Guilty

by Jane Bidder

  ‘It’s because you look young!’ she teased him. They were walking to the park which had become one of their favourite Saturday lunchtime activities. They’d feed the ducks and buy ice creams even if it wasn’t the weather for it. All the things, Simon told himself that he would have done if he’d been around when Lydia had been little.

  ‘We were young, your mum and I, when you were made,’ he replied, watching a family group walk past. It was made up of a youngish lad in jeans and a hoodie cuddling a woman who simply had to be at least fifteen years older. She was pushing a buggy and there was a toddler running ahead.

  ‘See,’ said Lydia sharply. ‘Families are different nowadays. They’re not neat and conventional any more and that’s fine. That reminds me. Have you heard from Claire recently?’

  Simon thought of the letter he’d received from her last week in her distinctive ink handwriting and MK postal stamp. He’d shoved it in his jacket pocket, not wanting to open it in case it burst this bubble of happiness he was in now. Besides, the letter would only be a string of excuses about why she couldn’t cope any more and she’d be right on every count.

  She and Ben were better off without him.

  ‘Money isn’t everything.’ Lydia was kicking a small stone as they walked on. She was wearing dance shoes this morning with thick black leggings and a pink T-shirt that matched her alice band. The effect was ridiculously naive. Simon’s heart lurched every time he thought of those dirty men crawling over her, just so she could finance a degree. ‘I mean, don’t get me wrong. I know you’ve been really generous giving her the cash from the house but there are more important things.’

  He could remember her mother saying the same thing. She’d had a similar attitude; it was all coming back. During his brief friendship with Francoise, it was obvious that she knew her own mind. No surprise, therefore, that she’d chosen to bring up a baby on her own.

  ‘Lydia, darling.’ He stopped as a man went by and looked at them curiously. ‘Lydia, love,’ he tried again. ‘I thought I knew it all at your age too. So did your mum. But trust me. I messed up Claire and Ben’s life – not just with the accident but because I married her, knowing she still felt something for her husband. That’s why it was so fast. I was frightened she might go back to him. At least this way, I am giving her some breathing space so she can decide what she really wants to do.’

  Joanna’s voice tinkled with amusement. ‘And do you really think she might choose you?’

  ‘Shut up,’ he growled.

  ‘Shut up?’ Lydia took his arm worriedly. ‘You’ve gone all weird again. Stop it. Please. You’re scaring me.’

  They sat down on a bench and he tried to claw back the normality of their conversation before Joanna’s interruption. But Lydia wasn’t having any of it. ‘Are you hearing those voices in your head still?’

  He should never have told her.

  ‘You are, aren’t you?’ Her young face was creased with concern. ‘I told you, Dad. You need to see a doctor and if you don’t book yourself an appointment, I’m going to do it for you.’

  ‘Very well.’ He knew he sounded like a sullen child.

  ‘Good.’ Lydia was running after him now as he got up and walked. ‘I know you think I’m nagging but it’s for your own good, you know.’

  Desperately, he tried to change the subject. He nodded his head towards the fast food restaurant they were passing. ‘Fancy a veggie burger?’

  That was the other easy thing about living with Lydia. They were both non-meat-eaters although she’d been veggie from birth. Her mother, he remembered now, had been one of the first vegetarians he’d come across.

  ‘OK.’

  He pointed out a window seat and joined the queue. It was then that he saw the poster.

  Wanted. New recruits. Good pay. Hours flexible. Apply to manager.

  Ten minutes later, he returned.

  ‘You were ages.’ Lydia looked up from her mobile where she’d been furiously texting.

  He put down the tray in front of her. ‘I’ve been enquiring about a job.’

  Then he told her about the notice and speaking to the manager who happened to need someone urgently. He’d had to tell them about his record of course but the managerʼs brother had done time and, providing probation approved, his application would be seriously considered.

  Amazingly, it all went through – far more smoothly than heʼd thought. Simon felt humbled by the manager and his probation officer who genuinely wanted to give him a chance.

