Guilty

by Jane Bidder

  ‘Piss test?’

  ‘If you’re in for drugs, they have to check your piss to make sure you’re not using any more. Blimey, man, you don’t know nothing, do you?’

  Sometimes, Simon thought he would go mad. He was so close to the outside real world but also so far. All he had to do was walk out of the gates, ring for a taxi, and make his way back to Claire.

  But if he did that, he’d be moved to a ‘closed’ prison where you couldn’t walk around and quite possibly get a longer sentence. If it wasn’t for teaching Spencer in the evenings and becoming a Listener, he really would have flipped.

  The Listener training was done, rather to his surprise, by a Samaritan who came in for two hours a month. As a university Nightliner, he’d done a 12-hour night stint once a month to help students with problems. He’d enjoyed it even though there were nights when no one called.

  Here, the training was not dissimilar. You were meant to listen rather than talk but if the situation required it, you could add your own views providing they were guidelines rather than instructions. There were role plays too and advice on how the system worked. Basically, there was a list of Listeners’ hut numbers up on the board and anyone could contact them to arrange an appointment.

  The Samaritan was an earnest young man who had a small gold earring in his left ear. ‘A Nightliner, you say,’ he commented when Simon told him. ‘You’ll find the problems here very different from students at uni.’

  Simon almost felt tempted to tell him about his own stuff but was worried that the earnest young Samaritan might not think he was suitable for a Listener role if he couldn’t sort himself out.

  ‘I had a bloke in here the other month who’d just found out he had a son he didn’t know about. He was so thrilled that he went out and bought the kid a bike.’

  Simon got a nasty feeling of premonition.

  ‘The kid took it out on Boxing Day and rode it along the canal. Fell in and got drowned. Our bloke felt responsible.’

  It was too much to take in. ‘What did you say?’

  The earnest young man gave him a searching look. ‘What would you say?’

  Simon thought for a minute. ‘I think I’d tell him that kids have accidents sometimes and that it wasn’t his fault. I might say that at least the two of them had known each other and that this would have meant a lot to his son.’

  The Samaritan nodded. ‘I think you’ll do.’

  The training also involved other men who’d already done their training, including one of the orderlies who was an albino with pale hair, white eyebrows, pink-framed glasses, and a negroid face. He was known as Bino – it rhymed with Beano – but didn’t seem offended by this. Simon had learned on his first day that orderlies were prisoners who were considered suitable to help with certain departments in the prison such as the library or the Education office.

  It was a privilege to become an orderly because you were treated with more respect by staff and some of the men, although others were jealous of your elevated status. You also earned an extra fiver a week. Bino was the library orderly – something Simon would have really loved even though the library was only open three days a week (when there was a librarian, that was) and had a limited number of books.

  ‘Are you on for tomorrow night?’ Bino was studying the rota in front of him. ‘Only we’ve had someone shipped out at the last minute so we’ve got a gap.’

  A Listener who had done something wrong and had therefore been moved to another prison? Simon wanted to ask what he’d done but stopped in time. ‘Tomorrow?’ He tried to think. At first, he’d counted every day as it passed and ticked them off in the chart he had made on a scrap piece of paper. But now the days were beginning to blend into one. ‘That’s fine.’

  ‘Great.’ The albino nodded energetically. ‘Good luck.’

  Evenings were a strange time in Freetown. Those who had not been there long enough to go out of the prison during the day, either on community work or on full-time jobs, often became stir crazy. They listened with longing to stories of mates who came back with tales of the outside. Someone in Simon’s hut was working in a charity shop in Clacton-on-Sea and he’d managed to chat up one of the customers and take the girl out to lunch.

  This was strictly against the rules. For a start, you were meant to work behind the shop bagging up items and not serving at the counter although, from what Simon could gather, charity shops were often so short of staff that this didn’t always happen. Meeting women when you were out of prison for the day – especially on a Saturday if prisoners had earned the right to a day release in order to prepare themselves for eventual full-time release – was risky. Another chap in Simon’s hut had told them how he had met this ‘fantastic bird’ in a pub and taken her number, promising to call her the following weekend. ‘I had to make up some excuse not to give her my number,’ he said ruefully. ‘I could hardly give her the prison switchboard, could I?’

