’s past. Tony Jackson has always stressed this point. So every month when they meet, Mark gets asked whether he’s dating anyone on a regular basis. He always assures Jackson he’s playing the field, long and hard, an answer that satisfies the other man. Another box on his list ticked.

  It’s been true up to recently. Four months ago, he met Natalie Richards, though, and since that day, everything’s changed.

  He should really tell Tony Jackson about her. She’s definitely more than a convenient fuck buddy; he realises he’s in deep emotionally with this one. Besides, she’s made it plain she wants more from him.

  More than he’s able to give, though.

  Mark sighs, and heads off for a piss before the walk home. He chooses a stall rather than one of the urinals, simply so he can sit for a minute and clear the crap of his working day out of his brain. That way, he’ll be fresh for his daily seven-mile run. Head in his hands, breathing in the lingering whiff of urine in the air, he thinks more about Natalie.

  He’s seeing her tonight. Nothing fancy, just Mark going to her flat after his run. They’ll order in Chinese, watch a
DVD and later they’ll fuck. He hopes like hell she won’t press him about moving things between them forward, not that she’s ever overly pushy about it. No strident demands, thank God. Not Natalie’s style. Merely the odd hint now and again, about seeing each other more often, getting a place together someday. As well as mentioning how much she loves babies. Mark’s pained by the hurt in her face when he abruptly turns the conversation once the pin’s been pulled from that particular grenade. He’s clocked her insecurities long ago, along with the comfort eating. Might explain why he’s taken to her so much. They’re alike, he and Natalie, he reckons, both as messed-up and fragile inside their heads as each other. She’s pretty, of course, which obviously helps, even though she doesn’t believe in her own attractiveness. Natalie views the extra kilos she carries as ugly; Mark sees them as soft and squishy flesh, resulting in her large boobs and the gentle curve of her belly. Flesh that’s delicious to squeeze, to stroke, to savour. Far sexier than some woman who may have a medically acceptable body mass index but whose stomach doesn’t provide the comforting cushion Natalie’s does. He tells her, in the warm afterglow of sex, what a lovely shade of brunette her hair is, shiny as a ripe conker; how he has a thing for chocolate eyes like hers. She always looks embarrassed, but pleased, when he talks that way, and Mark knows he should say more of that sort of thing.

  It’s hard, though. Can he ever permit himself to get closer to Natalie? No. She’ll want more, eventually, than he’s able to give. Marriage, babies, a future. Things, if he’s honest with himself, he also yearns for but can’t allow himself. Like Natalie, he’s not exactly overloaded with self-belief. Something practically guaranteed with a mother like Joanna Barker. His lack of self-confidence translates into an absence of ambition for his life beyond wanting it to be safe, normal. Mark goes to work each day and whereas the dullness of his job would piss many guys off, he revels in the sheer normality of it, the regularity, the monthly pay cheque confirming he’s a bona fide member of society. He’d happily work at S.T. Building Supplies until retirement, and if he could throw in a wife, a couple of kids and a mortgage, he would.

  But he can’t, of course. Unclean, unclean; Mark is as disfigured by his past as any leper. He’s been rejected by his mother for what he and Adam Campbell did and he’s sure if any woman ever discovers the truth about his past she’ll reject him as decisively as Joanna Barker has done. He’s hardly great husband material, after all. Even if by some miracle Natalie or anyone else agrees to marry him, how can he ever allow himself to become a parent? Let alone father a daughter. Because then he’ll have a living, breathing Abby Morgan forever before him, a permanent reminder of that day fourteen years ago.

  Natalie’s becoming a fixture in his life now, though, and he can’t deny he’d like to explore what they have together, see if it holds the potential for more. Her lack of self-esteem, however, is obviously warning her he’s not bothered about commitment, maybe even that he sees other women. Hell, he knows for sure she thinks that, even though it’s not true. Take the endless questions about A.J. after she snoops through his phone. Not the other woman she so clearly fears, but Anthony Jackson, Tony or A.J. to those who know him well. His supervising officer from the police, with whom he meets every month to prove he’s being a good boy and complying with the terms of his release.

  Which he is, of course. Mostly. A.J. doesn’t know about the visit Mark made, four years ago, to Dartmoor, back to where it all happened. Staying away from Moretonhampstead and the scene of the crime is just one of the many conditions laid down in order for him to be released, and Mark isn’t going to admit to breaking it anytime soon. It’s easy enough to deceive Tony Jackson anyway, should he wish to. After four years of Mark giving every appearance of abiding by the rules, their monthly meeting is down to a mere half-hour now, confined to routine questions about whether Mark is still employed, how he’s spending his time and whether he’s dating.

  Impossible, of course, to tell Natalie who A.J. really is. Or why the appointment is in his phone calendar. She’ll simply have to stay jealous. He’s well aware she doesn’t believe his story about A.J. being an old school friend, but what else can he say?

  Mark sits back on the toilet pan, letting out a long breath. He’s had fourteen years of living a lie and nothing’s going to change; he’ll simply have to deal with it as he’s always done.