  Funny. When he’d read about people being employed at fast food places, they all moaned about the routine. But he loved it. It stopped him thinking. Wrap the burger. Turn over the chips. Tip them neatly into the cardboard box. The rhythm was so soothing. By the second week, they’d upgraded him to front of the desk.

  He earned a fraction of what he had done as a lawyer but somehow he got more satisfaction from his pay slip than he had ever done before.

  At lunchtime, he went for a wander round the shops. Sometimes he met up with Lydia although she spent most days in the library. Once he saw a boy who looked like Ben and he called out. But then the youth turned round. It surprised Simon how disappointed he felt.

  Every now and then he touched Claire’s letter inside his jacket pocket, just as he had once touched Lydia’s. So long as he didn’t open it, he could carry on being brave and allow Claire to pursue her own life. If he ripped open the envelope, he was scared he might ring her.

  ‘You’re getting worse,’ tinkled Joanna. ‘When did you say the appointment with the doctor was?’

  Next week. He’d already been to the GP who had listened to him carefully for all of five minutes (‘Next time, Mr Mills, it would be better if you booked a double appointment’) before referring him to a psychologist. They couldn’t make him go. It wasn’t as though he had done anything wrong.

  ‘Big Issue,’ called out a street vendor. ‘Big Issue!’

  Simon stopped, searching his pocket for some change. Several of the men went on to sell the magazine when they came Out; apparently they had to buy them out of their own money. They might not make their fortune but it gave them a job; a purpose to the day.

  ‘Thanks, mate.’ The man was looking at him with sharp, bright eyes. ‘Don’t I know you from somewhere?’

  Bloody hell! It was a friend of the Coin Man – the one who had to toss a coin before he could make any decision.

  ‘No.’ He pulled up his jacket collar as though to shelter himself from the man and his past. ‘I don’t think so.’

  ‘Yes I do!’ The man was grinning. His teeth were discoloured. ‘You’re that nutter that kept talking to a dead woman all the time, aren’t you? Spencer told me. He said you were crazy, man; really crazy.’

  Simon began to walk faster. People were looking or was that his imagination? As soon as he reached the park, he sat down and tried to breathe.

  ‘Go back to your job,’ said Joanna quietly. ‘ The routine will calm you down. If I were you, Simon, I’d keep our appointment with the psychologist. I think we both need it.’

  The psychologist was a kindly bear of a man who wore a brown tweed jacket like his father used to. His office was at the back of a big London hospital which made Simon hope that, if anyone saw him, they might think he was going in for a more ‘normal’ medical complaint.

  He listened carefully to Simon’s story, nodding every now and then and making notes. ‘Quite a story,’ he said finally. ‘One that could happen to almost any of us.’

  Really? He thought about his father and what he had omitted to tell the psychologist.

  ‘Do you know anything about cognitive behavioural thinking?’

  ‘Not much,’ admitted Simon although, come to think of it, they’d had a book in the library called C ognitive Behavioural Therapy for Dummies. The title had intrigued him.

  ‘It’s a good book.’ The psychologist was nodding again. ‘But I’m going to teach you a couple of ways now to re-programme the way you think about e
vents. There’s also something else I want you to consider.’

  Simon listened. At first it seemed like a crazy idea but then the more he thought about it, the more it made sense.

  ‘Just one more thing,’ said the psychologist as he left. ‘Consider opening your wife’s letter sometime.’ He glanced at Simon’s right pocket. ‘It’s funny how doing something that you’re scared of can make you stronger.’

  * * *

  ‘How did you get on?’ asked Lydia.

  She’d made noodles for dinner. It was a Tuesday night when they both sat down in front of the television and watched a series that he and Claire used to watch before the accident. He wondered if she was doing the same now.

  ‘Fine.’

  ‘Did it help?’

  He nodded.

  ‘Don’t want to talk about it then?’

  ‘Not really.’ He picked at his noodles. ‘I’ve taken the day off tomorrow. There’s something I’ve got to do.’

  She reflected on this. ‘Want me to come with you?’

  ‘No thanks.’ He smiled. ‘But it’s good of you to offer.’

