Guilty

by Jane Bidder

  His face was getting red now. ‘What drove me, Claire. Have you ever thought of that? I’ll tell you. I had a wife who was more interested in her painting and her son than her own husband. What else was I meant to have done?’

  She could hardly believe her ears. ‘What else? You could have talked to me about your feelings first before you got into bed with someone else …’

  The door behind them opened and she stopped. Ben stood there, wearing an outsize T-shirt of his father’s. He was staring at Charlie. ‘I just heard what you said, Dad. You’re bang out of order. Can we go home, now, Mum? I want to see Mrs Johnson and Slasher.’

  The local paper ran a front page story with the headline Teenage boy found safe after 48-hour search.

  Luckily, because they knew so few people in the town, there wasn’t the big fuss she’d feared. She’d had to tell the school of course – both Ben’s and her own – and again, they were very sympathetic. ‘The sooner he gets back into a routine, the better,’ Ben’s headmaster had said. ‘We’ll look after him. Don’t worry.’

  Meanwhile, now the emergency was over, she hadn’t spoken to Charlie for days. ’It’s all right to be angry with him,’ said Jean Johnson after she’d told her everything. They were sitting in the kitchen with a cup of tea. Ben was upstairs doing his homework with the dog. ‘I’ve always found in my experience that anger is very close to love.’

  Claire flushed. ‘I don’t feel anything for him any more.’

  Jean gave her an odd look. ‘It’s not easy to forget someone you were married to for a long time and had a child with. I should know that.’

  This was getting too much! Too personal. She might owe Ben’s discovery – possibly his life – to her landlady, but if she didn’t set some boundaries, Claire had a feeling that Jean might try to take over their lives. ‘You know,’ said the older woman, her hand on the teapot with its pretty seagull design, ‘I don’t know whether I should mention this but there’s something I ought to tell you. When Slasher found your son, Ben told me something.’

  Claire’s heartbeat quickened.

  ‘He said your husband is in prison. Sugar, dear?’

  Thrown by both sentences – the last almost seemed like a ruse to distract her – Claire nodded dumbly. ‘He is. There was an accident.’ Her voice began to squeak. ‘Simon crashed the car. He was trying to ring Ben at the time. Someone … someone died.’

  Jean Johnson’s face was rigid. Scarily emotionless. Claire’s chest felt as though someone had pulled a plug out of it. ‘I expect you want us to go now, in view of your son.’

  Jean shook her head and reached up for her arm as though to pull her down. ‘Not at all. I take it that Ben has kept my confidence too just like I kept his.’

  What was she talking about?

  ‘I told Ben how my son hadn’t been run over at all. I just say that to people until I really know them well enough to tell them the truth.’ Her face softened. ‘He took a tablet. A drug. It was the first time he did it, I was told by his friends, and the last. ‘

  Wow! She hadn’t expected that. ‘I’m so sorry.’ Claire’s eyes filled with tears.

  ‘Thank you, dear. To be honest, neither of us recovered. My husband died young of a heart attack and everyone around here thinks I’m a bit touched. Maybe I am.’

  Claire hugged the woman briefly. ‘If you are, so am I. But I’m so glad we found each other. Thank you.’

  ‘No, my dear. It’s me who needs to thank you. Now do you think Ben’s ready for his dinner yet? Spag bol! Used to be my boy’s favourite. Well one of them, anyway. And by the way, don’t think I’m interfering, but I wouldn’t be too hard on your husband. As you say, it was an accident and we all make mistakes, don’t you think?’

  Hugh’s email popped up in her Inbox the following week. Sorry to hear about Ben but glad he’s OK.

  Claire’s skin prickled with fury! You said you were going to leave our family alone, she typed back . So why are you writing nasty letters to my husband in prison?

  The reply came back immediately. I’m not. He must be mistaken.

  Did he think she was stupid? If he wasn’t so irrational, she’d ring him up but emailing seemed safely distant. I don’t think so.

  There was a pause of ten minutes then which proved she was right. He was just trying to think of a good excuse. Then a message popped up. I’m not going to demean myself by arguing but I will say one thing. My daughter was rather upset when I said I wasn’t happy about her seeing Ben so I have agreed that he can continue to give her guitar lessons after all. They may come to the house if they wish.