  It was these kinds of stories, the pale man in glasses warned Simon, that he might hear as a Listener. He would also get men who were wracked with worry in case their wives went off with someone else while they were inside. Simon had silently winced at this. Was it possible that Claire might do that? No. Of course not. Yet there were two men on his hut whose wives had started divorce proceedings. Had their husbands trusted them too?

  He’d feel better, he told himself as he headed for his first shift in the Listeners’ Hut (a brightly coloured Portakabin which had daubing on the outside), when Claire was allowed a visit. Only another week now and then the paperwork should be through. If she hadn’t made a mistake over one digit in her national insurance number, for the security check, she would have been here earlier. Part of him couldn’t help feeling cross with her for getting it wrong. Supposing she had done it on purpose to delay her visit? No.

  ‘Why not?’ chirped Joanna. ‘ I might have done the same. It can’t be easy for her to know she’s now married to a murderer?’

  Why wouldn’t she go away? Sometimes, for days, she was silent and he thought he’d got the nightmares out of his system but here she was again. Holding his hands over both ears to shut her out, Simon arrived at the Listeners’ Hut. It was very small; about the size of his garden shed at home. Someone had put home-made posters on the walls depicting furrowed-browed men and balloons coming out of their heads, and the phrase It’s good to talk.

  Maybe, thought Simon, no one would come. In a way, it would be a relief. Who was he to think he could give advice to someone else? Hang on. There were footsteps. Someone opening the door. It was a young man – the one whom he’d noticed before, about Ben’s age. He looked nervously at Simon. ‘Have I come to the right place?’

  Simon nodded nervously. ‘Please. Take a seat.’

  The boy perched on the edge. ‘I’ve never done this before. Been to a counsellor, I mean.’

  Then he put his head in his hands and began to weep. ‘I shouldn’t be here. It’s not my fault.’

  How many times had Simon heard that in the camp? ‘Why don’t you tell me about it,’ he said gently. ‘Start at the beginning.’

  The boy’s name was Will. He had been a politics student at a university in the Midlands. One evening, he’d gone out for a drink with his mates. They’d had about four pints each.

  ‘We were about to go,’ he said raising his eyes, red from the effort of talking, ‘when this man barged up to me and said he was going to stab me with a knife. I didn’t know him from Adam, honest. I thought he was crazy and I was scared he was going to hurt me or my girlfriend. He was a big bloke with tattoos and a vest and I didn’t think I stood a chance.’

  The boy was talking so fast that Simon had to concentrate hard. ‘He was coming towards me so I pushed him as hard as I could.’ His eyes implored Simon to understand. ‘I didn’t mean to hurt him – just defend myself. He fell backwards and there was this awful shattering sound of glass. I hadn’t realised there was a window behind him and he’d fallen right through it. Someone called an am
bulance and then some of this man’s friends began telling the police that I had attacked their friend. I tried to explain but this policeman took me down to the station and I had to spend the night in a cell …’

  Simon wanted to put his arms around him but the pale man with glasses had said this wasn’t a good idea. Sympathise, he had said, but don’t touch in case you get accused of something. ‘That happened to me,’ he said quietly. ‘Being put in a cell without expecting it. Awful, isn’t it?’

  The boy looked up. ‘I couldn’t believe it. But the worst thing was ringing Mum. She found me a solicitor who did Legal Aid through Yellow Pages because we didn’t know where else to go and he got me out the next morning. It took another four months until I had to go to court but I wasn’t that worried because my solicitor said I’d get off when the truth was told. But the judge was this old man who didn’t seem to like the fact I was reading politics. And because this chap who got thrown through the window had to have 32 stitches, I was given a year’s sentence.’

  Simon silently groaned.

  ‘I’m so sorry.’ He searched for the right words. ‘When are you likely to be released?’