  The situation isn’t fair, though, however much the thought sounds like a childish whine. Because he may have been tried and convicted on an equal basis with Adam Campbell, but only Adam and he know how far their sentencing was from reflecting what really happened, fourteen years ago in an abandoned farm building close to Dartmoor.

  Mark Slater, formerly Joshua Barker, is no child killer, but Adam Campbell won’t be telling the truth anytime soon concerning Abby Morgan’s brutal murder.

  ‘You gone to sleep in there? I need to lock up.’ Steve’s voice punctures the balloon of Mark’s thoughts.

  ‘Coming.’ His brain veers away from Adam Campbell, anticipating the sweaty exhilaration of his blood pounding through his veins as he does his daily seven-mile run around the track in his local park. He’ll force his mother, A.J. and prison life out of his mind, working up an appetite for the Chinese meal with Natalie. Sweet and sour pork balls, he thinks, or maybe beef in black bean sauce. Egg fried rice. Spring rolls as well.

  He says goodbye to Steve, who’s busy checking everything is locked up, and heads out of the industrial estate in Bristol where he works, towards home. His cramped yet orderly flat, a mere twenty minutes away by foot; deliberately chosen by Mark because it’s not near any primary schools or children’s playgrounds. Family houses line the nearby streets, but any children who live in them tend to play in the back gardens, not the front, so Mark feels safe. He forces his mind away from the vision of Abby Morgan that arises in his head. So blonde, so pretty. Only two years old. Playing with her dolls’ house in the side garden of her home fourteen years ago.

  Not tonight, he tells himself. Don’t think of her tonight. Focus on Natalie, Chinese food, what DVD you’ll watch later, but not her. Not Abby Morgan.

  Zero chance of that. As Mark looks up, he sees Abby, not fifty feet from him, clutching her mother’s hand. He draws his breath in sharply, stopping, staring.

  It’s not her, of course. Abby Morgan died of multiple stab wounds. She’ll never hold anyone’s hand ever again, but plenty of pretty blonde toddlers live in Bristol; Mark has been haunted by them ever since his release from prison. Every time he sees one, he yearns to be back inside, where small female children can’t torment him. Remind him how Abby Morgan will never grow up, never get old, and all because of him. Every time a blonde toddler crosses his path, the awfulness of it all floods back to him. Especially if she’s wearing pink, as so many little girls do. The colour of Abby’s entire ensemble the day Adam Campbell lured her from the garden of her parents’ house.

  The child ahead of him has a cerise-coloured jacket on. A blonde female toddler in pink. A sure-fire trigger for Mark’s counting rituals.

  One, Two, Buckle My Shoe.

  He wrenches his gaze away from Abby’s doppelganger, forcing his mind onto the old children’s nursery rhyme. Verses seared onto his memory by the events of fourteen years ago. Anxiety grips him tightly, its fingers clutching hard until he begins counting. It’s an important part of his ritual to start at the beginning, even though he doesn’t want to, eager as he is to get to the higher numbers, seven and beyond. One, two, buckle my shoe, he chants in his head. He glances up, sees the child being led away by her mother towards one of the side roads. He wonders if she’s wearing pink trainers; he can’t tell from where he is. His throat seems to be closing over, the width of a straw, no more, and he fights for breath.

  He walks on, exactly seven paces, and then stops.

  Three, four, knock at the door. The police have come for you, Mark. Or Joshua, as you were back then. The child is almost out of view now. Soon she’ll have vanished from his sight
but his anxiety will remain until he finishes the ritual, so familiar now.

  Another seven paces forward, another halt. Deep breaths in.

  Five, six, pick up sticks. Sticks. Adam Campbell’s expression, his exultation at the thought of the injuries he’ll inflict with the rake in his hand, flashes across Mark’s brain, and he hurries forward another seven paces.

  Seven, eight, lay them straight. That’s better. Higher numbers always are. Seven, lucky number seven. Once he reaches it, he’s past the blood, the screaming, evoked by shoes, knocks on doors, sticks.

  The child has disappeared now, but Mark is compelled, as always, to complete the counting and the pacing. He doesn’t care if anyone notices he’s behaving oddly. He paces and counts, paces and counts, until he reaches the end. Nineteen, twenty, my plate’s empty. A relieved exhalation releases the pressure in his chest; he can breathe more easily now. Ten more minutes and he’ll reach the sanctuary of his flat, where everything is as neat and orderly as his office at work and blonde two-year-old girls never venture.

  The neatness. The counting. Mark knows his behaviour has a name. Obsessive-compulsive disorder, not that he’s ever been formally diagnosed. He’s right up there with the hoarders, hand washers and lock checkers, but for Mark his vice is counting. For him, safety does indeed lie in numbers, as well as in his compulsion for neatness. At Vinney Green, his tidy streak is often commented on but not thought worthy of investigation. Natalie often tells him he’s getting as bad as Patrick Bergin’s character in Sleeping With The Enemy.