  At least that would be something to tell Simon when he rang. Since Ben had been found, it had been harder and harder to talk to him. Part of her blamed him for not having rung immediately he’d got the news.

  ‘They wouldn’t let me,’ he had said.

  Rubbish! He’d surely have been allowed to talk on compassionate grounds. He didn’t understand, that’s what it was. Didn’t realise what it was like for a parent to find a child again. Don’t blame him too much, Jean had said. But it was tough. Not long now until she visited him again. And then it would be Christmas. Charlie wanted them to spend it with him. She’d declined at first. But the more she thought about it, the more attractive the idea seemed.

  ‘Coming to the staff Christmas party, then?’ asked Debbie one morning.

  Claire had already worked out her excuse. ‘I don’t think so. I ought to stay at home with Ben.’

  Debbie looked at her. ‘You can’t be with him every night, you know. It doesn’t work that way with teenagers. If they want to do something daft, they will.’

  It was true. Since the running away, Ben had rejoined the band somewhat surprisingly. One of the boys had just turned up at the door and said they needed him so he’d gone back to band practices on the understanding that he didn’t drink or smoke.

  She only hoped he was obeying the rules.

  ‘So how about it?’ Debbie handed her a pen and sheet. ‘We’re going to that new Chinese in the high street. Go on. Put your name down. You need a bit of fun.’

  When Ben thought about how he’d run away, he felt really stupid. But then Gavin from the band had turned up and said they needed him or they’d have to find a new guitarist. ʼSides, his uncle had done time for a burglary so none of them was bothered about Ben having a stepdad doing bird.

  Poppy had been really glad to see him and when a couple of kids started whispering at school, she’d told them to fuck off. ‘Dad says it’s OK for you to give me lessons now,’ she said.

  He still felt awkward. ‘I don’t get it. Why are you being so nice to me after Joanna?’

  They were sitting in the common room and the others had all left for double maths. They were late but she didn’t seem to care. ‘Don’t you get it, silly?’ She leaned towards him and before he knew it, had put a very gentle kiss on his cheek. ‘Because I fancy you. Always did. Before you-know-what.’

  With that, she jumped up. ‘Shit, is that the time? Mrs Rogers will kill us.’

  And he had followed her speechlessly into double maths where he’d been unable to concentrate for a minute.

  Then, the following week, a parcel had arrived for him. At first, he’d thought it was from Dad but, when he opened it, it was a picture of a small boat setting out from the shore.

  ‘That’s quite good,’ said Claire. ‘But who on earth sent it to you?’

  Together, they read the note. To Ben. I did this in Art and wanted to send it to you. The boat means hope. I’m sorry that my actions have put you in a difficult situation. Love Simon.

  Chapter Thirty

  Plait Man had topped himself. That’s what everyone was saying although it wasn’t official yet. Had hung himself up by stringing together his bedsheets and fastening them somehow to the top of the shelf which they all had as routine fixtures in their pads. Some used them for clothes or music. Simon stored his books there. Plait Man had used his as an execution tool.

&
nbsp; ‘It’s my fault,’ Simon said to Spencer as they stood in a huddle in the small narrow corridor that ran through G hut.

  Spencer yawned. ‘What you on, man?’

  ‘Nothing.’ How could he expect the boy to understand? Elbowing his way through the crowd, he made his way to the officer who was standing by the door of the hut, trying to get them into some kind of order. He was a tough-looking man in his fifties whose small eyes were dwarfed by his large, hooked nose. ‘May I speak to you?’ said Simon in a low, urgent voice.

  The officer didn’t even look at him. ‘Later.’

  ‘Please.’ Simon raised his voice. ‘You see, I think all this is my fault.’

  They took him to a small room off the centre and invited him to sit down on a plastic chair. His right knee wouldn’t stop shaking and he could see the officer noticing.

  ’You’d better tell me what this is all about, Mr Mills, before I decide if I need to get you before the guv.’

  Simon closed his eyes. He found that he could think better that way in prison because it shut out the noise and the look in the officer’s eyes. A look that said ‘I’ve got to work here but it doesn’t mean I have to like you.’