  The boy rubbed his eyes. ‘Six months with any luck. My tutor at uni was really supportive and said he’d hold my place open for me but I’m scared my girlfriend won’t wait for me. I mean, who wants a boyfriend with a record? Her parents are really shocked. And even if I get a degree, I’ll have to put down my record when I apply for jobs. I’m ruined before I start.’

  ‘Not necessarily,’ said Simon trying to sound assuring.

  But it was true. It was a story he’d already heard over and over again in his short time here. Men of previously good character were damned if they applied for most jobs with any standing because of their record. He’d also heard the phrase ‘It wasn’t my fault’ or ‘They made a mistake’ so often that he no longer believed it himself. But this lad seemed different.

  ‘Thanks,’ said the boy getting up. ‘It really helped to talk.’

  Really? Simon felt he’d been useless. Maybe he wasn’t any good at this listening stuff. But the following morning at breakfast, the boy made a place for him at the table and told someone else that the Listener service had really helped him which in turn, made Simon feel better about his next stint which was due to come up the following week. And then, when he queued up for his post the next day, he found a letter to say that Claire’s visit had been approved and that she was coming the following Sunday.

  It was different and yet the same as her visit at Holdfast. Different because the atmosphere was slightly more relaxed in the visiting room where the officers didn’t stand by their tables but hovered at the main door in case anyone tried to make a dash for it.

  Some hope! Someone from the hut next door had just walked out last Saturday by not coming back from a home visit. Then, rumour had it, he had turned himself in and got moved to a stricter prison for his trouble.

  Yet this visit also felt the same as the last, because Claire looked terrified and he felt like a heel for putting her in this position.

  When he first saw her, walking towards him in the visiting room, he almost didn’t recognise her. She’d had her hair cut slightly shorter and was wearing a pale orange lipstick, instead of her usual pink which he preferred. He tried to brush her cheek and then hesitated in case he was told off like last time. By the time he realised the men around him were hugging their wives hello, it was too late.

  She smoothed down her pale indigo cardigan as though it was wrinkled. It was one he had never cared for particularly, partly because of a previous girlfriend who had only worn violet. Her voice was low as though she had a slightly sore throat. She smelt beautiful. God, she smelt beautiful. Every inch of him wanted to lean over and hold her. Instead, he was being forced to sit there stiffly like they’d had to at school during sixth form debates with local girls.

  She leaned towards him and he wanted to kiss that sweet upturned nose. ‘How are you, Simon?’

  ‘OK.’ He wanted to tell her so much but couldn’t. The gym. The bloody pulp of a man. The threat from Union Jack shorts. It would only upset her. ‘It’s so good to see you,’ he continued quickly. ‘What about you? How’s the new house?’

  ‘Rooms,’ she corrected him. ’They’re OK.’

  Was it his imagination or did her voice sound slightly brittle? ‘And the job?’ She’d told him about that in her last letter.

  ‘I like it but it’s tiring. Doesn’t leave me much time to paint.’

  He nodded. There was an art class here, he’d seen, but he had to wait to get to Education first. It didn’t seem the right time to mention it.

  ‘What about Ben?’

  ‘He’s gone back to school.’

  ‘And has anyone said anything to him?’

  ‘He won’t talk about it when I ask but he’s gone rather quiet.’

  ‘So are you.’

  He hadn’t meant to say that but it came out.

  ‘What do you expect, Simon? There were tears in her eyes. ‘This place.’ She looked around. ‘It’s awful. The other women are used to it. I heard them talking! Saying it was better than the other prisons their men had been in. We’re stuck in two rooms and I can’t even get back to Beech Cottage to get our stuff in case we’re attacked. Everyone loved Joanna! We’re the baddies in this.’

  His throat suddenly developed a huge alien lump. ‘I’m sorry.’

  There was a silence. ‘Me too.’ She reached out her hand. ‘I shouldn’t have said that stuff.’

  ‘No. It’s me who’s got us into this mess.’

