Guilty

by Jane Bidder

  The boy’s voice just now came back to him, floating like an innocent cloud over this place. ‘Thanks for having us,’ he had said. The other men would have roared with laughter if they’d heard but the courtesy showed the kid was trying. It would be different, he had promised Ben, when he got out. He intended to keep that promise.

  ‘Feeling lonely? Trying to make a new start? Then come to our Christmas Service on …’

  Simon glanced up at the notice on the outside board. Why not?

  Four days later, he found himself in the small white hut which someone had daubed on the outside with a variety of mixed paints, making it look more like a beach hut. Inside, however, was a ring of chairs which had proper wooden backs and red seats, unlike the plastic ones in the rest of the prison.

  As he went in, one of the men who worked in the kitchens with him handed him a hymn book and a sheet. The vicar was a tall, thin older man who had a gentle manner. He shook his hand and told him he was welcome.

  The service was short but full of Christmas hymns that Simon recognised from his school days. When he filed out afterwards, along with the others, the vicar shook his hand again and said he hoped he might come again.

  He would have liked to have agreed but what was the point? Nothing could take away the fact that he was a murderer.

  Not just of one person. But two.

  Chapter Thirty-one

  Everyone said Christmas would be horrible in prison. Even Spencer who was normally upbeat, warned the food would be ‘shit’ because it was always a skeleton staff, no pun intended. Georgie was moping because his brother’s wife had just had a baby and he wasn’t there for its first Christmas. ‘Don’t they mind you being gay?’ asked Spencer curiously.

  ‘No.’ Georgie looked indignant. ‘They take me as I am. Besides, I do their hair for them.’

  Of course. Why hadn’t he realised that Georgie was a hairdresser? It seemed obvious now having those lovely glowing locks.

  In fact, Christmas wasn’t too bad. The food wasn’t shit at all – there were second helpings of roast potatoes which would have been nothing in Simon’s old life but meant a great deal more now. There were organised card games in the dining room afterwards and then someone invited him to join in a game of Monopoly back in the hut.

  All he really wanted to do was talk to Claire on the phone but it took ages to queue. As he stood waiting, he read a few more chapters of Curious Incident and then found that he’d bookmarked the page with an envelope containing a Christmas card that Caroline-Jane had given each one of them at the end of the term.

  ‘Try painting your way out of your low spots,’ she had written. ‘I also hope that you will help me put together a joint art exhibition at Grimville in the New Year. I’ll be giving you more details when we start again in January.’

  Grimville? Simon’s blood froze. He didn’t like the sound of that.

  ‘You going to use the phone or what?’ demanded a voice behind him.

  Yes! She was picking up.

  ‘Hello?’ Claire’s voice sang out. ‘Simon! At last!’

  Keen to explain the delay, he tried to tell her about the queue. ‘It’s all right.’ She cut in. ‘You’ve rung now. Are you all right?’

  He’d thought he was but the sound of her voice now made him desperately homesick. ‘I miss you.’

  ‘Me too.’ As she spoke, there was the sound of someone laughing and a dog barking.

  ‘Are you with Mrs Johnston?’

  There was a slight pause. ‘Yes but …’

  That was a man’s voice in the background. ‘Charlie’s there,’ he stated numbly.

  Claire began to babble. ‘That’s what I was going to tell you. He came in to give Ben his present.’

  ‘And he’s stayed for lunch?’ He wanted her to deny it.

  ‘That’s right. You don’t mind do you?’

  ‘Get a move on, mate. We all want to talk to our missus, you know.’

  ‘I’ve got to go.’ Simon felt his fists tighten. ‘I’ll call tomorrow.’

  ‘Simon …’

  Slamming the phone down, he walked briskly to his cell. As though on remote, he got out the paints that he’d ‘borrowed’ from the art room. He didn’t have any paper but what the fuck. There were the walls, weren’t there?