  ‘I’m a Listener.’

  There was no response.

  ‘That means …’

  ‘I know what that means, Mr Mills.’

  This time, Simon noticed, there was no accent on the ‘Mr’. The man’s voice sounded gentler. ‘Please tell me what you have to. We’ve got a prison to run here.’

  ‘The Plait Man … I mean the man who died, came to see me last night in the Listeners’ Hut. He said he was dreading his release date and that he didn’t know how he’d cope when he was free. Apparently he’d been in prison for more years than he’d been out of it.’

  ‘Many of them have.’

  The prison officer’s voice was definitely more sympathetic now. ‘I told him that, when he got out, it would be all right and that the fear of something was actually often worse than doing that thing that scared you in the first place.’

  ‘Like the line about the ant in Shakespeare.’

  ‘Exactly!’ Simon opened his eyes and was shocked to find that the officer’s face looked completely different. Open. Understanding.

  ‘Sounds like good advice to me.’

  ‘No. Don’t you see? It couldn’t have been or he wouldn’t have killed himself.’

  The officer took a sharp intake of breath. ‘That’s not official yet. But even if it was, you can’t blame yourself. You said what you felt what right at the time.’

  Simon was so astounded he could hardly talk. He had expected some kind of retribution or maybe a sharp dismissal; not this. ‘Thank you,’ he said humbly.

  The man’s eyes smiled. ‘We are human, you know. The problem is that you lot only see the uniform, not the person behind it. By the way, I don’t know if it might help, but have you ever thought of going to one of the chapel services?’

  ‘The God Squad?’ sniffed Georgie. ‘I tried that once when I had a happy-clappy boyfriend but it didn’t do nothing for me.’

  ‘My mum used to belong to the Gospel Choir in White City,’ offered Spencer.

  ‘Was that before or after she got into credit card fraud, duck?’

  They both laughed out loud until Mark, the librarian, shot them a ‘You’re meant to be quiet here’ look. ‘Staying for book club?’ he asked.

  Simon nodded. They were already on the fourth chapter of The Curious Incident which had even got Spencer interested. ‘That kid’s a bit like me, man. He doesn’t always say or do the right things.’

  Privately, Simon had thought the hero was like him, too.

  ‘There’s an evening service on Wednesdays,’ offered Mark, handing them each a leaflet. ‘As well as Sunday mornings.’

  ‘Thanks.’ Simon didn’t want to talk about it now. Besides, there was only one copy of The Curious Incident and they were each reading a page before passing it on. He needed to concentrate.

  Sunday came and went but he gave chapel a miss. Anyway, the prison officer’s words had helped. He had tried his best with Plait Man, hadn’t he? But then the dreams started and he kept seeing one sole knot of hair dragging on the ground.

  To distract himself, he tried to concentrate on his kitchen duties. Jill had discovered he could make pastry (another bachelor talent) so had elevated him to chief quiche-maker. Twice a week, he had Art. He’d never be any good but even so, the pictures he was producing – copies of postcards that Caroline-Jane brought in – were better than he had ever thought he might do.

  Then there were his lessons with Spencer and letters for the men.

  If he kept busy, he might cope with the prospect of Claire’s imminent visit.

  ‘Feeling nervous?’ demanded Joanna one night. Her voice shocked him. She hadn’t been around since Plait Man’s death and he thought he might have got rid of her.

  ‘Not surprising, really, darling. It’s not great for a marriage, being apart?’ Joanna sighed. ‘ Trust me. I should know.’

  He dressed with care for Claire’s visit. He’d saved up his canteen money to buy a new disposable razor although unfortunately, he’d nicked himself on the chin.

  Then he shrank his only Burberry jumper in the communal washing machine. It didn’t look good. Nor did his trousers which, thanks to the prison food, were hanging loose at his waist. He’d put in for an application form for new ones to be brought in but that could take weeks.

  By the time he was sitting at the table in the Visitors’ Centre with all the other men (making lewd jokes) Simon was feeling as nervous as he had on the first visit. It would be the first time he had seen Claire since Ben had run off and been found again. He’d done it, she’d told him, because of ‘the situation’. So it would be perfectly normal for her to blame him.