  Joanna had been buried in Harrow. It was where she’d come from apparently and where her own mother was buried. She hadn’t wanted to be cremated. He knew that much from Alex who had been his go-between and found out the necessary information. His ‘friend’ had sounded surprised when he’d contacted him and only agreed, or so he said, because the psychologist had suggested it.

  Simon got on the Metropolitan line, which he wasn’t very familiar with, and then walked from Harrow Station up the hill. It was further than he thought. Joanna’s stone was, Alex had said, in a new cemetery not far from Northwick Park Hospital.

  It took him a while to find it.

  Joanna, wife to Hugh. Stepmother to Poppy.

  The bald inscription surprised him. Almost like a reflex action, his hand closed around the envelope in his pocket.

  ‘Go on,’ sang Joanna. ‘Open it.’

  Gently, he knelt down and placed a bunch of freesias on the turf. ‘I’m sorry,’ he whispered.

  ‘Just get on with it!’

  All right. All right.

  Rosemarie told me … thought you should know … hand on the wheel …

  Simon read and re-read Claire’s letter.

  ‘See?’ tinkled Joanna. ‘I said you shouldn’t have felt so guilty. Hugh wanted to kill me all along. ’

  But why?

  ‘Ask him yourself.’

  Only then did he see the figure sitting on the wall. ‘I can’t believe you have the gall to come here.’ Hugh’s voice came out in a growl.

  Simon thought of the email that the psychologist had encouraged him to send, asking Hugh if he’d meet up. ‘You said it was the only place you’d see me.’

  Hugh scowled. ‘And why did you want to see me? To say sorry?’

  Simon’s mouth was dry. ‘Actually, yes.’

  Hugh’s eyes pinned him down. ‘If it wasn’t for you, she’d still be alive.’

  Simon handed him the letter. ‘I’d like you to read this. I hadn’t opened it when I asked you to meet but I think you should see it.’

  Hugh made to flick it away but then stopped and took it. Silently, his eyes went down the page.

  ‘It’s true.’

  ‘What?’

  Hugh shrugged. ‘Joanna was having an affair. I’d found out that night, just as we were leaving. I saw Alex kiss her when he went to get her coat. I’d had my suspicions of course; it was what my first wife had done as well. ‘

  Simon felt sick. ‘But to try and kill her …’

  ‘I told you. I was drunk. Didn’t know what I was doing. Just saw red. You were messing about getting lost and I grabbed the wheel. At that time, I wanted her to die for what she had done. It was only afterwards that I realised how selfish I’d been.’

  He began to weep. Huge crocodile tears? Or real ones?

  ‘But you let me go to prison for it!’

  Hugh raised his head. ‘Yes. I did. What else could I have done?’

  ‘Told the truth?’

  He shook his head. ‘Grow up! There are times when telling the truth can get you into more trouble. My punishment is knowing that I contributed to Joanna’s death. Yours is knowing that you were at the wheel, over the limit. And nothing can ever change that. Deal with it.’

  Chapter Fifty-six

  Nearly two months had gone by now and Simon still hadn’t replied to her letter. What had she thrown away? Supposing he was ill?

  Then Lydia had emailed. ‘Dad’s fine! Seems to be liking the fast-food place – think it’s the routine that keeps him going.’

  It had been a surprise when Lydia had contacted her through Facebook. She thought it was important, so she said, to keep in touch and, besides, she wanted to know how Ben was doing.

  That had touched Claire.

  ‘I know Dad cares too,’ the girl had added. ‘About both of you. Whenever I have a bit of a heavy night out, he says he didn’t realise how tough it was to be a parent.’

  Too little, too late, thought Claire. If her husband cared so much, he’d pick up the phone.

  Clearly he’d decided to get on with his own life so she would do the same. Like Simon, she’d fallen into a routine. Two days a week at the college. Three days on her own work – the publisher wanted another book. Constantly making sure that Ben didn’t do anything daft. Thank goodness he seemed to be settling into his course. When she looked into his room to check, he was nearly always at his computer, Slasher at his side.