  Chapter Thirty-two

  Claire put down the phone from Simon filled with a sense of deep foreboding. She’d been hoping that he wouldn’t ring when Charlie was there. It had been her first thought when her ex-husband had called unexpectedly with Ben’s present and a large bottle of champagne. The plan had been for him to pick up their son during late afternoon but there he was, standing at Jean’s doorbell, beaming as though he was a guest who had arrived bang on time.

  ‘We’re still having lunch,’ she had said.

  ‘Don’t worry!’ cooed Jean from the kitchen, whose hearing was sharp when she wanted it to be. ‘There’s plenty for one more.’

  And then Ben had come out into the hall together with Slasher who began licking Charlie’s fingers enthusiastically and she could tell from the look on her son’s face that despite the tricky scene in Charlie’s flat the other week, Ben wanted his father to come in.

  That had been just before the phone call. Now Simon was going to get completely the wrong idea.

  ‘That was delicious, Mrs J,’ said Charlie stretching out on the sofa afterwards. Her landlady seemed to like it, rather than seeing it as over-familiar. It annoyed Claire, however, reminding her of her ex-husband’s arrogance.

  ‘Absolutely delicious!’ Charlie repeated, rising to his feet. He hadn’t had anything to drink, Claire noticed. Not even half a glass of wine which he used to allow himself before driving somewhere. Was that because of The Accident? ‘But we really ought to get going. I’ve got a surprise planned for this evening.’

  He glanced at Claire. ‘I could try and get a third ticket.’

  She hesitated for a moment. Ben wanted her to come – she could see that. Yet at the same time, she could just imagine Simon’s face if he called again and Jean told him she was out.

  ‘It’s all right, thanks. You two have some boy time.’ She tried to make light of it. ‘Sounds intriguing, though. I didn’t think any of the theatres were open on Christmas Day.’

  Charlie tapped the side of his nose knowledgeably. It was another habit, she suddenly remembered, that had driven her mad. ‘I don’t want to spoil it. Ready Ben? Don’t forget to thank Mrs J.’

  It was as though he was trying to take over, by acting the resident parent.

  ‘No need for that, dear.’ Jean was giving Ben a hug. ‘He’s always thanking me. Now off you go and have a good time. No, Slasher, you can’t go too!’

  To her surprise, Charlie bent down and gave her a kiss on the cheek, dangerously close to her mouth. The action didn’t go unnoticed by Jean.

  After they’d gone, Claire made to go up the stairs to hide the tears which had inexplicably started to smart in her eyes. ‘I’ll be down in a second,’ she said in a strangled voice, ‘to help with the washing up.’

  ‘That can wait.’ Jean was putting on her anorak. ‘Why don’t you come for a walk with me instead along the seafront. It’s really blowy out there, perfect for blasting away all the hassles that come with this time of year.’

  She was right. The fierce spray of the water soaked them as they walked briskly behind Slasher who was tearing up and down the pebbled beach. ‘That’s what I love about winter,’ said her landlady. ‘Dogs are still allowed on the beach. We used to bring Mungo here.’

  Claire was still feeling too upset to talk. In her head, she could see her son and former husband having fun somewhere without her, while her real husband was in a cell, assuming that she was having a great time with Charlie. And what had that kiss been about?

  Jean linked her arm through Claire’s. ‘It will get better, you know. Time is a great healer.’ Her landlady looked out over the sea. ‘My life has been a lot better since you both came along. I’ve had
lodgers before but never a mother and son.’

  Claire swallowed. ‘We both have Alex to thank for that.’

  ‘Ah yes, Alex.’

  ‘He’s your accountant, isn’t he?’

  Jean nodded. ‘His father knew my husband. They’re an old Devonian family as you might know. But the two men are very different.’

  ‘Really? We – that is Charlie and I – have known Alex and Rosemarie ever since we moved down here from London.’

  ‘How well do you really know them, though?’ Jean’s features looked sharp and pinched in the wind.

  Claire hesitated. ‘They both took my side after Charlie and, in fact, they introduced me to Simon. But Rosemarie dropped me after the accident.’

  Jean made a sympathetic noise. ‘I worry about you, dear.’ There was a silence as they both looked out across the beach to where Slasher had diminished into a small black speck that was now making its way back to then. ‘You have two men who care for you. Your husband and your ex. If you want my advice, don’t rush into any decisions.’