  She didn’t disagree so he proceeded to tell her about the Listening bit but left out the part about the gym dumbbells and the porn magazine. Then somehow, it was time to go. A crazy thought came into his head as he hugged his wife goodbye, breathing in her smell which reminded him of cinnamon instead of her usual Chanel. ‘Do you ever hear her?’

  ‘Who?’ She was frowning.

  ‘Joanna.’ He felt really silly now. ‘Talking in your head.’

  ‘No.’ She was eyeing him strangely now. ‘Why? Do you?’

  ‘Sometimes.’

  She put out her hand to touch him. ‘Maybe you ought to see someone, Simon. Is there a counsellor here?’

  He wanted to laugh. ‘Only me. I’m a Listener, remember?’

  She gave him another hug but this time it seemed more like a hug that a mother would give a child. He didn’t want to let her go.

  ‘How’s Hugh doing?’ he said quietly.

  Something flickered in her eyes. ‘I don’t know. But he’s stopped phoning me, thank God.’

  ‘Time,’ roared the officer and then she was gone. Simon returned to his cell with a horrible feeling that the visit hadn’t gone as well as he had hoped.

  Chapter Eighteen

  ‘I can’t go back to visit him again,’ thought Claire as she signed out along with the other visitors, including a couple in their mid sixties who had a bewildered look on their faces.

  It had been horrible! Walking out of the Portakabin towards the Visitors’ Car Park, you could almost imagine you were in an industrial estate containing those squat one-storey buildings and an automatic car barrier. But then you saw the black-trousered, white-shirted men and women bearing chains round their waists and stiff faces and you knew this was different.

  Simon had been different too. He had looked quite rough – that stubble growth on his chin and those awful green track suit bottoms which the other men were wearing too. Even worse, he had smelt of perspiration when hugging her goodbye. Even if he’d been allowed to kiss her, she wouldn’t have wanted him to.

  Then there were the voices. If Simon really did think he was hearing Joanna, he needed a psychiatrist. Maybe she’d have a word with Patrick to see how she could go about getting that kind of help for him in prison.

  At last she was back at the car. What a relief to get in and shut the door on this horrible place! Picking up her mobile which she’d hidden in the g
love compartment, she found a missed call from Ben.

  When she rang back, it went straight through to answerphone.

  A picture of Simon came into her head. ‘If you’d tried a bit harder with my son, this might not have happened,’ she said out loud, banging the steering wheel in frustration. ‘If you hadn’t gone on about him taking his shoes off and spending his allowance, you might have forged some kind of relationship with him and then none of this would have happened.’

  The elderly couple in the Hillman next to her were giving her strange looks, she now noticed. No wonder. Perhaps she was turning as crazy as her husband. She wound down the window to get some air.

  ‘Excuse me.’ The well-spoken woman getting out of the passenger seat was, at a guess, in her early sixties, wearing a navy blue woollen coat.

  ‘I’m so sorry to bother you.’ The woman’s eyes searched hers. ‘But I wondered if you could tell me what it is like in there?’

  Was she one of those ghouls who went to prisons out of interest, Claire wondered? Or maybe – what a thought! – she was a victim?

  ‘Our son’s just been moved here, you see,’ continued the woman. ‘We were meant to be visiting him today but when we got here, he wouldn’t see us.’ Her eyes filled with tears. ‘I think he’s ashamed. But I want to know what it’s like so I can imagine it.’

  Poor things! Briefly, Claire described the Visitors’ Room to her. ‘I didn’t see much else, to be honest. But the men all seemed fine.’

  That wasn’t strictly true.

  ‘Do they give them enough to eat?’

  ‘I’m sure they do.’

  ‘He didn’t hurt anyone you know.’ The woman’s voice rose. ‘Someone at work asked him to do a favour so he did, not realising it was against the law.’

  ‘I’m sorry.’ She glanced at her watch. ‘I have to go. My son is waiting …’

  As she said the words, she stopped, realising, too late, her insensitivity.

  ‘Of course. Thank you, dear, for being so kind.’

  Head bowed, the woman got back into her car. Without knowing it, the stranger had done her a favour. Of course she’d come back to see her husband again. How could she have thought otherwise?