Guilty

by Jane Bidder

  Now, Simon nodded. ‘I’ll let you know. Now if you don’t mind, we’re late.’

  The man nodded. ‘Going to fart, are you? Me too.’

  No. Simon couldn’t bear the idea of this floppy-bellied child molester being in the same class as him, let alone within breathing distance of the art tutor. It wasn’t right. How could her husband – she had been wearing a ring, he noticed – allow her to do such a job? It wasn’t even as though there was a guard there to look after her. He felt himself bristling with indignation.

  As for walking to art with Rory, there was no getting out of it. Uncomfortably, he strode ahead, trying to keep as much of a distance as possible, across the camp, past the laundry room where machines were whirring (as though this was a school and not a prison) and across the damp grass to the Portakabin where the art class was held.

  ‘Morning!’ Caroline-Jane gave them both a warm, welcoming smile as she ticked off their names in her register book. ‘Come on in.’ She was handing round a sheaf of A4-sized sugar paper sheets. ‘That’s right, do take one. I’m afraid I’ve only got one mirror between two.’ She smiled. ‘That’s prison cuts for you.’

  Mirrors?

  ‘Self-portraits,’ muttered Rory as he eased his large frame onto the chair next to Simon. ‘We do them once a month.’

  If he’d known he would have to sit next to this man, he wouldn’t have come. Unable to stop himself, his eyes followed Caroline-Jane. She was even wearing the sort of clothes that Claire favoured. Slim-line black trousers with a tight-fitting jumper in turquoise. Too tight, he thought, for this kind of audience. He was aware of the others in the group nudging each other every time she turned her back on them towards the flip chart, to demonstrate how to get the outline of your own nose or judge the distance between eyes. It made him want to punch them.

  ‘Wondered if you had a violent streak hidden away,’ purred Joanna. ‘ I mean when you think about school and your father …’

  ‘Shut up,’ he snapped. To his embarrassment, Caroline-Jane glanced at him, surprised.

  ‘Not you,’ he mumbled. ‘I was thinking of something else, that’s all.’

  God, she’d think he was weird now. He’d put her off. But instead, she was moving in his direction. She smelt gorgeous – wasn’t that Chanel? – and he had to press his finger-nails into his thigh to force himself to concentrate on her words as she leaned over him and Rory.

  ‘That’s good,’ she said. ‘But try making that eyebrow slightly higher.’ He was horribly aware of her proximity as she directed his neighbour before turning to him. ‘Yes. I can see what you’re trying to do. But if you take another look in the mirror you might be able to judge the distance between your nose and ears a little better.’

  Simon looked at himself in the tacky plastic hand mirror he’d been given. If he forced himself to concentrate on that, he might be able to stop thinking about Caroline-Jane who had now passed on to the group of kids giggling at the other end of the table.

  ‘Need a hand?’

  Rory was looking at Simon’s so-called self-portrait. His egg-shaped head looked nothing like him and the eyes were almost cartoon-like. ‘If you did this,’ suggested Rory, his charcoal stick hovering over Simon’s paper, ‘you could …’

  Simon pulled his paper away. ‘I don’t need your help, thanks.’

  Rory shrugged. ‘Suit yourself.’

  Caroline-Jane raised her eyebrows questioningly before going back to giving advice to a skinny youth who had a spider tattoo on his neck. How he wished he could go but there was still another hour left until the break. He spent it drawing and rubbing out charcoal lines again and again. How did Claire do it?

  ‘Coffee, anyone?’ The teacher’s voice cut in on his thoughts. She glanced at Simon kindly. ‘You just help yourself to a mug in the corridor outside. There’s a kettle there too.’

  He’d been told by Spencer that some classes were nicer than others. Not all offered drinks in a mid-class break and presumably not all tutors were like Caroline-Jane. She was coming towards him now.

  ‘How are you getting on?’ She indicated that they should walk back to the classroom.

  ‘Not great.’ Simon tried to laugh off the ridiculous outline on his own piece of sugar paper. ‘My wife’s an artist but clearly it hasn’t rubbed off.’

  ‘Is she?’ Caroline-Jane’s face showed a keen interest. ‘What kind of medium does she specialise in?’