  * * *

  That evening, Claire turned down Jean’s invitation to watch television and logged on to her emails. Incredibly, her agent had sent one yesterday, on Christmas Eve.

  I know you’re probably busy with family stuff but I’ve just had a publisher who wants some ideas – illustrations and text if you can think of it – for a book that would appeal to the 9–12–year market. They’re very keen to involve reluctant readers who come from troubled backgrounds.

  Instantly, a picture of the girl and her brother at the table next to them at the prison came back to her. The girl had had bright red ribbons in her hair which clashed with its auburn colour and she was trying to talk to her father but being drowned by both her brother and a large angry woman wearing hooped earrings. The word ‘maintenance’ figured prominently in the conversation and ‘site fees’. She had wondered at the time if they were travellers.

  Claire switched off her laptop and picked up one of her charcoal sticks. Within minutes, she was back in her old world; the only one that she felt truly comfortable in.

  As New Year approached, Claire couldn’t help thinking about this time last year. She, Simon, Alex, and Rosemarie had all gone out to dinner together at a lovely Italian bistro just outside Exeter. Ben had been staying with friends whose mother knew Claire and who had rung just before midnight to assure her that all was well.

  No worries then about staying out late with band friends and drinking too much.

  ‘What are you doing for New Year?’ asked Jean interrupting her thoughts. ‘Only I thought I might get a DVD in and one of those nice meals for two from M & S.’

  Claire knew she should feel grateful towards Mrs J and she did; she really did. But the idea of making polite conversation on the most emotional night of the year was too much. Ben was going out with the band. ‘That’s very kind but I think I might just catch up on my work and then have an early night.’

  ‘Work?’ Jean tutted. ‘A young woman like you shouldn’t be working on New Year. Another cuppa, dear?’

  In vain Claire had tried, over the years, to explain to others that she didn’t see her painting as work. It was what she did like breathing and she would need to do it even if someone didn’t pay her.

  It had been an issue with Charlie when they’d been married, although Simon had always given her space and respected her work.

  ‘Mind you,’ added Jean. ‘I admire your paintings. Not that I was snooping but I had to go into your room to measure up the window – time for some new curtains, don’t you think? – and I saw that picture of the little boy and the dog on your desk. I hadn’t realised how good you are!’

  Claire prickled. It was her room. She was paying money for it out of her salary now the savings were running out. Jean had no right to snoop. Not for the first time, the woman’s kindness and curiosity began to close in on her.

  ‘Maybe you’re right.’ She stood up. ‘Perhaps I shouldn’t stay in. In fact, there’s a staff party in one of the local pubs. I might go to that instead.’

  ‘Sounds really exciting!’ Jean’s face beamed and for a moment, Claire wondered if she should ask her. The woman was going to be on her own. She had saved Ben. Yet she could also suffocate them if Claire wasn’t careful.

  ‘Maybe. Anyway, I must go back to my room now. I’ve got something to finish. Thanks for the tea.’

  ‘You don’t mind if I go, do you?’ she asked Simon later on the phone.

  ‘You must.’

  His approval surprised her.

  ‘I won’t stay long.’

  ‘Don’t be silly. It’s important for you to mix with your work colleagues. I can’t expect you to sit at home just because I’m here.’

  Was he being sarcastic? ‘How’s everything?’

  ‘Fine. I’m doing quite a lot of painting.’

  ‘What of?’

  ‘Walls.’ He laughed. ‘There are a lot of them here. Look. I’d better go. There’s a queue. Have a good time. All right?’

  It had been years since Claire had gone into a pub on her own. How weird it felt without Simon beside her. ‘We’ll be in the back!’ Debbie had chirruped on the phone. Trying not to breathe in the stench of beer, Claire made her way through the crowds, all intent on celebrating the New Year.

  ‘There you are!’ Debbie gave her an unexpected warm hug. Several faces smiled in greeting. There was Lizzie who taught media studies and Bob who did maths and over in the corner was Eileen, head of Spanish. ‘What are you drinking?’