  As for Charlie, the only contact she had with him now were short texts about their son. To think she might have gone back to him if she hadn’t found out about Rosemarie! She’d thought of having it out with Alex but what was the point of yet another disagreement?

  Besides, the mentoring scheme was taking up all her extra time. It gave her a real buzz! It had been Martha’s idea. ‘You seem to be levelling out,’ she’d commented. ‘Let me know when you feel ready. I’ve got a new woman who’s got in touch. Her husband’s gone Inside for fraud. She could do with someone to talk to.’

  But didn’t she need some training? ‘It’s a four-week course,’ replied Martha smartly. ‘We have a trainer from Relate and there’s me. You’ll be doing just what we have. Listening to people just like I’ve been listening to you. Not making judgments. Helping them deal with practicalities like not getting house insurance. You’ll be good at it. I know you will.’

  That was how Claire found herself agreeing to meet a woman called Joyce in a café at one of the new shopping satellites that had sprung up just outside the centre. Joyce turned out to be older than her voice suggested on the phone. She appeared rather aunt-like in a soft lilac cardigan and a shoulder bag that she clutched as if it might run off without her.

  ‘I didn’t know Keith was in trouble at all until the policed turned up.’ Joyce needed no encouragement to talk. ‘Keith didn’t seem surprised. That was the weird thing. It’s as though he’d been expecting something. We’d been married nearly forty years. He was going to retire soon and we were saving up for a cruise.’

  Claire could guess what was coming next. ‘I wanted to go down to the police station with him but he wouldn’t have any of it. He wouldn’t let me go to the trial either.’

  So he’d wanted to hide the facts from her.

  ‘He got three years for fraud which apparently means eighteen months.’ Joyce addressed her bag now. It was black and shiny. ‘That was back at Easter. Now I’m just trying to live one day at a time.’

  Claire nodded. ‘It’s the best thing to do. Do you visit him?’

  ‘Every week. But I hate it. The others … they all seem different.’

  She could remember that so well! ‘If you start to talk to them, you might find a kindred spirit. Try and find an officer to talk to as well. They mean well, on the whole.’

  Joyce looked doubtful.

  ‘And do something that you didn’t do before. A hobby. Something that m
ight distract your attention.’

  ‘A friend has asked me to help run her shop with her.’ Joyce gave a rueful smile. ‘She’s one of the few friends who’s stuck by me.’

  ‘Good! Take her up on it. It will stop you thinking so much.’

  Joyce squeezed her hand. ‘Thank you. The worst thing is wondering what it will be like when he gets out. I always thought of him as being totally honest.’

  Claire wavered. ‘You may never trust him again,’ she said honestly. ‘But don’t think about that now. Concentrate on the day to day, as we said before.’

  That night, while Ben was upstairs doing his homework and she was working on more sketches for the book, Claire was unable to get Joyce out of her head. Fraud would be a very difficult thing to come to terms with. At least Simon had been honest. He’d made a mistake but it wasn’t a calculated one.

  Her phone vibrated on the desk, indicating a text had arrived. It was Lydia.

  Check out this. One of Dad’s paintings has won something called a Koestler Award. It’s going to be in an exhibition.

  The Koestler Awards? What were they? Going on Google, she found they were a series of prizes given to men and women in prison, secure units, or psychiatric hospitals for all kinds of artistic achievements. There was a list of winners including Simon who had won a bronze! Lydia was right. There was an exhibition open to the public on the south bank. Should she go along?

  Her phone blipped again. Dad’s going on the Wednesday in the first week. He’s told me so. Just thought you might want to know in case you don’t want to bump into him.

  She would go then. On a different day. It would be part of her closure.

  ‘Mum?’

  Reluctantly, she put down the charcoal.

  ‘Can Poppy come up this weekend?’

  ‘Thought you were going down to Dad’s.’

  ‘He’s going away.’

  She felt an unreasonable pang of curiosity. Clearly it hadn’t taken him long to move on again, just as it hadn’t the first time.

  ‘That’s fine as long as her father knows about it.’

  ‘He does. He’s being really nice now. Even bought her a car!’