  ‘Watercolours, charcoal, that sort of thing.’ He became horribly aware that he didn’t really know. ‘She does children’s book illustrations. We haven’t been married that long.’

  He stopped, aware that the last two sentences didn’t follow on.

  ‘I see.’ Caroline-Jane was nodding. ‘And what caused that rumpus earlier on with Rory?’

  He glanced towards the corridor to where Rory was drinking his coffee alone. ‘I don’t like him.’ He dropped his voice. ‘Do you know what he’s done?’

  ‘No.’ Caroline-Jane’s voice was sharp and she was moving away from him. ‘I don’t like to know what any of my men have done or else I wouldn’t be able to do this job.’

  ‘Why do you do it?’ As soon as he said it, he knew he’d overstepped the mark.

  Her cheeks suddenly revealed two red spots in the middle. ‘Sorry, Simon, but I don’t think that’s any of your business. I try to keep a professional environment in my classes which is why I see you as students and not … not anything else.’

  He nodded, feeling justifiably reprimanded.

  ‘By the way,’ she added in a lighter tone. ‘Have you looked at Rory’s portrait? Rather good, isn’t it? He’s won several prizes over the years.’

  Reluctantly, Simon obeyed. It was incredible. Rory might not have done his own features any favours but he had been truthful enough with that flabby jaw and piggy eyes and goatee beard. It looked almost professional.

  ‘This place is full of surprises,’ said Caroline-Jane quietly. ‘I sometimes think any of us could have ended up in prison if circumstances had been different. Right!’ She looked up at the others who were beginning to troop back in. ‘Shall we get on?’

  Simon didn’t go to the next Listeners’ evening. Instead he put up a notice saying Cancelled temporarily due to staff shortages. He felt bad about it but knew he simply couldn’t cope with another confrontation with Rory. Instead, he’d wait until the other Listener was out of hospital.

  ‘How does it work?’ he asked Spencer in the dining hall one evening. ‘Hospital, I mean. What stops someone just running away?’

  ‘They have a guard next to them.’ Spencer spoke with his mouth full, making Simon turn away. ‘And they usually have a guard next to them.’

  ‘But do they go in a special part of the hospital?’

  ‘Depends, man.’ There was a piece of sweetcorn stuck between Spencer’s front teeth now. ‘They might just be in a general ward if there’s no room.’

  Spencer leaned back and stretched, picking his teeth with his finger. Ugh! ‘Think I’ll get back to the hut. Something tells me we’re due a search.’

  ‘What have you got to hide?’

  Spencer’s eyes widened. ‘Nothing, man. I just want to get my stuff tidied up.’

  ‘He’s lying!’ tinkled Joanna. ‘Bet he’s got some stash under the mattress.’

  She could be right. Still, if there really was going to be a search – they happened regularly – it would be wise to get back to their room.

  ‘Fucking hell!’ exclaimed Spencer. ‘Just take a look at this, man.’

  It was the smell that hit him first. A horrible smell – just like the hole in the ground that had passed for a loo when he and a girlfriend had travelled through India years ago. And then he saw the brown mess smeared on the walls.

  ‘This is real shit. Someone’s got it in for us, man.’ Spencer shook his head. ‘I said you should have listened to Rory. Now look what he’s done.’

  Chapter Twenty-four

  Outside cleaning contractors ha
d to be called in. Legally, apparently, no one else was allowed to do it – not even the Red Bands, the name for the group of prisoners who were selected to keep the huts clean. After they’d gone, both Simon and Spencer were physically sick in the loo. Then they took it in turns to use the shower. Even then, he still didn’t feel clean.

  ‘Do I still smell?’

  Spencer sniffed. ‘Can’t tell. It’s in my nostrils, man.’

  ‘I’m going to find him.’ Simon was putting on his clean pants. He’d given up by now when it came to privacy.

  ‘Rory? You must be mad. You won’t get nothing out of him. He’ll just deny it. Anyone would.’

  ‘I don’t care. I’m not having it.’

  Spencer laid a hand on his shoulder. ‘Listen, man. This kind of stuff happens in prison. There was a geezer in my last prison what got shipped out for putting bird poo in the staff ice cream.’ He snorted. ‘They kept saying how tasty it was and had they got in a new flavour!’