  Here they came. Simon looked up, keeping his eyes fixed on the door as the women, some men and a few children streamed in. The noise grew louder, due to all the exclamations and greetings and, within minutes, a couple of arguments which the officers immediately homed in on. But where was Claire?

  His mouth went dry and it reminded him of the one and only time he’d been stood up, back in his thirties. He’d arranged to meet a much younger girl he’d dated a couple of times outside the Royal Albert Hall but she had never shown up. He’d given away the tickets in the end rather than go in on his own and had felt cross for weeks because she hadn’t got in touch. Only now it occurred to him that something might have happened to her just as it might have happened to …

  No. Here she was. Walking quickly in, her hair slightly ruffled; mouthing, ‘Sorry I’m late’. A young man was walking just behind her, looking around wide-eyed.

  Bloody hell. It was Ben.

  ‘I wanted to come and say thanks for the picture.’ Ben’s face kept flicking from his to the other tables in the centre. ‘I hope that’s OK.’

  A few weeks ago, Simon would have been irritated by the boy’s presence because it meant he couldn’t have a private conversation with Claire. But now he was touched. It took guts to come to a place like this.

  ‘It’s really good of you to come.’ As he said the words, Simon realised he could have been talking at a dinner party. ‘Don’t be nervous. No one’s going to cause any trouble here; not with the officers around.’

  Ben nodded tightly. He’d taken his plug earrings out now, Simon noticed.

  ‘Are you all right now?’ Simon wasn’t sure if he was phrasing this right.

  ‘Yes.’ Ben nodded again. ‘It was silly of me to run away.’

  Simon felt Claire’s hand reaching for his under the table. He squeezed it back. ‘Not at all. In fact, it reminded me of something I’d forgotten. I ran away at your age too.’

  ‘No way!’ Ben’s face was shining. Claire looked surprised too. It was a bit of a gamble telling them both the full story but what the hell. ‘I was about your age and thought I was in love with a girl at home. I was at boarding school then. So I went bac
k to see her and nearly got expelled.’

  Claire was laughing now. ‘You never told me that.’

  He tried to make light of it. ‘It was years ago. But, as I said, it reminded me of how I felt at that age.’ His words were getting lost in the noise around them so he raised his voice slightly. ‘I’m sorry if I haven’t understood before, Ben. When I get out, it will be different. I promise.’

  Claire was looking at him in the same way she used to before The Accident. ‘Thank you,’ she was mouthing and then, because she’d been late, the bell rang and visiting time was over already.

  ‘I haven’t asked you about your work,’ he said urgently as they rose to go.

  ‘Everything’s fine,’ she said. ‘What about you?’

  He had wanted to tell her about Plait Man but he couldn’t, not with Ben there. ‘Fine. I’ve made you a Christmas present. It’s going through security at the moment.’

  ‘We had to leave our gifts at the desk too.’ She smiled. ‘I expect they’re being checked as well.’

  ‘What are you doing on Christmas Day?’ His chest quickened with fear in case she was spending it with Charlie.

  ‘Probably having lunch with Mrs Johnson.’

  The relief softened the blow that the Visit was over now. ‘Everyone out now, please.’ The officer, the one who had been kind to him over Plait Man, was standing by his table.

  ‘Bye.’ He wanted to kiss her on the cheek but it would get them into trouble. Instead, he held out his hand awkwardly to Ben and shook it. The boy’s eyes were darting left and right at the men and their families as he did so. ‘Happy Christmas,’ said the boy. And then, rather awkwardly, ‘Thanks for having us.’

  Happy Christmas, thought Simon to himself as he walked back to G hut. Who did he think he was kidding? How could it be happy when he wasn’t with Claire? Then he thought back to last year when Ben had gone to Charlie’s and Claire had spent the whole day feeling wretched because her son wasn’t there and he hadn’t understood. Then, when Ben had come back for Boxing Day, he’d had a go at him for not getting up until lunchtime and having breakfast when they were eating a proper Boxing Day lunch. He’d been too fucking hard on the kid, he realised now too late. Just as his father had been with him.