  ‘Diet Coke, please.’

  ‘You’ve got to have something stronger than that!’ She turned to see a big bear of a man whom she hadn’t seen before. ‘Here. Have a slug of this.’

  He thrust a glass of something sparkly into her hands. Claire hesitated. She hadn’t had a drink since The Accident and, even before it, she’d only been a light drinker. But she needed something now to obliterate the picture of Simon inside. It tasted bubbly. Light. Innocuous.

  * * *

  Garth was a good listener. ‘Let me get this right. If this man – Hugh, you say – could be convinced to admit that he grabbed the steering wheel, your husband could appeal.’

  Claire’s hand clutched the glass stem. Somehow one drink had become three. ‘That’s what the lawyer told us at the time.’

  ‘And now this Hugh is harassing you.’

  The drink made her words come out in a rush. ‘He’s sending Simon letters and I think he was behind the campaign to drive us out of the house.’

  ‘What about your son? Is he all right now?’

  Claire groaned. ‘He comes in reeking of drink when he’s out with his band but he hasn’t run away again.’

  Garth put a hand on her shoulder. ‘Poor you. It must be very difficult. How are you managing financially?’

  Was he expecting her to buy the next bottle? If so, she didn’t have enough. ‘It’s difficult.’ Claire could feel her own words getting distinctly blurry. ‘I work a bit but we’re also on benefits.’

  Someone was tugging on her arm. ‘Claire! ’ The voice sounded as though it was coming from a long way off. ‘We’re going back now. Can we give you a lift?’

  When Claire woke up the next morning, she had a terrible pain down the right hand side of her head. The pub. Too much to drink. Ben. Ben!

  Leaping out of bed, she dashed into his room. Thank God. His head was under the duvet and she could see it rising and falling. Who had got in last – her or him? To her shame, she couldn’t remember.

  That was the last time she was ever going to have a drink, she told herself, knocking back a couple of paracetamol. She spent half the day finishing the dog in the painting but he still didn’t look right. Giving up, she took Slasher along the front, hoping the wind would inspire her. She’d take Ben to see Simon again on the next visit, she also decided. It had done some good, she was sure, on both fronts.

  The following day, she went downstairs into Jean’s kitchen, feeling m
uch brighter. Her landlady was sitting at the table with the local paper in front of her. Immediately Claire sensed something wasn’t right.

  ‘What is it?’

  Silently, Jean pushed the paper towards her.

  Stepson of death-by-driving murderer gets drunk. Mother lives on benefits. Is this how you want your tax to be spent?

  There was a byline below it.

  Garth Walker.

  Chapter Thirty-three

  ‘Why did you do it, Mills? You were about to get moved into a single cell and now you’ve blown it.’

  A room of his own! For so long, Simon had been waiting for this: peace and quiet at last without Spencer’s prattle. And now he had messed up. Of course, he’d known he was going to get into trouble for daubing the walls of his cell after his phone call to Claire. At the time, he hadn’t cared. Not even when Spencer had come back from football practice in the yard and whistled in a low appreciative way, before declaring he’d ‘really copped it, man’.

  Now, face to face with governor number one, Simon began to feel a flicker of apprehension mixed with remorse. The man standing in front of him in his off-the-peg, not very well cut grey-striped polyester suit, would consequently categorise him along with all the other yobs in G Hut.

  ‘Why did I do it?’ Simon repeated the question. Repeating the other person’s question was a legal trick he’d learned over the years. It gave you extra time and it often made the other person feel rather awkward just as it did when you used his or her full name. Simon didn’t know what Governor Harris’s full name was although his initial was ‘R’ on the door. Roger didn’t really suit the unpolished accent or the slicked back black hair. Ron maybe, or perhaps Rod. How did one become a governor number one anyway?

  ‘Come on, Mills. Stop wasting my time and yours. I want to know why you painted your cell wall.’

  ‘Why do you care?’ Simon felt a flash of anger. ‘Why don’t you just give me one of your detentions or whatever you call it and we can call it quits.’