  Simon might have laughed if it hadn’t been for what had just happened.

  ‘If you make a fuss, it will come back at you. Understand?’

  ‘I’m still going to find him.’ Simon put on his shoes. Unlike most of the other men’s trainers, his were casual brogues. ‘I’m fed up with being a wimp.’

  ‘Ooooh!’ Joanna’s voice tinkled. ‘I do love a man who stands up for himself. About time, darling, if you don’t mind me saying! I’ve a funny feeling you might just find him by the post window.’

  Every evening, a queue of men formed by a window behind which was the post room. You gave your name and then held your breath. If it was a lucky day, you got mail. If not, you suffered the ignominy of someone saying ‘Nothing there’ and then you were left wondering if anyone still cared.

  Since moving down to the south-west, he’d lost contact with quite a few of his London friends and now, he didn’t want them to know of his situation. Alex and Rosemarie were the exceptions but, so far, there’d been nothing from them, which hurt. He was also cross on Claire’s behalf. Rosemarie was clearly more shallow than either of them had realised.

  ‘I could have told you that,’ tinkled Joanna. ‘There you are. He’s there!’

  Rory was mooching just outside the queue. Clearly he hadn’t got any mail. ‘Why did you do it?’ demanded Simon urgently. He wanted to take the man by the collar of that grubby white T-shirt and shake him but there was no point in causing a scene. It would only get him into trouble.

  ‘Wot?’ Rory was looking at him in a manner that would have suggested surprise if he didn’t know better.

  ‘Mess up our cell like that.’ He was growling now, fists clenched.

  ‘Careful, ducks!’ It was Georgie who had seemed to materialise from nowhere. ‘Calm it or you’re going to get one of the officers over. Now what’s going on?’

  ‘He,’ muttered Simon fiercely, jabbing his forefinger at Rory, ‘put … put poo all round my cell walls.’

  Rory chuckled. ‘Poo? Do you mean shit?’

  ‘Don’t you dare laugh!’ Simon could feel himself shaking.

  ‘Is that true?’ Georgie was looking at Rory.

  ‘No!’

  ‘He’s lying!’

  ‘I’m not, mate. I’ve got one of those phobias about shit. Ask him!’

  Now it was his turn to jerk his finger towards another man who’d just left the queue with a letter in his hands. ‘I can’t handle anything dirty. Not since I did my offence. This is my cell-mate. He’ll tell you.’

  The man nodded. ‘He’s right. Bloody nightmare he is to live with. Has to wash his hands four times before he touches anything.’

  ‘Then who did it?’ Simon still found himself glaring at him.

  ‘Don’t ask me, mate.’

  Georgie was guiding him towards the post window. ‘Forget it, duck. It’s not worth it. Trust me. Now why don’t you see if you’ve got a letter from that gorgeous wife of yours?’

  ‘How do you know she’s gorgeous?’ Simon could still feel the anger in his chest.

  ‘I saw her, ducks, at Visiting.’ He touched Simon’s shoulder briefly. ‘It’s OK. You can let your anger out on me if it helps.’

  There was a letter. But it wasn’t Claire’s writing. In fact, he didn’t recognise the almost child-shaped capital letters on the envelope. Ben? No. Kids didn’t write letters. Claire was always saying that. They emailed or texted.

  Excitedly he opened it. Then stopped.

  You killed the woman I loved. I’m going to get you for that.

  Hugh. Despite the absence of a signature, the sender’s identity was clear.

  ‘Anything interesting?’ enquired Georgie, politely.

  Carefully, Simon tore up the letter into small strips and then tiny squares before stuffing them in his pocket to throw away in the hut. There weren’t rubbish bins round the camp for fear of someone setting fire to them. ‘It’s nothing.’ He laughed hoarsely. ‘Nothing I can’t deal with.’

  Chapter Twenty-five

  Somehow, Claire managed to deliver her illustrations on the day of the deadline. It had meant paying extra for the postage which she could ill afford – something she would have thought nothing of this time last year – but it meant her agent was happy.

  ‘Is there any more work coming up?’ she had asked, trying not to sound too desperate.

  ‘Might be,’ said her agent. ‘Feeling bored, are you?’

  Should she tell her agent what had happened to Simon? No. Something told her that being the wife of a prisoner might not be the best thing for her career. But his actions had now affected all of them and she had to be practical. It would take at least two or maybe three months to get paid for the work she’d just completed. It was the way freelance work went. Just as well she had the school job; even though the money wasn’t great, it was something regular coming in at the end of every month until the house sold.

  Meanwhile, there was the visit to Simon coming up and somehow she’d completely forgotten to organise the dog. ‘Mrs Johnson, would you mind keeping an eye on Slasher for the day tomorrow?’ she asked. It was a Friday and her school day had been particularly demanding – one of the children having thrown red paint at another in an argument.

  ‘Tomorrow?’ Mrs Johnson looked up from the Aga where she had baked a tray of cheese scones. ‘Certainly, dear. Going anywhere nice?’

  Claire had already prepared her answer which was between a white lie and the truth. ‘I’m going to visit my husband, actually. He’s taking me out to lunch so we can talk about things. Ben’s going to his father’s or else he’d look after the dog.’

  ‘Don’t you worry about it!’ Her landlady looked down at Slasher who was sitting up, his ears pricked at the sound of his name. ‘We’ll have a good run along the beach.’ She glanced at Claire. ‘You look a bit washed-out, if you don’t mind me saying. Fancy a cup of tea?’

  Her landlady’s tone indicated that an acceptance and the company was a fair exchange for dog-sitting the next day, even though all Claire wanted to do was to go upstairs and stretch out on the bed. ‘That’s very kind, but I ought to see where Ben is.’

  Mrs Johnson beamed. ‘Sitting next door in front of my telly with his cheese scone, he is. Shall we go in and join him?’

  She ought to be grateful but somehow Claire felt as though she was being sucked in. ‘Thank you,’ she said quietly. ‘May I carry that tray for you?’

  Claire hadn’t visited her first husband’s apartment before. After breaking up they had occasionally met to discuss decisions about Ben in a coffee shop, rather than her coming back to his house or him to hers. It was as though, by mutual decision, they had agreed that it was part of moving on.

  So when Charlie had casually suggested that she dropped Ben off on the way while driving to Essex, she had found herself agreeing. Now as they stood at the front door of a rather smart apartment in a prestigious part of Exeter, she felt deeply uncomfortable. Even now, after four or so years, it felt weird to think of the man she’d liv
ed with for so long having another home.

  ‘Hello,’ said his voice when she pressed the security button.

  ‘It’s us,’ she said, instantly regretting the informality. They might have been a mother and son returning from an ordinary shopping day. The possibility both shocked and reassured her. At least Charlie was still there. He wasn’t dead. Or in prison. A welcome constant in her life which had seen too many changes in the last few months.

  There was a click and the door opened. ‘Up here,’ said Ben, striding up the steps in front. How, she wondered as she followed her son, had it come to this? After all those years of living together as a family, her child knew where her former husband lived, while she hadn’t even set foot in the place. It didn’t feel right.

  ‘Hi.’ He stood at the door of his apartment waiting for them as they climbed the stairs. His tall body and blond curly hair seemed both strange and yet familiar, sending an odd sensation shooting through her – one that she couldn’t name. ‘Nice to see you. Want a cup of tea before you go?’

  ‘No thanks.’ She took a step inside and glanced round the sitting room which was a curious mixture of some of their old furniture and new things. There was the chair that she’d bought at an auction when she’d been pregnant with Ben. It hurt to look at it; to recall her blind faith at the time – that the future would be all right.

  And there was a modern chrome coffee table in the middle which definitely wasn’t her taste and which she hadn’t thought would have been Charlie’s either. Had she ever known him? Had she ever known Simon? ‘I really ought to get cracking. Long drive ahead.’

  He nodded but still she didn’t move. Behind him, she could spot a silver-framed photograph of Ben as a toddler and next to that, another of her and Charlie on their wedding day. How weird that he should still want to display that!

  ‘Thanks for having him,’ she said, quietly. Ben had already gone into the back room with his stuff.